“What do you mean?”
“Someone found Connie Haskell’s car. The call came in from Tucson a few minutes ago.”
“Where was It?”
“At the airport in Tucson. Some little old lady, on her way to Duluth to see her daughter, made a 911 call on Saturday morning. She reported what she thought to be blood on the door of the car parked next to hers in the airport lot. The call got mishandled, and nobody bothered to investigate it until a little while ago. The woman’s right. It is blood, and it’s also Connie Haskell’s Lincoln Town Car. It’s being towed to the City of Tucson impound lot. I tried to get them to bring it down to Bisbee, but that didn’t fly. Casey Ledford is on her way to Tucson to be on hand when they open the trunk. She’ll be processing the vehicle for us. Not that I don’t trust the Tucson crime scene techs,” Frank added. “But they don’t have quite the same vested interest in that Town Car that we do.”
“Well, at least we’re making progress somewhere,” Joanna said. “Is it possible Connie Haskell’s killer could be the carjacker after all?”
Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. The UDAs who were picked up in the other hijacked cars sure weren’t heading for any airport.”
Joanna considered his answer for a moment. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s assume for the moment that whoever’s doing the carjackings isn’t involved with this. What do we know about Connie Haskell’s husband? Are we sure Ron Haskell is actually in residence at Pathway to Heaven? Or, if he was there, do we know if he still is?”
“It’s called Pathway to Paradise,” Frank corrected. “And we think he’s there. The guy who runs the general store in Portal says one of the residents came in on Thursday morning and hit him tip for some telephone change.”
“That could have been Haskell, all right,” Joanna said.
Frank nodded. “But when Jaime and Ernie tried to gain admittance to Pathway, there was an armed guard who wouldn’t let them inside. He also refused to verify whether or not Haskell was there. He said all patient records are confidential and that only authorized visitors are allowed on the grounds. In the process he made it abundantly clear that police officers aren’t authorized under any circumstances.”
“Unless they have a court order,” Joanna added.
“Right.”
“What about checking with the airlines to see if somebody named Ron Haskell flew out of Tucson between Thursday night and the time the car was found?”
“I’m sure we can check on that tomorrow,” Frank said.
Joanna thought for a minute, then made up her mind. “Let’s go then,” she said. “You’re with me, Frank. There’s no sense in our standing around second-guessing Jaime and Ernie. They both know what they’re doing.”
“What about the press?” Frank asked. “They’re going to want a statement.” Frank Montoya’s duties included serving as the department’s media-relations officer.
“For right now, forget them,” Joanna told him. “Until we locate Sally Matthews and notify her of her daughter’s death, you’ve got nothing to tell the media. Besides, the longer we keep Dora’s death quiet, the better.”
“Where are we going then?” Frank asked.
“To Paradise,” Joanna said.
“But why?” Frank asked. “We still don’t have a court order. Judge Moore won’t be back until tomorrow”
“We don’t need a court order,” Joanna said. “We’re not going there to question Ron Haskell. This is a humanitarian gesture—a matter of courtesy. We’re going there to notify the poor man of his wife’s death—assuming, of course, that he isn’t already well aware of it.”
“What makes you think we’ll be able to get inside Pathway to Paradise when Ernie and Jaime couldn’t?” Frank asked.
“For one thing, they weren’t wearing heels and hose,” Joanna said.
Frank Montoya glanced dubiously at Joanna’s grubby crime scene tennis shoes. “You aren’t either,” he ventured.
“No,” Joanna Brady agreed. “I may not be right now, but my good shoes are in the car. By the time we get to Paradise, I will be. Now how do we get there?”
Pointing at the map, Frank showed her the three possibilities. Portal and Paradise were located on the eastern side and near the southern end of the Chiricahua Mountains. One route meant taking their Arizona law enforcement vehicles over the border and into New Mexico before crossing back into Arizona’s Cochise County in the far southeastern corner of the state. Potential jurisdictional conflicts made that a less than attractive alternative. Two choices allowed them to stay inside both Arizona and Cochise County for the entire distance. One meant traveling all the way to the southern end of the mountain range before making a lung U-turn and heading back north. The other called for crossing directly through the Chiricahua Mountains at Onion Saddle.
“It’s getting late,” Joanna said. “Which way is shorter?”
Frank shrugged. “Onion Saddle’s closer, but maybe not any faster. It’s a dirt road most of the way, although, since there’s been no rain, we shouldn’t have to deal with any washouts.”
“We can make it over that even in the Civvies?” Joanna asked.
“Probably,” Frank replied.
Joanna nodded. “I choose shorter,” she said. “We’ll go up and over Onion Saddle. Did Ernie or Jaime mention who’s in charge at Pathway to Paradise?”
Frank consulted a small spiral notebook. “Someone named Amos Parker. I don’t know anything more about him than his name and that he wasn’t interested in allowing Ernie and Jaime on the premises.”
“Let’s see if we have any better luck,” Joanna told him.
More than an hour later, with the afternoon sun slipping behind the mountains, Joanna stopped beside the guard shack at the gated entrance to Pathway to Paradise. The shack came complete with an armed guard dressed in a khaki uniform who pulled on an unnecessary pair of wraparound mirrored sunglasses before strolling out-side. Joanna rolled down the window, letting in the hot, dusty smells of summer in the desert.
“Like I’ve told everyone else today,” he said. “We’re posted no hunting, no hiking, no trespassing. Just turn right around and go back the way you came.”
Joanna noted that the guard was middle-aged, tall, and lanky. A slight paunch protruded over the top of his belt. As he leaned toward Joanna’s open window, he kept one hand on the holstered pistol at his side. A black-and-white plastic name tag identified him as Rob Whipple.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Whipple,” Joanna said carefully, opening her identification wallet and holding it for him to see. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said. “Frank Montoya, my chief deputy, is in the next car. We’re here to see Mr. Parker.”
“Is Mr. Parker expecting you?” Rob Whipple asked. “Don’t recall seeing your names on this afternoon’s list of invited guests.”
Rob Whipple’s thinning reddish hair was combed into a sparse up-and-over style. A hot breeze blew past, causing the long strands to stand on end. The effect would have been comical if the man’s hand hadn’t been poised over his weapon.
“Chief Deputy Montoya and I don’t have an appointment,” Joanna said easily. “We’re here on urgent business. I’m sure Mr. Parker will be more than willing to see us once he knows what it is.”
Whipple’s eyes may have been invisible behind the reflective glasses, but Joanna felt them narrow. A frown wrinkled across the man’s sunburned forehead. “Does this have anything to do with those two detectives who were by here yesterday?” he asked “Like I already told them. This here’s private property. No one’s allowed inside unless Mr. Parker or his daughter gives the word. Mr. Parker’s last order to me was that no cops were to enter unless they had themselves a bona-fide court order.”
“We’re here to speak to Mr. Parker,” Joanna insisted. “And since he’s not a suspect of any kind, we don’t need a court order for that. Would you call him, please, and let him know we’re here? You can assure him in advance that we won’t take up much of his valuable time.”