J. Jance - Fire and Ice

“I know you have to go,” he said. “I came in to kiss you good-bye and tell you to be careful.”

“Thank you,” she said, kissing him back. “I will be.”

I always am.

Once I hung up, it seemed like only a few minutes had passed before the phone rang again. Mel had gone into the bedroom and slipped into “something comfortable,” as they say. It was a slick enough outfit that, as soon as I saw her again, I started having amorous ideas. The ringing phone, however, effectively put an end to any considerations other than work.

“Beaumont here.”

“My name’s Jaime Carbajal.” The man’s voice cracked as he spoke.

I hadn’t expected to hear back from him quite that soon. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told him.

If Jaime heard my expression of sympathy, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked a question I didn’t expect. “Did you find the money?”

I paused for a moment, taking stock. Was Carbajal referring to the same money Tom Wojeck had mentioned? And if so, how did Marcella’s brother know about it? Maybe he was involved somehow, and if he was, he wouldn’t be the first cop who had been enticed over to the dark side by the siren song of easy money.

“What money?” I asked aloud. If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, answering a question with a question is usually a good strategy.

“When my sister left here, she had a sum of money in her possession.”

“How much?” I asked.

“I have no idea how much,” he returned. “I didn’t see it. Her son, Luis, did. He said it was quite a lot.”

So we need to speak to the son after all, I thought. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?” I said aloud.

“We believe it was money Marcella’s husband had stolen from a drug dealer down here in Arizona. But now the husband is dead, too. He was murdered in prison in California several months ago. Somebody shanked him. I’m guessing that whoever killed him may also be responsible for killing Marcella.”

“Do you have any idea who?” I asked.

“I’ve only been able to pull up one name, Juan Francisco Castro,” Jaime said. “His street name is Paco. He’s a drug dealer who moves back and forth between Arizona and Mexico, and probably California as well.”

I wrote down the name.

“Do you have any idea where Paco might be right now?”

“Not really. I’ve had feelers out all along. So far nothing’s turned up.”

In the background I heard Joanna Brady’s voice. “Ready?” she asked.

“I have to go now,” Carbajal said. “We’ve got to go talk to my nephew, Marcella’s son.”

That wasn’t a job I envied.

“You go ahead,” I said. “But keep me posted. If you learn anything on your end, let us know. We’ll do the same.”

“What?” Mel asked.

I handed her the piece of paper I had used to jot down Juan Francisco Castro’s name. “Let’s look into this guy,” I told her. “He may be the one.”

Without another word, we both reached for our respective laptops.

When they stepped out of the house, Joanna took one look at the yard. The garage door was blocked by several parked cars. The only way to retrieve her Crown Victoria would have meant going back inside and asking several guests to abandon their poker hands long enough to come move their vehicles. When Jaime wasn’t at work, he drove a Toyota Camry. As a latecomer to the party, no one had blocked him in.

“It’s all right,” Joanna said. “I’ll ride with you.”

“Why don’t you just stay here-” Jaime began.

Joanna cut him off in mid-sentence. “I’m coming,” she said determinedly. “When we finish, if I need to, I’ll get one of the nightshift deputies to bring me home.”

Once buckled into Jaime’s car, they were silent as he maneuvered down the bumpy dirt track that led from the house back down to High Lonesome Road. As they bounced across the cattle guard at the end of the of the ranch’s private road, Joanna caught sight of a vehicle tucked in close to the fence line and the stand of mesquite trees behind it. Caught up in his own thoughts, Jaime seemed not to notice and started to drive past.

After registering the vehicle’s presence, it took only a moment for Joanna to identify it. The snub-nosed Toyota RAV-4 sitting just beyond Joanna’s mailbox belonged to none other than reporter Marliss Shackleford.

“Stop, please,” Joanna said. “Go back.”

Jaime pulled a U-turn. The Camry’s wheels had barely stopped moving when Joanna hopped out of the passenger seat. She charged over to the parked SUV and rapped sharply on the window, which Marliss eventually opened.

“What are you doing?” Joanna demanded. She asked the question, but she already knew the answer. Marliss was here hoping to dredge up some dirt on someone; whose dirt it was hardly mattered.

“It’s a party,” Marliss said.

“Yes, it is,” Joanna agreed. “And I’m quite sure you weren’t invited. As I said before, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see who all came.”

You wanted to see if anyone had too much to drink before they left, Joanna thought. “Now would be a good time for you to leave,” she said.

“This is a county road,” Marliss objected. “You can’t order me off it. I have every right to be here.”

“She’s right, boss,” Jaime called from behind her. “Leave her be. Let’s go.”

“Where are you going?” Marliss asked. “What’s so important that you’re leaving in the middle of your own party?”

Joanna definitely didn’t want Marliss trailing along behind them. Taking a deep breath, Joanna suddenly found herself remembering Marianne Maculyea’s sermon from the previous Sunday. It had been all about turning the other cheek, along with the verse from Proverbs about a soft answer turning away wrath. Maybe, in this situation, giving a soft answer was the only solution.

“When we left, Butch was about to serve dessert,” Joanna said. “I’m sure there’s plenty to go around. Why don’t you mosey on up to the house and see for yourself who all’s there?”

Joanna saw at once that her invitation left Marliss torn. She wanted to know all the details about who had come to the party and what was going on. She was also curious about where Joanna was going. In the end, curiosity about the party won out.

“Are you sure it’ll be all right?” she asked, turning the key in the ignition.

“Absolutely,” Joanna said. “Tell Butch I sent you.”

Joanna stood there and waited while Marliss turned her RAV-4 around and headed up the road toward the house. As soon as she got back in Jaime’s car, he put it into gear.

“Thanks for getting rid of her,” he said. “I don’t think I would have been that nice.”

When the next-of-kin notifications had been made, Joanna asked Deputy Raymond to drop her off at home. By then the bachelor party was long since over. She fell into bed and into a sound sleep. When she staggered into the kitchen the next morning with Lady at her heels, Joanna was amazed to see that the place was clean as a whistle and unnaturally quiet. Dennis and the three other dogs were evidently still at Carol’s place. Butch had made use of the child- and dog-free time to haul the rented tables and chairs out of the family room and to return pieces of furniture to their customary positions.

“How was it?” Butch asked, studying her face as he handed her a cup of coffee.

“Pretty rough,” she admitted, stroking Lady’s long smooth fur.

“Pretty rough” was an understatement. It had been more than rough. Joanna would never forget how fifteen-year-old Luis had heard the awful news of his mother’s murder in stoic silence. Only when Jaime finished had the boy’s narrow shoulders slumped. He had turned away and tried to bolt from the room, but Jaime had caught him on the way past. Engulfed in a smothering embrace, the boy had sobbed brokenly into his uncle’s chest.