Exit Wounds (33 page)

Only at the end of the session did Joanna pass along the information she had gleaned from her long discussion with Edith Mossman.

“Jeez!” Frank exclaimed when he heard about Eddie Mossman’s long history of abusing his daughters. “And now there’s another daughter involved?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d as soon shoot the bastard and put him out of his misery.”

“I’d rather find a way to lock him up for good,” Joanna replied. “And with any kind of luck, we will. Did Ernie come up with any information on The Brethren from Sheriff Drake?”

“Not so far,” Frank said. “I’ll let you know if and when he does.”

Finally she handed over copies of Irma Mahilich’s pencil drawings. “What are these?” Frank asked as he stared down at the rectangles with their spidery handwritten labels.

“They’re road maps of the Phelps Dodge General Office in Bisbee circa 1975,” Joanna told him. “Compliments of Irma Mahilich. She verified that the Deportation weapons were handed out to whatever employees were interested in taking them home. I’ve got shorthand information on all of the people listed, except for the ones on this last page—the one that’s marked page four. I’ll transcribe my notes, so whoever goes looking for these folks to interview them will have at least that much information at their disposal.”

“I recognize some of the names,” Frank said, examining the sheet. “Some of them still live around here. Others”—he shrugged—“I’ve never heard of.”

Joanna nodded. “That’s why I think we should hand this job off to Ernie. As far as Bisbee’s concerned, he’s an old-timer, and these people will talk to him. As soon as I finish with the notes, I’ll get them to him. And later on today, if I can, I’ll talk to Irma again and find out about the people on page four. How are you doing on the phone records?” she added. “I still want to know when Eddie Mossman first heard about Carol’s death.”

“It’s not easy getting phone records from Mexico,” Frank replied. “But we know Mossman said his daughter Stella is the one who told him. So I’ve fallen back on my old pal at the phone company, and I’m requesting information on Stella Adams’s phones as well.”

Once Frank left her office, Joanna quickly transcribed her notes, keying them into her computer. When she had printed copies in hand, she asked Kristin to deliver a set to Ernie Carpenter. Then she began wading her way through the paperwork jungle. She was deep into it when Jaime Carbajal called from California.

“We’ve hit pay dirt here,” he said.

“How so?” Joanna asked. “Tell me.”

“I got a look at the download of one of Carmen Ortega’s film segments. It’s dynamite. It shows a wedding ceremony between a horny old coot named Harold Lassiter and a twelve-year-old girl.”

Joanna felt a clutch in her gut. “Cecilia Mossman?” she asked.

“You’ve got it,” Jaime returned. “Mossman married his daughter off to a guy who has to be sixty if he’s a day. Lassiter’s other four wives were all there at the ceremony with him, waiting to welcome poor little Cecilia into the family while Eddie Mossman himself was proud to give the so-called bride away. It was enough to make me want to puke. Cecilia’s there swimming in a wedding dress that must be five sizes too big for her. The poor kid looks like she’s scared to death.”

“Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega filmed the whole wedding?” Joanna demanded. “How the hell did they pull that one off?”

“I don’t know how they did it, but they did. It’s pretty damning stuff. If nothing else, we should be able to nail Mossman on transporting a minor across state lines for immoral purpose. It may be an international border, but it’s still, by God, a state line. Is Deputy Howell still keeping an eye on Mossman?”

“As far as I know. I haven’t pulled her off him, and I don’t think Frank has, either.”

“Well, good, let’s keep him under observation long enough to arrest him.”

“I still can’t believe they got it on film,” Joanna murmured.

“They must have had a contact inside the Lassiter family compound. They used a hidden, stationary camera,” Jaime told her. “It’s not great-quality film, but believe me, it’s plenty good enough.”

“And if someone found out about the filming later on, after the wedding, that would explain Eddie Mossman’s death threat, because taking the film public would blow the cover off The Brethren’s dirty little secrets. So is there any sign of that death threat in either Pam Davis’s or Carmen Ortega’s work e-mail accounts?”

“No. The Fandango Productions Web site has a link to their corporate generic e-mail account. They say that the receptionist checks that one and personally forwards mail to the proper department managers. That’s where the threat showed up.”

“So,” Joanna said thoughtfully, “whoever sent them knew the victims’ names and where they worked, but didn’t take the time to figure out their personal e-mail addresses.”

“Right,” Jaime agreed. “It came through an ISP located in Mexico and from Ed Mossman’s account, but that doesn’t mean he was actually in Mexico when he sent it or even that it was sent by him personally.” Jaime paused and then added after a moment, “Considering The Brethren’s subsistence-style living conditions, it’s amazing to think that they’re even into computers and digital cameras.”

Unlike her detective, Joanna found the technical end of things far less compelling than the people connections. “What I want to know is who put Davis and Ortega on the trail of all this?” Joanna asked. “Somebody must have clued them in about Cecilia’s upcoming wedding and put them in touch with Carol Mossman.”

“I believe I may have found an answer for that,” Jaime Carbajal replied. “Remember Eddie Mossman’s other daughter?”

“Andrea?” Joanna asked.

“That’s the one. I found her name and address in Pam Davis’s e-mail address book. Pam Davis evidently handled most of the business e-mail. I’ve glanced through Carmen’s e-mail correspondence and it’s mostly personal—family-and-friends kind of stuff. Pam Davis, on the other hand, routinely deleted her e-mails as soon as she read them, as though she was concerned someone might go looking through her correspondence and find out something she didn’t want them to find. I’m checking into whether or not any of those deleted messages can still be retrieved through Fandango’s ISP. In the meantime, if I were a betting man, I’d say Andrea Mossman is our missing link here.”

“So would I,” Joanna agreed, “especially in view of what Edith Mossman told me about her yesterday.” She went on to relate what she knew about Andrea Mossman’s work with the support organization known as God’s Angels. There was a long pause after Joanna finished her recitation.

“Three people are dead already,” Jaime said finally. “What are the chances that Andrea Mossman is on the list of people to be taken out?”

“That thought occurred to me, too,” Joanna said. “I’ll talk it over with Frank and decide what we should do.”

“There’s one more thing,” Jaime added. “I got a look at Pam Davis’s appointment calendar for the first of July. She and Carmen were scheduled to meet Carol Mossman at her mobile home at eleven that morning. When he did the autopsy, Doc Winfield estimated Carol’s time of death as between eight and nine. I’m thinking that whoever killed Carol knew the reporters were coming and waited around to nail them as well.”

“Sounds plausible,” Joanna said. “But how did the killer know what was up? If The Brethren had a team of highly technical hackers, it’s possible someone there might have accessed Pam’s e-mail account or checked her calendar.”

“If you’d seen the insides of that one house on the Lassiter compound,” Jaime said, “you’d know that a compound-based hacker is highly unlikely.”

“Then the simplest option is that someone who knew what was going on told someone else. And the person who has the most connections going in every direction would be Andrea Mossman. If she’s been helping women and children once they escape the cult, she’s the one most likely to still have connections inside it.”

“I’m not going to be able to leave here much before late this afternoon,” Jaime said. “Maybe Ernie could run up to Tucson and have a talk with Andrea Mossman.”

Ernie’s already booked,
Joanna thought.
But I’m not
. “I’ll see what I can do,” Joanna said.

The moment she put down the phone, she punched the intercom button. “Kristin,” she said, “I’m going to have to go up to Tucson for a little while. Please call Dr. Lee’s office and see if he can reschedule my appointment for some time later this week—Thursday or Friday, maybe.”

“What about Rotary?”

“Rotary?” Joanna asked.

“Yes. The San Pedro Valley Rotary Club luncheon. It’s today at noon out at the Rob Roy Country Club. You and Ken Junior are both scheduled to speak.”

“Ken’s on his own then,” Joanna said. “Work comes before politicking, and this is work. Please call them and explain.”

“When will you be back?” Kristin asked.

“I’m not sure,” Joanna said. “I’ll let you know.”

It was a two-hour, one-hundred-mile drive from the Justice Center to Tucson, and the long period of relative quiet gave Joanna time to think about what she would say once she located Andrea Mossman.
Is it best to show up with no advance warning?
Joanna wondered.
Or, since I’m accosting her at work, should I call to let her know that I’m on my way?”

Eventually, she opted for the latter choice and used her cell phone’s direct-connect feature to reach the Chemistry Department at the University of Arizona.

“Andrea Mossman,” Joanna said.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Mossman isn’t in today.” The female voice on the telephone sounded young, probably a student putting herself through school on a work/study program. “I believe there’s been a death in her family.”

“I know,” Joanna responded, thinking quickly. “I’m with Grant Road Flowers. I have a bouquet for her. I was directed to bring it to her at work, but if you happened to have her home address available…”

“Of course,” the young woman on the telephone said, falling for what Joanna considered to be a lame ploy. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll be glad to get that for you.”

Half an hour later, Joanna pulled up in front of a small red-brick house on South Fourth Avenue in an old barrio neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. The tiny house, with its steeply pitched roof and old-fashioned front porch, looked as though it might once have served as a mom-and-pop grocery store. A sign in faded Chinese characters still lingered over the front door, which was inset into the right front corner of the building. Inside, the shades on all windows were pulled all the way down to the wooden sills. Parked in a space just to the left of the door was a bright green late-model VW Beetle.

With no sign of movement coming from inside the house, Joanna took the time to pull in behind the Bug and run the plates. The results were back within moments, confirming that Andrea Mossman was the VW’s registered owner.

Her sense of apprehension growing, Joanna turned off the Civvie’s engine and stepped out of her air-conditioned vehicle into Tucson’s midday midsummer heat. The one-hundred-plus-degree temperature pounded into her head. Sunlight glared off the sidewalk with blinding intensity while, from somewhere nearby, the too-sweet smell of freshly baked bread filled Joanna’s nostrils. Usually the scent of bread baking would be a welcome one, but not today. That odor, combined with the almost unbearable heat, teamed up to leave Joanna feeling more than slightly woozy.

There was no bell, so Joanna knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again, hard enough to hurt her knuckles. Finally, just when she was considering whether or not she should call Tucson PD and ask for help, there was the smallest motion on the corner of a pull-down shade in one of the front windows.

“Who is it?” a female voice asked. “Go away. I don’t want any.”

“It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna replied. “From Cochise County. I need to talk to you about your sister’s death.”

“Show me your badge,” Andrea Mossman replied. “Drop it through the mail slot.”

Grateful to hear that Andrea Mossman was exercising some caution, Joanna did as she was told. Moments later, after a series of locks had been unlatched, the door opened and she was allowed inside.

Compared to the humble exterior the building showed to the world, Andrea Mossman’s home wasn’t at all what Joanna had expected. The tiny living room was a full thirty degrees cooler than the outside temperature, a feat performed by new and highly efficient air-conditioning equipment. The rooms Joanna could see had been fully remodeled and painted in bright colors paired with an assortment of mismatched but highly whimsical furniture. A hardwood floor, broken by thick rugs, gleamed underfoot. And, although shades remained drawn, the recessed lighting and well-placed lamps made the small room seem both bright and cozy, which was more than could be said for Andrea Mossman.

Joanna had never seen Carol Mossman in the flesh, but the resemblance between Andrea and her younger sister, Stella Adams, was downright spooky. Both had the same mousy light brown hair that must have come from their mother, Cynthia. Both had the same haunted-looking eyes, although Andrea wore glasses and Stella didn’t. Andrea wore a faded cotton robe and carried a box of tissues. She looked as though she’d been crying.

“I had no idea Pam and Carmen were dead,” she said, half sobbing. “Not until a few minutes ago, when Grandma called to tell me. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Joanna said gently, “but it is true, Ms. Mossman.”

Andrea Mossman sank into an overstuffed easy chair covered in a fabric with a pattern of bright-pink peony blossoms and yellow butterflies. “I was about to get dressed and come to Bisbee to talk to you,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“May I sit down?” Joanna asked.

Andrea nodded woodenly and motioned Joanna onto a small bright yellow leather couch. On her way out of the office, Sheriff Brady had paused long enough to collect a pocket-size tape recorder. She pulled it out of her purse and set it on a nearby end table. Then she took out her cell phone and switched it off.

“Do you mind if I record this conversation?” she asked.