Joanna looked at him and smiled. “So do I,” she said.
Listening to him read the story made the miles of pavement speed by. Traffic was light because most Memorial Day travelers were not yet headed home. It was a hot, windy morning. The summer rains were still a good month away, so gusting winds kicked up layers of parched earth and churned them into dancing dust devils or clouds of billowing dust. Near Casa Grande Joanna watched in amusement as long highway curves made the towering presence of Picacho Peak seem to hop back and forth across the busy freeway. They had sped along at seventy-five, and just before noon they pulled into the parking garage at University Medical Center in Tucson.
“Are you coming up?” she asked before stepping out of the car.
Butch rolled down his window. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You go ahead. If you don’t mind, I’d rather sit here and keep on proofreading.”
With her emotions firmly in check and trying not to remember that awful time when Andy was in that very hospital, Joanna made her way into the main reception area.
“Yolanda Cañedo,” she said.
The woman at the desk typed a few letters into her computer keyboard. Frowning, she looked up at Joanna. “Are you a relative?”
Joanna shook her head. “Ms. Cañedo works for me,” she said.
“She’s been moved into the ICU. You can go up to the waiting room, but only relatives are allowed into the unit itself.”
“I know the drill,” Joanna said.
“The ICU is—”
“I know how to get there,” Joanna said.
She made her way to the bank of elevators and up to the ICU waiting room, which hadn’t changed at all from the way she remembered it. Two people sat in the tar corner of the roost, and Joanna recognized both of them. One was Olga Ortiz, Yolanda’s mother. The other was Ted Chapman, executive director of the newly formed Cochise County Jail Ministry.
Ted stood up and held out a bony hand as Joanna approached. He was a tall scarecrow of a man who towered over her. After retiring as a Congregational minister, he had seen a need at the jail and had gone to work to fill it. His new voluntary job was, as he had told Joanna, a way to keep himself from wasting away retirement.
“How are things?” Joanna asked.
“Not good,” he said. “Leon’s in with her right now.” Leon Cañedo was Yolanda’s husband.
Joanna sat down next to Mrs. Ortiz, who sat with a three-ring notebook clutched in her arms. “I’m so sorry to hear Yolanda’s back in here,” Joanna said. “I thought she was doing better.”
Olga nodded. “We all did,” she said. “But she’s having a terrible reaction to the chemo—lots worse than anyone expected. And it’s very nice of you to stop by, Sheriff Brady. When I called to ask you to come, Yolanda wasn’t in the ICU. I thought seeing you might cheer her up, but then . . .” Olga Ortiz shrugged and fell silent.
“They moved her into the ICU about ten this morning,” led Chapman supplied.
“Is there anything I can do?” Joanna asked. “Anything my department can do?”
Olga Ortiz’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the notebook she was still hugging to her body. “Mr. Chapman brought me this,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to show it to Yolanda yet. She’s too sick to read it now, but it’ll mean so much to her when she can.” Olga offered the notebook to Joanna, holding it carefully as though it were something precious and infinitely breakable.
Joanna opened it to find it was a homemade group get-well card. Made of construction paper and decorated with bits of glued-on greeting cards, it expressed best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery. Each page was from one particular individual—either a fellow jail employee or an inmate. All of the pages were signed, although some of the signatures, marked by an X, had names supplied in someone else’s handwriting, Ted Chapman’s, most likely.
Joanna looked at the man and smiled. “What a nice thing to do,” she said.
“We try,” he returned.
Joanna closed the notebook and handed it back to Olga, who once again clutched it to her breast. “What about Yolanda’s boys?” Joanna asked. “Are they all right? If you and Leon are both up here, who’s looking after them?”
“Arturo,” Olga said. “My husband. The problem is, his heart’s not too good, and those boys can be too much for him at times.”
“Let me see if there’s anything we can do to help out with the kids,” Joanna offered. “We might be able to take a little of the pressure off the rest of you.”
“That would be very nice,” Olga said. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Just then Joanna’s cell phone rang. Knowing cell phones were frowned on in hospitals, she excused herself and hurried back to the elevator lobby. She could see that her caller was Frank Montoya, but she let the phone go to messages and didn’t bother calling back until she was outside the main door.
“Good afternoon, Frank,” Joanna said. “Sorry I couldn’t answer a few minutes ago when you called. What’s happening?”
“We found Dora Matthews,” Frank replied.
“What do you mean, you found her?” Joanna repeated. “I thought Dora Matthews was in foster care. How could she be missing?”
“She let herself out through a window last night and took on. Once the foster parents realized she had skipped, they didn’t rush to call for help because they figured she’d cone back on her own, No such luck.”
The finality in Frank Montoya’s voice caused a clutch of concern in Joanna’s stomach. “You’re not saying she’s dead, are you?”
Frank sighed. “I’m afraid so,” he said.
Joanna could barely get her mind around the appalling idea. “Where?” she demanded. “And when?”
“In a culvert out along Highway 90, just west of the turnoff to Kartchner Caverns. A guy out working one of those 4-H highway cleanup crews found her. Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal are on the scene here with me right now. We’re expecting Doc Win field any minute.”
“You’re sure it’s Dora?” Joanna asked. “There’s no possibility it could be someone else?”
“No way,” Frank replied. “Don’t forget, I saw Dora Matthews myself the other night out at Apache Pass. I know what she looks like. There’s no mistake, Joanna. It’s her.”
Joanna sighed. “I forgot you had met her. What happened?”
“Looks like maybe she was hit by a car and then dragged or thrown into the ditch.”
“What about skid marks or footprints? Anything like that?”
“None that we’ve been able to find so far.”
“What about Sally Matthews? Any sign of her yet?” Joanna asked.
“Negative on that. We’re looking, but we still don’t have a line on her.”
“Great,” Joanna said grimly. “When we finally get around to arresting her for running a meth lab out of her mother’s house, we can also let her know that the daughter we took into custody the other night is dead. ‘Sorry about that. It’s just one of those unfortunate things.’ “
“Dora Matthews wasn’t in our custody, Joanna,” Frank reminded her. “CPS took over. They’re the ones who picked her up from High Lonesome Ranch, and they’re the ones who put her in foster care.”
“You’re right. Dora Matthews may not have been our problem legally,” Joanna countered. “When all the legal buzzards get around to searching for a place to put blame for a wrongful-death lawsuit, Child Protective Services is probably going to take the hit. But that’s called splitting hairs for liability’s sake, Frank. Morally speaking, Dora was our problem. You know that as well as I do.”
Frank’s dead silence on the other end of the phone told Joanna he knew she was right. “Butch and I are just now leaving University Medical Center,” she added. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”