J. Jance - Devil’s Claw

“He’s driving,” Ernie replied. “I know better than let him talk on the cell phone when he’s supposed to be concentrating on the road. What do you want to know?”

“He’s talked to Melanie Goodson, hasn’t he?”

Ernie was off the phone for a few seconds. “He says three times so far. Why?”

“Did she say anything about receiving a middle-of-the-night phone call around three o’clock on Saturday morning?”

Ernie passed along the question. “No,” he said when he came back on the line “She never mentioned it. Do you want him to ask her about it?”

“Why don’t I do it?” Joanna said. “After all, I’m right here in Tucson. Where’s her office?”

“On Speedway. The street number is four fifty-eight.”

“Tell him I’m on my way. And, Ernie?” Joanna added. “One more thing. When you get back to the department, I want you to ask Frank Montoya to get on the horn and try to get faxed copies of all the Tucson newspaper reports from back then that dealt with either Tom Ridder’s death and/or with Sandra Ridder’s prosecution. I’m convinced that what went on then has something to do with what’s happening now, but I don’t know what.”

“This sounds suspiciously like we’re operating on women’s intuition again,” Ernie said.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Joanna asked.

“Not at all,” Ernie Carpenter told her cheerfully. “Whatever works works for me.”

When Joanna turned off I-10 onto Speedway Boulevard, the speed limit was signed at 35 miles per hour. Most traffic, including not one but two City of Tucson patrol cars, whizzed around Joanna at ten to fifteen miles above the posted limit. Meanwhile, knowing she’d be turning right somewhere beyond Fourth Avenue, Joanna stayed in the right hand lane stuck behind a Nebraska-licensed Buick whose snowbird driver was content to drive at five miles under.

I guess they got the name right when they called it Speedway, she thought.

Number 458 was one of those old stucco places that dated from the twenties or thirties. Most of the remaining houses on that stretch of Speedway seemed to come from that same pre-air-conditioning era and had been built along the same lines, with cavernously shaded front porches designed to keep out the worst of the afternoon sun. In the fifties and sixties, most of those old houses had fallen on hard times and decrepitude. Many had been carved up into boardinghouse-style living spaces for students attending the University of Arizona a few miles to the east.

It was possible there had been a similar house on the lot just to the west of number 458. If so, all sign of it had been erased, bulldozed into oblivion to make way for a smoothly paved parking lot that came complete with accents of blooming bright-pink verbena. Joanna parked her Blazer between a boxy bright-red Cadillac and a white Nissan Sentra.

Walking past them, Joanna forced herself to notice details about them-the gold emblem on the Caddy’s trunk and the smashed left rear fender on the Sentra. That was one part of Joanna’s law-enforcement training that was still giving her trouble. She constantly had to battle herself to notice and identify the vehicles she saw around her.

Walking from the lot to the office, Joanna found that in its new incarnation as a professional office, the former residence boasted a desert-friendly but beautifully Xeriscaped front yard that was alive with an abundance of drought-resistant blooms-verbena, purple sage, and desert poppies, accented here and there by clumps of prickly pear, agave, and barrel cactus. Not a single stray weed poked its nervy head out of the red-gravel-covered earth. Joanna knew from looking at it that, in the middle of the city, that kind of artfully created and impeccably maintained “natural” landscaping didn’t come cheap.

Bathed in shadow from afternoon sun, the magnificent hand-carved mahogany front door with its brass-plated handle contained an oval of etched, leaded glass. The door may not have been part of the house’s original equipment, but the look of it left little doubt that the house and door were full contemporaries, and if the door had been expensive back then, now it was even more so. Stenciled onto the glass in blocky gold letters were the words melanie j. goodson, attorney at law.

Pressing down the old-fashioned thumb latch, Joanna let herself into dusky, air-conditioned comfort. The entryway floor was shiny, high-gloss hard wood. It was covered with a Navajo rug that spoke of both age and money. Joanna had seen rugs like that before, but the people she knew who owned those Native American treasures had long since declared them far too valuable to continue using them on floors.

“May I help you?” Behind the reception desk was a mid-twenties woman with a headful of loose auburn hair. She was decked out in suitably serious business attire-blazer, skirt, silk shirt, and heels. If it hadn’t been for the seven or eight pierced earrings decorating both ears and a mouthful of very expensive orthodontia, Joanna might have taken her for Melanie Goodson herself.

“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady from down in Cochise County,” she announced, pulling out her ID. “I’d like very much to speak to Ms. Goodson.”

“I don’t remember Ms. Goodson having an appointment scheduled with anyone by that name for today.” While the young woman ran a black-enameled fingernail down the page of a leather-bound appointment calendar to check, Joanna did her best to ignore the unfortunate and noticeable lisp caused by her braces.

No doubt the receptionist was intimately familiar with her boss’s schedule. Hers was a form question worthy of nothing more than a form answer. “No,” Joanna said, swallowing a bubble of annoyance. “One of my deputies had an appointment to see her earlier this afternoon, but he found it necessary to cancel. I’m sure Ms. Goodson will want to see me,” she added. “It’s about her missing vehicle.”

“So someone has found it then?” a husky female voice asked from an open-doored office. “When will I be able to have it back? I hate driving rentals.”

Joanna looked up in time to see a woman appear in a doorway just to the left of the reception desk. She was tall and good-looking but tending to be heavyset. Her highlighted hair was precision-cut in a timeless bob. She wore an ivory silk blouse with a pair of custom-made slacks, and her fingers carried a full contingent of heavily jeweled rings. Here’s a high-maintenance woman if I ever saw one, Joanna thought. Stylish and expensive both.

“I’m Melanie Goodson,” she said, holding out her hand. “Who are you again?”

“Joanna Brady. Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve spoken to one of your deputies.”

“Detective Carbajal?” Joanna suggested.

“Right. That’s the one. I believe I was supposed to see him this afternoon, but he called in and canceled. Come on in.”

Melanie Goodson led Joanna into a spacious, cove-ceilinged office that looked as though it had been carved from two separate rooms. The ornate white molding on the wainscoting, the lush floral draperies and muted grass-cloth wallpaper all announced their quality workmanship. In one corner of the room was a seating area that consisted of a polished coffee table, a wing chair, and an old-fashioned settee. Melanie Goodson settled into the chair and motioned Joanna onto the settee, which turned out to be far better-looking than it was comfortable.

“You never answered my question,” Melanie said, pouring two glasses of ice water from a cut-crystal pitcher into matching glasses.

“What question?” Joanna asked after taking a grateful sip of the water.

“My car. When will I be able to have it back?”