Exit Wounds (27 page)

With
60 Minutes
over, Joanna went into the den, turned on her computer, and wrote up a report on everything she had learned during her trip to Lordsburg. When she finished, she e-mailed it to Frank Montoya at the office. That way, even if she didn’t go in right away in the morning, the report would be there.

“Reports come first,” D. H. Lathrop used to say. “If you’re not doing the paper, you’re not doing the job.”

Twenty-four hours late, Dad,
she said to herself.
But the paper’s there.

Thirteen

G ood as her word, Joanna was at the Cochise County Medical Examiner’s office by eight forty-five the next morning. Busy on the phone, Nell Long, the ME’s receptionist, waved Joanna toward George Winfield’s open office door.

“Any sign of Mr. Mossman?” Joanna asked, peering around the doorjamb into her stepfather’s office.

“Not so far,” George replied. “But I have an idea he’ll be here shortly. Have a chair. How are you feeling?”

“I’m still a puking mess every morning,” Joanna returned. “I’m hoping that’ll settle down in a few weeks. At least that’s how it worked when I was pregnant with Jenny.”

“I never had a chance to say anything about the other night—with Ellie, I mean,” George Winfield said. “I thought she was way out of line, and I told her so. In other words, if it’s any consolation, Joanna, I think she’s as provoked with me right now as she is with you.”

“The old misery-loves-company routine,” Joanna said with a hollow laugh. It was easier to make light of Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s rantings and ravings when she was well out of earshot.

“Something like that,” George agreed.

“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ve known Mother a lot longer than you have, George. She’ll get over it eventually.” Joanna made the statement with more conviction than she felt. There were some things Eleanor Lathrop
never
got over.

“What about you?” George asked.

“I’m going to go ahead and do what I do,” Joanna told him. “Eleanor will have to like it or lump it.”

“Good girl,” George said. “Way to go!”

The telephone rang. Nell answered it. A moment later, her voice sounded on George’s intercom. “Edith Mossman is on the line.”

“Great,” George said. “Just what I need. I love being caught in the cross fire between battling relatives.” He picked up his phone. “Good morning, Mrs. Mossman. What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. A frown appeared on George Winfield’s brow. The longer Edith Mossman talked, the deeper grew the lines on George’s forehead.

“Yes, that’s true. He is coming in this morning. I’m expecting him in the next few minutes. And no, I’m not sure who notified him. Someone from the sheriff’s department, I should imagine.”

Another pause. “No, I’m really not involved in all that. I release the body to the mortuary. After that, it’s up to the family to handle things from there.”

There was another long silence on the medical examiner’s part. Joanna couldn’t make out any of the words, but the angry buzz of Edith Mossman’s shrill voice hummed through the telephone receiver and out into the room.

“Really, Mrs. Mossman, that’s not up to me. You’ll need to discuss it with Norm Higgins and with your son. I’m sure if you’ll just sit down and talk, you and he will be able to sort all this out—”

Suddenly, a dial tone replaced the sound of Edith Mossman’s voice.

“She hung up on me,” George said, staring first at the phone and then at Joanna.

“I don’t think she liked what you had to say.”

“No kidding! But it’s true. My job is to release the body to the mortuary. It’s up to the family to figure out who takes charge from there.”

“Mr. Mossman to see you,” Nell Long announced over the intercom.

“Saved by the bell,” George Winfield said, raising an eyebrow as he rose to greet the newcomer Nell Long showed into his office.

Somehow Joanna had expected there to be more to Eddie Mossman than what she saw. He was a pint-size bantam rooster of man, only an inch or two taller than Joanna’s five feet four. Wiry and tanned, he had a bottle-brush mustache and piercing blue eyes. For some reason, he seemed familiar, even though Joanna doubted she had ever seen him before.

“Dr. Winfield?” Mossman asked.

George nodded. “That would be me,” he said. “And this,” he added, indicating Joanna, “is Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

Edward Mossman wasn’t interested in pleasantries. “As I told you on the phone, I’m here for Carol’s body.”

“And as I told you on the phone, it hasn’t been released yet,” George returned evenly. “I haven’t yet prepared the death certificate. When it’s finished, I’ll be releasing the body to Norm Higgins at Higgins Mortuary and Funeral Chapel. I believe your mother has already discussed arrangements with them. If you want to change those, you’ll have to discuss it with them and her.”

“I’ve already been to see Norm Higgins. Tried to, anyway. Since Mother has already made a deposit on those ‘arrangements,’ as you call them, no one at the Higgins outfit will give me the time of day. I want the body to go to someone else. I’ve contacted a mortuary over in Nogales that’s accustomed to transporting bodies in and out of Mexico. I want you to release Carol’s body to them.”

“I’m sure Norm Higgins could assist you with that as well,” George Winfield replied. “In the meantime, I think it would be more to the point if you and your mother met and sorted this whole thing out before you involve some other mortuary in an already complicated situation. Your mother—”

“My mother’s an interfering old lady,” Ed Mossman said. “She has no right to usurp my authority like this. After all, I am Carol’s father. Doesn’t that give me some right to decide about things like this? And who the hell are you to say that I don’t? If I have to go back there, find Carol, and carry her out of here myself, my daughter’s body is coming back to Mexico with me. Understand?”

With that and still bristling with anger, Ed Mossman slammed his doubled-up fist on the top of George’s desk. The Tiffany crystal clock Eleanor had given her new husband as a wedding present skittered toward the edge of the desk. George caught it in time and returned it to its original place.

Thinking things had gone far enough, Joanna stepped into the fray. “Excuse me, Mr. Mossman,” she put in. “If you’ll allow me—”

“Allow you what? I believe I was speaking with Dr. Winfield here,” Mossman growled at her. “I don’t remember anyone asking for your opinion.”

“No one asked because they don’t have to. I get to give my opinion, because it happens that my department is investigating your daughter’s murder,” Joanna returned evenly. “Like it or not, that means you’ll be speaking to me and to my investigators. In the meantime, Mr. Mossman, I would advise you to have a seat and adopt a less threatening demeanor. If not, I’ll be forced to call for backup and throw you in jail for disturbing the peace. Is that clear?”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Ed Mossman sneered, but he did settle himself into a chair.

“Good,” Joanna said. She reached into her purse, removed her cell phone, and used her one-touch dialing system to reach Dispatch. “Are either Detective Carbajal or Ernie Carpenter in yet?” she asked.

“Jaime’s here at the office,” Larry Kendrick said. “As I understand it, Ernie’s on his way.”

“I want them both here at Doc Winfield’s office as soon as possible,” Joanna said. “There’s someone here who needs to give them a next-of-kin interview.”

She paused. If they were going to interview Ed Mossman, the two detectives needed to know that Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega had been prepared to pay good money for whatever Carol Mossman had to say. Jaime and Ernie also needed to know that the two murdered reporters had been on the trail of Ed Mossman and his fellow Brethren.

“Try to turn Ernie around and have Jaime check in with Chief Deputy Montoya before he comes here,” Joanna told Larry. “I faxed my report from Saturday to Frank last night. I want the Double Cs, both Ernie and Jaime, to know about it before they do the next-of-kin interview.”

“Who’s that?” Ed Mossman asked once Joanna ended the call. “Who are the two guys you just asked to come here?”

“Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal are my homicide detectives,” Joanna replied.

“Why do they need to interview me?” Mossman demanded. “I wasn’t anywhere around when Carol was murdered.”

“Did I say you were a suspect?” Joanna asked.

“No, but—”

“In homicide investigations we routinely question everyone connected to the victim. Since that person is already dead, we talk to friends and relatives in order to gain a better idea of who all might be involved. You are Carol’s next of kin, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mossman answered. “I already told you. Of course I am.”

“So my detectives need to interview you.”

“But it’s just routine then, right?” Mossman asked warily.

“Absolutely. They’re just minutes away, so it won’t take long for them to get here. In the meantime, would you mind telling me how you heard about Carol’s death? I know one of my deputies contacted the police in Obregón, and they agreed to do the notification, but—”

“My daughter called me,” Mossman interrupted.

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?” Mossman said. “The point is, one of them did. And, once I knew Carol was dead, I came here to do something about it.”

Joanna Brady had spent only a few minutes with Eddie Mossman, but already she had some idea of why the man’s own mother held him in such contempt. He was pushy and obnoxious, but there was something else about him, something about his carriage and attitude that she didn’t like. And now, as he disregarded her question, little warning bells jangled alarmingly in her head. Suddenly it seemed vitally important for her to learn exactly where Ed Mossman had been when he first learned of Carol’s murder, but Joanna didn’t want to give that away. Instead, she smiled what she hoped to be her most convincingly sincere smile.

“Of course it doesn’t matter, Mr. Mossman,” she assured him. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

Across the desk from her, George Winfield’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Obviously he recognized the lie for what it was. Joanna was grateful, however, that the ME managed to keep his mouth shut about it.

“Is there anyone else you’d like us to notify?” Joanna continued disarmingly. “Besides your daughters and your mother, that is. Any spouses, former spouses, or boyfriends?”

“I don’t know of anyone else,” Mossman grumbled. “Notifying my mother first was bad enough.”

“Actually, your mother found out about Carol’s death all on her own,” Joanna told him. “She came to your daughter’s place shortly after Carol’s body had been discovered by one of my officers. Carol was evidently in dire financial straits, and your mother was coming to offer help. You wouldn’t know anything about your daughter’s financial situation, would you?”

“I don’t know anything. Carol and I stopped speaking years ago,” Ed Mossman said. “It happened about the same time my mother encouraged Carol and two of my other daughters to run away.”

“So your mother and you aren’t on what you’d call the best of terms.”

“I believe I did mention that.”

“And you were estranged from Carol, too?”

Mossman glowered at her. “Carol was always headstrong and irresponsible, even when she was little. And the fact that my mother was always willing to step in and bail her out didn’t help matters any. If she had run away all on her own, I probably wouldn’t have worried. She was twenty by then—a grown-up. But she took off with her two younger sisters in tow. I do blame my mother for that. If she hadn’t stepped in to help them back then, none of this would have happened.”

“So you’re saying your mother is ultimately responsible for Carol’s death?”

“Absolutely,” Ed Mossman said with a decisive nod. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Joanna’s phone, still in her hand, let out a sharp little crow. Looking at the readout, Joanna saw her mother’s number. For once Joanna Brady was thrilled at the idea of an Eleanor Lathrop interruption. It gave her a much-needed reason to escape the confines of George Winfield’s office.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, heading for the door, “I need to take this call.”

The phone rang twice more before Joanna made it through the outside door and answered. “Oh, there you are,” Eleanor said. “I was about to leave a message.”

“I had to come outside to answer.”

“Well,” Eleanor huffed, “if it’s inconvenient for you to talk to me right now, I can always call back later.”

“No, please. It’s fine. I can talk for a few minutes. What is it?”

“George thinks I was out of line,” Eleanor began uncertainly. “He thinks I owe you and”—she paused—“Butch an apology.” As long as Eleanor had known her son-in-law, she had made clear her preference for his given name, Frederick. Even now the word
Butch
seemed to stick in her throat.

“You don’t have to apologize, Mom,” Joanna said. “We just have different ideas about how the world works, that’s all.”

“It was unfair of me to enlist your brother’s help. It’s just that I so wanted you to listen to reason, which I’m sure you won’t.”

Since that was true, Joanna said nothing.

“George tells me that it’s a whole new century with different rules and roles for everyone, but I can’t see a grandchild of mine being raised by a…”

“By a what, Mom?” Joanna asked.

“By a novelist, I guess,” Eleanor said lamely. “And a male novelist at that. It strikes me as wrong, somehow—unseemly.”

What about Jenny?
Joanna wanted to ask.
Butch is doing a fine job of raising her, isn’t he?
But just then Ernie Carpenter, driving his own Mercury Sable, pulled into the parking lot. Hoping to head off the arriving detective was the real reason Joanna had rushed outside to take her phone call.

“Mom,” Joanna said. “Sorry to interrupt, but something’s come up. I’ve got to go.”

“See there?” Eleanor said. “Even when I’m calling to apologize, you can’t spare me even a moment of attention. You don’t have the time—you don’t
take
the time—to listen. It’s hopeless.”