“I certainly thought so,” Connors replied. “And that’s why this thing has me so spooked. I’ve worked with O.H. and Dale for years. Until all this came up, I would have trusted either one of them with my life. Now I’m not so sure. That’s why it’s so important for me to know exactly what happened. It’s also why I’m counting on your discretion.”
So that’s what this is all about, I told myself. I’m not down here on the state’s nickel to fend off UPPI’s upcoming breach-of-contract dispute with the state of Washington. I’m here because Ross Connors is having a crisis of confidence with some of his minions.
My enthusiasm for having signed up with Ross Connors and his outfit took a sudden nosedive. I had thought the purpose of the Special Homicide Investigation Team was to investigate murders. Now it sounded as though someone in the attorney general’s office might actually be causing homicides here and there rather than simply solving them. That being the case, could a cover-up be far behind?
“I’ve just come from another crime scene,” I said into the phone. “I’m pretty sure it’s another homicide. There’s a possibility that it could be related to what happened to Latisha Wall.”
“Could be?” Ross repeated. “You mean you don’t know for sure? That’s why I have you on the scene, Beaumont. It’s also why we paid to fly you down there. We need to know for sure what’s going on.”
As Attorney General Ross slipped into the old blame-game routine, I bristled. “I’m not exactly working under optimal conditions,” I growled.
“Why not?”
“Because Sheriff Brady ordered me to leave the scene the minute I showed up.”
“Why would she do that?” Connors asked. “What is she, some kind of prima donna?”
You’re the problem, I wanted to say. And I did, in so many words. “Sheriff Brady is ripped because it took so long for us to get her any information.”
“I was trying to get a handle on the situation,” he said.
Handle, my ass! I thought. What you really mean is spin.
That was about the time Marliss Shackleford waltzed into the lobby. “Sorry to have cut you off,” I told the attorney general. “Someone’s here to see me. I’ve gotta go.”
“HOW MANY TIMES DO I have to tell you boys to stay away from those houses?” an outraged Velma Verdugo railed. “ ‘The places are falling down,’ I say. ‘They’re dangerous. The ceilings could cave in on you. A floor could collapse. You never know what you’ll find. You’re bound to end up getting in trouble.’ That’s what I tell them, but do they listen? Not on your life!”
Unfortunately, Joanna knew exactly how this exasperated mother felt. It hadn’t been that many months ago when Jenny, while breaking a similar prohibition and doing something she shouldn’t have, had stumbled on the body of a murder victim. This time the boys in question – two brothers ages eight and nine – had found the body of a woman Joanna presumed to be the missing Deidre Canfield.
As their mother shrieked at them and shook her finger in their faces, the two boys shrank away from her. Cowering just out of reach, they looked so thoroughly humiliated that Joanna felt sorry for them, just as she did for Velma. Joanna suspected that the woman’s shrill tirade had far more to do with her being frightened for her sons – over what might have happened to them – than it did with genuine anger.
“If you’d allow us to speak to them for a few minutes, Mrs. Verdugo,” Joanna said soothingly. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“It better not,” Velma returned. “Their daddy will be off work soon. Believe me, when Gabe gets here, he’ll do more than talk.”
Faced with the old wait-till-your-father-gets-home threat, the boys exchanged wary glances but they didn’t speak. The look that passed between them wasn’t lost on Joanna.
“I hope he won’t be too severe,” Joanna said. “It’s really fortunate for my investigators that Marcus and Eddie found the body when they did.”
Chief Deputy Montoya ambled over to where Joanna stood talking to the Verdugos. Taking in the situation, he winked at the boys and then began speaking to their mother in Spanish. Joanna had taken years of both high school and college Spanish, but the classes had left her something less than fluent. Nevertheless she was able to follow enough of what Frank was saying to realize he was simply expanding on much of what Joanna had said moments earlier and praising the two boys for reporting their find rather than concealing it.
Frank’s words seemed to have a calming effect on the agitated woman. Velma listened in silence. When he stopped speaking, she turned back to her sons. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut and with tears streaming down her face, she pounced on the two boys and then hugged them to her in a desperate embrace.
Jaime Carbajal appeared just then with his crime scene camera still in his hand. “Sorry for the interruption, Sheriff Brady. Could you please come with me?”
Excusing herself, Joanna followed Detective Carbajal. She had visited this deserted, crumbling cavalry post with her father years earlier. D.H. Lathrop, an amateur historian, had explained to her how Pancho Villa had attacked Columbus, New Mexico, in 1916. Camp Harry J. Jones in Naco, Arizona, named after a murdered Army guard, had been part of a network of military posts maintaining border security during the Mexican Revolution. With her father, Joanna had explored the adobe-walled stables and the fallen-down barracks. Now Jaime Carbajal led her toward what had once been the officers’ quarters. The house – a small, graffiti-marred wreck – was missing all its windows and doors.
“You’d better come inside and take a look,” the detective said. “And you’re going to need these.” Once again he handed her a mask, evidence-preserving Tyvek booties, and his much-used vial of Vicks.
“Dee Canfield?” Joanna asked. She paused on the small front porch long enough to apply the menthol and don the mask and booties. Meanwhile Jaime nodded grimly in answer to her question.
“Any sign of Warren Gibson?” the sheriff added.
“Not yet,” Jaime reported. “But we haven’t searched the whole place yet. There could be another body hidden in one of the other buildings. We just haven’t found it yet.”
Joanna nodded. “Has Frank called for extra deputies?”
“He has,” Jaime said. “Dispatch tells me two of them are on their way.”
Joanna nodded. “Good. We’ll give one of the deputies to you for the crime scene. The other we’ll send with Casey Ledford when she goes through Dee’s house and the gallery, assuming you did manage to pick up those search warrants,” she added.
Jaime nodded. “Dave’s on his way to pick them up.”
Long before Joanna stepped through the open doorway into the gloomy, dusty interior, and even through the barrier of menthol, her nostrils detected the unmistakably rank odor of human decomposition. A woman’s fully clad body lay on the sagging wooden floor of what had once been a kitchen. Joanna immediately recognized the distinctive hues of Dee Canfield’s tie-dyed smock. After maneuvering far enough around the body to have a complete view of the victim’s face, Joanna saw that the dead woman’s fleshy features were drawn up in a horrific grimace.
“Any signs of violence?”
Jaime shook his head. “No apparent bleeding or bruising as far as I can see.”
Joanna looked at him closely. “Are you thinking the same thing I am, that maybe we’re dealing with another poisoning?”
The detective nodded. “The thought did cross my mind.”
“Damn,” Joanna said.
She made her way outside.
Velma Verdugo was now seated in the front passenger seat of Frank’s Civvie while her two sons leaned against the front fender a few feet away. The chief deputy crouched before them. Holding a clipboard, he was asking questions and making notes.
Frank glanced over his shoulder as Joanna approached. “You boys may have seen Sheriff Brady a while ago,” he said, “but I doubt you were introduced. This is Eddie,” Frank explained to Joanna, indicating the taller of the two. “That one is Marcus.”