“So the ID is positive, then?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Joanna said. “Constance Haskell is the victim all right. I trust the DMV information from that Encanto address has been broadcast to all units?”
“Absolutely—a Beemer and a Lincoln Town Car. Neither one of them were at the residence in Phoenix, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Good. I listed them both as possibly stolen and the perp presumed armed and dangerous. That way, if someone spots either one of ‘em, they’ll be pulled over. Where are you headed?”
“Out to the ranch to see Jenny,” Joanna replied.
“So you’ve heard about what happened to Dora then?” Frank asked.
“Some of it,” Joanna returned grimly. “Doc Winfield told me. I think I’ll stop by their house on my way home and wring my mother’s neck.”
“From what Jim Bob told me, I guess Jenny’s really upset about what happened.”
“Tell me,” Joanna urged.
“When Dora figured out what was going on—that we knew what her mother had been up to and that a caseworker was there to put Dora back into foster care—she lit out the back door and tried to make a run for it. The caseworker must have seen it coining. She took off out the front door and caught Dora as she came racing around the house. I mean she literally tackled Dora. They both went down in a heap. Dora fought tooth and nail all the way to the car. She was yelling and crying and screaming that she didn’t want to go, that she’d rather die. I’m sure it was traumatic for everybody concerned. If I’d been there, I’d be upset, too.”
So am I, Joanna thought grimly. But right at that moment, powerless to change what had happened, she did the only thing that might help her forge through the emotional maelstrom—she changed the subject. “Anything else happening?”
“Well, I have one small piece of good news,” Frank replied. “I managed to get through to the phone factory. It’s possible the missing message on that answering machine really did say Connie Haskell should meet her husband in Paradise. The call to the house in Phoenix originated from a pay phone outside the general store in Portal, which happens to be only eight miles or so from Paradise—town of, that is. I told Ernie about the Portal connection. He and Detective Carbajal will head over there first thing in the morning and start asking questions.”
Mentally Joanna made some quick geographical calculations. Portal was located on the eastern side of the Chiricahua Mountains at the far southern end of the range. Apache Pass was at the north end and on the western side. To get to Apache Pass from Portal, one would have to go around the Chiricahuas, traveling on either the Arizona or New Mexico side, or else cross over the range itself, using a twisting dirt-and-gravel track that crossed at a low spot called Onion Saddle.
“You’re thinking that when Ron Haskell left his message, he was referring to having Connie meet him in the town of Paradise?”
“Makes sense to me, but we don’t have a clue as to where in town he’d he meeting her. I checked with Directory Assistance. I asked for any business listings with a Paradise address. The operator came up with a couple that sounded like bed-and-breakfast type places, and Ron Haskell might well be staying at one of those. The problem is, they all had phones, so I’m a little puzzled as to why he’d be using a pay phone at the general store. The operator hit on something else promising, a place called Pathway to Paradise. I just finished checking out Pathway to Paradise on the Internet. Their web site says it’s a rehab facility that specializes in gambling problems.”
“That fits,” Joanna said. “A severe gambling problem could go a long way toward explaining how Connie Haskell’s money left her bank accounts and disappeared into thin air. You’ve told Ernie and Jaime to check that out as well?”
“Right.”
“Good job. So where are you right now?” Joanna asked.
“Standing across the street from Sally Matthews’s place up in Old Bisbee,” Frank said. “I’ve talked to a couple of the Haz-Mat guys. They said the house is a wreck inside. Aside from the chemical pollution, the house is so filthy that it’s totally uninhabitable. He said he was surprised people were still trying to live there.” Frank paused. “I feel sorry for Dora. She’s been through a really rough time. And don’t be too hard on your mother, either, Boss. The way I see it, compared to where she was living, foster care is probably the best thing that could happen to Dora Matthews.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Joanna said.
“You’re staying overnight then?” Frank asked.
“‘That’s my plan at the moment.”
Signing off, Joanna headed for High Lonesome Ranch, seven miles east of town. On the way, she tried calling Butch once more. It was late enough that she hoped he might have returned from the dinner. This time, when she dialed, she had driven out from behind the signal-eating barrier of the Mule Mountains. But instead of reaching the Conquistador Hotel in Peoria, Joanna heard the recorded voice of a cell phone company operator from across the line in Old Mexico.
With the recent proliferation of cell phone sites across the border, cell phone use in the Bisbee area had become more and more problematic. People attempting to make wireless calls within the sight lines of newly built Mexican cell sites often found themselves sidetracked into the Mexican system. And once a call was answered by the Mexican operator, the hapless U.S. customer could count on being billed a minimum of four dollars for the call despite the fact that it had gone no farther than a less than helpful Spanish-language recorded message.
“Damn!” Joanna muttered, and gave up trying.
When she pulled into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch, Tigger and Sadie came racing out to dance around the car in a gleeful greeting that made it look as though Joanna had been gone for weeks rather than mere days. By the time Joanna finished calming the two ecstatic dogs, Jim Bob Brady was standing next to the Civvie.
“You heard, I guess,” he said.
Nodding, Joanna let herself be drawn into her former father-in-law’s welcoming embrace. She stayed there, imprisoned against Jim Bob Brady’s massive chest, letting herself be comforted for the better part of a minute before she finally pulled away.
“Do you think Jenny’s asleep?” she asked.
“Could he, but I doubt it,” Jim Bob answered gravely. “She was mighty upset when she went to bed. Don’t seem too likely that she’d drop right off.”
Joanna hurried into the house through the back door and went directly to her daughter’s room. She tapped lightly on the closed door. “Jenny,” she said softly. “Are you still awake? May I cone in?”
“It’s open,” Jenny answered. It wasn’t exactly an engraved invitation, but Joanna opened the door and eased herself into the room. Guided by the shadowy glow of a night-light, Joanna crept over to the rocking chair that had once belonged to Butch’s grandmother.
Joanna settled herself in the old rocker, which emitted a loud squeak as she put her weight on it. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.
“No.” Jenny flopped over on the bed. Even in the dim light, Joanna could see tears glistening on her daughter’s cheeks. “I hate Grandma Lathrop!” Jenny whispered fiercely. “I don’t care it I ever see her again!”
Joanna was taken aback by the ferocity in her daughter’s voice, by the burning anger tears hadn’t begun to extinguish. “I’m mad at her, too,” Joanna said quietly, “but I know Grandma Lathrop didn’t mean any harm. I’m sure she had no idea your friend would he hurt.”
Jenny sat up. “Dora Matthews is not my friend,” she declared. “I don’t even like her, but she doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. That woman grabbed her and threw her into the car. It was like an animal control officer dragging a stray dog of to the pound.”