J. Jance - Fire and Ice

“You’re right,” Jaime agreed. “I am glad about that, but what about Pepe? My son knew all about this for a long time, but he never let on to me. That hurts, boss. It really hurts. Pepe and I have always been close. I don’t like finding out that he’s been keeping secrets.”

“Of course he’s keeping secrets,” Joanna told him. “Why wouldn’t he? Pepe may be your son, but he’s also a teenager. Keeping secrets goes with the territory.”

Even as she said the words, Joanna couldn’t help wondering what secrets her almost-fifteen-year-old daughter might be keeping from her. On the surface, Jenny was a joy. She helped around the house, adored her little brother, and had a part-time job helping out at a local veterinary office. She was also within months of having her learner’s permit. Joanna knew only too well the kinds of secrets she had kept from her own mother at that age. The possibility that Jenny might be doing the same thing and pulling the same stunts was disturbing. Joanna didn’t want to go there. On the other hand, it turned out that at the time Joanna’s mother had been keeping quite a few secrets of her own.

“The boys will be all right,” Joanna assured him. “Both of them.”

“I hope so,” Jaime said.

Joanna waited for a moment before she went on. “With all the turmoil at home, I don’t suppose you had much time to work on the Action Adventures video enhancement problem.”

“I made some calls,” Jaime said. “I’ve got an appointment at the DPS crime lab in Tucson tomorrow morning. I’ll hand over what we’ve got and see what they can do with it.”

I dropped Mel off at the restaurant parking lot where she’d left the Cayman, and we drove back into town in the throes of afternoon traffic. I know, I’m always griping about the traffic here, but I can’t help it. There are too many cars and not enough roads, and when I see one of those signs that say construction is coming and drivers should find alternate routes, I know it’s a joke. For a lot of roads around here there are no alternate routes.

Once back at Belltown Terrace, Mel went out for her daily run while I worked my way through several crossword puzzles. After that, we set out on foot to find some dinner. Even on rainy days, the late afternoons and early evenings are often clear and warm. And that was the case as we walked down Second Avenue.

When I first moved to the Denny Regrade, the streets had been lined with tiny sticks of newly planted trees. Now they’re fully grown, complete with root systems that play havoc with the smooth surface of the sidewalks. Still, I enjoyed our walk along beautiful, tree-lined Second Avenue with bright green leaves softening the hard-scape lines of surrounding buildings.

We walked as far as Mama’s Mexican Kitchen, where we managed to score an outside table. That gave us a chance to watch the varied denizens of the Regrade-from the homeless people wheel-ing their possession-laden grocery carts to the high-flying BMW drivers jockeying for free parking spaces.

But we also talked shop. While Mel sipped her Dos Equis and downed a combination plate and I nursed a root beer along with my order of taquitos, we picked apart everything we had learned about the timeline of Marina Aguirre’s disappearance and death. I had just popped the last bit of taquito in my mouth when the phone rang.

“Bingo,” someone said in my ear.

I didn’t recognize the voice, and I didn’t recognize the phone number, either. For a moment I thought maybe it was one of those annoying solicitation calls where the Knights of Something or Other want me to buy a ticket to their annual charitable auction.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Lucy,” she said. “Detective Lucy Caldwell from Ellensburg. This is my cell. I thought you’d want to know that we’ve IDed our victim. I just got the notice from Bob Craft over in the M.E.’s office. They entered her dental X rays in the national dental records database and got a hit. Her real name is Marcella Andrade. She was reported missing on July 16 of last year.”

I had pulled my notebook and pencil from my pocket, and tipped my head in order to hold the phone to my ear while I took notes.

“Marcella Andrade,” I wrote. “Disappeared July 16. From where?”

“From Arizona,” Lucy answered. “The missing persons report was written by someone named Detective Jaime Carbajal. He’s with the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department,” she added. “He’s also listed as the next of kin because he’s the victim’s brother. Dr. Hopewell and I thought that since this goes across state lines and since the attorney general’s office is involved, it might be best if the next-of-kin notification came from you instead of from one of us.”

That’s what I mean about God having a sense of humor. I had been reluctant to blab to Mel about my partnership with Big Al Lindstrom, but that was nothing compared to this!

You see, I happen to know the sheriff of Cochise County. Her name is Joanna Brady. She’s a cute little redhead-make that a feisty little red-haired fireball. The two of us had worked a case together a couple of years ago. In the aftermath of a dramatic shoot-out where either one of us might have been killed, Joanna and I had shared a powerful but momentary attraction.

And that’s all it was-momentary. Admittedly it was a hug that could have turned into much more, but Joanna Brady was married, even if I wasn’t at the time, and neither one of us was prepared to play that game. So I came back home to Seattle, she stayed on in Bisbee, and life went on as usual. Until now.

“What?” Mel wanted to know.

I ignored her. “How do you spell that last name again?” I asked.

Lucy read off the letters. “It’s Hispanic,” she explained. “I believe the j’ s are pronounced like h’ s.”

I remembered meeting Detective Jaime Carbajal. The j ’s were most definitely h ’s.

“What’s going on?” Mel asked.

“They’ve identified our victim,” I told her.

“Where’s she from?”

“Arizona,” I told her. “Bisbee, Arizona.”

But, of course, Lucy hadn’t said a word about Bisbee. I had supplied that little detail on my own.

“Obviously you know Cochise County,” Lucy said. She sounded relieved. “I hope that means you’ll be willing to handle the next-of-kin notification. I’ve only done one or two of those, and I’m not very good at them. I’m always afraid I’ll fall apart and make a fool of myself.”

“Right,” I agreed. “We’ll take care of the next-of-kin notification. Can you give me the contact information?”

So she did. She dictated all the gory details-the phone numbers and addresses that would make it possible for me to mess up Detective Carbajal’s life with the terrible news that his sister had been murdered. And just because he was a cop wouldn’t make it easier. In a way it made it worse, but diligently writing it all down gave me a chance to put off having to tell Mel what she was waiting to hear. It was a useless diversion, however. It didn’t work, not at all.

Mel was still gunning for me when I got off the phone. “Something’s the matter,” she said accusingly. “I saw the look on your face. It was like you had seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

The waiter came by. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

He had people standing outside, waiting for tables. The question was a polite way of saying how about getting moving, but I didn’t take the hint. Instead, I ordered another beer for Mel and another root beer for me. Then I told Mel everything. I told her all about my encounter with Sheriff Joanna Brady; about how the two of us had chased a bad guy down a dry riverbed and how we had survived a shoot-out that left the bad guy dead. As for us? We were very much alive and grateful to be so.