J. Jance - Devil’s Claw

“But the uniform…” Joanna began.

“After his family was killed, Eskiminzin still wanted peace. He became one of the first members of the tribal police on San Carlos. That’s him in his policeman’s uniform. Later on, he took his second family, left the reservation, and started his own ranch. Then there was another Apache uprising. Since he was a chief, he was suspected of being involved. His ranch was taken from him, and he was shipped off to Oklahoma.”

“How do you know all this?” Joanna asked.

“A friend of his wrote it down,” Catherine Yates explained. “John Clum was an Anglo who was superintendent of the San Carlos early on. Eskiminzin worked for him. Clum wrote a paper for the Arizona Historical Review. My mother, Christina Bagwell, was ten years old when he sent her mother, Eskiminzin’s daughter, a copy of what he’d written, along with that picture-the one you see there on the wall. Otherwise it all would have been forgotten long ago.”

Joanna had become so caught up in the story that she had almost forgotten her own purpose for being inside Catherine Yates’ house until Catherine handed her two photos-two eight-by-ten school pictures in matching gold frames. Joanna took them and spent several long seconds examining them. From the hairstyles, it was easy to recognize that the two photographs came from different eras. Nonetheless, even the most casual observer would have noticed the striking family resemblance between Sandra Ridder and her daughter, Lucy.

Just as Joanna handed the two pictures back and was about to speak, Frank Montoya tapped lightly on the front door and let himself into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This just came in.”

Frank made his way across the room without meeting Catherine Yates’ anxiously inquiring gaze. As he handed Joanna the piece of paper he carried, he gave the slightest shake of his head. “It looks like she’s the one,” he said softly.

“Who?” Catherine asked.

Joanna looked down at the picture in her hand. In the mug shot, the woman in one picture appeared to have aged ten or fifteen years. “You’re sure?” Joanna asked.

Frank nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. “It’s Sandra, all right.”

Joanna turned to Catherine. “It’s about your daughter, Mrs. Yates,” she said. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. We’re fairly sure that your daughter stole a vehicle last night, and now there’s a good chance that she may be a homicide victim as well.”

Nodding and moving in slow motion, Catherine sank down on the couch and wrapped her arms around her body. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew when you kept asking me about Sandy instead of Lucy that it had to be something to do with her. What is it? What’s happened?”

“This afternoon a woman was found in a culvert along the road between Cochise Stronghold and Pearce. She’d been shot. Unfortunately, she died while being airlifted to a hospital in Tucson. I didn’t want to say anything to you about it until after we had more information.”

“No,” Catherine whispered. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t.”

“I’m so sorry-” Joanna began, but Catherine cut her off.

“How could she?”

“As I said, the victim, she was shot. We didn’t find a weapon, so we’re currently treating this as a homicide. The vehicle she was thought to be driving is missing, and it’s possible one or more UDAs-illegal immigrants-were involved in what happened.”

“You’re just saying that,” Catherine said. “You’re telling me that because you don’t want to tell me the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“If Sandy is dead, I know who killed her, and so do you-Lucy! It has to be her. She’s missing, isn’t she, and so is my gun. I should have known. She as good as told me, but I never thought… Couldn’t even imagine that she’d do such a thing!” Moaning softly, Catherine doubled over on the couch, rocking back and forth.

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions,” Joanna said carefully, even though she herself had made much the same kind of leap. “As I said, we did find some evidence that suggests UDAs may have been involved, and there may be some other explanation entirely. At this point, other than the fact that your granddaughter is missing, we have nothing to indicate that she’s involved in what happened to her mother.”

“You’ll find it,” Catherine said sadly. With that she leaned back against the couch and covered her eyes with one hand. After a full minute of silence she added in a hoarse whisper, “I can’t do this again. I just can’t.”

“Do what?” Joanna asked.

“Go through all this.” Catherine took her hand away from her face. The sorrowful eyes she focused on Joanna were smoldering coals. “This has probably never happened to you, has it,” she added accusingly. “I’ll bet no one you love has ever been arrested and sent to prison for killing someone else.”

“No,” Joanna admitted. “You’re right.”

“I thought so,” Catherine Yates said. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

“But we’ll need to make arrangements to have you come to Bisbee and do an official identification. My detectives will need to talk to you…”

“Tomorrow will be time enough for that,” Catherine Yates replied. “Right now, all I want is to be left alone!”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Joanna asked.

“I won’t be all right,” Catherine said. “I’ve lost my daughter, and my granddaughter, too. I’m sure I’ll never be all right again. But I’m a tough old bird, and I’ll live. So go now, please.”

Joanna started to say something, to warn Catherine about not going into Lucy’s room or disturbing anything, but in the end she said nothing. The all-pervasive grief that distorted Catherine Yates’ previously placid face, screwed up her mouth, and wrung a steady stream of tears from her eyes made any such cautions seem rude and unnecessary.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Yates. Really I am.”

Catherine nodded. “I know,” she croaked brokenly. “So am I.”

“It’s interesting that Catherine Yates immediately came to almost the same conclusion we did,” Frank said, as they started back toward Joanna’s Blazer.

“It’s not interesting,” she countered. “It’s sad. With all the UDA debris there in the culvert, we could be totally off-base even suggesting it. Still, Catherine knows Lucy Ridder better than anyone else in the world-including Lucy’s own mother. If Catherine thinks her granddaughter is capable of murder, then the rest of us had better pay attention. Call Mike Wilson and cancel that Search and Rescue call for tomorrow morning. We’re not going to send an unarmed S and R team out looking for someone whose own grandmother thinks she could be armed and dangerous.”

“You’re just going to wait for her to turn up then?” Frank asked.

“No,” Joanna replied. “We’ll send Terry Gregovich and Spike out to find her. That’s why we have a canine team, but when you dispatch them, let Terry know that I expect both of them-man and dog-to be wearing their Kevlar vests at all times. I don’t want to lose either one of them.”

Terry Gregovich and his eighty-five-pound German shepherd Spike constituted the Cochise County Sheriff Department’s first-ever K-9 team. Both man and dog were relative new-hires. Terry, a Gulf War veteran, had come over from Search and Rescue. With the help of drug-enforcement monies, Spike had been purchased directly from a breeder who specialized in police dogs. After months of training and working together, Spike and Terry had evolved into an inseparable and valuable team. Six weeks earlier, a Phoenix-area K-9 dog had been shot to death by a pair of fleeing bank robbers. In the aftermath of that incident, Joanna had managed to find room in her budget to purchase a canine-fitted Kevlar vest for Spike’s protection.