Paradise Lost (36 page)

“Talk to Arlee Jones about that,” Frank Montoya suggested. “Until the voters decide to replace him with a county attorney with brains, that’s what we can expect. In the meantime, the charges are open, so that if she doesn’t carry through on her promises, they can be refiled.”

Joanna shook her head in disgust. “What else?” she asked.

“A single car, non-injury rollover, just outside of Hereford. Then there was a bunch of drunk Harley riders who left one of the bars in Tombstone and then went out to the municipal airport for a late-night fistfight session. When a pair of Border Patrol agents broke it up, everybody else jumped on their bikes and took off. The only one left was the one who was too busted up to leave. He’s in the county hospital down in Douglas with a broken jaw and three broken knuckles.

Then there’re two DWIs and a domestic violence down in Pirtleville. Oh, and I almost forgot, yesterday’s carjacking’s car—the Pontiac Grand Am that was taken from over in Texas Canyon—was stopped at the crossing in Naco early this morning with a full load of illegals. The car’s in the Border Patrol’s impound lot down on Naco Highway. The lady’s purse isn’t.”

“What’s the word from the crime scene in Paradise?”

“I talked to Ernie. He and Jaime stayed there until three this morning. According to him, somebody did a half assed job of try-ing to clean up Rob Whipple’s house, but there are still plenty of traces of blood there. The crime scene team and Casey Ledford will be working that today, as well as Irma Sorenson’s Nissan once we get it dragged out of where it landed and back here to the justice center. Since Rob Whipple was shot in Irma Sorenson’s car, presumably the blood in his cabin will be from someone else.”

“Like Connie Haskell, for instance,” Joanna said. Frank nodded. “But there’s still no trace of Irma or Rob Whipple’s Dodge Ram?” she asked.

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“Not so far.”

Joanna shook her head. “Nothing like being under the gun,” she said.

“It’s more than that, Joanna,” Frank returned. “Think about it. We’ve had three homicides in four days, and here the department sits with only two detectives to its name. We’re understaffed and underfunded, and—”

Joanna held up her hand and stopped him. “Please, Frank. Let’s not go into this right now. I know you’re right. What do you think kept me awake half the night? I was worrying about the same thing, but before we go off trying to deal with all the political and financial ramifications, let’s handle what’s on our plates right now. What are Ernie and Jaime doing at the moment?”

“I told them to take the morning off. They have to sleep some time. At noon they’ll head up to Tucson to talk with Chris Bernard and his lawyer. As a result, Rob Whipple’s autopsy will must likely have to be put off until tomorrow.”

“Which shouldn’t hurt Doc Winfield’s feelings any,” Joanna added.

“Since the Grand Am’s been found,” Drank resumed, “it may mean our carjacker will be back on the prowl again. Deputies Gre-govich and Howell are also taking the morning off, but I’ve sched-uled them to hit I-10 again today. By the way, did you know Kristin thought there was some hanky-panky going on?”

“I hope you told her otherwise,” Joanna said.

Frank nodded. Before he could say anything more, Joanna’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Kristin?”

“There’s someone on the phone who insists on talking to you.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Hardy. Brian Hardy.”

“Brent, maybe?” Joanna asked.

“Sorry. Yes, that’s it. Brent. He says it’s urgent.”

“Put him through, then,” Joanna told her. “Good morning, Mr. Hardy. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Irma. She just left.”

“Left from where?” Joanna demanded.

“From here, from Quartzite East,” Hardy said. “Tommy and I had a big argument about whether or not we should call you. He said we ought to mind our own business, but I told him,

‘No way. I’m calling.’“

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Joanna switched her phone to speaker. “What exactly hap-pened?”

“Irma must have shown up late last night, after we were asleep. When we woke up this morning, there was a strange car—a big blue Dodge pickup—parked next to her RV. I went over to check, because I was afraid whoever was there was someone who wasn’t supposed to be. I knocked, and Irma herself came to the door. After what you told us about her son, I was really relieved to see her. She told us that the pickup belongs to her son, but that didn’t exactly set my mind at ease, especially since Irma’s been hut s.”

“Hurt?” Joanna asked. “How so?”

“She’s got a gash on her hand. It’s bad enough that it probably should have had stitches. I told her it looked infected to me and suggested she see a doctor. She said she’s been putting Neosporin on it, and she’s sure it’ll be just fine. She told me she’d had an accident in her Nissan and that was how she hurt her hand. Any way, she said the car was totaled and that Rob, her son, had lent her his pickup. She also said that she’s decided to sell the RV. She’s found an RV

dealer—in Tucson, I think—who’s willing to pay her for it in cash rather than selling it on consignment. With that kind of hurried sale, she’s probably being taken to the cleaners over it, but it’s not my place to say. Anyway, she asked Tommy and me to help hitch up the pickup to the back of the RV and off she went.”

“How long ago?” Joanna asked.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough for Tommy and me to get into a pissing match over it. Like I said, she came sneaking back into the park late last night, after we had gone to bed. We didn’t even know she was here until this morning. Since neither Tommy nor I actually set foot inside Irma’s RV, I’m think-ing it’s possible that her son may be in there—that she drove it out of the park herself so we wouldn’t see her son and know that she was hiding him.”

“Irma Sorenson’s son isn’t in her RV,” Joanna said. “He’s dead.”

“Dead!” Brent exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“The incident is currently under investigation. Now, Mr. Hardy, thank you so much for calling, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to. If Irma Sorenson should happen to return, please call us immediately. Dial 911 and have the operator locate me.”

“You sound as though you think she’s dangerous,” Brent Hardy said hesitantly.

“I suspect she is,” Joanna returned. “Possibly to herself more than anyone else, but I don’t think you and Mr. Lowrey should take any more chances.”

“We won’t.”

“I’ll go get a car,” Frank said as Joanna ended the call.

Joanna nodded and dialed Dispatch. “Larry,” she said. “The subject of our APB, Irma Sorenson, is believed to be heading west on I-10. She left Bowie about twenty minutes to half an hour ago, driving a bronze-and-black Marathon motor home and towing a blue ‘97 Dodge Ram pickup. I want her pulled over and stopped in as deserted a place as possible. Not in town, and not, for God’s sake, at one of the rest areas. Maybe it would be a good idea to put down some
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spike strips on that long grade coming up the San Pedro River in Benson. It’s a long way out of town, so there shouldn’t be lots of people around. She’ll already have lost speed by then, and it’s less likely she’ll lose control when the tires go.”

“Got it,” Larry Kendrick said.

“This woman is armed and dangerous,” Joanna continued. “As soon as she’s spotted, I want you to set up roadblocks and stop all westbound traffic immediately behind her. Eastbound freeway traffic coming into Cochise County should be stopped at J-6 Road. Frank and I are on our way. Once you alert all units, get back to us. We’ll try to deploy manpower in a way that blocks off as many freeway exits and entrances as possible. The fewer innocent people we have caught up in this action, the better.”

By the time Joanna put down the phone and grabbed her purse, Frank Montoya was parked beside her private entrance with his Crown Victoria’s engine fired up and running.

“Did you tell Kristin we’re leaving?” Frank asked as he wheeled away from the door and through the parking lot.

“I didn’t have time.” As soon as she was settled in with her seat belt fastened, Frank handed her an atlas. After opening it to the proper page, Joanna unclipped the radio. “Okay, Larry. Where do we stand?”

“I’ve notified DPS and let them know what’s happening. They’re sending units as well. Currently I’ve got a long-haul trucker named Molly who says the subject just passed her at Exit 344,” Larry returned. “Molly is convoying with another trucker. They’re going to turn on their hazard lights and stop on the freeway. That should bottle up all the traffic behind them, and it takes care of the westbound roadblock. If I can find someone else to do the same thing at J-6 Road, our people will all be free to deal with the stop itself. City of Benson is closing all exits and entrances to the freeway there. The chief of police in Benson wants to know if we’re putting down the spike strips, or are they?”

“Do we have anyone on the scene yet?”

“Not so far,” Kendrick said. “Where are you and Chief Deputy Montoya?”

Joanna looked up and was amazed to see that they were already out on the broad, flat plain between the Mule Mountains and the hills leading into Tombstone. “Not quite halfway,” she told him.

“I tried Deputy Rojas from Pomerene. He’s up at Hooker Hot Springs investigating some dead livestock. It’ll take him a while to get back down from there. Matt Raymond and Tim Lindsey are on their way from Elfrida and Sierra Vista respectively. Tim should be there first.”

“Okay,” loa4u4;4said. “Have Matt try to catch up with the subject from behind and keep her in visual contact. Put Matt and Tim in touch directly, so Tim can lay down the strips with just enough time to get back in his car and take cover. And then, in your spare time, call the Double Cs. Tell Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal that we need them both in Benson ASAP.”

Joanna settled back in the seat and listened to the squawking radio as Larry Kendrick relayed her orders to various officers. Meanwhile Frank’s Civvie flew through Tombstone and out onto
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the straight stretch of newly repaved highway between Tombstone and St. David.

“Sounds like you’ve got things under control,” Frank said.

Joanna shook her head. There were too many variables; too many jurisdictions and people involved; too much opportunity for ordinary citizens to be injured or killed. “We’ll see,” she said.

They were halfway between St. David and Benson when Larry Kendrick’s voice addressed her once again. “Sheriff Brady?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a problem. Deputy Raymond reports that the subject is pulling off on the shoulder just west of Exit 318.”

Joanna studied the map. “The Dragoon Exit?” she asked. “That’s right.”

That meant Irma Sorenson was stopping far short of Tim Lind-sey and his tire strips. “Why’s she stopping?” Joanna asked.

“Matt’s not sure. No, wait. He says a lone woman has stepped out of the vehicle and is walking back toward the rear. He says it looks like maybe she’s got a flat.”

Joanna took a deep breath. It could be a trap. Irma Sorenson might have noticed the sudden reduction in traffic volume travel-ing in both directions on the freeway. She might also have noticed the presence of a marked patrol car following her even though Deputy Raymond had been directed to keep his distance. There was no question in Joanna’s mind that Irma Sorenson was capable of murder. What were the chances that she was taking the flat for some reason? On the other hand, it was possible that since the RV had been parked in one place for more than six months, it really did have a ruined tire.

“All right, Larry,” Joanna said, steadying her voice and trying not to think about Matt Raymond’s wife and the five-year-old twin girls who were the light of his life. “Here’s what I want you to do. Tell Matt to drive past the vehicle and see if he can tell if the woman is carrying any kind of weapon. If none is visible, have him put on his lights—the orange ones, not the red—and back up on the shoulder. Have him—”

“Deputy Raymond’s on the radio now,” Larry reported. “I lc says the subject is attempting to flag him down. He doesn’t see any weapon. I’ve directed Deputy Lindsey to leave his position i44lien-son and back up Deputy Raymond.”

Holding the radio mike clenched tightly in her white-knuckled fist, Joanna looked entreatingly at Frank Montoya. “Can’t you drive any faster than this?” she begged.

Frank merely shook his head. “Not if you want us to get there in one piece,” he said.

Now they heard Deputy Raymond’s static-distorted voice coming through the speaker, broadcasting into his shoulder mounted radio. “Ma’am, is something the matter?” That transmission was followed by something garbled that Joanna was unable to decipher, followed by Raymond again, “Well, let me take a look.”

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Holding her breath, Joanna gripped the microphone even harder and wondered why the hard plastic didn’t simply crumble to pieces in her hand. Suddenly she heard the sound of a scuffle.

“Get down! Get down! Hands behind your back.Behind your back!”

Then, after what seemed an eternity, Joanna heard Deputy Ray-mond’s voice once more. “Got her.” He panted jubilantly. “Sub-ject is secured. Repeat: Subject secure. She wasn’t carrying a weapon, and she really does have a flat. Lost the whole tread on her right rear tire. I just finished checking out the RV. It’s full of pack-ing boxes, but there’s no one else inside.”

In the background of Deputy Raymond’s transmission Joanna heard the screeching of a siren announcing the arrival of Tim Lindsey’s patrol car. It was all under control and her officers were safe. Joanna’s voice shook with gratitude and relief when she spoke into the microphone again.

“Okay, Larry. Tell Deputy Raymond good work. Have him put the subject in the back of his patrol car and wait for Frank’s and my arrival. Under no circumstances is he to ask her anything until we arrive, understand?”

“Got it.”

“And tell our trucker friends who’ve been stopping traffic that they can let things start moving again. If possible, I’d like their names, company names, and addresses. I want to be able to write to their bosses and express my appreciation.”