Tombstone Courage (22 page)

“Any possible I.D. on the skeleton?”

“None.”

“Cause of death?”

“Looks like a rock to the head to me, but that's just a wild guess.”

“Do you have any leads on either case?”

“Not really. But how could I? For Pete's sake, I've been down in that damn hole mucking around in the mud all morning long.”

Joanna turned from Ernie Carpenter to the chief deputy. “All right then, Dick. That's what you tell the press.”

“What?”

“Two separate homicides. One positive I.D., one John Doe. No specific leads in either case at this time.”

“That's all? You call a press conference and just give 'em that little snippet of information? They'll tear me apart.”

“Some information is better than no information,” Joanna countered. “They'll have to make do. Tell them when we know more, they'll know more.”

Shaking his head, a disgruntled Dick Voland took his coffee and headed out of the office. Ernie Carpenter made as if to follow, but Joanna stopped him. “Wait a minute, Ernie.”

Ernie sighed and reluctantly sat back down. “What now?”

“I picked up a few tidbits of information out at the Rocking P this morning,” she told him.

“Tidbits?” he asked with a disinterested shrug. “Like what?”

Joanna got up from behind her desk, walked over to the door and closed it. “Like who might have killed Harold Patterson,” she answered firmly. “And why.”

E
RNIE
C
ARPENTER
stayed in Joanna's office for more than an hour. Once she started relating all she had learned out at the Patterson place and during her stop at
Casa Vieja
, Ernie appropriated one of Joanna's legal pads and pens and began scribbling notes.

When she finished telling him everything she could remember, Ernie studied his notes in silence for several moments. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, chewing one end of the pen, “what you've told me tallies with some of the things I picked up.”

“For instance?”

“For instance,” he replied, “near as I can tell, there were several sets of tire tracks in and out of that place for days. The only trouble is, they're all from the same vehicle.”

“Which one?”

“Harold Patterson's Scout.”

“That stands to reason.”

“But only up to a point,” Ernie said. “He could have driven it in one last time, but he sure as hell didn't drive it out. According to the coroner's preliminary look-see, he guesstimates time of
death as sometime Tuesday or Wednesday, but Burton Kimball says he came to the Election Night party looking for his uncle because he saw his car in the convention-center parking lot.”

“So the question is, how did it get from the glory hole to the parking lot?”

“No way to tell, but presumably the killer drove it there.”

Ernie shook his head thoughtfully. “The part about all this that doesn't add up is Ivy and her boyfriend spending the night in the Scout with Harold lying there dead a matter of a few feet away. That one just flat-out takes the cake!”

“It's sick, all right,” Joanna agreed.

“And they're getting married tonight?”

Joanna nodded. “That's what they said. Seven o'clock at the Canyon Methodist parsonage. Marianne Maculyea is officiating.”

“I call that really rushing it,” Ernie said, frowning. “I mean, the old guy's not even cold yet, and his daughter's out banging her boyfriend in Daddy's car. Next thing you know, she's getting married. Couldn't she hold off the celebration at least until after the funeral? And you say Burton Kimball didn't know anything at all about the wedding until today?”

“That's how it sounded—as though he'd never even heard of Yuri Malakov,” Joanna told him.

“So the Russian and Ivy were already engaged, but maybe no one in the family knew anything about it, including the old man.”

“Why keep your engagement a secret?” Joanna asked.

“Because you figure someone's going to object,” Ernie answered. “So the next question has to be why there'd be an objection in the first place.”

Joanna nodded thoughtfully. “According to Marianne, Yuri is applying for U.S. citizenship. Wouldn't Immigration have an application with fingerprints on it?”

“And with any criminal record as well,” Ernie said.

“Can we get a copy?”

Ernie laughed. “Supposedly, but nobody rushes those guys down at INS. I've gone to them for records before. Just getting an answer to a simple question could take months, even with the MJ boys working on it.”

The Multi-Jurisdictional Force was a recently created task force designed to counter criminal activity along the Mexican border, including unlawful enterprises that often crossed jurisdictional boundaries. One MJ squad was based out of the Cochise County Justice Center. Joanna knew about it, but only distantly. It was one of those aspects of her new job that she had expected to have time to research between Election Night and being sworn in sometime in January.

“Maybe you can get someone from there to pull a string or two,” she suggested.

“Don't hold your breath,” Ernie said sourly, getting up. “But I'll give it a whirl.”

He was already at the door when Joanna remembered the magazine. “You don't read
People
by any chance, do you?”

Ernie shook his head. “Not me. I'm more into
Smithsonian
and
Home Mechanix
,” he answered. “Last month they had a great article on building decks. Why do you ask?”

Joanna leaned down, reached into her purse, and was about to haul out Helen Barco's dog-eared magazine when she thought better of it.

“Never mind,” she said. “There's an article in one of them I thought you should read, but you already have enough to do. I'll try to scan it sometime tonight. If it looks as though it has any bearing on the case, I'll get it to you first thing in the morning.”

“Good,” Ernie said, heading out the door. “What I don't need is one more thing that has to be done tonight.”

The intercom on Joanna's desk buzzed loudly. Without having been given proper operating instructions, Joanna wasn't able to figure out how to make it work. Giving up, she finally walked over to the door and threw it open.

“Yes?”

“There's someone out here waiting to see you.”

“Who?”

Before Kristin could answer, a young woman rose from one of the chairs across the room and hurried forward, hand extended. Short, stocky, well dressed, and very businesslike, she seemed vaguely familiar, although Joanna couldn't quite place her.

“Sue Rolles,” the woman said with a winning smile. “I'm a reporter for the
Arizona Daily Sun
.”

“A reporter. I'm afraid you need to talk to Chief
Deputy Voland. He's the one handling the press on today's glory-hole cases.”

“This isn't about those,” Sue Rolles said. “It's something else entirely.”

Joanna led the way back into her office and motioned the visitor into a chair. “Have we met before?” Joanna asked. “You look familiar.”

“We didn't exactly meet,” Sue Rolles replied. “We ran into one another back in September in the lobby at University Hospital in Tucson. But we were never properly introduced. Since then, I've spent a good deal of time here in Cochise County working on a special assignment.”

“What kind of assignment?”

“The sheriff's race.”

Joanna Brady had been in office for only one day, but she had been around law enforcement long enough to suspect ambush journalism. “That's funny,” she said. “I don't remember your ever asking for an interview with me.”

“It's not that kind of article,” Sue Rolles said quickly.

“I see. Exactly what kind is it then?”

Sue Rolles shrugged. “You know how it is. People are free to say things before elections that they can't or won't say afterward. My editors wanted me to survey some of the people who work here to get an insider's view of how people would react depending on which of the three candidates was actually elected.”

“In other words,” Joanna interjected without humor, “you've been out stirring up a hornet's nest in advance of my taking office.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.”

“What, then?”

“Since you're the first woman to hold this office in the state of Arizona, there's a good deal of interest, especially since most of the officers who will be reporting to you are men.”

“So?” Joanna asked warily.

“Do you see a problem with that?”

“Not particularly. I've addressed that question on numerous occasions during my election campaign. Crime is the problem. Gender is not the problem.”

“Even though some of your officers might be vocally critical of your…law-enforcement abilities?”

“The voters of this county didn't expect me to know everything the first day I walked into this office,” Joanna countered. “You and I both know there's a learning curve on any new job. I believe the people who elected me were bargaining for a hard worker. They want me to uncover any problems that may exist in this agency and to find solutions to them. That's what the people wanted, and it's what I expect to give them.”

“Do you think your election combined with what happened to the previous sheriff will make for a continuing morale problem in the department?”

Joanna Brady wasn't eager to discuss Walter V. McFadden or the role she herself had played in his death.

“Any change of administration or supervision always comes with the potential for ‘morale' prob
lems. That goes for the private sector every bit as much as it does for governmental agencies. I didn't come in here expecting to do a wholesale housecleaning. My intention is to give officers under me a fair crack at showing me what they can do. I assume they will grant me the same courtesy.”

“You know about Martin Sanders' resignation then?”

Martin Sanders, deputy for administration, was Dick Voland's counterpart on the administrative side. He had always been a background player. While Dick had been out actively campaigning for Al Freeman, Martin Sanders had been at work minding the store. He was someone Joanna naturally would have expected to meet during the course of her first full day in office had two separate homicides not taken precedence.

“He resigned?” Joanna demanded in surprise. “Since when?”

Sue Rolles looked startled as well. “I thought you knew all about that. My understanding was that he turned in his letter of resignation sometime early this morning. I wonder if it would be fair to characterize his action as a vote of no confidence.”

Joanna could barely contain her irritation. “Since I haven't seen the letter yet,” she snapped, “I don't believe it's fair to characterize it one way or the other. My answer on that issue is no comment. Period!”

“What about Chief Deputy Richard Voland?”

“What about him?”

“Do you have anyone in mind as his replacement?”

“Replacement? Who says he's leaving?”

Sue Rolles shrugged. “Well,” she said disingenuously, “both he and Martin are political appointees, patronage workers who serve at the discretion of the sheriff. And since Voland actively supported your opponent…”

Joanna cut the reporter off in midsentence. “Ms. Rolles,” she said, “did you attend Dick Voland's press conference earlier this afternoon?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then you are well aware that this agency is currently in the midst of coping with not one but two separate homicides in addition to handling the regular workload of calls.”

“Yes.”

“From the tenor of your questions, it appears to me this interview is heading in a direction I don't especially like. I believe it's designed to undermine my new administration, to create ill will and disharmony at a time when we all need to pull together to get the job done. With that in mind, I have nothing more to say at this time.”

“But…”

Impatiently, Joanna punched a button on the intercom. Luckily, it was the right one, and Kristin answered. “Yes?”

“Miss Marsten,” Joanna said. “Ms. Rolles is just leaving. Would you please show her out? And would you mind bringing in my mail? I've been told there are some items lurking in there that require my immediate attention.”

While she waited for Sue Rolles to leave and for Kristin to bring in the mail, Joanna turned and looked out her window. Not that many offices in the building boasted private windows.

It was after four. Already the late fall sun was fast disappearing behind the Mule Mountains to the west. The hillside outside her window was spiked with gray sticks of spindly, thorny ocotillo branches. At first glance, the ghostly clumps of twigs seemed dead or dying, but the slanting afternoon sunlight revealed a faint tinge of green out-lining the stalks. Even though winter weather was fast approaching, pale new leaves sprouted among the spiny thorns.

In order to survive in the harsh desert climate, ocotillos spend most of the year looking parched and barren. But whenever the shallow roots are blessed with rain, short-lived leaves appear on seemingly dead branches. New crops of leaves can come and go several times in the course of a single year.

Why couldn't people be more like ocotillos? Joanna wondered, envying the hardy desert candlewood its natural resilience. Humans didn't necessarily have that same kind of toughness, the same ability to withstand and recover from terrible dry spells.

Holly Patterson had gone off to Hollywood and created a career for herself, but the pain of what had happened to her as a child had somehow robbed her of all ability to enjoy it. She sat in a darkened room, rocking back and forth, hating her father and yet blaming herself for his death.

Ivy Patterson, too, had been damaged by the family troubles. Her once seemingly placid existence of faithful daughterly duty had erupted in a geyser of anger that made murder possible. Her late-blooming rebellion against her father made even the natural and mundane acts of falling in love and getting married take on sinister and unnatural overtones.

And before you go throwing too many stones, Joanna Brady thought to herself, what about you?

With Andy gone, she didn't expect the branches of her own heart ever again to leaf out in full springtime glory.

 

Toward evening Isobel Gonzales went into the darkened bedroom to collect the dinner tray and straighten the tangled covers on the bed. Holly Patterson was back in her chair, rocking back and forth and staring out through a space between the curtains at the towering black shadow of the dump.

“What's up there?” she asked.

Isobel almost jumped out of her skin. For days she had come to this room—dropping off food trays, taking them away, making the bed—while the room's sole occupant seldom spoke or even acknowledged her existence.

“Up where?” Isobel asked.

“On the dump. Is it smooth? Is it lumpy?”

Isobel walked over to the window and held the curtain aside. Eventually, the moon would come up, and the few hardy mesquite and scrub oak that had managed to scrabble up through the bar
ren waste would show up as shadows against the lighter shades of rock and dirt. For now the whole thing was still an ink-black man-made mesa.