Paradise Lost (31 page)

Brent shook his head. “Not much of a son, right? But Tom and I are looking after her. We make sure her water and propane tanks get filled regularly, and we make sure her waste-water tanks get emptied as well.” He grinned. “And then there was the skunk that took up residence under her RV. We had to hire a guy to come in and trap him and take him away. I guess we’re a little more full-service than we planned to be, but Irma’s a nice lady and I don’t mind keeping an eye on her.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and Joanna wasn’t sure what to ask next. “This is a nice place you’ve got here,” she said, changing the subject slightly. “And I’m sure Irma Sorenson appre-ciates your full-service service. How long have you had it, by the way—Quartzite East, that is?”

Brent Hardy shrugged. “The farm itself has been in my family for years. My mother left it to me when she died three years ago. Tom and I sold our place in Santa Cruz and came here to retire, but we didn’t much like being retired, and neither one of us was any good at farming, either. So we decided to do something else. This is the end of our second year. Some of our clients are straight, of course, like Kurt and Irma. But a lot of them aren’t. We keep the welcome mat out for both.”

Joanna nodded. She had already surmised that Brent Hardy and Torn Lowrey were a couple, but she was a little taken aback to find them living and running a business in redneck Bowie. “So how are the locals treating you?” she asked.

“It’s not as though I’m an outlander,” Brent replied with yet another grin. “My mother, Henrietta, taught at Bowie High School for thirty-five years, just as her mother, Geraldine Howard, my grandmother, did before that. Between them, they pretty well fixed it so I can do no wrong. At least, forty years later, I can do no wrong. When I was in high school here, that was
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another matter. Now I’m back and I’m plugging money into the local economy. That makes me all right. And, since Tommy’s with me, he’s all right, too. Not that people say much of anything about us. It’s pretty much don’t ask/don’t tell, which, for Bowie, is progress.”

A car door slammed and Joanna caught sight of Frank Montoya sprinting back up the walkway.

“I’ve got it,” he announced as he stepped onto the porch. “Irma’s son’s name is Whipple, Robert Whipple.”

Joanna frowned. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the name of the guard at Pathway to Paradise?”

Frank nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Pathway to Paradise,” Brent said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember Irma saying something about that once, only she just called it Pathway, I think. I got the distinct feeling she thought it was some kind of cult. Is it?”

“Not exactly,” Joanna replied. “But close enough.” She stood up and joined Frank on the steps.

“We should be going then,” she added. “Thanks so much for the tea and the information. And if you should happen to hear anything from Irma Sorenson, please contact me or my department right away.” Taking a business card out of her pocket, she handed it over to Brent Hardy.

He looked at it and frowned. “Do you think something’s hap-pened to her or not?” he asked.

That was precisely what Joanna was thinking—that something terrible had happened to Irma Sorenson—but she didn’t want to say so. Not necessarily,” she hedged, but Brent Hardy wasn’t so easily put off.

“When you first got here, you said Irma’s phone call was placed right after a 911 call. What was that all about?”

“There was a call to Tucson’s emergency communications cen-ter about a bloodied vehicle found at Tucson International Airport. That vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car, belonged to a woman named Connie Haskell, who was found murdered in Apache Pass last Friday night.”

“What color Lincoln Town Car?” Tom Lowrey asked suddenly. “And what year?”

“A 1994,” Frank Montoya answered before Joanna had a chance to. “A dark metallic blue.”

“I saw that car,” Tom Lowrey said. “Or at least one like it. I never noticed when it drove up. All I know is there was a dark blue Lincoln Town Car parked right behind Irma’s Nissan early Satur-day morning when I headed into Tucson to get groceries. I didn’t think all that much about it. I saw it and figured Irma must have been entertaining overnight guests. When I came back home around noon, it was gone, of course. So was the Nissan.”

“Are you saying Irma Sorenson is somehow mixed up in this murder thing?” Brent asked.

“That’s ridiculous. Preposterous.”

The pieces were tumbling into place in Joanna’s head. It didn’t seem at all preposterous to her.

Irma Sorenson was mixed up in it all right, and so was her son. Had Rob Whipple been on guard when Connie Haskell tried to gain admittance to Pathway to Par-adise to see her husband? Had that been Connie’s fatal mistake—speaking to the armed guard stationed in the
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shack outside the gates of Amos Parker’s treatment center?

“Shemay be involved,” Joanna said carefully after a momen-tary pause. “It’s also possible that she may be either an unwitting or an unwilling participant. The woman who called herself Alice Miller—the one who made that 91 I call – obviously wanted the car to be frond. From what Mr.

Hardy his told ns about his abortive conversation with Irma a few minutes later, I believe she may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to finish saying whatever it was she had intended to say when she called here.”

“So she’s most likely in danger,” Toni Lowrey concluded.

If she’s not already dead,Joanna thought. “Possibly,” Joanna said with a sigh.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Brent asked.

“You’ve already helped more than you know,” Joanna told them. “Whether Connie Haskell’s killer turns out to be Irma’s son or someone else altogether, there’s obviously some connection between your Irma Sorenson and the dead woman’s car. So if you hear anything from her or her son or if she turns up, please call us immediately. I don’t suppose I need to add that these people should be considered dangerous. Whatever you do, make no attempt to detain either of them on your own.”

The two men nodded in unison as Joanna left the porch and followed Frank Montoya out to the car. He headed for the driver’s seat, but Joanna stopped him. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You run the mobile communications equipment.”

For months, and in spite of unstinting derision from his fellow officers, Frank Montoya had tinkered with his Crown Victoria, tak-ing it beyond the normal patrol-car computing technology and adding additional state-of-the-art equipment whenever the oppor-tunity presented itself. The chief deputy’s Civvie now boasted a complete mobile office with the latest in wireless Internet and fax connections powered by the department’s newest and most expensive laptop. And the investment of both time and money had paid off. In the last several months, Frank Montoya’s high-tech wizardry had saved the day on more than one occasion. Around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, joking references to Frank’s “elec-tronic baby” had been replaced by grudging admiration.

“To do what?” Frank asked.

Joanna got behind the wheel and held out her hand for Frank to pass the keys. “Do you have a cell phone signal?” she asked.

“I get it. You want me to run Rob Whipple’s name through the NCIC database? What makes you think he’ll be there?”

“It’s a long shot, but Doc Winfield says our guy wasn’t a first-timer. I’m thinking maybe he’s been caught before.” With that, Joanna shifted the Crown Victoria into gear and backed out of the parking place.

“And where are we going in the meantime?” Frank asked as he picked up the laptop and turned it on.

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“Paradise,” she returned. “We’re going to pay a call on our friend Mr. Rob Whipple. You did get his driver’s license info, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And his address.”

“That too, but do you think going to see him is such a good idea?” Frank asked. “After all, we don’t really have probable cause to arrest the man, and we sure as hell don’t have a search warrant.”

“We’re not going to arrest him,” Joanna returned. “If he’s our man, he may already have taken off for parts unknown. Or, if he is the killer and he’s still hanging around, showing up for work, and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, he may be thinking he’s getting away clean. All I want to do is shake him up a little. Put the fear of God in him. Give him a shove in the right direction and see if we can get him to give himself away.”

Frank shook his head. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “How about calling Jaime and Ernie and letting them know what’s up? They ought to be in on this, you know, Joanna. You and I shouldn’t be off doing this all by ourselves.”

“Jaime and Ernie are in Tucson,” she reminded him. “You can call them, but we’re here—a good hour and a half earlier than they can be. We’re going anyway.”

“But why the big hurry?”

“Because I happen to agree with Mr. Hardy back there. He thinks Irma Sorenson is in danger, and so do I, and I’d a whole lot rather look stupid than hang around doing nothing but wringing my hands until it’s too late.”

Joanna paused uncertainly at the entrance to Quartzite East. “Which way’s faster?” she asked.

“Right or left?”

“From here, I’d say down the New Mexico side,” Frank told her.

Joanna nodded. “Time for a little mutual aid,” she said, switch-ing on the flashing light. “Before you start dialing up that database, you’d better call somebody over in New Mexico and let them know we’re coming through.”

With the Civvie’s warning lights flashing, Joanna tore east on I-10 and across the state line into New Mex-ico. By then Frank had alerted the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department and let them know what was happening. Once off the interstate and onto an almost deserted Highway 80, Joanna shoved the gas pedal down and let the speedometer hover around ninety.

“Damn,” Frank muttered finally.

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“What’s the matter?”

“I finally managed to dial into the NCIC database, but now I’ve lost the signal. That’s the problem out here in the sticks. Cell-site overage is still too spotty. I’ll have to try again when we get a stronger signal.”

“You could always radio in and have Dispatch run it,” Joanna suggested.

Frank was quiet for a moment but reluctant to give up. “I’ll wait for a better signal,” he said.

Joanna understood completely. He didn’t want someone else to run the computer check any more than she had been eager to call Ernie and Jaime in to contact Rob Whipple.

“What’s the plan in the meantime?” Frank asked.

“We’ll go straight to Pathway,” Joanna said. “Whipple may be there, but I’m guessing he’s taken off. Mostly, I want to talk to Caroline and Amos Parker. I want to know how long Rob Whip-ple has worked for them and where he came from before that. What’s his address again?”

Frank consulted his notes. “Box 78, San Simon/Paradise Star Route, Paradise, Arizona.”

“Get on the radio to Dispatch about that, then. Have them give us an exact location on that address, complete with detailed direc-tions,” Joanna said. “When it’s time to go there, I don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark getting lost. And while you’re at it,” she added, “find out where Ernie and Jaime are. If they’re not on their way, see if there are any other available units who could back us up on this. Better safe than sorry.”

Nodding, Frank picked up the radio microphone. Meanwhile, Joanna drove on with the heightened sense of awareness left behind by all the extra energy flooding her body. The arch of sky overhead took on a deeper shade of blue while the steep green flanks of the Chiricahua Mountains stood out against the sky with a three-dimensional clarity that mimicked one of her old View Master photos.

In her time as sheriff, Joanna Brady had seen enough action to understand what was happening to both her body and her senses. They were gearing up for whatever was to collie, switching into a state of preparedness a sustained red alert. Although Joanna welcomed the sudden burst of energy, she also recognized how long periods of that kind of tension could sometimes backfire.

That was how endorphin-fueled hot pursuits sometimes exploded into inci-dents of police violence. In hopes of holding herself in check, she deliberately slowed the Civvie and switched off both siren and lights.

On the passenger side of the car, Frank had relented, swallowed his high-tech pride, and asked Dispatch to check on Rob Whipple’s criminal past. Now he was busily jotting down directions to Whipple’s house located off San Simon/Paradise Road. When the Crown Victoria slowed for no apparent reason, he glanced in Joanna’s direction and nodded approvingly.

“Ask Larry what else is happening,” Joanna said.

Frank relayed the question. “There’s been another car jacking,” Larry Kendrick answered over the radio speaker.

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“Where?” Joanna demanded. This time no relay was necessary because she had wrenched the radio microphone out of Frank’s hand and was using it herself.

“The rest area in Texas Canyon.”

“When did it happen, and was anybody hurt?”

“About forty minutes ago,” Kendrick replied. “No one was hurt, but it sounds like the perpetrator was the same guy who did the old guy from El Paso last week. This time it was a couple from Alabama. The husband went in to use the rest room, leaving his wife sitting in the car with both the motor and the air-conditioning running. A guy came running up, opened the door, pulled her out, and threw her on the ground. Then he jumped in and drove off. She had a couple of bruises and abrasions, but that’s about it. Her husband’s upset about losing the car.

She’s upset about losing her purse.

“Okay,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “‘That’s it. I’m tired of nickel-and-diming around with this thing. We’re going to put a stop it once and for all! Get hold of Debbie Howell and one of her younger deputies. I know: team her up with Terry Gre-govich and Spike. Have them dress in plain clothes and drive one of the late-model cars we have locked up in the impound yard. I want them to cruise the freeway and stop at every damn rest area for the remainder of their shifts today. In fact, I want them to do the same thing every day until I tell them otherwise. And if they feel like working longer than that, tell them overtime is authorized—as much as they can handle.