Damage Control (19 page)

“What about you, Casey?”

“I’m still working on those plastic bags,” the fingerprint tech said. “And I’m still hoping to find something, maybe not on the bags themselves. The sand pretty well scrubbed all of that clean. But there are dozens of feet of duct tape there, and I’m going over every inch of them. That takes time.”

Joanna looked around the conference table. “Anything else?”

Shaking their heads, people stood and headed out, but Joanna called Detective Howell back before she made it out the door.

“You clearly didn’t want to turn that house over to the daughters,” Joanna said. “How come?”

Deb shut the conference room door and returned to the table. “Something about this isn’t right,” she said. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on—just a feeling I have.”

“Women’s intuition?” Joanna asked with a smile. Since her arrival at the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, Joanna herself had been derided for relying on that on more than one occasion, although she had been proved right more often than not.

“I guess,” Deb admitted.

“Look,” Joanna said. “What the guys call ‘gut instinct’ is fine, but calling it ‘women’s intuition’ will get you in trouble every time. So give me your best gut instinct.”

“I don’t like the man,” Deb said. “I don’t like him at all.”

“Who?” Joanna asked.

“Larry Wolfe,” Casey replied with a shudder. “Sandra’s husband. He gives me the creeps; makes my skin crawl. And if they’re so broke, how can they afford a hot-shot defense attorney like Irwin Federer? Lawyers like that don’t come cheap.”

“The Wolfes are broke?” Joanna asked. “Who says?”

“Relatively broke,” Deb said. “Relative to how they were before.”

“Before what?”

“Before they lost it all,” Deb said. “Years ago they lived in Texas. Houston, I believe. He was an executive for some big company that went broke.”

“Enron, maybe?” Joanna asked.

Deb nodded. “That’s the one. When that whole thing went south, the Wolfes pretty much lost everything—their savings, their retirement money, their house. When they moved back to Arizona—to Tucson—Alfred and Martha Beasley fronted them enough money—seventy-three thousand dollars—to make a down payment on a house. It was supposed to be a loan, but to this point none of it has been paid back, so that amount plus interest will have to be deducted from Sandra’s share of the estate.”

“How much?” Joanna asked.

“By the time the house is sold and after expenses, Sandra and Samantha should both come away with close to two hundred thou, maybe even more.”

“If Larry Wolfe’s retirement went bye-bye, what’s he doing now?” Joanna asked.

“Wearing an orange apron and working at Home Depot in Tucson. Plumbing supplies.”

“And what is it you don’t like about him?”

Deb thought about that for a moment. “For one thing, I didn’t like the way he looked at me. When guys look at you that way—like they’re trying to undress you—while their wives are sitting right there, it makes me want to puke.”

Joanna had endured a few leering looks of her own on occasion, with much the same reaction. It didn’t help to think that Larry Wolfe would have to be a good twenty-five to thirty years older than Casey.

“And if he was the least bit sorry about Sandra’s parents being dead,” the detective continued, “he sure as hell didn’t bother acting like it. I overheard him talking on the phone. He was chatting with one of his pals and setting up a golf game for late Thursday afternoon—twilight golf out at Palominas at the Rob Roy Links.”

“The same day as Alfred and Martha’s funeral service,” Joanna observed. “So he isn’t planning on spending the whole day in deep mourning or consoling his wife. The man may be an uncaring jerk, but that doesn’t make him a killer.”

“No,” Deb agreed. “It doesn’t, especially since he has an airtight alibi for the day Alfred and Martha went off that cliff. He was at work the whole time—punched in at eight in the morning and out at four, and we have that suicide note. I just flat didn’t like the guy, but he’s part of the Beasleys’ family, and I wanted to talk to him.”

“You didn’t?” Joanna asked.

Deb shook her head. “He bugged out before I had a chance. Sandra said he needed to get back to Tucson because he had to be at work early this morning.”

“Tell you what,” Joanna said. “How about if we kill two birds
with one stone. I need to drive up to Tucson to talk with the head of the Flannigan Foundation about Wanda Mappin. If you’ll ride along while I do the first interview, I’ll go with you to talk to Larry Wolfe.”

“When will we be back?” Deb asked.

“Probably late this afternoon. Why?”

“Let me check with Katy,” Deb said. “I want to be sure it’s not a problem if we don’t turn up right on time.”

Katy Rawlins was Deb’s younger sister. She was also Deb’s live-in babysitter for Benjamin, Deb’s six-year-old son, but the presence of a new boyfriend in Katy’s life had complicated their arrangement and made her less available than she had been previously.

Jaime called while Joanna was waiting for Deb to return. “What have you got?” Joanna asked.

“Not much,” Jaime answered. “According to Marcella, Luis’s school backpack is missing and some of his clothing, although the place is such a mess, I don’t know how she’d know what was there and what wasn’t.”

“He left on his own, then?”

“So it would seem. Their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Dumas, said she saw Luis leave the house just before sunset last night. He was alone at the time and wearing his backpack.”

“No kidnap, then,” Joanna said. “No evil drug dealers.”

“Evidently not. More like a runaway. I finally got Marcella to admit that the two of them had a huge fight after I brought him home the other day. Luis may have just gotten fed up with her and decided to strike out on his own.”

“At age fourteen,” Joanna said.
The same age as Jenny,
she thought. “Does Marcella have any idea where he might have gone?”

“She gave me a few names and numbers,” Jaime said. “I’ll be checking them out.”

“What about an Amber Alert?” Joanna asked. “Or a BOLO?”

“A BOLO maybe, but not an Amber Alert,” Jaime said. “Frank just called me with Paco Castro’s rap sheet. Plastering Luis’s name and face all over radio and TV might help us find Luis, all right, but it could also lead Paco and his crew straight to Marcella’s front door as well. Not a good idea.”

Deb reappeared in Joanna’s doorway and gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You do what you think is best, Jaime,” Joanna told him. “Meantime, Deb and I are on our way to Tucson to have a chat with your Mr. Dietrich.”

“Good luck with that,” Jaime said, but he didn’t sound particularly hopeful.

Delayed by a couple of phone calls, it was after ten before Joanna and Deb headed for the parking lot. By then Joanna’s energy level was flagging. Driving in that condition didn’t seem wise.

Joanna unlocked the Crown Victoria and then tossed the keys to her detective. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Deb said. “Ben’s been sleeping through the night for years now. I can tell you’re not that lucky.”

Joanna gave Deb the address for Flannigan Foundation and then climbed into the passenger seat. She was asleep before they ever made it over the Divide. She stirred briefly when they slowed for Tombstone and again for Benson. When she opened her eyes again, they were already in Tucson and turning off I-10 onto Valencia. It was after noon by then. Not having had any breakfast, Joanna was both groggy and starved.

“Lunch first,” she said.

They stopped at a tiny Mexican food dive near the airport. Over greasy tacos and several cups of bitterly strong coffee, Joanna brought Debra Howell up to speed on the Wanda Mappin case.

“What if Don Dietrich refuses to talk to us?” Deb asked.

By then, revived by both sleep and food, Joanna Brady was feeling a whole lot better. “No problem,” she said with a cheery smile. “We’ll park ourselves with him until he does.”

Flannigan Foundation was housed in a handsome glass-and-stucco edifice on the road that led to the Executive Terminal. They parked in a visitor’s slot and then walked into a spacious marble-floored lobby that looked more like an upscale hotel than it did your basic nonprofit. There were several people already in the lobby, including a pair of sales representatives, a man and a woman, each dressed in business attire and armed with wheeled sample cases and laptops. A young woman wearing a telephone headpiece held sway behind an ultramodern teak desk that barred the way to a pair of ornately carved double doors.

“May I help you?” she asked with a smile.

Jaime had thought Joanna would charm her way past Don Dietrich’s gatekeepers. She opted instead for being hard-nosed. “We’re from the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department,” she announced, producing her ID wallet and handing it over. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady and this is Homicide Detective Debra Howell. We’re here to see Mr. Dietrich.”

The receptionist’s welcoming smile faded. “I’m afraid Mr. Dietrich is very busy today,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Joanna replied coolly but without lowering her voice. Deb Howell wasn’t in uniform, but
Joanna was, and she was more than happy to create a scene. “That kind of work doesn’t generally lend itself to making appointments in advance. We’ll be glad to wait—however long it takes. That’s him, isn’t it?” she added, gesturing toward a framed black-and-white photo that hung on the wall just to the left of the door. By then the two sales representatives were all ears. The receptionist nodded grimly but said nothing.

“Good,” Joanna said. “Mr. Dietrich shouldn’t be too hard to miss. Keep an eye on the parking lot,” she added to Deb. “It would be a shame if he tried skipping out by some other door.”

The ploy worked. Within minutes two separate people came to collect the sales representatives. As soon as they were safely out of sight, the double doors glided open and Don Dietrich himself marched into the lobby. He was a tall, painfully thin man with his sparse gray hair molded into an appalling comb-over.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Joanna once again produced her ID wallet and showed it to him. “As I told your receptionist, we’re investigating a homicide—the death of one of your clients, Wanda Mappin. Since you’ve been unable to return my investigator’s calls, Detective Howell and I decided to stop by and see you in person. We could do this here, or, if you’d rather—”

“Come along,” Dietrich said abruptly, heading back toward the double doors. “This way. We’ll go to my office.” He turned back to the receptionist. “Hold all my calls, Cindy,” he barked over his shoulder. “This shouldn’t take long.”

He led them down a short hallway to an expansive and well-appointed corner office. He gestured them into visitor’s chairs and seated himself behind a magnificent polished wood desk. By then he seemed to have gathered his resources.

“You’re right,” he said smoothly. “I’m sorry to say, I’ve been far too busy with critical matters here, and I haven’t been able to get back to”—he glanced around his desk and settled on a yellow message form before finishing the sentence—“to Detective Carbajal, I believe it was. Thankfully, though I’ve managed to contact Ms. Mappin, Wanda’s mother, to express my sincere condolences at her loss. Losing a child, even a special-needs child, is always terribly traumatic. I’ve asked her to stay in touch and keep me apprised of where and when Wanda’s services will be held. We’ll want to send flowers, at the very least.”

“Of course,” Joanna said. “I should think so.”

Don Dietrich’s bland facade hardened a little. “What do you mean by that?”

“When an organization like yours is charged with caring for vulnerable people, I would think you would take that responsibility very seriously, and when you lose them—”

“Sheriff Brady,” he interrupted. “Let me point out that as soon as Wanda Mappin missed that first midnight bed count, our people immediately reported her missing. We also launched an extensive search of the neighborhood surrounding Holbrook House. We utilized a search and rescue group with dogs and people and canvassed every inch of a three-square-mile area. As you said, these are exceedingly vulnerable people. From time to time, a few of them do wander off. When that happens, we treat it very seriously because we understand the risks. Special-needs people are often loving and trusting, which leaves them terribly susceptible to some of the evils this wicked world has to offer.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I’d have to agree that being trussed up, taped into a plastic bag, and then having your skull beaten in is pretty evil.”

Don Dietrich paled. “As I said to Ms. Mappin, we’re outraged and appalled by what happened to poor little Wanda. It is a tragedy in every sense of the word.”

Little?
Joanna thought.
Wanda Mappin was a size twenty. You didn’t even know her, you worthless jerk!

“So in the course of their missing persons investigation, did detectives from Tucson PD speak to people at the group home—to staff members and clients?”

“I’m sure we made our staff members available for questioning, although I don’t know for sure whether or not any of them were actually interviewed,” Dietrich said quickly. “As for our clients, I doubt detectives would have been allowed access to them. We have an obligation to protect client privacy, something else we take very seriously.”

“How many clients do you tend to lose in any given year?” Joanna asked.

Dietrich’s eyes turned stony, but he answered smoothly enough. “As I said earlier, clients do wander away from time to time, but we usually find them somewhere in the near neighborhood and are able to bring them back.”

“What about Wayne Hamm?” Joanna asked.

“Who?”

“Wayne Leroy Hamm,” Joanna repeated. “He was another one of your clients—a friend of Wanda’s, we believe—who went missing from a place called Warwick House—another Flannigan Foundation facility—on May 12, almost two months after Wanda disappeared. He, too, has never been found.”

Dietrich frowned in concentration. “Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember the name. Again, another very unfortunate circumstance.”