Paradise Lost (32 page)

Have Debbie stay in the car with Spike while Terry uses the phone or the rest room or whatever.

If somebody tries to pull a carjacking then, he’ll be in for a rude surprise when a trained police dog comes roaring out of the backseat.”

By then the Civvie had reached the turnoff to Portal. Needing both hands to keep the speeding Crown Victoria on the washboarded surface of the road, Joanna relinquished the microphone to Frank.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said mildly, even though Joanna knew that when it came time to cut checks for the next pay period, Frank would be griping about having to pay the extra overtime.

“You still haven’t heard anything from Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal?” Frank asked into the radio.

“I have now. They’re just leaving Tucson on their way to Sierra Vista,” Larry Kendrick replied.

“Anything you want me to tell them, or would you like me to patch you through?”

Frank glanced questioningly in Joanna’s direction. “Tell them to go on to Sierra Vista as planned,” Joanna said. “See who else can backup for us.”

After doing so, Frank put the mike back into its clip. “It could be days, you know,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

If the carjacker got away with a vehicle today, it could he days before he comes back looking for another one. How much over time are you planning on paying?”

“As much as it takes,” Joanna answered grimly.

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It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but as they drove toward Portal, the sun slid behind the mountains, sending the eastern side of the Chiricahuas into a shadowy, premature version of dusk. Fifteen minutes later Joanna drove up to the guard shack at Pathway to Paradise. With her shoulders aching from suppressed tension, she waited to see if Rob Whipple would emerge front the shack. She was disappointed when a young, buck-toothed man in his early thirties approached the Crown Victoria instead. His nane tag identified him as Andrew Simms and his cheerful, easygoing manner made him far less menacing than Rob Whipple had been.

“May I help you?” he asked, leaning down to peer in the window.

“I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, presenting her ID. “We’re here to see Caroline Parker.”

“If I could tell her what this is concerning—” Simms began spouting the party line, but Joanna cut him off.

“It concerns urgent police business,” she told him. “I’m not at liberty to disclose anything more.”

She expected an additional argument. Instead, without further objection, Andrew Simms retreated to the guard shack and returned with both the sign-in clipboard and a visitor’s pass for the windshield.

“Just fill this out, if you will,” he said. “Do you know the way, or do you want me to have someone come down to guide you up?”

“We know the way,” Joanna said.

A few minutes later, when the Crown Victoria entered the Pathway to Paradise compound, Caroline Parker was waiting tier them on the front veranda.

“What is it now?” she demanded with a frown. “Ron Haskell’s gone, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

“We want to talk to you about Rob Whipple,” Joanna said.

Caroline’s face grew wary. “What about him?” she asked. “When is he due to work again?”

Joanna asked.

Caroline glanced at her watch. “He was supposed to work today, but he traded with Andrew Simms. They’re not permitted to do that without getting prior approval, but since the shift was covered ...”

Joanna felt a hard knot of concern form in her gut. She was right. Rob Whipple had missed work. That meant there was a strong likelihood that he had also fled Joanna’s jurisdiction. “Do you know when he made those arrangements, the ones to cover his shift?” she asked.

Caroline Parker shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have no idea.”

“How long has Rob Whipple worked for you?” Joanna asked.

Caroline shrugged. “A long time. Five or six years. He came as a client to begin with. After he
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finished his course of treatment, he ended up hiring on to work here. He did grounds maintenance for a year or two. After that he transferred to security. He’s been doing that ever since.”

“What was he treated for?”

Caroline Parker smiled and shook her head. “Come on, Sheriff Brady. Don’t be naive. You know I won’t tell you that.”

“What about his mother?” Joanna asked. “Did you ever meet her? Her name’s Irma Sorenson.”

“Irma, oh yes,” Caroline Parker replied. “I believe I did meet her once, only her name was still Whipple back then. She came to Rob’s family-week program. Unless I’m mistaken, she’s also the one who paid for him to come here in the first place—as a client, that is.”

“You haven’t seen Irma Sorenson since then?”

“No.”

“How many patients do you have here at Pathway to Paradise, Ms. Parker?”

“Clients, not patients,” she corrected. “And not more than thirty at a time. That’s when we’re running at full capacity.”

“Generally speaking, how long do they stay?” Joanna asked.

“Two months. Sometimes longer than that, depending on what’s needed and the kind of progress they’re making.”

“That means that, in the course of a year, you see several hundred different ‘clients’ ?”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“You said Rob Whipple was a patient—excuse me—a ‘client’ here five or six years ago, but you still remember exactly who paid for his course of treatment. Do you remember the details of every client’s bill-paying arrangements so clearly?”

Caroline Parker looked uncomfortable. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose I do.”

“And yet, after all this time, you still remember clearly that Irma Sorenson paid for Rob Whipple’s stay here. Why is that, Ms. Parker?”

“The circumstances were unusual, but I’m not at liberty to dis-close what they were since that would be a breach of Mr. Whipple’s presumption of confidentiality.”

“What would you say it I told you that someone’s life was at stake?” Joanna asked.

“My answer would still have to be the same, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline answered primly. “We don’t do situational ethics here at Pathway to Paradise. Ethics are ethics.”

“And murder is murder,” Joanna returned. She swung back to her chief deputy. “Come on,
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Frank. Let’s go.”

But Caroline stopped them. “Wait a minute. Are you implying that Rob Whipple had something to do with the murder of Ron Haskell’s wife?”

“I didn’t say that; you did,” Joanna told her. “How come?”

Realizing her error, Caroline Parker shook her head. “I can’t say,” she declared.

“But I can guess,” Joanna said. “What was the sickness that infected Rob Whipple’s soul, Ms.

Parker, the one he came here to be cured of? It wasn’t day-trading or lotto fever, was it. I’d guess he liked to hurt women—hurt them first and kill them later. You and your father may be under the happy delusion that your ethical counseling program cured the man of his ailment, but I’m here to tell you it didn’t. I think Rob Whipple has just suffered a major relapse.”

The sharp corners of Caroline’s angular face seemed to blur and soften. She stepped over to the Crown Victoria and leaned against the roof, burying her head in her arms. “Dad fired him,” she said at last in a subdued voice, one that had had all the authority wrung out of it.

“When?” Joanna demanded.

“Last night. Right after you left here, Dad called Rob into the office. He asked Rob point-blank if he was involved in what had happened to Ron Haskell’s wife. Rob denied it, of course, and my father called him a liar. Dad may be blind, but he can see through people when they’re not telling him the truth. And so Dad fired him, just like that. He had me take away Rob’s name badge and weapon—”

“Those didn’t belong to him?”

“No. They’re ours—company-owned, that is. Alter that, Dad sent him packing; told Rob to go away and never come back.”

“Why?” Joanna asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did your father want Rob Whipple to leave?”

“We run a very profitable and well-thought-of program hew, Sheriff Brady,” Caroline said proudly. “When people come here, they’re looking for results. They don’t want to know about our failures.”

“You told us earlier that Rob had gotten Andrew Simms to cover his shift. Now you’re saying your father fired him. Why the discrepancy, and which is the truth? I thought you people didn’t deal in situational ethics.”

Caroline shrugged. “Father wanted to buy some time. He said sending Rob packing would give things a chance to simmer down a little.”

“In other words, to keep from damaging Pathway to Paradise’s reputation and cure rate, you and your father would stoop to any thing, including knowingly turning a murderer loose on the
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world. Why didn’t you call and tell us what was going on?” Joanna demanded.

“We couldn’t,” Caroline wailed tearfully. “You’ve got to under stand. If we had called, it would have been a breach of confidentiality.”

“You can call it whatever you like,” Joanna hissed back at her. “But once we find out Rob Whipple has killed again, I hope your conscience is clear, Ms. Parker. I hope you and your father will both be able to sleep at night.”

“You just said ‘again,’“ Caroline whispered. “Does that mean someone else is dead, someone other than Ron Haskell’s wife?”

“That’s right,” Joanna said. “Remember Irma Whipple Sorenson, the lady who wrote that check to pay for her son’s treatment? She’s missing and has been ever since Saturday morning, moments after she made an anonymous call, nervously reporting the where-abouts of Connie Haskell’s bloodied vehicle. I’m assuming that she’s already dead, but you and your father had better hope like hell that she died prior to last night and not after, because if Irma was killed after you and your father sent Rob Whipple merrily on his way without calling us, I’m going to see about charging the two of you with being accessories.”

“Accessories?” Caroline Parker repeated weakly. “Us? You can’t do that, can you?”

“I can sure as hell try,” Joanna said grimly.

“But you have no idea what that kind of trauma would do to my father. It would kill him. It would be the end of everything he’s done; everything he’s worked for—everything we’ve both worked for.”

“That may well be,” Joanna returned. “But at least you’ll both be alive, which is more than can be said for Connie Haskell and most likely for Irma Sorenson as well. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t lose Rob Whipple’s badge or weapon, because if we end up needing them, they’d better be here! Come on, Frank. We’re done.”

“You can’t do that, can you?” Frank asked once they were out of earshot inside the Civvie and buckling their seat belts. Once again, Joanna was driving.

“Do what?”

“Charge Amos and Caroline Parker with being accessories.”

“No, probably not,” Joanna conceded. “But it did my heart a world of good to tell her that we could. I loved seeing that look of sheer astonishment wash across her face, and I’m proud to be the one who put it there. Caroline Parker lied to us. Frank, and I lied right back. Maybe that makes us even.”

“Maybe so,” Frank agreed. “Where to now?”

“Rob Whipple’s house, but I’m guessing he’s not there. Notify Dispatch about where we’re going and find out where those damned backup units are. Then call the DMV and get whatever information they may have on all vehicles belonging to either Rob Whipple or Irma Sorenson.

That way, when it comes time to post the APBs, we’ll have the information we need to do it.”

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Before Frank could thumb the radio’s talk button, Larry Kendrick’s voice boomed through the car. “We got a hit on Rob Whipple,” he said. “I tried faxing it to you, but it didn’t go through.”

“We’re out of range,” Frank told him. “What does it say?”

“Robert Henry Whipple served twenty-one years in prison iii South Dakota. He was convicted of two counts of rape and one count of attempted murder. He was paroled in 1994. One of the conditions of his release was that he seek treatment as a convicted sex offender.”

“So much for treatment,” Joanna muttered.

While Frank handled the radio, Joanna dealt with the road. From the highway to Portal the washboarded surface had been had enough, but the five miles from Portal to Paradise were even worse. Several times the winding dirt track climbed in and out of the same dry wash and around bluffs of cliff that made for treacherous blind curves on a road that was little more than one car width wide. At last a brown-and-gold Forest Service sign announced that they had arrived in Paradise. Despite the sign, there were no houses or peo-ple in sight, only a long line of twenty or so mailboxes that stood at attention on the far side of the road. It was just after five o’clock in the afternoon, but the false dusk created by being in the shadow of the mountains made it difficult to read the numbers on the boxes. Naturally, Box 78 was the last one in the row.

From that T-shaped intersection, San Simon/Paradise Road veered off to the north. Following the directions Frank had obtained from Dispatch, Joanna followed a new stretch of road that was only slightly worse than the previous one had been. Both of them made her long to be driving her sturdy Blazer rather than picking her way around rocks and boulders in Frank’s relatively low-slung Civvie.

“There,” Frank said, pointing. “Turn left here. From what I was told, the house is just beyond that ridgeline.”

“How about if we stop here and get out and walk?” Joanna sug-gested. “I’d rather our arrival be a surprise. If we drive, we’ll show up trailing a cloud of dust. He’ll see us coming a mile away.”

“It’s okay by me,” Frank said. “But before we leave the car, let me radio our position one last time.”

Joanna drove up the rutted two-track road until she reached a point where a grove of trees crowded in on the roadway. By park-ing in that natural bottleneck, she effectively barricaded the road, making it impossible for anyone else to drive around. Setting the parking brake, Joanna stepped out of the car and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She wasn’t at all surprised to find that once again there was no signal. For the third time in as many hours, the high-tech world had let her department down. Sighing with disgust, she turned off the useless device and shoved it back in her pocket.