J.A. Jance - Dead Wrong

Tazewell nodded and handed Joanne a business card.

Joanna stood and extended her hand. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I know this has been hard on you. I’ll have a deputy take you back to your plane.”

“Thanks,” Tazewell said, then he added, “I don’t suppose you believe that I knew nothing about any of this-about the connection between my wife and the family of the man I sent to prison.”

“Actually,” Joanna returned, “I do believe you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But once they get wind of it, I doubt the press will be that kind. Best case, I’ll lose the federal nomination. Worst case, I’ll be forced off the bench.”

“I hope not,” Joanna said.

Tazewell shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. If Aileen was able to pull the wool over my eyes as thoroughly and as easily as this, I’m too damned stupid to sit on the Arizona Supreme Court!”

With that he turned and strode out of the office.

“He’s upset,” Frank said as the door closed.

“I’ll say,” Joanna responded. “He has every right to be. As soon as we can get someone to take him back to the airport, we’ll go out to the Triple H and see what we can do to get to the bottom of this.”

“Right now?” Frank asked.

“Does either one of us have something better to do?” Joanna asked. “Besides, if he thinks about it too long, Lawrence Tazewell may decide to have his own little chat with Aileen Houlihan. What about these?” she asked, picking up the fistful of papers.

“Bring them along,” Frank said. “I’ll drive. We can talk about those as we go.”

Buckled into the passenger seat of Frank’s Crown Victoria, Joanna scanned through the documents. The several pages dealt with the telephone numbers Lawrence Tazewell had given them. One after another, people had verified what he had said about the times he had arrived in Denver, where the plane had been tied down, as well as people he had seen while there. And, in every regard, each of the several people-from the guy in charge of the FBO to Tazewell’s stepdaughter-told the same story. Frank’s assessment about Tazewell’s lack of involvement in the Evans homicide seemed validated. The next sheet was a printout from classmates.comwith information on Barbara Tanner Petrocelli.

Joanna was amazed. “You found Lisa Evans’s friend!”

“Yup,” Frank agreed with a grin. “Address, phone number, and everything. Isn’t that why you keep me on the payroll?”

“And she still lives in Sierra Vista,” Joanna marveled. “Once we finish up with Aileen Houlihan, maybe we can see Barbara, too. After all, it’ll be on our way home.”

The last piece of paper was a copy of a phone message addressed to Debbie Howell. It listed the name Manfred Oxhill along with a Sierra Vista telephone number.

“Who’s Manfred?” Joanna asked.

Frank grinned again. “That’s the best part,” he said. “I noticed a message in Debbie’s box and decided to take a look at it. Turns out Mr. Oxhill manages the auto-parts section of Sierra Vista‘s Target store. I called him. He apologized for taking so long to respond to Debbie’s inquiry about primer. He’s been out sick all this week until yesterday, but it turns out they sold a whole case of primer last Friday morning. He’s going back through the records to see if he can find out if it was a cash or credit transaction.”

“Surely we wouldn’t be lucky enough that the killer used a credit card,” Joanna murmured.

“You’d be surprised,” Frank replied. “Most crooks get caught because they’re dumb, not because we’re all that clever.”

“What time does Mr. Oxhill get off work?”

“Six,” Frank answered. “So maybe we can see him today as well.”

“Anything on Jeannine this morning?” Joanna asked.

Frank nodded. “I called Millicent and checked with her. Jean-nine’s been upgraded to serious, so that’s good. It sounds like she’s making progress.”

Glad for any sign of improvement, Joanna stuffed the papers into her briefcase and then leaned back in her seat. As the Crown Victoria motored through the morning sunlight, she closed her eyes and thought about the upcoming interview. If Aileen’s Huntington‘s symptoms were as advanced as Joanna suspected, then there was no way the woman could have been directly involved in the murder of Bradley Evans. Indirectly involved, though, was another matter.

After nights of chronic sleep deprivation, Joanna soon fell victim to the warmth inside the vehicle and to the steady hum of tires on pavement. With the baby quiet for a change, she was lulled into a sound sleep and roused herself only when Frank slowed to turn off Highway 90 onto Triple H Ranch Road.

After crossing three separate cattle guards and opening and closing two gates, they arrived. There were two distinctly separate ranch houses on the property. What appeared to be the main one was set behind a white picket fence. It was a rambling old-fashioned, frame-style place with recently added vinyl siding and a standing-seam metal roof. A generous roof overhang created a shady front porch and allowed for covered verandas on either side of the house. A bank of brightly blooming honeysuckle grew around the base of the front porch. Halfway to the house a well-made wooden wheelchair ramp broke away from the sidewalk and led up to the side of the porch, where one section of wooden rails had been removed to allow access.

Frank was turning into the yard when, on the far side of a metal barn, Joanna caught sight of a small airplane parked next to a corral.

“What the-I” she began.

“Is something wrong?”

“That’s Lawrence Tazewell’s blue-and-white Cessna.”

“But you told him not to come here,” Frank returned.

“Evidently he didn’t pay any attention.”

Joanna was out of the car before Frank had shifted into park. She caught the beginning of a radio transmission as she slammed the door shut, but she was so intent on Lawrence Tazewell that she didn’t stay still long enough to listen. Hurrying through the gate and up the sidewalk, she heard the sound of raised voices.

“Get out! You’ve got no business coming here!” Leslie Markham shouted.

“I just want to see her, to talk to her,” Tazewell objected.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Leslie declared. “She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this, especially you. How dare you come flying in after all these years as if you still owned the place?”

The front door was open. Joanna stood on the far side of the screen door with her hand poised to knock.

“I never ‘owned the place,” as you call it,“ Tazewell said reasonably. ”The Triple H always belonged to your grandparents and to your mother. I was always an interloper.“

“And you still are. Now go.”

“Have you asked your mother if she wants to see me?” he asked. “Does she know I’m here?”

“She doesn’t, and I’m not going to tell her,” Leslie responded. “She’s too ill. I want you to leave. Now.”

“I know all about Huntington’s disease,” Tazewell said. “How far has it progressed? How bad is it?”

“You don’t know anything about it!” Leslie shot back. “How would you? You’ve been up in Phoenix the whole time. Dolores Mattias and I are the ones who’ve been taking care of her- Dolores and Rory and me and a couple of nurses who come in on a part-time basis. And we don’t talk about it with outsiders, either. Mother didn’t… doesn’t want people to know about this Huntington‘s thing. It’s nobody else’s business what’s wrong with her.”

“Rory!” Tazewell exclaimed. “What the hell can you see in an old coot like him? For God’s sakes, Leslie, you’re a beautiful young woman. Rory Markham is almost as old as I am.”