Damage Control (16 page)

When attending the briefings, Joanna always carried a leather-bound notebook with her. She jotted a note to herself. “See Tom McCracken.”

“All right, then,” she said. “That’s three down. Two suicides and an accidental death. What’s happening with Wanda Mappin?”

Dave Hollicker raised his hand. “I’ve spoken to the owner of the locket we found with her body,” he said. “Richard Logan, the man who placed the Lost and Found ad on Craig’s List, is actually the great-grandson of the people whose monograms are on the locket.” Dave paused long enough to consult his notes. “HRC and KML stand for Helen Rose Campbell and Kenneth Michael Logan. The locket is a family heirloom that has been passed from one generation to the next. It would have been passed on to Richard’s daughter, eventually, but it disappeared from his mother’s home sometime in the last year or so. He doesn’t know when or how.

“They live in Tucson with his mother in a casita on their
property. There was no break-in that anyone knows about, but Mama Logan evidently isn’t the greatest at keeping her doors and windows locked. Months ago she told her son that she was sure someone had been in her house and had taken a carton of cigarettes out of her freezer. If someone was prowling through her house, that might have been when it happened, but nothing else was found to be missing at the time and no police report was filed. Mr. Logan wasn’t at all sure that his mother wasn’t mistaken. The woman’s evidently a chain smoker. He thought she was claiming someone had stolen her cigarettes rather than admitting she had smoked them herself. Then, three weeks ago, when Logan’s daughter was about to get married, his mother wanted the locket to be the ‘something old’ the bride wore on her wedding day. The problem is, the locket couldn’t be found.”

“Because it was buried in a plastic bag along with Wanda Mappin’s body,” Joanna observed. “But we have no idea when it was taken or by whom.”

“I asked Mr. Logan about that,” Dave said. “He couldn’t remember exactly. He seemed to remember the missing cigarettes incident was early in the year—shortly after Christmas.”

“And where do these people live again?” Joanna asked. “Anywhere near Wanda’s group home?”

“It’s several miles away,” Dave said. “The Logans’ place is in a neighborhood called Sam Hughes, which is a few blocks east of the university. The group home is on Copper, several grids to the north and east of there. That’s a long way for someone like Wanda to travel on her own, to say nothing of finding her way back home again.”

Jaime cut into the conversation. “And even if she did, I doubt she was the one pilfering from Logan’s mother’s house.
As soon as Dave told me about this, I called Lucinda Mappin and asked her. She was adamant. Wanda never smoked. She hated the fact that her mother did. Lucinda says Wanda never would have taken something that didn’t belong to her and she most especially wouldn’t have taken cigarettes. But she did mention something intriguing. Lucinda remembers Wanda telling her that her friend—that imaginary friend of hers named Wayne—smoked.”

“The friend who disappeared smoked.” Joanna mused. “The one who didn’t exist.”

“Right.”

“So we need to find him.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. “We do.”

“Have you talked to the people at the group home?”

“Flannigan Foundation? I’ve tried talking to them. It turns out they run all kinds of group homes, everything from Alzheimer’s to halfway houses for sex offenders and druggies. They started out about twenty-five years ago as your basic do-gooders providing homes for people like Wanda whose families, for whatever reason, could no longer care for their loved ones. In recent years, though, Flannigan Foundation has expanded like crazy. They still take some private placements, as they did with Wanda, but mostly they’re paid by the state. Apparently state contracts like that can be very lucrative.”

“What do you mean, you’ve tried talking to them?” Joanna asked.

“Most of what I’ve told you so far I’ve been able to track down on the Internet,” Jaime answered. “I have a call in to Donald Dietrich, Flannigan’s executive director. So far he hasn’t bothered
to call back. The people I’ve spoken to on my way up the chain of command to his office have been less than cooperative. Based on that, I doubt Mr. Dietrich will be, either.”

“Have you learned anything else about Wanda’s disappearance?”

“I pulled a copy of the original missing persons report.”

Jaime slid a set of papers across the conference table. While Frank passed copies to all the others, Joanna glanced through hers. The report pretty much squared with what Lucinda Mappin had told them earlier—that Wanda had missed her midnight bed check and had been reported missing to Tucson PD forty-five minutes later.

“No video surveillance?”

“Not at the group home,” Jaime said. “And if there was video surveillance from any other businesses in the neighborhood, those are most likely taped over and gone now. I get the feeling that Tucson PD didn’t waste a whole lot of manpower, time, or effort looking for Wanda Mappin.”

“They didn’t know she was dead,” Joanna said. “We do.”

Joanna turned to Casey Ledford, the latent fingerprint tech, who had been sitting quietly throughout the briefing. “What about you, Casey?” Joanna asked. “Anything on your end?”

“I’m going over the bags inch by inch,” she said. “There’s a chance that the place where the two bags were taped together didn’t get as degraded as the parts that were exposed to the sand and water. But so far, nothing.”

“Keep looking,” Joanna said. Before she could say anything more, the conference room door opened and Kristin beckoned to her. Kristin seldom interrupted the morning proceedings. As
suming this to be something important, Joanna gathered up her notebook and other paraphernalia and followed her secretary out into the lobby.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Dick Voland is here to see you,” Kristin told her. “He says it’s urgent. He came in the back way and asked to wait in your office.”

“In my office?” Joanna asked in dismay. “You left him there on his own?”

“Sorry. He told me it was important,” Kristin said. “Important and confidential.”

Joanna approached her closed office door and stopped outside long enough to compose herself before turning the handle. Joanna had never discussed with anyone the exact nature of the circumstances under which Richard Voland had left the sheriff’s department. She had sent him packing when she’d come to realize that he had a romantic interest in her that made their working together impossible.

Since that abrupt departure, Dick had moved on. Not only had he opened his own private investigation business, he had also courted and married Marliss Shackleford. Because they all attended the same church, that meant there were occasional public encounters in what was mutually neutral territory. Over time those had become less difficult, but this was different. Having him show back up on Joanna’s home turf and bluff his way into her office without an express invitation was an entirely different matter.

“Hello, Dick,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even. “You needed to see me?”

He was seated in one of the two captain’s chairs. “Do you mind closing that door?” he asked.

“I don’t see why—”

“Sheriff Brady,” he said formally. “I believe what I have to say is best said in private.”

Reluctantly, Joanna pulled the door shut behind her and then made her way to her desk.

“If this is about the situation with our former tenant,” Joanna began, “you should probably be talking to Butch. He’s the one who hired you.”

“It’s not just about Bob Baker,” Dick said. “It’s also about you.”

“Have you found him, then?” Joanna asked.

“I’ve located his vehicle,” Dick said. “It’s parked in the long-term lot at Tucson International. I’ve also managed to trace his movements beyond that. He left a week ago on a flight to Mazatlán on a one-way ticket, by the way. I’m assuming he has no intention of coming back.”

Dick Voland’s competency had never been in question.

“It sounds as though you’ve done what Butch wanted you to do, then,” Joanna said. “If you’ll stop by the house, I’m sure he’ll be glad to give you a check.”

“There’s more,” Dick said.

His tone of voice was dead flat. That was worrisome.

“What?” Joanna asked.

“Before he took off, Baker had come under the scrutiny of the FBI. They were getting ready to bust him for smuggling, but he gave them the slip before they got their ducks in a row.”

“So?” Joanna asked.

“Now the FBI is trying to wipe the egg off their faces, and they’re investigating you,” Dick said quietly. “You and Butch.”

“They’re investigating us?” Joanna asked.

“That’s right,” Dick said. “I stumbled on it by accident, and I certainly can’t say how, but with Baker gone, the feds are looking into whether or not you and Butch knew what he was doing out of the house he rented from you. They’re trying to see if you were in on it.”

“That’s appalling!” Joanna exclaimed.

“Yes,” Dick Voland agreed. “That’s what I thought, too. It’s also why I decided to come to you with it. It seemed only fair to let you know. And now that I have, I should be going.” He got to his feet. “Don’t bother,” he added. “I know the way.”

Dick let himself out through Joanna’s private entrance. Stunned to silence by his words, she let him go. Bob Baker had been using their rental property for illegal purposes, so now Joanna and Butch were under investigation? The whole idea left Joanna with a pain in her gut.

Wanting to talk it over with Butch, she reached for her phone and punched the speed-dial number for the house, but she ended the call before it connected. If they were being investigated, what were the chances their phone calls were being monitored as well? After putting the phone down for a moment, she picked it up and redialed.

“How about lunch?” she asked when Butch answered.

“Lunch? Are you kidding?” he asked. “You’re inviting me to lunch even though I’ll show up with a squalling baby and dribble on my shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Jenny can’t come. She’s over at Cassie’s, but Dennis and I will be there. Where and when?”

“Daisy’s,” she said. “Eleven-thirty.”

Joanna’s Monday mornings were usually devoted to routine
administrative matters. She tried to do some of that now, but she had difficulty concentrating. The idea that she and Butch were under suspicion was profoundly disturbing. They had rented property to someone who had come with a whole raft of good references, but now that Bob Baker had taken off, she and Butch were somehow guilty by association. Regardless of the outcome, the fact that an investigation had been initiated could result in far-reaching complications. If Joanna came under a cloud of suspicion, so would her department. The actions of her investigators and deputies would all be called into question. Individual suspects were supposed to be considered innocent until proved guilty. Joanna knew that law enforcement agencies weren’t always accorded that same consideration.

As sheriff, Joanna had occasionally worked on investigations that included various federal entities. Many of those relationships had been prickly at best. How likely was it that someone whose toes she had stepped on in the past was now looking for wrongdoing on her part?

Exasperated by her inability to concentrate on her work, Joanna left the office for lunch several minutes early. Junior Dowdle, smiling and holding a handful of menus, met her at the entrance. “Dennis?” he asked.

Junior loved babies of all kinds, but he was particularly enamored of Dennis.

“Dennis is coming,” Joanna said, smiling at him and pointing at her watch. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.” Junior nodded and grinned. His cheerful attitude and unfailing enthusiasm were catching.

Joanna settled into a booth to wait while Junior went back to the door to meet the next set of customers. Watching him,
Joanna couldn’t help thinking about Wanda Mappin. The murder victim’s mental deficits might have been more severe than Junior’s, but she must have been a lot like him—full of guileless wonder and straightforward opinions. Sitting in Daisy’s, Joanna had no doubt that, had Wanda and Junior ever met, they would have become fast friends. Just like Wanda and her mysterious and supposedly nonexistent Wayne.

A few minutes later, beaming proudly, Junior lugged Dennis in his baby carrier back to the booth while Butch followed with the diaper bag.

“Look,” Butch said, modeling for Joanna. “Do you believe it? A shirt that’s been actually ironed instead of dragged out of the dryer and put on wrinkles and all? Your mother’s a wonder.”

“She’s that, all right,” Joanna observed. “And you don’t know the half of it.”

Barely waiting long enough for Butch to settle into the booth, Joanna launched into her story, but Butch held up a hand to stop her. “Dick came straight out to the house after he talked to you. I talked to him right after you called about lunch, so I already know what you’re going to tell me.”

Busying himself with settling the baby carrier into the booth and locating the pacifier, Butch seemed totally at ease.

“But doesn’t any of this bother you?” Joanna asked.

“Not really,” he said. “Let them look. What are they going to find? People involved in criminal enterprises need time to do bad stuff. We have a teenager and a baby. We both have full-time jobs. The money we have coming in and going out is documented down to the penny. We own a two-year-old Subaru and an aging Eagle. But if they’re going to do any investigating, they’d best get a move on. I’ve hired a crew of kids
from church to come in and start cleaning the place out tomorrow.”

“If we clean it up, won’t that look bad?”

Butch laughed. “It’ll look a lot more suspicious if we don’t.”

While Butch perused his menu, Joanna studied him. She loved his sense of humor, his logical way of sorting through crises, his unflappable calm in the face of whatever storm they happened to encounter. And here he was, doing it again.

“In other words,” she said finally, “if the FBI is after us, we cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Right.” Butch grinned. “Works for me. So how about if we order and eat
before
Dennis starts crying.”