Fire and Ice (20 page)

There was a redwood picnic table next to the gym, and Joanna eased herself onto one of the benches. “I think I’d rather have pizza,” she said.

Jenny gave her mother a questioning look and then came over to sit down beside her. Jenny was about to turn fifteen, but she was already a good five inches taller than her mother and still growing.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Jenny asked. “Are you okay?”

“The best man seems to be having a case of nerves,” Joanna admitted. “I’ve never been to a bachelor party, much less hosted one.”

“I don’t know why you’re worried about it,” Jenny told her. “You should be used to doing weird things by now. You’ll be fine.”

Joanna couldn’t help laughing at that bit of reassurance. That
one word—weird—pretty well said it all. In Jenny’s book, having her mother be sheriff or “best man” was pretty much one and the same.

Danny let Dennis out of the swing and he came racing toward Joanna at a toddler’s broken-field dead run. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” he squealed gleefully, hurtling himself into her lap. “Denny swing! Denny swing.”

“I saw you,” she said, gathering him into her arms. “What a big boy you are.”

She hung out with the kids for a while, but before long Carol emerged from the house. “All right, kids,” she said. “Time to gather up and head out. We’ll keep the dogs at our house tonight. Except for Lady, of course.”

Scamp and the kids piled into Carol’s station wagon and she drove away, with Lucky and Tigger trailing behind. Meanwhile Lady shadowed Joanna as she closed the garage door, collected her briefcase, and went inside.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

Glancing at his watch, Butch came over to kiss her hello. “Not a thing,” he said. “Carol and I have it all under control. The rented card tables and chairs are all set up, the food and drinks are in the fridge, chips and dips are out. All you need to do is get dressed. And you’d better hurry. People will be here soon.”

Joanna disappeared into the bedroom and stripped out of her uniform. She had bought a bright green blouse to wear with her jeans that night, along with a pair of boots that she had inherited from Jenny when her daughter outgrew them. As for Jenny appropriating some of her mother’s clothing? Jenny’s last sustained growth spurt made that no longer an issue.

With her hair combed and her makeup retouched, Joanna headed out to the living room to play hostess just as the first guest
arrived. In terms of food, Butch and Carol had clearly outdone themselves. They had assembled an inspiring array of chips and dips and salsas to serve as ice-breaking snacks. Knowing that most of the guests would have a law enforcement background, Frank had insisted that his bachelor party would be a booze-free zone. Since Frank was now joining Joanna in a media fishbowl, she had applauded the decision. Neither she nor Frank could afford to have any of their officers picked up and charged with post-party drunk driving.

Frank had also made his wishes clear when it came to proposed party entertainment. He placed an absolute embargo on the idea of strippers. Period. He and Butch had settled instead, on the idea of a roast augmented by a charitable poker party, with all proceeds from Texas Hold’Em going to Frank’s charity of choice, the Jail Ministry. Since this would be considered social gambling, there had been no need to purchase any kind of gaming license, but just to be sure, Butch had checked out the applicable statutes with the county attorney well in advance of the party. His inquiry to Arlee Jones’s office had given Butch the information he needed, but it had also backfired and generated a minor tempest all its own due to the fact that Arlee—also at Frank’s behest—hadn’t been invited to the party.

The guests arrived one and two at a time. With the exception of a couple of relatives, most of the guests came from Frank Montoya’s world of work. Some were old colleagues and some new colleagues. To begin with, the two sets of folks seemed to stalk around one another, stiff-legged and suspicious, until Butch’s smooth program of hospitality began to work its magic. Before long, people were laughing and talking and settling in to have fun.

In advance of dinner being served, Ted Chapman, the Jail Ministry’s executive director, circulated among the snack-munching
guests hawking poker chips. “Best of luck to you,” he said with a smile each time he managed to extract a twenty- or thirty-buck donation from someone’s pocket. “And don’t worry. There are plenty more where these came from. God does provide, you know,” he sometimes added with a wink.

Joanna’s mother and stepfather had delayed their planned springtime departure for Minnesota long enough to enjoy the festivities. That meant George Winfield was there on his own. As M.E. emeritus, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. To Joanna’s considerable relief, Guy Machett was a welcome no-show. The last guest to arrive was Frank’s older brother Thomas, who had driven down from Phoenix. When Joanna opened the door and found him on the porch, she felt more than a little guilty. By rights, Thomas Montoya should have been Frank’s top choice for best man, but he didn’t seem the least bit offended by the oversight. He greeted Joanna warmly, first with a handshake and then, after a moment’s consideration, with a hug as well.

“Now where’s that little brother of mine?” he asked as Joanna ushered him into the house. And with that, Thomas Montoya went wandering off in search of the groom.

ABOUT THE TIME BUTCH STEPPED OUTSIDE TO GRILL THE STEAKS
, Frank’s ritual roasting began in dead earnest, and for the most part it was good clean fun. Old and new colleagues alike teased him about trading in one short red-haired woman for another, taller model. (Frank’s fiancée, LuAnn Marcowitz, was a good six inches taller than Joanna, and her hair—a wild tangle of bright red curls—was a good six inches longer than Joanna’s hairdo as well.) Joanna was glad no one mentioned that both she and the bride tended to be bossy at times.

People pulled Frank’s leg about his going for an “older woman.” LuAnn was four years older than Frank, and there were plenty of people who were ready to assure him, jokingly or not, that, as a longtime bachelor, he would soon regret stepping into the middle of a ready-made family.

That thought had occurred to Joanna as well. Frank was used to the peace and quiet of living by himself. She wondered how he’d manage with a new wife, two teenage stepchildren, and a mother-in-law, all living under the same roof. On the other hand, Joanna knew he’d been lonely for a long time. Even so, a sudden dose of that much togetherness, combined with a stressful new job, might be challenging for anyone to handle.

But Tom Montoya had the final word on the family situation. “My mother had given up on Frank’s ever having children a long time ago,” he told them. “I can tell you she’s thrilled to have a new set of grandchildren, no matter how she gets them.”

For the time being, his comment carried the day.

A while later, Butch enlisted Tom’s help in bringing the steaks back into the house. They brought in separate platters loaded with mouthwatering grilled rib eyes on Fiesta Ware platters. Steaks on the red platter were rare. The ones on the peacock-blue platter were medium, and the few scrawny steaks on the black platter were well done.

Before Carol left, she had set out stacks of plates, silverware, and napkins that would make serving easy. The platters of cooked steak took the place of honor at the top end of the counter, next to the plates and cutlery, but they were soon joined by the rest of the abundant feast: a huge bowl of mixed-greens salad; two kinds of potato salad, hot and cold; a steaming crock of cowboy beans accompanied by a vat of fiery jalapeño-dotted salsa. At the far end of the counter was the bread-and-butter station, which boasted two loaves of freshly baked and sliced sourdough bread and several pie plates of corn bread.

Joanna waited until the guests had loaded their plates before she filled her own. Then she wandered into the family room and took one of the few remaining spots at one of the tables—a chair
that happened to be next to Jaime Carbajal’s. He had come to the party because he had said he would be there, and he was clearly having to make an effort to be part of the festivities.

“How’s it going?” Joanna asked.

He shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he said.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Joanna told him. “Did you talk to Luis about his father and about the locker situation?”

“Yes,” Jaime said.

“How did it go?”

Jaime shrugged. “He was pretty mad at first and stormed off into the bedroom. But I think you’re right. He’ll get over it and come around eventually. It’ll take time. He and Pepe were still in their room talking when I left to come here. I could hear their voices, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

Pepe, Jaime’s son, was only a few months younger than his cousin.

“I suppose Luis had already told Pepe about what had happened to his father.” Joanna’s comment was more a statement than it was a question, and Jaime shot her a sidelong glance.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“You’ve told me before that Pepe and Luis are close, more like brothers than cousins. Since they’re also kids, it stands to reason that if Luis had confided in anyone, it would have been Pepe. That’s a good thing, Jaime. Give Luis some credit. He was smart enough to realize he couldn’t deal with this crisis by himself. We should all be thankful that he had someone to go to with his troubles. We should also be glad that he was smart enough to go looking for help.”

“You’re right,” Jaime agreed. “I am glad about that, but what about Pepe? My son knew all about this for a long time, but he never let on to me. That hurts, boss. It really hurts. Pepe and I
have always been close. I don’t like finding out that he’s been keeping secrets.”

“Of course he’s keeping secrets,” Joanna told him. “Why wouldn’t he? Pepe may be your son, but he’s also a teenager. Keeping secrets goes with the territory.”

Even as she said the words, Joanna couldn’t help wondering what secrets her almost-fifteen-year-old daughter might be keeping from her. On the surface, Jenny was a joy. She helped around the house, adored her little brother, and had a part-time job helping out at a local veterinary office. She was also within months of having her learner’s permit. Joanna knew only too well the kinds of secrets she had kept from her own mother at that age. The possibility that Jenny might be doing the same thing and pulling the same stunts was disturbing. Joanna didn’t want to go there. On the other hand, it turned out that at the time Joanna’s mother had been keeping quite a few secrets of her own.

“The boys will be all right,” Joanna assured him. “Both of them.”

“I hope so,” Jaime said.

Joanna waited for a moment before she went on. “With all the turmoil at home, I don’t suppose you had much time to work on the Action Adventures video enhancement problem.”

“I made some calls,” Jaime said. “I’ve got an appointment at the DPS crime lab in Tucson tomorrow morning. I’ll hand over what we’ve got and see what they can do with it.”

I dropped Mel off at the restaurant parking lot where she’d left the Cayman, and we drove back into town in the throes of afternoon traffic. I know, I’m always griping about the traffic here, but I can’t help it. There are too many cars and not enough roads, and when
I see one of those signs that say construction is coming and drivers should find alternate routes, I know it’s a joke. For a lot of roads around here there are no alternate routes.

Once back at Belltown Terrace, Mel went out for her daily run while I worked my way through several crossword puzzles. After that, we set out on foot to find some dinner. Even on rainy days, the late afternoons and early evenings are often clear and warm. And that was the case as we walked down Second Avenue.

When I first moved to the Denny Regrade, the streets had been lined with tiny sticks of newly planted trees. Now they’re fully grown, complete with root systems that play havoc with the smooth surface of the sidewalks. Still, I enjoyed our walk along beautiful, tree-lined Second Avenue with bright green leaves softening the hard-scape lines of surrounding buildings.

We walked as far as Mama’s Mexican Kitchen, where we managed to score an outside table. That gave us a chance to watch the varied denizens of the Regrade—from the homeless people wheel-ing their possession-laden grocery carts to the high-flying BMW drivers jockeying for free parking spaces.

But we also talked shop. While Mel sipped her Dos Equis and downed a combination plate and I nursed a root beer along with my order of taquitos, we picked apart everything we had learned about the timeline of Marina Aguirre’s disappearance and death. I had just popped the last bit of taquito in my mouth when the phone rang.

“Bingo,” someone said in my ear.

I didn’t recognize the voice, and I didn’t recognize the phone number, either. For a moment I thought maybe it was one of those annoying solicitation calls where the Knights of Something or Other want me to buy a ticket to their annual charitable auction.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Lucy,” she said. “Detective Lucy Caldwell from Ellensburg. This is my cell. I thought you’d want to know that we’ve IDed our victim. I just got the notice from Bob Craft over in the M.E.’s office. They entered her dental X rays in the national dental records database and got a hit. Her real name is Marcella Andrade. She was reported missing on July 16 of last year.”

I had pulled my notebook and pencil from my pocket, and tipped my head in order to hold the phone to my ear while I took notes.

“Marcella Andrade,” I wrote. “Disappeared July 16. From where?”

“From Arizona,” Lucy answered. “The missing persons report was written by someone named Detective Jaime Carbajal. He’s with the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department,” she added. “He’s also listed as the next of kin because he’s the victim’s brother. Dr. Hopewell and I thought that since this goes across state lines and since the attorney general’s office is involved, it might be best if the next-of-kin notification came from you instead of from one of us.”

That’s what I mean about God having a sense of humor. I had been reluctant to blab to Mel about my partnership with Big Al Lindstrom, but that was nothing compared to this!

You see, I happen to know the sheriff of Cochise County. Her name is Joanna Brady. She’s a cute little redhead—make that a feisty little red-haired fireball. The two of us had worked a case together a couple of years ago. In the aftermath of a dramatic shoot-out where either one of us might have been killed, Joanna and I had shared a powerful but momentary attraction.

And that’s all it was—momentary. Admittedly it was a hug that could have turned into much more, but Joanna Brady was married, even if I wasn’t at the time, and neither one of us was pre
pared to play that game. So I came back home to Seattle, she stayed on in Bisbee, and life went on as usual. Until now.

“What?” Mel wanted to know.

I ignored her. “How do you spell that last name again?” I asked.

Lucy read off the letters. “It’s Hispanic,” she explained. “I believe the
j’
s are pronounced like
h’
s.”

I remembered meeting Detective Jaime Carbajal. The
j
’s were most definitely
h
’s.

“What’s going on?” Mel asked.

“They’ve identified our victim,” I told her.

“Where’s she from?”

“Arizona,” I told her. “Bisbee, Arizona.”

But, of course, Lucy hadn’t said a word about Bisbee. I had supplied that little detail on my own.

“Obviously you know Cochise County,” Lucy said. She sounded relieved. “I hope that means you’ll be willing to handle the next-of-kin notification. I’ve only done one or two of those, and I’m not very good at them. I’m always afraid I’ll fall apart and make a fool of myself.”

“Right,” I agreed. “We’ll take care of the next-of-kin notification. Can you give me the contact information?”

So she did. She dictated all the gory details—the phone numbers and addresses that would make it possible for me to mess up Detective Carbajal’s life with the terrible news that his sister had been murdered. And just because he was a cop wouldn’t make it easier. In a way it made it worse, but diligently writing it all down gave me a chance to put off having to tell Mel what she was waiting to hear. It was a useless diversion, however. It didn’t work, not at all.

Mel was still gunning for me when I got off the phone. “Some
thing’s the matter,” she said accusingly. “I saw the look on your face. It was like you had seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

The waiter came by. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

He had people standing outside, waiting for tables. The question was a polite way of saying how about getting moving, but I didn’t take the hint. Instead, I ordered another beer for Mel and another root beer for me. Then I told Mel everything. I told her all about my encounter with Sheriff Joanna Brady; about how the two of us had chased a bad guy down a dry riverbed and how we had survived a shoot-out that left the bad guy dead. As for us? We were very much alive and grateful to be so.

“But nothing happened,” I said as I finished. “Nothing at all.”

There was a long disturbing moment when Mel said nothing. Finally she nodded. “All right then,” she said, making up her mind to accept what I’d told her at face value. “You should call Sheriff Brady. If the victim’s brother works for her, she’s the one who should tell him. It’ll be better coming from her rather than from a complete stranger over the phone. And we shouldn’t make that kind of call from here.”

Mel looked around the sidewalk patio and caught the waiter’s eye. “Check, please,” she said. “We need to go.”

We started back toward Belltown Terrace walking hand in hand.

“Did I ever tell you about Big Al Lindstrom?” I asked.

“Not really,” Mel said. “Other than what you told me today. Why?”

“He’s a great guy,” I told her. “I worked with him for a couple of years—up until he got himself shot.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “Don’t tell me this is another one of those J. P. Beaumont missing partners stories, is it?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“You’d better tell me then,” she said. “I need to know.”

So I told her about that, too. Thinking about it now, I can see exactly what I was doing—stalling. The longer it took us to get back to Belltown Terrace, the longer I could put off making the call to Sheriff Brady and ultimately to Jaime Carbajal.

No matter how long I do this job, making those tough calls never gets any easier.

Once dinner was over, people began sorting themselves into tables for the poker games. Joanna had learned to play poker at her father’s knee. D. H. Lathrop had taught her well, and her skill at the game was well known both within the department and beyond. As a consequence, her table was the last one to fill up.

The other tables had already started playing and Joanna was about to cut the cards for hers when the landline phone rang in the kitchen. For several years after Joanna’s first election, she had served as county sheriff while still keeping her residential phone number listed in the phone book. In the course of a rancorous reelection campaign, however, she’d been the target of so many crank calls that she and Butch had finally been forced to move to an unlisted number. Now when calls came in on the landline, they were usually for Jenny.

When the phone rang, Joanna assumed that would be the case this time as well. Instead, a moment later Butch appeared in the doorway between the rooms, holding the kitchen’s portable receiver in one hand and motioning for her to come answer it with the other. Joanna tried shaking her head, hoping he’d take the hint and tell whoever was calling that she wasn’t available. Her head shake seemed to make Butch’s motions that much more insistent.