Exit Wounds (22 page)

“I don’t understand,” Jaime objected. “What’s the point of doing interviews, boss? As you said, once the injured UDAs are released from treatment, they’ll disappear. None of them will stick around long enough to testify against the driver.”

“Of course they won’t,” Joanna returned. “That’s why I want you to interview them now—today!”

“But if they’re not here to testify at the trial, the tapes won’t be admissible.”

“True,” Joanna agreed. “And much as I’d like to nail that bastard, getting the driver isn’t the point. He’s a little fish and entirely expendable by both sides. I’m after somebody bigger than he is, Jaime. I want the people running this ring—the ones making the big bucks.”

“How do you plan to catch them?”

“The driver’s scared to death. That’s why he won’t give his real name. He knows he killed all those people. I’m hoping we can use those statements to put the squeeze on the driver’s
cojones
long enough for him to lead us to someone higher up the chain of command.”

“I suppose it could work,” Jaime conceded doubtfully, “but if his lawyer gets wind of it—”

Joanna refused to be dissuaded. “We won’t find out if we don’t try,” she said, cutting Jaime off in mid-objection and abruptly changing the subject. “Now, tell me about the autopsies on the Silver Creek victims. Any idea when those will happen?”

“Monday,” the detective told her. “Doc Winfield says he’ll schedule them pretty much back-to-back.”

Detective Carbajal left a few minutes later, and Joanna spent the remainder of the morning mowing through a mountain of incoming reports and evidence. The results of the SUV driver’s routine Breathalyzer check came back negative. That was no surprise. Driving drunk had never been an issue. Driving crazy was. A preliminary on-site analysis by DPS officers indicated that the Suburban had been traveling in excess of eighty miles per hour when it crashed through the Jersey barrier. That report would later be verified and/or fine-tuned by a computerized analysis.

A while later a faxed copy of Dr. Fran Daly’s preliminary autopsy results on Richard Osmond appeared on Joanna’s desk. That, along with the interviews Ernie and Jaime had conducted with each of Osmond’s current and previous cell mates, indicated that Osmond had died of natural causes resulting from a previously undiagnosed and untreated form of cancer. The evidence appeared to exonerate Joanna Brady’s department from all blame with regard to Osmond’s death, but she knew that what seemed cut-and-dried to her would become far more murky in the hands of an attorney bent on pursuing a wrongful-death claim.

She was still considering that thorny issue when her phone rang.

“Sheriff Trotter here,” her caller said. “I’m not surprised to hear you’re hard at work this morning, Sheriff Brady. Me, too. If our guys had been a little quicker on the draw, that mess at Silver Creek would have happened on my turf instead of yours. Sorry about that.”

“Sure you’re sorry,” Joanna returned. “And the word ‘mess’ doesn’t come close to covering what happened out there.”

“I know, and I know, too, that you’ve got your hands full today, and I’m about to add to it by sending more trouble your way.”

“How’s that?”

“For one thing, we’ve got tentative IDs on our two Jane Does. Their names are Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega, freelance television journalists from L.A. Diego Ortega, Carmen’s brother, is a pilot. He’s flying into Lordsburg later on today to give us a positive ID.”

“Television journalists?” Joanna asked.

“That’s right. Pamela was the on-screen talent. Carmen ran the camera and tech stuff. They worked with a production company called Fandango Productions that sells in-depth pieces to outfits that specialize in female-oriented programming. You might know who they are, but since I never watch that kind of stuff, I hadn’t ever heard of them.”

Joanna liked Randy Trotter and had worked with him on numerous occasions. Even so, she couldn’t help being slightly irked by his automatic assumptions about her.

“I’m not big on watching TV of any kind,” she told him. “I don’t have time, so I don’t know them either.”

Sheriff Trotter hurried on. “According to the brother, Carmen and Pamela won some big cable award a year or so ago for a piece they did on the pedophile scandal in the Catholic Church. They were going to Tucson to do a new series of interviews.”

Joanna thought about what Edith Mossman had said about Carol Mossman’s shaky finances—about how she had first asked her grandmother for financial help in having her dogs vaccinated. Later she had told Edith that help was no longer necessary—that she had somehow come up with another way of laying her hands on the money.

“Does the production team pay for interviews?” Joanna asked.

“Pay?” Trotter repeated.

“You know,” Joanna said. “Like the tabloids do. Do they buy exclusive rights to people’s stories?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Trotter replied, “but the brother might.”

“What time is Diego Ortega due in Lordsburg?” Joanna asked.

“Sometime around two,” Sheriff Trotter said. “Why?”

Joanna looked at her watch and considered her options.

“Tell you what,” she said. “My investigators are all up to their ears in work this morning, but all I’m doing is clearing paperwork. If I leave right now, I should be able to be in Lordsburg by the time Mr. Ortega arrives.”

“Thought you might want to have someone on hand to talk to him,” Trotter agreed. “I sure as hell would if I were in your shoes.”

As soon as she got off the phone with Sheriff Trotter, Joanna left word with Lupe Alvarez about where she was going. After stopping at the Motor Pool long enough to gas up, she headed out of the Justice Center compound. Demonstrators still milled in the parking lot and a few of them rapped on the windows of her Civvie as she drove past.

Peaceful, all right,
she thought as she goosed the Crown Victoria forward and left the demonstrators behind. Two miles down Highway 80, she realized that the ratty clothing that had been inappropriate for her newspaper photo wasn’t going to work any better for a next-of-kin interview, either. Rather than driving by the Double Adobe turnoff, she headed home to High Lonesome Ranch to change.

Butch was sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop open in front of him when Joanna walked in the back door. “You’re home early,” he remarked. “What happened?”

“I need a change of clothes,” she explained. “I’m on my way to Lordsburg to interview a next of kin. My in-office grubbies aren’t going to hack it.” She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged minutes later wearing a summer-weight khaki uniform. “The dress one has to go to the cleaners,” she told Butch. “Lucky peed on it.”

“Great,” Butch said. “Whose next of kin?”

“Randy Trotter has a tentative ID on the two women killed north of Rodeo. The brother of one of them is flying into Lordsburg this afternoon.”

“When will you be back?” Butch asked.

“Five or six. Why?”

“Just wondering. By the way, Eva Lou invited us over for meat loaf after church tomorrow. I told her I’d check with you first. I said I didn’t know if your tummy would tolerate meat loaf.”

“Sounds good right now,” Joanna said. “Where’s Jenny?”

“Off riding Kiddo,” Butch answered. “This afternoon she’s going swimming with Cassie, and she’s planning on spending the night.”

Cassie Parks, Jenny’s best friend, lived a few miles away in a former KOA campground that her parents had rehabbed into a private RV park. The park, catering mostly to winter visitors, was underutilized in the summer, giving Cassie and Jenny a clear shot at the park’s swimming pool.

“So it’ll be just be the two of us for dinner tonight?” Joanna asked.

“That’s right. I might make something special then,” Butch added. “We haven’t exactly celebrated our new addition. Drive carefully, but don’t be late. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not starting dinner until I see the whites of your eyes.”

From High Lonesome Ranch, the most direct route to Lordsburg, New Mexico, was on Highway 80 through Douglas, Rodeo, and Road Forks. It also meant returning to Silver Creek. If time hadn’t been an issue, Joanna might have been tempted to drive the long way around, just to avoid revisiting the site of the deadly accident, but her dread proved to be mostly unfounded. By the time she arrived, few signs remained of the previous day’s horrors. The Highway Department had already sent out a crew to reposition the displaced Jersey barriers. A few scraps of yellow crime scene tape still lingered here and there, marking spots where the bodies of dead and injured had come to rest.

There may have been little to see, but, driving alone in her Crown Victoria, Joanna heard once again the frantic voice of the injured mother calling for her baby. It was a voice and a sound she would never forget, any more than she’d be able to wipe away the memory of carrying the terrible burden of that dead child up the embankment and into the waiting helicopter. Yesterday Eduardo Maldonado’s deadweight had been a burden for her arms and shoulders. Today he was a burden for her heart.

Snap out of it,
she ordered herself when a blur of tears clouded her eyes.
That was one job. This is another
.

With intermittent radio traffic chattering in the background, Joanna forced herself to review everything she knew about the Carol Mossman case. If she could establish a definite connection between Carol’s death and the two murders in New Mexico, then perhaps there was something else at work here other than simply an opportunist killer targeting susceptible women.

She had crossed the border into New Mexico and was heading north when her cell phone rang. “Hi, Frank,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Jaime and I are on our way to University Medical Center in Tucson to do the interviews you wanted,” Frank Montoya answered. “How about you?”

“Between Rodeo and Road Forks on my way to Lordsburg. What’s up?”

“I thought you’d like to have a little of the inside scoop on the lady in charge of the Animal Welfare Experience folks. It occurred to me that it was too much of a coincidence that AWE would show up with all those sign-waving demonstrators within minutes of the time I had scheduled the press briefing.”

“Right,” Joanna agreed. “The timing was impeccable.”

“I wondered if someone had tipped them off about when the briefing was to happen, so I did some research.”

“And?”

“Tamara Haynes and Marty Galloway were roommates together at Northern Arizona University.”

“Tamara and Ken Junior’s wife were roommates?” Joanna blurted. “Are you telling me that whole demonstration thing was nothing more than an election campaign stunt?”

“That’s how it looks, although maybe that’s not entirely true,” Frank said. “AWE does exist. Nationally, it’s a legitimate organization, but the local group has surfaced just in the last few days. And there’s a good chance today’s demonstration was a put-up deal, aimed at garnering free publicity for them at your expense, to say nothing of boosting Ken Junior’s chances in the upcoming election.”

“In other words, Ken Junior isn’t above using Carol Mossman’s dogs as political fodder.”

“And neither is Tamara Haynes, who’s something else, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve taken a look at her rap sheet. During the week she teaches Women’s Studies courses at the Sierra Vista campus of Cochise College. On weekends, she’s a political activist. She’s been picked up twice for demonstrating at the Nevada Test Site, twice at the Palo Verde Nuclear Plant at Gila Bend, and twice at demonstrations at the front gate at Fort Huachuca. So far, she’s got two disorderly conduct convictions and one interfering with a police officer—all of them with suspended sentences.”

“What do you think we should do about it?” Joanna asked after several moments of reflection.

“I’m not sure,” Frank began.

Suddenly her chief deputy’s voice disappeared into the ether. Then there was nothing. Frustrated, Joanna checked her phone and saw that she had crossed into a no-service zone. She tossed the phone down in disgust.

There was no sense in wondering how Tamara Haynes and AWE had hooked themselves up to Frank Montoya’s press briefing. Ken Galloway no longer worked inside the department but he still had plenty of friends there. Looking for the leak would serve no useful purpose.

Joanna was offended to think her opponent would stoop so low as to use Carol Mossman’s dead dogs to make political hay.

Which is exactly why Ken Galloway isn’t worthy of being sheriff,
Joanna told herself determinedly.
And it’s why, baby or no baby—Eleanor or no Eleanor—I’m staying the course, and I’m going to win!

Eleven

T he Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department was located in a single-story cinder-block building in Lordsburg’s small downtown area. Hard-to-come-by tax money had been spent on the new jail and communications center two blocks away, but Randy Trotter’s humble two-phone-line office reminded Joanna of her father’s old office. When D. H. Lathrop had been the sheriff of Cochise County, his department—office, jail, and all—had been located behind barred windows in the art deco courthouse up in old Bisbee. That, too, had been a two-phone-line office. Here, though, the iron bars with their brightly painted Zia symbols were more decorative than utilitarian.

Sheriff Trotter, carrying a cup of steaming coffee, emerged from a back room and greeted Joanna. In his late forties, Trotter had the bowlegged, scrawny, sunbaked look of a man whose preferred mode of transportation remained a horse and saddle. Joanna remembered hearing from someone that Sheriff Trotter’s family had once lived in the Bisbee area, but they had left there before he was born. Long before Joanna was born, too, for that matter.

“Coffee?” he asked, offering Joanna a stained mug full of thick, brackish brew.

Just the smell of it was enough to make her queasy all over again. “No, thanks,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m off coffee at the moment.”

“You’re not one of those anti-coffee health nuts, I hope.”

Joanna thought about her answer for a moment. “Not anti-coffee,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”