Skeleton Canyon (30 page)

In a way, Joanna had seen a ghost—her father
^’
s. She was remembering a breakfast from long ago. Her father, D. H. Lathrop—only a deputy back then—had been working on a case. “When it comes to homicide,” he had announced over his bacon and eggs, “there ain’t no such thing as coincidence.”

“Isn’t,” Eleanor had returned at once, correcting his gram-mar as usual. She was forever doing that, trying to weed out the remnants of her husband’s Arkansas childhood. “There isn’t any such thing,” she added for good measure.

It was one of the few times Joanna could remember her mother’s habitual corrections riling her easygoing, even-tempered father. “Ellie,” he had said, banging his coffee cup back into the saucer. “It would be nice if, just once in your life, you’d listen to what I mean instead of picking apart whatever I say.”

With that, he had stood up and stalked out of the house. “Well?” Ernie pressed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m remembering something my father said years ago,” she told him, handing over the card. “He told me once that, in a homicide case, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“I’d have to agree, but ...”

“Did I mention anything to you about Jim Hobbs being offered the opportunity to get in on an illegal Freon buy? The guy trying to put the deal together was Sam Nettleton.”

“Nettleton? The scuzzball towing operator from up in Benson?”

“Right.”

Ernie shook his head. “You didn’t say a word to me about it.”

“Sorry. With everything else that happened, it must have slipped my mind. But I did call Adam York about it. He said the DEA is investigating a big Freon-smuggling deal up in Phoenix, something involving one of the big refrigeration con-tractors. So here we have a Cochise County Freon case, supposedly unrelated to theirs, and a Phoenix air-conditioning contractor connected, however loosely, to one of our homicides. What do you think?”

Ernie handed Joanna back the card. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s no such thing as coincidence. What are you going to do about it?”

“As soon as I have some lunch, I’m going back to the office to call Adam York. What about you?”

“I’m supposed to meet Rose uptown. After that, I’ll run by the coroner’s office to see if George has that official copy of the autopsy typed up for us by then.”

Joanna nodded. “Good deal,” she said. “I’ll see you back at the office right after that. I don’t know about you, but I can do a whole lot better job of strategic planning on a full stomach than I can on an empty one.”

On her way back to the office, Joanna stopped long enough to grab a hamburger. She sat alone in the midst of Daisy’s noisy lunchtime clatter, letting her thoughts wander back to Green Brush Ranch. What had happened to Bree was an appalling tragedy, but it seemed to Joanna that there were other tragedies looming there as well. She had read somewhere that the death of a child was one of the most difficult marital storms for a couple to weather. From what she had seen that afternoon from both David and Katherine O’Brien, Joanna didn’t hold out much hope for the long-term survival of their marriage.

Leaving the restaurant, she glanced off to the south. A series of tall columns of cumulus clouds was rising up on the far horizon. Another afternoon storm was brewing. If this one turned out to be as bad as yesterday’s, there’d be another big bite in the overtime department. Frank Montoya would have a fit.

Back at her desk, Joanna immediately tried calling Adam York, but he didn’t answer his phone. Following his voice mail directions, she left her number on his pager. Even so, it was almost forty-five minutes before he answered the page and called her back. In order to contain her impatience, Joanna had buried herself in that day’s pile of paperwork and correspondence.

“Just how mad are you?” the DEA agent asked as soon as Joanna picked up her phone.

“Mad?” she repeated. “Why would I be mad?”

“D.C. went over my head on this one,” he said. “I couldn’t help it. It’s all gone down since I talked to you this morning. I tried to call you about it the minute it happened, but you weren’t available, and it was too complicated—”

“Adam,” she interrupted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Freon deal. We’ve been in touch with the guy you ‘old me about, the one in Bisbee.”

“Jim Hobbs?”

“Right. He’s agreed to make the buy. Somebody was sup-posed to meet him in Benson just a little while ago to give him a briefcase full of marked bills.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna fumed. “Are you telling nee that you people are initiating a sting operation in my jurisdiction without anyone letting my department know beforehand?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Joanna, I’m sorry. As I said, I did try calling you earlier to let you know. If you had a damn cell phone, maybe I could get through to you once in a while. Ever since that one attempt, I’ve been shut up in meetings. This case is all coming together so fast—”

“What case?” Joanna interrupted. “With Air Conditioning Enterprises, you mean?”

Adam York stopped in mid-sentence. “What did you say?”

“With Air Conditioning Enterprises,” Joanna repeated, reading from the card Maggie Hastings had given her. “Stephan J. Marcovich, President.
^”

“How the hell did you do that?” Adam York demanded. “This was supposed to be totally hush-hush. Nobody is supposed ...”

The undisguised shock in Adam’s voice told Joanna that she had indeed made the right connection. Stephan Marcovich did have something to do with the DEA’s Freon deal. “It’s like you told me the other day, Adam,” she reminded him, not worrying if she sounded a little smug. “Little fish lead to big fish, remember?”

“But what . . . ?”

“Hush-hush or not, maybe it’s time we traded info,” Joanna informed him. “I’ve got a homicide case down here—a young girl, eighteen years old, who was murdered and dumped off the side of a cliff out in the Peloncillos east of Douglas some-time over the weekend. We didn’t get a positive ID until late last night. My public information officer has been dealing with the press about it all morning, so it’ll probably be headlines statewide by late this afternoon.”

“Why?” Adam York asked. “What makes a weekend homicide in Cochise County headline news all over Arizona?”

“Because the girl’s name is O’Brien.”

“So?”

“And her parents, David and Katherine O’Brien, are good friends of the Hickmans—as in Wally and Abby.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this.” Adam groaned. “You mean as in Governor Wallace Hickman?”

“One and the same.”

“Damn!”

“And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Joanna continued, “if we don’t find out that Mr. Stephan J. Marcovich wasn’t part of the governor’s circle of acquaintances as well.”

Adam York sighed. “We already know he is. A major contributor besides. That’s why we’re trying to keep this thing quiet. What’s his connection to the O’Briens?”

“Marcovich
^’
s cousin is a man named Alf Hastings, who hap pens to work for David O’Brien. You remember Alf Listings, don
^’
t you?
^”

“Remind me.”

“He used to be a deputy sheriff over in Yuma County. He got drummed out of the corps on a charge of police brutality. Now this same Alf Hastings is David O’Brien’s chief of opera Lions. Translation: junkyard dog/bodyguard. According to Hastings’s wife, Maggie, Alf’s cousin—Stevie, as she called him—arranged for the job when Alf couldn’t get work any where else. The dead girl’s Hispanic boyfriend went out to the O’Brien place hoping to catch sight of his missing girlfriend. Instead, Alf Hastings beat him up. We’re investigating it as an assault case, but he could develop into a suspect in our homicide and into a possibility for your smuggling case as well.”

“Have you talked to this All guy?”

“Not yet. He’s not at work today,” Joanna told hint. “According to his boss, he won’t be at work tomorrow, either. And nobody—his wife included--seems to know where he is. But let me tell you something about the O’Brien place, Adam. It’s called Green Brush Ranch, and it’s situated smack on top of the Mexican border. In fact, the property line runs along the border for miles, from Naco west all the way to the San Pedro River. Over the past couple years, under the guise of reestablishing the grassland, the owner has turned the whole place into an armed camp, complete with razor wire all the way around the perimeter and with ATV-mounted guards and guard dogs patrolling the property line.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “In other words, what you’re telling me is that no law enforcement folks have been allowed inside.”

“That’s right.”

“Which would make for an ideal smuggling operation.”

“Right again.” Joanna agreed.

Ever since she had read the words on Stephan Marcovich’s business card, the same ugly theory had been germinating inside Joanna’s head. Now that she had confirmation from Adam York that Marcovich was indeed the air-conditioning contractor in question, she was almost sure of it. The seed of the idea was there, but she had yet to voice it aloud. She felt self-conscious at the idea of laying it out in front of Adam York. Would the DEA agent find it as chillingly believable as she did, or would he simply toss it aside?

“Let me run this past you, Adam. If either David O’Brien and/or his wife is involved in this smuggling deal, what do you think the chances are that one of them had something to do with their daughter’s death?”

“What makes you think that?” Adam responded at once.

Relieved that he didn’t laugh outright at her theory, Joanna continued. “I had a chance to look through the girl’s diary,” she said. “Through one of them, anyway. Brianna O’Brien was one of those faithful diarists. She’s been keeping a journal for several years now. The last entry stuck with me. ‘My mother is a liar,’ it said. My guess is that both her parents are liars, not just her mother.

“When Ernie and I were out at the house earlier today, I saw the father writing what looked like a suicide note. The mother is pissed as hell—at the father. Not only that, she said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. She said her husband has never lived with the consequences of his actions. The way she said it set off all my alarms.”

Again the telephone line went quiet. Joanna suffered through the silence, expecting the DEA agent to tell her she had a far too vivid imagination.

“The liar comment is the very last entry in the journal?” Adam asked at last. “The final one the girl made before she died?”

“No. It was the last entry in the next-to-last volume. It was written months ago. The problem is, the volume Brianna O’Brien has been writing in since then—the one that might contain any telling details—is missing. It isn’t in her room. It wasn’t at the crime scene, either.”

“As in maybe somebody got rid of it,” Adam York muttered.

“The same thought that occurred to me,” Joanna said.

“Unfortunately,” Adam continued, “this Freon thing is a multimillion-dollar business. If our suspicions are correct, Stevie Marcovich, otherwise known as Marco, runs an operation that will be right up there with the six-million-dollar bust we made in Florida a year ago. If the O’Briens are involved and their own daughter was expendable, I’d say Sam Nettleton up in Benson i5 in way over his head. So is Jim Hobbs, for that matter.”

“What do we do about it?” Joanna asked.

“For one thing,” Adam said, “I’m canceling the sting operation as of right now. How soon can your detectives be in Benson?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. One forty-five. “Ernie Carpenter is probably still up the canyon at the coroner’s office. With luck I can possibly have him there by two-thirty. The same thing goes for Jaime Carbajal. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I think somebody should go see Sam Nettleton and lay the cards on the table. We’ll let him know his ass is on the line. Maybe we can scare him into springing with what he knows.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“Except you may have blown your chance to nail Marcovich,” Joanna said.

“Right,” Adam returned. “But considering there are innocent lives at stake, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m on my way to Benson, too, but I’m coming from Casa Grande. I don’t know if I’ll make it there before all hell breaks loose.”

“Do me a favor,” Joanna said.

“What’s that.”

“Tell your people that Nettleton comes here first for questioning.”

“Joanna—”

She cut off his objection. “You owe me, Adam. This is my turf. As far as I’m concerned, my homicide takes precedence over your sting.”

“Okay,” Adam York agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll let them know.”

The moment Joanna was off the telephone with Adam York, she called Dispatch and told the operator who answered to locate both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter and send them off to meet up with the DEA task force in Benson. Once that was done, there wasn’t much more for Joanna to do except sit and wait. She was tempted to go racing off to Benson right along with everyone else. After a moment’s consideration, though, she decided against it. That wasn’t her job. It was why she had detectives. Besides, Cochise County or not, the Benson operation was the DEA’s deal. Adam York would he in charge of that one—of his officers and Joanna’s as well.

Sit and stay,
she told herself firmly.
No need for a second commander in the field. All that would do would be to gum up the works.
She stopped long enough to eye the ever-growing mounds of paper that littered her desk.

Especially,
she added,
when I’ve got more than enough to do right here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

During Joanna’s term as sheriff, paperwork had become the bane of her existence. No matter how often she did it—no matter how hard she tried to keep up—it continued to roll across her desk in a perpetual stream. It struck her that it was just like trying to keep up with housework at home, where there was always another pile of dirty laundry to wash or another load of dishes to do. It was a drudgery aspect of police work that somehow never quite made it into the phony TV world of quirky cops and equally fantastic crooks duking it out in exotic high-speed car chases.