J. Jance - Outlaw Mountain

Meanwhile, Frank Montoya moved on to a different topic. “I came up just as Ernie was putting the cuffs on Susan Jenkins,” he said. “What happened?”

“Pretty much the same thing you had to deal with in the Grubsteak on Sunday. Susan showed up all pissed off that her brother hadn’t done something about their mother’s boyfriend. She’s of the opinion that Farley Adams is behind whatever happened to Alice Rogers.”

“I doubt that,” Frank said. “I met the man Sunday afternoon. Talked to him in person. He seemed genuinely mystified by Alice ’s disappearance. And in view of what we’ve found here, he sure as hell didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be the mastermind behind a gang of juvenile car thieves.”

“You’re probably right,” Joanna told him. “But with Clete Rogers second-guessing every move we make, I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. I’ve told Dick that we need to go over Alice ’s house from top to bottom. I want it treated like a crime scene even if it isn’t one. I’ve also asked that Jaime Carbajal stop by Outlaw Mountain and talk to Farley again, now that we’ve found the body.”

Joanna paused and looked back toward where Fran Daly was still working. “I’m not being of much use here, so I could just as well go back to the cars and talk to Sergeant Mallory about Susan Jenkins. He needs statements. I can give him mine now, and he can take Ernie’s later.”

Leaving Frank in the clearing, Joanna headed back to where the cars were parked. On the way, her pager went off. Once again Dick Voland’s number appeared on the screen, followed this time by the word “Urgent.” Without waiting to get back to her radio, Joanna used her cell phone to return the call. “What’s up, Dick?” she asked.

“After I talked to you last, I sent Detective Carbajal out to Outlaw Mountain just the way you asked. He called in a couple of minutes ago. He said nobody’s there. Farley Adams is gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Jaime tried peeking in some of the windows. He says it looks like the place has been emptied out. The clothes closet was standing wide open and empty. The dresser drawers are empty, too. I’m sending Deputy Pakin uptown to get a search warrant. I’m betting Farley Adams is our killer.”

That theory didn’t square with Frank Montoya’s ideas about Farley Adams. Nor did it work with the Pima County cops’ hypothesis that Alice had died as a result of being hassled and/or frightened by a gang of juvenile-delinquent car thieves. In her time as sheriff, Joanna had come to realize that often unimportant leads-ones that don’t seem to go anywhere-provide the critical details that point investigators in entirely different directions, leading them eventually to things that are important.

“A search warrant is probably a good idea,” she told her chief deputy. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Dick told her. “Later on, once Pakin gets the search warrant, I’ll follow him on up to Tombstone. With you, Frank, and Ernie all tied up in Tucson someone should go oversee the situation in Tombstone.”

“How was the board of supervisors meeting?” Joanna asked. “Did you go?”

“Oh, I went all right. I told you I would, so I did. The whole thing was nothing but a gigantic waste of time.”

“No surprises there,” Joanna said. “Those meetings usually are.”

“You mean you don’t like attending them, either?” Dick Voland sounded surprised.

“Fortunately for both of us, Dick, Frank Montoya actually gets a kick out of all that political wrangling.”

“Is that so,” Voland said wonderingly. “Maybe the guy has some redeeming qualities after all. Just don’t tell him I said so.”

Joanna laughed. “My lips are sealed. Now, how about putting me through to Kristin?” Seconds later, Joanna was speaking to her secretary. “Any messages?”

“Your mother, for one,” Kristin said. “She’s called three times so far. There was also a call from Father Thomas Mulligan. You know, the head of Holy Trinity, that Catholic monastery over in Saint David. He asked to speak to you directly. I told him you were working a case and asked him if it was an emergency. He said no, but that he did want to speak to you as soon as possible. Here’s the number.”

Pulling a notepad from her pocket, Joanna jotted down Father Thomas’ name and number. “Anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good.” Joanna glanced at her watch. The afternoon was speeding by at an alarming rate. It was already past time for school to be out. Jenny usually called the office in the afternoon, just to check in. “Jenny will probably call once she gets to Butch’s house,” Joanna said. “Tell her to try reaching me on the cell phone.”

Walking as she talked, Joanna emerged from the cholla and was now within sight of the cars. She was shocked to see Susan Jenkins, freed from Ernie’s handcuffs, standing beside her Chrysler and smoking a cigarette. An unconcerned Sergeant Mallory stood nearby, talking to another uniformed deputy.

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “Why’s she still here, and where are her cuffs? I asked you to place her under arrest, and I thought someone would have hauled her away by now.”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Sergeant Mallory sauntered over to Joanna. “Before we did, I talked to my lieutenant about it. He said no dice.”

Joanna’s temper rose. A sudden flush fired her cheeks. “What does that mean?” she demanded.

Mallory shrugged. “You know how it is,” he said. “My supe wanted me to get those statements first. In other words, no paper, no jail.”

Over by the Sebring, Susan Jenkins ground out her cigarette and came walking toward Joanna and Mallory. Preparing for the possibility of another attack, Joanna tensed, but as Susan came closer, it became apparent that the woman had been crying.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff Brady,” Susan Jenkins apologized at once. “I don’t know what got into me. I was so mad at Clete right then, I couldn’t see straight. All the way here, I kept thinking that if only he had listened to me yesterday or if he had used his brain before that, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe our mother would still be alive.”

Much as it hurt her to do so, Joanna had to admit that right that minute there was nothing the least bit threatening about Susan Jenkins. With her faced blotched with tear-stained mascara, she looked just like any other bereaved relative-brokenhearted but not dangerous.

“You and your brother have both sutured a terrible loss,” Joanna said. “And you both have my sympathy.”

“It is her then?” Susan asked, nodding in the direction from which Joanna had come.

“Yes. Pending positive identification, of course. But yes, we’re pretty sure.”

Susan Jenkins’ eyes filmed with fresh tears. She buried her face in her hands. “I kept hoping the cops would be wrong, that it would turn out to be someone else.”

“What was your mother wearing when you saw her last?” Joanna asked.

“A dress,” Susan said. “A pink dress.”

“What about a sweater or coat?”

“Mother was very warm-blooded. She hardly ever wore a coat. She wasn’t wearing a sweater when she left my house the other night, but she might have had one in her car.”

Susan cast a wary look in the direction of the cholla. “Should I go over there and look-tell them whether or not it’s really her?”

Joanna thought about how it would feel for a daughter-any daughter-to see her mother lying on a deathbed of cactus and teeming with marauding insects. It had been hard enough for Joanna, a stranger, to see Alice Rogers that way. For a grieving daughter, the sight would be a nightmarish one that would haunt the rest of her life.