Joanna settled in for the trip. She generally welcomed long stretches of desert driving because they provided her rare opportunities for concentrated, uninterrupted thinking. With Maggie MacFerson temporarily silenced, Joanna allowed herself to do lust exactly that think.
Weeks earlier, as Joanna sat in her mother’s living room, she had thumbed through George Winfield’s current copy of Scientific American. There she had stumbled upon a column called “Connections.” The interesting content had tumbled back and forth across the centuries showing how one scientific discovery was linked to another and from there bounded on to something else. At the time, Joanna had recognized that the solutions to homicide investigations often happened in much the same way, through seemingly meaningless but nonetheless critical connections.
Was the death of Constance Marie Haskell linked to the outbreak of carjackings that had plagued Cochise County? If Maggie MacFerson’s version of events was to be believed, Connie Haskell had an absent, most likely estranged, and quite possibly dishonest, husband. Once Ron Haskell was located, he would no doubt be the first person Joanna’s detectives would want to interview. Still, rape, torture, and a savage beating were more in keeping with a random, opportunistic killer than they were with a cheating spouse. And so, although Ron Haskell might well turn into the prime suspect, Joanna wasn’t ready to dismiss the idea of a crazed carjacker who, upon finding a lone woman driving on a freeway late at night, might have veered away from simple carjacking into something far worse.
Picking up her cell phone, Joanna dialed Frank Montoya’s num her. “What are you doing calling me?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal and dinner.”
“Think again,” she told him. “I’m on my way to Bisbee bringing with me a lady named Maggie MacFerson. We have reason to believe she’s the sister of Constance Marie Haskell, the Jane Doe from Apache Pass. I’m bringing her down to George’s office so she can ID the body.”
“On your weekend off?” Frank objected. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t Maggie know how to drive?”
“Knows how but can’t,” Joanna replied. “She hurt her hands.”
She discreetly left out the part about probable blood alcohol count in case Maggie MacFerson wasn’t sleeping as soundly as she appeared to be.
“How about calling Doc Winfield and having him meet us at his office uptown,” Joanna continued. “It should be between eight-thirty and nine, barring some unforeseen traffic problem.”
“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “I’m the one who’s supposed to tell your mother her husband has to go in to work on Saturday night? Is that so you don’t have to do it?”
“That’s right,” Joanna returned evenly. “You’re not Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s daughter. She can’t push your buttons the way she does mine.”
“Okay, Boss,” Frank said. “But I’m putting in for hazardous-duty pay.”
Joanna smiled sadly. It hurt to know that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s reputation for riding roughshod over everybody was common knowledge around the department.
“What else?” Frank asked.
“According to Maggie MacFerson, Connie’s husband, Ron Haskell, emptied his wife’s bank accounts before he took off for parts unknown. He left a message on his wife’s answering machine Thursday sometime. Ms. MacFerson inadvertently erased it, so I don’t know exactly what it said. Something about seeing Connie in paradise, which Ms. MacFerson seems to have concluded was a death threat.”
“You want me to trace the call?”
“You read my mind.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Frank, an inveterate note-taker, may have balked at having to deal with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, but he had no concern about tackling telephone-company bureaucracy. As far as Joanna was concerned, that left Eleanor in a league of her own.
“Next?” Frank prodded through the momentary silence.
“Did you get a list from the DMV on vehicles registered to that Encanto Drive address?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have it here somewhere. A Lincoln and a BMW, if I remember correctly.”
Joanna listened as he shuffled through loose papers. “Once you find them,” she said, “I want those vehicle descriptions posted with all of our patrol units and with the folks from Border Patrol as well.”
“So you’re still thinking this might be just another carjacking?” Frank asked.
“Until we know otherwise, I’m not dismissing any possibilities,” she replied. “A single woman traveling alone at night might be easier pickings for a carjacker than that little old guy in his Saturn.”
“We don’t know for sure Connie Haskell was coming to Cochise County,” Frank objected.
“We sure as hell know that’s where she ended up!” Joanna responded. “And since she didn’t fly from Phoenix to Apache Pass, that means she must have driven.”
“I see your point,” Frank conceded. “I have that DMV info. It was buried on my desk. I’ll have Dispatch put it out to the cars right away.”
“Good, but before you do, let’s go back to that carjacked Saturn,” Joanna added. “You said it was picked up at a Border Patrol checkpoint. How many other stolen or carjacked vehicles have ended up in Border Patrol impound lots? Has anybody ever mentioned that particular statistic to you?”
“Not that I remember,” Frank said. “But I can try to find out.”
“Okay. Now, what’s happening on the Dora Matthews front?”
“Not much,” Frank said. “As far as I know, she’s still out at the High Lonesome, and there hasn’t been a peep out of Sally. The last time I checked, the note we left for her was still pinned to the screen door on her house up Tombstone Canyon.”
Joanna groaned inwardly. “When I asked The Gs to look after the place while Butch and I were gone, they were supposed to look after the animals. Now they’re having to deal with two adolescent kids as well.”
“I’m sure they can handle it,” Frank returned.
“I’m sure they can, too,” Joanna said. “But they shouldn’t have to.”
“Where are you now?” Frank asked.
“I just passed the first Casa Grande turnoff, so I’m making progress,” Joanna said.
“I should probably get on the horn to Doc Winfield and let him know you’re on your way. Do you want me to meet you at the ME’s office?”
“No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. It’s Saturday night. You’re a good-looking single guy, Frank. Don’t you have anything better to do on a Saturday night besides work?”
“Not so as you’d notice,” Frank told her.
They signed off after that, and Joanna continued to drive. Still accustomed to the time the trip had taken under the old fifty-five miles-per-hour speed limit, Joanna was amazed at how fast the miles sped by. At last Maggie MacFerson groaned and stirred.
“Where am I?” she demanded. Using one other clubbed lists, she brushed her lank brown hair out of her face. “What happened to my hands, and who the hell are you?”
Joanna looked at her passenger in surprise. “I’m Joanna Brady,” she said. “I’m the sheriff in Cochise County. Don’t you remember my coming to the house?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Maggie answered. “And if you’re a cop, am I under arrest, or what? I demand to talk to my lawyer.” She squinted at an approaching overhead freeway sign. “Cortaro Road!” she exclaimed. “That’s in Tucson, tier God’s sake. Where the hell are you taking me? Let me out of this car!”
She reached for the door handle. With the car speeding down the road at seventy-five, it was fortunate that the door was locked. As Maggie struggled to unlock it with her clumsy, bandaged hands, Joanna switched on her emergency lights, pulled over to the shoulder, and slowed to a stop.