Paradise Lost (12 page)

What she didn’t say in her message was that she had spent the better part of two hours in the ER

at St. Joseph’s Hospital while emergency room doctors and nurses removed dozens of tiny pieces of crystal from Maggie MacFerson’s glass-shredded hands and put stitches in some of the longer jagged cuts. Both hands, bandaged into useless clubs, now lay in Maggie’s lap. Even had the woman been stone-sober—which she wasn’t—Joanna knew Maggie wasn’t capable of driving herself the two hundred miles to Bisbee to make the identification—not with her hands in that condition.

Joanna settled in for the trip. She generally welcomed long stretches of desert driving because they provided her rare opportu-nities for concentrated, uninterrupted thinking. With Maggie MacFerson temporarily silenced, Joanna allowed herself to do lust exactly that think.

Weeksearlier, as Joanna sat in her mother’s living room, she had thumbed through George Winfield’s current copy ofScientific American. There she had stumbled upon a column called

“Connections.” The interesting content had tumbled back and forth across the centuries showing how one scientific discovery was linked to another and from there bounded on to something else. At the time, Joanna had recognized that the solutions to homicide investigations often happened in much the same way, through seemingly meaningless but nonetheless critical
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connections.

Was the death of Constance Marie Haskell linked to the outbreak of carjackings that had plagued Cochise County? If Maggie MacFerson’s version of events was to be believed, Connie Haskell had an absent, most likely estranged, and quite possibly dishonest, husband. Once Ron Haskell was located, he would no doubt be the first person Joanna’s detectives would want to interview. Still, rape, torture, and a savage beating were more in keeping with a random, opportunistic killer than they were with a cheating spouse. And so, although Ron Haskell might well turn into the prime suspect, Joanna wasn’t ready to dismiss the idea of a crazed carjacker who, upon finding a lone woman driving on a freeway late at night, might have veered away from simple carjacking into something far worse.

Picking up her cell phone, Joanna dialed Frank Montoya’s num her. “What are you doing calling me?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal and dinner.”

“Think again,” she told him. “I’m on my way to Bisbee bring-ing with me a lady named Maggie MacFerson. We have reason to believe she’s the sister of Constance Marie Haskell, the Jane Doe from Apache Pass. I’m bringing her down to George’s office so she can ID the body.”

“On your weekend off?” Frank objected. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t Maggie know how to drive?”

“Knows how but can’t,” Joanna replied. “She hurt her hands.”

She discreetly left out the part about probable blood alcohol count in case Maggie MacFerson wasn’t sleeping as soundly as she appeared to be.

“How about calling Doc Winfield and having him meet us at his office uptown,” Joanna continued. “It should be between eight-thirty and nine, barring some unforeseen traffic problem.”

“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “I’m the one who’s supposed to tell your mother her husband has to go in to work on Saturday night? Is that so you don’t have to do it?”

“That’s right,” Joanna returned evenly. “You’re not Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s daughter. She can’t push your buttons the way she does mine.”

“Okay, Boss,” Frank said. “But I’m putting in for hazardous-duty pay.”

Joanna smiled sadly. It hurt to know that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s reputation for riding roughshod over everybody was com-mon knowledge around the department.

“What else?” Frank asked.

“According to Maggie MacFerson, Connie’s husband, Ron Haskell, emptied his wife’s bank accounts before he took off for parts unknown. He left a message on his wife’s answering machine Thursday sometime. Ms. MacFerson inadvertently erased it, so I don’t know exactly what it said. Something about seeing Connie in paradise, which Ms. MacFerson seems to have concluded was a death threat.”

“You want me to trace the call?”

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“You read my mind.”

“Okay. Got it.”

Frank, an inveterate note-taker, may have balked at having to deal with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, but he had no concern about tackling telephone-company bureaucracy. As far as Joanna was concerned, that left Eleanor in a league of her own.

“Next?” Frank prodded through the momentary silence.

“Did you get a list from the DMV on vehicles registered to that Encanto Drive address?”

“Yes, ma’am. I have it here somewhere. A Lincoln and a BMW, if I remember correctly.”

Joanna listened as he shuffled through loose papers. “Once you find them,” she said, “I want those vehicle descriptions posted with all of our patrol units and with the folks from Border Patrol as well.”

“So you’re still thinking this might be just another carjacking?” Frank asked.

“Until we know otherwise, I’m not dismissing any possibilities,” she replied. “A single woman traveling alone at night might be eas-ier pickings for a carjacker than that little old guy in his Saturn.”

“We don’t know for sure Connie Haskell was coming to Cochise County,” Frank objected.

“We sure as hell know that’s where she ended up!” Joanna responded. “And since she didn’t fly from Phoenix to Apache Pass, that means she must have driven.”

“I see your point,” Frank conceded. “I have that DMV info.It was buried on my desk. I’ll have Dispatch put it out to the cars right away.”

“Good, but before you do, let’s go back to that carjacked Saturn,” Joanna added. “You said it was picked up at a Border Patrol checkpoint. How many other stolen or carjacked vehicles have ended up in Border Patrol impound lots? Has anybody ever men-tioned that particular statistic to you?”

“Not that I remember,” Frank said. “But I can try to find out.”

“Okay. Now, what’s happening on the Dora Matthews front?”

“Not much,” Frank said. “As far as I know, she’s still out at the High Lonesome, and there hasn’t been a peep out of Sally. The last time I checked, the note we left for her was still pinned to the screen door on her house up Tombstone Canyon.”

Joanna groaned inwardly. “When I asked The Gs to look after the place while Butch and I were gone, they were supposed to look after the animals. Now they’re having to deal with two adolescent kids as well.”

“I’m sure they can handle it,” Frank returned.

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“I’m sure they can, too,” Joanna said. “But they shouldn’t have to.”

“Where are you now?” Frank asked.

“I just passed the first Casa Grande turnoff, so I’m making progress,” Joanna said.

“I should probably get on the horn to Doc Winfield and let him know you’re on your way. Do you want me to meet you at the ME’s office?”

“No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. It’s Saturday night. You’re a good-looking single guy, Frank.

Don’t you have anything better to do on a Saturday night besides work?”

“Not so as you’d notice,” Frank told her.

They signed off after that, and Joanna continued to drive. Still accustomed to the time the trip had taken under the old fifty-five- miles-per-hour speed limit, Joanna was amazed at how fast the miles sped by. At last Maggie MacFerson groaned and stirred.

“Where am I?” she demanded. Using one other clubbed lists, she brushed her lank brown hair out of her face. “What happened to my hands, and who the hell are you?”

Joanna looked at her passenger in surprise. “I’m Joanna Brady,” she said. “I’m the sheriff in Cochise County. Don’t you remember my coming to the house?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Maggie answered. “And if you’re a cop, am I under arrest, or what? I demand to talk to my lawyer.” She squinted at an approaching overhead freeway sign. “Cortaro Road!” she exclaimed. “That’s in Tucson, tier God’s sake. Where the hell are you taking me? Let me out of this car!”

She reached for the door handle. With the car speeding down the road at seventy-five, it was fortunate that the door was locked. As Maggie struggled to unlock it with her clumsy, bandaged hands, Joanna switched on her emergency lights, pulled over to the shoul-der, and slowed to a stop.

“Ms. MacFerson, please,” she said reassuringly. “You’re not under arrest. Don’t you remember anything?”

“I remember going to Connie’s house and waiting for that son of a bitch of a brother-in-law of mine. I listened to the messages, talked to Ken Wilson, and after that . . . nothing.” She stopped struggling with the door and turned to look at Joanna. “Wait a minute. Is this about Connie?”

Joanna’s mind reeled. She had gone through Constance Haskell’s next-of-kin notification once, but it evidently hadn’t taken. Maggie MacFerson remembered none of it. Joanna had heard of alcoholic blackouts, but this was the first time she had ever dealt with someone who had been functioning in one. Maggie MacFerson may have been able to walk and talk. She had seemed aware of what was going on around her, kit apparently her brain had been switched off. For all she remembered, Maggie might as well have been asleep.

Joanna took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” she said. “A woman’s body was found in Apache Pass last night. This morning my officers found a broken medical
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identifica-tion bracelet nearby, a bracelet with your sister’s name and address on it. I came by your sister’s house this afternoon and found you there. I told you what had happened, and you agreed to come with me to identify your sister’s body. That’s what we’re doing now. We’re on our way to Bisbee.”

Maggie turned and stared at Joanna, who waited for an outburst that never came.

“Then what are we doing sitting here talking about it?” Maggie demanded at last. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Joanna nodded. Checking in the mirror for a break in traffic, she eased the idling Crown Victoria back onto the roadway. Once they reached highway speed, she switched off the flashing lights.

“You still haven’t told me what happened to my hands,” Maggie said. “Did I get in a fight and punch somebody’s lights out?”

“You broke a glass,” Joanna told her. “A crystal glass. The ER folks at Saint Joe’s took out as much glass as they could find and stitched up the worst of the cuts. You’re supposed to go see your own doctor next week to have the bandages and stitches removed. The doctor also said there’s a good chance he may have missed some of the glass. The pieces were small and difficult to see.” Joanna paused. “How are you feeling?” she added.

“Hungover as hell,” Maggie admitted. “But I’ve had worse. I’m thirsty. Mymouthtasteslike thebottom of a birdcage. Can’twestop and get something to drink?”

“As in a soda?” Joanna asked. “Or as in something stronger?”

“A Coke will be tine,” Maggie MacFerson said. “Hell, I’d even drink straight water if I had to.”

And then, after all that, she started to cry.

After stopping at a Burger King long enough to get a pair of Cokes, Joanna once again headed down the freeway. then Maggie MacFerson had stopped weeping. She sat up straight and wiped her nose on the back of one of her bandaged hands and sipped her soda through a straw.

“I’m sure you told me all of this before,” she said, stifling a hiccup, “but I don’t remember any of it. Tell me again, please. From the beginning.”

Joanna did. When she finished, Maggie continued to stare out through the windshield in utter silence. “You said earlier you thought your brother-in-law was responsible,” Joanna added at last. “Any particular reason?”

“Connie met Ron Haskell during our mother’s final illness,” Maggie answered quietly. “He was a CPA working for the accounting firm that handled our parents’ affairs, Peabody and Peabody.

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Connie had Mother’s power of attorney so she could handle finances, pay bills and all that. Ron Haskell knew everything about Mother’s affairs, right down to the last penny. I think he saw that my sister was a vulnerable old maid who would even-tually be well-to-do. He set out on a single-minded quest to grab Connie’s half of our mother’s estate. I don’t know what the hell Ron did with the money, but according to Ken Wilson, it’s gone. Ron closed all the accounts and then disappeared. If Connie’s dead, it’s probably a good thing. Finding out that Ron had stolen the money would have killed her. For her, being dead is probably preferable to being betrayed, cast off, and dirt-poor besides, or, even worse, having to come crawling to me for help.”

“At the house, you said something about a message from your sister’s husband, one that was on the machine. Something about him wanting to meet your sister in paradise.”

Maggie nodded. “Right,” she said. “Something like that. I was off work. I’m afraid I’d already had a couple of drinks before I got there. Ron said, ‘Meet me in paradise. Join me in paradise.’

Something like that. I don’t remember exactly, but it sounded to me like he meant for her to be dead. Maybe he was planning one of those homicide/suicide stunts. Connie was so stuck on the guy that she would have done whatever he asked, even if it killed her.”

After that, it was painfully quiet in the car. The sun had set com-pletely. Once they exited the freeway at Benson, traffic grew sparse. “I wish I still smoked,” Maggie said. “I could sure use a cigarette about now, and something a whole lot stronger than soda.”

“Sorry about that,” Joanna said. “Cop cars aren’t meant to be cocktail lounges.”

“I suppose not,” Maggie said.

When they came through the tunnel at the top of the Divide, Joanna was surprised to see the flashing glow of emergency lights just to the right of the highway. They danced and flickered off the steep mountainsides, making the whole canyon look as it had had caught fire.From the number of lights visible, there were clearly lots of emergency vehicles at the scene. Something big had happened at the top end of Old Bisbee. Joanna reached over and switched on her radio.

“Hey, Tica,” she said, when Tica Romero, the night shift dispatcher, came on the air. “Any idea what’s happening at the upper end of Tombstone Canyon?”

“That would be the Department of Public Safety’s Haz-Mat team,” Tica advised her. “Bisbee PD called DPS in to clean up a meth lab they found in a house just above the highway. Since it’s inside the city limits and not our jurisdiction, I didn’t bother with all the details. Want me to find out for you?”