Outlaw Mountain (18 page)

“What do you use, a blood test?” Joanna asked.

“A serum test, not blood.”

“And how long does that take?”

“Two weeks, about. The thing is, without the presence of the vial, we wouldn’t generally bother with an insulin test at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. An insulin test isn’t part of standard autopsy protocols. And that’s what’s so odd. It’s as though the killer went out of his way to leave a calling card.”

“Can batches of insulin be traced?” Joanna asked.

“Certainly. I’ll get right on it.”

“So where does this leave Detective Lazier and the joyriders he’s planning on bringing back from Nogales?”

Fran Daly laughed. “Up a creek, if you ask me. This doesn’t square with a bunch of gangster-wanna-bes. People who hot-wire cars don’t go around armed with needles full of insulin. They use guns. Insulin is a prescription medication. For punks like that, nine-millimeter automatics are probably a whole lot easier to come by than insulin is.”

Joanna heard another phone ringing in the background of Doc Daly’s office. “Hold on a sec,” Fran said. “I need to take this call.” She came back on the line moments later. “Guess who?” she asked with a laugh. “None other than Hank Lazier himself. When he hears what I have to say, he’s not going to be a happy camper.”

“He didn’t strike me as being that happy to begin with,” Joanna said.

Fran allowed herself another deep-throated chuckle, which was followed by a spasm of coughing. “Do you want a copy of my results?”

“Please,” Joanna said. “Fax them along to Detective Carpenter.”

“Will do.”

She had ended the call but had not yet put down the phone when it rang in her hand. Shaking her head, Joanna Brady momentarily longed for the good old days when telephones were in houses and offices but not in cars. It wasn’t so very long ago when she had been able to drive around southeastern Arizona without holding a cell phone to her ear.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Joanna,” George Winfield said. “I lope I’m not dragging you away from something important.”

George Winfield, Cochise County’s medical examiner, had been Joanna’s stepfather for some time now, but her first supposition was that there was some official reason for the call. Perhaps there was some case—some other homicide she knew nothing about—that needed her immediate attention.

“No,” she said. “I’m just driving from point A to point B. What’s up?”

George Winfield paused before he answered. “It’s about your mother,” he said.

George most often referred to Eleanor Lathrop Winfield as Ellie, a loving nickname that had once been the private pre-serve of Joanna’s father. The fact that George didn’t use that name now, or even the more formal Eleanor, worried Joanna. The term “your mother” had a peculiarly ominous ring to it. In response, an orange warning light switched on in the back of Joanna’s head.

“Is something the matter with her?” she asked. “Is Mother sick or something? Has she been hurt?”

“Not exactly.” George said the words with such studied reluctance that Joanna’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“George, for God’s sake, tell me! What is it?”

“She’s upset.”

“Mother is always upset,” Joanna countered in exasperation. “What is it this time?”

“It’s you,” George said. “You and Butch.”

Not that again,
Joanna thought. She took a deep, steadying breath. “What Butch and I do is none of Mother’s business,” she said. “I thought I made that clear when I talked to her yesterday.”

“Well, yes,” George said. “I suppose you did make it clear. She was quite disturbed about that conversation last night. In fact, alter the Bodlemers left, we stayed up most of the night talking about IL”

“Put Mother on the phone,” Joanna said. “Let me talk to her.”

“I can’t do that,” George returned. “I’m calling from the office.”

“Hang up, then,” Joanna said. “I’ll call her at home.”

“You can’t do that, either. She isn’t there.”

“Where is she?”

“That’s why I’m calling you right now—to let you know what’s happening . . . where she is ... where she’s going.” George’s voice, small and apologetic, was totally lacking the vitality of his usually booming, businesslike tone.

“So tell me, George!” Joanna barked. “Where is she going?”

“To Butch Dixon’s house.”

Joanna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “She went where?”

“You heard me. She told me this morning over breakfast that she was going to go see Butch and ask him whether or not his intentions are honorable. I did my best to talk her out of it, Joanna, but I just couldn’t make her listen to reason. I tried calling her again just a few minutes ago, but she’s not home, which makes me think she’s already on her way. That’s when I decided to go ahead and call you—to give you a little advance warning.”

“Thanks, George,” Joanna said, meaning it. “I’m going to hang up and call Butch.”

As she punched Butch Dixon’s number into the keypad, Joanna tried to unravel the hard knot of anxiety that was forming in her gut. After all, it hadn’t been that many minutes ago when she had called Butch from her office. How much damage could have been done in such a short period of time?

“Butch?” she breathed in relief when he came on the phone. “Thank God you’re there. George just called me. He says my mother’s on her way over to see you.”

“She’s already here.”

Joanna felt sick. “I’m calling too late then. She’s already done it.”

“Done what?”

“Asked if your intentions are honorable. My mother’s pushy, but still, I can’t believe she’d do such a thing. Butch, I’m sorry …”

“You’re in luck,” Butch said. “She just drove up, but she hasn’t made it into the house yet. She’s still outside. She and Marliss Shackleford met up at the end of the driveway. Marliss was pulling away as your mother arrived. They’re still out there chewing the fat—chatting away like long-lost buddies.”

“No,” Joanna moaned. “Say it isn’t so.”

“Well,” Butch said, “it is, but don’t sound so upset. I didn’t let Marliss in, and I won’t let your mother in, either, if you don’t want me to. Although, I have to say, I don’t have a problem with seeing her.”

“You don’t?”

“Not at all. Because my intentions are honorable, you see. Completely. What about yours?”

“Mine?” Joanna stammered stupidly.

“Yes, yours,” Butch said. “We can either go on having what they call a totally meaningless relationship—which, I have to tell you, isn’t half bad. Or we can get married. If you’ll have me, that is.”

“Wait a minute. You’re asking me to marry you?” Joanna returned. “On the telephone?”

“Well, I admit it’s not the best possible arrangement, lint it seems like I’d better do it now. Otherwise, your mother will do it for me.”

“Butch. I don’t know what to say.”

On the other end of the phone, Joanna heard a doorbell chime.

“Say yes,” he urged.

“But you promised. You told me you wouldn’t push.”

“That was before your mother rang my doorbell. So, will you or won’t you?” The doorbell chimed again. “Well?” he pressed.

Joanna took a deep breath. “Yes, dammit. All right. I will.”

“Good answer. Good answer,” Butch said. “Now I’ve gotta run and answer the door. Otherwise Junior will beat me to that.”

Butch Dixon hung up then. Twenty miles away, across the San Pedro Valley, Joanna Brady stared at her cell phone in stunned silence.

CHAPTER TEN

For the next several minutes, Joanna was so thunderstruck by what had happened that she barely saw where she was going. How could it be? Butch had asked her to marry him and she hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said “I need to think it over.” She had simply said yes. And not even very graciously at that.

She wanted to call him back, to say something—anything, but she couldn’t do that. Not with her mother there! Her mother! How dare she! And yet . . . Try as she might, Joanna couldn’t be angry with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield right then. She was happy in a way she had never thought to be happy again. Giddy, almost.

When Joanna was growing up, a place called Nicksville—little more than a bar and a couple of scattered mobile homes—had been civilization’s last visible outpost along Highway 92 between Sierra Vista and the cutoff to Coronado Pass. The isolated mountain pass overlooked the route Coronado and his men once followed as they came north in search of the Seven Cities of Gold. Nicksville was where Joanna finally came to her senses. She realized then that she had overshot the turnoff to Mark Childers’ Oak Vista Estates without even noticing.

Laughing now, Joanna made a U-turn in the bar’s parking lot and headed back the way she had come. On the way she made a conscious effort to put her life-changing phone call to Butch aside. She was going to Oak Vista on business—on police business. She understood how vitally important it was for her to keep her mind on the job. Inattentive cops too often become dead cops.

Just north of the cutoff to Coronado Pass, the sweeping majesty of the Huachucas was marred by several moving columns of dust and by the thick smoke of a slash-burn fire that spiraled skyward above the grassy foothills. Gigantic bulldozers had left behind red earthen scars through the tall yellow grass and knocked down grove after grove of sturdy scrub oak.

Seeing the damage, Joanna shook her head.
Welcome lo urban blight,
she thought. No wonder people were offended by Mark Childers’ grandiose plans and thundering equipment. By the time his dozer-wielding construction crews were done with their work, people buying homes in Oak Vista would be lucky if there were any viewable oak left standing for miles around.

Three miles back down the highway she came to a huge billboard. WELCOME TO OAK VISTA ESTATES, the sign read. MODELS OPENING SOON. Underneath, on the far side of a cattle guard, a narrow road wound off into the desert. Next to the cattle guard, propped against one of the uprights, was an orange-and-white hand-lettered sign. NO TRESPASSING, the sign announced. CONSTRUCTION VEHICLES ONLY.

Switching the Blazer into four-wheel drive, Joanna bounced across the cattle guard. She followed the narrow dirt track for the better part of a mile. By then she noticed that, although smoke from the slash burns was still rising in the brisk autumn air, the moving columns of dust she had spotted from farther up the road were no longer visible. She drove up to a construction shack behind which sat a row of transportable chemical toilets.

It was only when she arrived at the shack that Joanna realized why the earth-moving equipment was no longer moving. It was lunchtime. One whole wall of the construction shack—the shady side—was lined with dusty, hard-hat-wearing workers, all of whom sprawled in the shade, eating lunches out of lunch pails and brown paper bags.

One of the men, a muscular blond in his early thirties, stood up and sauntered toward her. He was stocky with the broad, bulging shoulders and bull neck of a chronic weight lifter. He swaggered up to Joanna’s unmarked Blazer, buttoning the top several buttons of a faded flannel shirt and grinning suggestively. Joanna rolled down her window.

“Hey, red,” he said, referring to Joanna’s bright red hair, “can’t you read, or didn’t you see the sign? It says ‘no visitors.’ Mr. Childers doesn’t want people who don’t belong hanging around here.”

Joanna pulled out her ID wallet and opened it. As soon as she did so, the extra badge she had picked up from the storeroom—the one she had planned to drop off for Junior—plummeted out of the wallet. It landed in the dirt with a tinny
thank.
Bent on retrieving it, Joanna bounded out of the truck. As she hit the ground, her ears were assailed by a series of approving catcalls from the other workers. Meanwhile, Mr. Weight Lifter beat her to the punch. When he handed the fallen badge back to Joanna, she was blushing furiously and still trying to offer him a glimpse of the other badge as well as her picture ID.

He chose to ignore both. “What’s the matter, little lady?” Mr. Weight lifter asked with a leering grin. “Are Crackerjacks having a run on badges these clays?”

At five feet four inches tall, Joanna Brady had spent a life-time being self-conscious about her height—or lack thereof—and being teased about it as well. Consequently, there were few terms that raised her ire more than a derisive “little lady,” although sarcastic comments about her hair color came in a close second.

“No,” she said frostily. “As a matter of fact, this badge came out of a box of Wheaties right along with my Colt 2000, my Glock, and my handcuffs. Care to tell me where I can find Mr. Childers?”

The leer retreated slightly but it didn’t disappear altogether. “He’s not here,” the man answered. “He went into town to grab some lunch.”

“Do you know what time he’ll be back?”

Mr. Weight Lifter raised his hard hat and swiped a grimy forearm across his forehead, leaving behind a muddy track on a sweat-stained brow. “Probably not before two-thirty or so. He believes in long lunches.”

Joanna dug in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Tell Mr. Childers Sheriff Brady stopped by to see him,” she said. “Now then, one of my deputies is out here somewhere. Any idea where I’d find him?”

“The guy with the dog?”

Joanna nodded.

Taking her card, the man stuffed it into a shirt pocket that was scarred with the round telltale brand of an ever-present can of snuff. “Hey, you guys,” he called back to his fellow workers. “Anybody here know where that deputy went—the one with the big dog?”

One of the other men tossed a soda can past Joanna into trash can a few feet away. Dregs of soda sprayed out of the can, missing her dry-clean-only suit by mere inches. Evidently pleased with himself the guy favored Joanna with a gap-toothed grin as she dodged back out of the way.

“Up on the back forty,” he said. “Youse go straight up here and turn right at the barbed wire. It’ll take youse right to him.”

Dismissing her, the first guy ambled
away.
As he turned his back, Joanna noticed a sickeningly familiar bulge in his hip pocket. “Wait a minute,” she said. “What’s your name?”

He stopped, turned, and stared back at her disdainfully. “Are you talking to me?” he asked.