J. Jance - Devil’s Claw

Bearing all that in mind, it was hardly surprising that Lucy Ridder was a loner. Her father was dead, and now so was her mother. And all those years she had lived with Catherine Yates-all during the time when the awful pain of losing her father would have been at its peak-Lucy had been in the care and keeping of someone who more or less thought Tom Ridder got what he deserved-of someone who thought Lucy’s father’s killer was being wrongly imprisoned. That had to have hurt. And even if it was true that Tom Ridder had physically abused his wife, it might not have made any difference to his daughter’s broken heart. It seemed clear enough to Joanna that Lucy had loved Tom Ridder as much as or more so than she despised Sandra, her mother.

Joanna knew enough about domestic violence in families to realize that children-the innocent bystanders to those knock-down, drag-out battles-often end up choosing sides, and the sides they choose aren’t necessarily the ones outsiders might expect. And, for a child coming from that kind of troubled background, it wasn’t at all out of the question to think Lucy Ridder herself might have resorted to a violent solution to what she deemed an overwhelming problem.

But still, Joanna reasoned as she sped past the Triple-T Truck Stop on her way into Tucson, that’s no excuse .

Just because the Bible talked about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth didn’t mean that the offending eye or tooth were there for anyone’s taking. If Lucy Ridder had avenged her father’s death by killing her mother, then fifteen years old or not, she would have to answer for that crime in a court of law.

Regardless of whether or not Lucy Ridder agreed with the judge’s sentence, her mother had paid for her crime by spending eight years of her life in prison. Joanna could feel empathy for Lucy Ridder, but the bottom line was if Sandra Ridder’s daughter turned out to be a killer, too, then the justice system would have to decide on an appropriate punishment-once Joanna’s department delivered Lucy into their hands and assuming some wily defense attorney didn’t figure out a way to get her off scot-free.

Quick Custom Metals on Romero Road was in a light-industrial complex near I-10 and Prince. Driving up to it, Joanna saw a glass-topped brick building that looked for all the world like an airport control tower, only there was no airport. Around the building was an expanse of green lawn.

When Joanna stepped out of the car, she was surprised by the difference in temperature between Bisbee and Tucson. Here, at a far lower elevation, the sun blazed down with an intensity that felt more like a Cochise County June day than a late-March afternoon. When she stepped into the company’s front office, she was grateful to find it was fully air-conditioned.

A counter ran the length of the room. In front of it, an elderly silver-haired woman was engaged in a serious low-voiced conversation with a middle-aged man who stood behind the counter. It was clear from what was being said that the woman was in the process of having a sheet-metal custom-made coffin designed to hold the earthly remains of her beloved cat. The woman wanted to ascertain that the dimensions of the box would be large enough to accommodate her pet in a comfortable resting position without being crowded.

“Some cats like to curl up in a little ball, you know,” she was saying. “But not my Sidney. He always preferred to stretch out flat on the cool tiles in the kitchen, more like a dog than a cat. So that’s why I want to be sure this will be big enough. I don’t want the poor thing to be scrunched up for all eternity.”

It may have sounded like a bizarre request, but the man behind the counter seemed unfazed by it. “In that case, Mrs. Dearborn,” he said, “you’d better bring us Sidney’s exact measurements so there’s no mistake. Where is Sidney now?”

“Still at the vet’s,” Mrs. Dearborn replied. “They’re keeping him on ice there until I can come back with the coffin.”

The man gave the woman an understanding smile. “Well, if you’ll have the vet call me with the correct measurements, I’ll have one of my men get right on it. And be sure that they measure him laid out just the way you want him. Once we have the dimensions, you’ll have the box-the coffin-within twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Quick,” Mrs. Dearborn murmured. “You are quick, too,” she added. “Just living up to your name, I suppose, but you have no idea how much this means to me. I expect you’ll be hearing from my vet, Dr. Winston, within the hour.”

With that she gathered her purse from the counter, collected a crystal-knobbed cane, and hobbled her way toward the door. Joanna hurried ahead of her and held it open long enough for the woman to make her way out.

“Thank you, young lady,” Mrs. Dearborn said. “That’s a big help.”

“Thanks from me, too,” the man behind the counter said when Joanna turned back in his direction. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We’re a little short-handed in the office today. Can I help you?”

“You are Mr. Quick, then?” Joanna ascertained.

“That’s me,” he said with a nod.

Joanna reached into her purse, extracted her badge and ID, and held them up. “Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Is this a good time to talk?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just a minute.” He pulled open a door that led into a cavernous shop area. Sharp metallic-smelling smoke from a burning welding torch wafted into the office. “Hey, Leon,” he called. “Kathy’s still at lunch. Could you come watch the front counter for a few minutes?”

A few seconds later, a young man in a pair of faded blue coveralls riddled with burned spots came sauntering into the office. Once he arrived, Jay Quick ushered Joanna into his private office. His desk was a serviceable, battleship-gray metal one. The top of the desk, made of gray linoleum, matched not only the front and sides of the desk but the floor and walls as well. The whole room, from file cabinets to door, was covered with that same dull, unremitting gray. The effect might have been impossibly depressing if it hadn’t been for the collection of copper-framed art prints that covered almost every available inch of wall surface. There were some Old Masters scattered here and there, but mostly the prints were colorful renditions of well-known Impressionists-Monet, Degas, and Renoir.

“Nice art,” Joanna said, admiring the collection.

Jay Quick nodded. “I have my mother to thank for that,” he said. “She may have come from a place most people think of as a backwater, but she maintained that living in Council Bluffs, Iowa, was no excuse for not knowing about the world outside the city limits-fine art and music included.”

“She sounds like an unusual woman,” Joanna said.

Jay nodded. “She was,” he said. “I still miss her. But let’s get down to business, Sheriff Brady. I’m sure you’re not here to admire my framed art or discuss my mother. I’ll be glad to give you whatever help I can, but I’m not all that sure what I can tell you.”

“First, if you will, try to remember exactly what Lucy Ridder said to you on the phone.”

“Not all that much. She did identify herself, of course. Said she was Lucy Ridder and that she was looking for Mrs. Quick. At first I didn’t recognize the name and thought she wanted to speak to my wife. Finally, though, I figured out who she was and that she was trying to reach my mother. She said she wanted to talk to her-that she needed to talk to her. She made it sound important, like it was some kind of dire emergency.”

“She didn’t say what that emergency was?”

“No. Not even a hint.”