“Exactly,” Jaime Carbajal said.
“What are you doing now?”
“First we have an appointment to go back and talk to the Dugans half an hour from now, when the husband gets home from work. After that, we’ll drop by Sierra Vista on the way home, calk to the kid who claims to have seen Dora Matthews getting into a car on Sunday night. We’ll also go by Walgreens to see what we can find out there.”
For the next several minutes, she briefed Jaime Carbajal on everything that had happened while the two detectives had been otherwise engaged. Once the call ended, Frank turned to her. “Sounds to me as though we may have found ourselves a brand-new prime suspect in the Matthews murder,” he said.
Joanna nodded. “It could be. A sixteen-year-old prime suspect, at that,” she added grimly. “Let me ask you something, frank. What would you do if you were sixteen and your thirteen-year-old girlfriend turned up pregnant?”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t kill her,” Prank said.
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I know you wouldn’t, and neither would I. But from the way Jaime talked about them, I have a feeling Christopher Bernard and his parents live in an entirely different universe from the one you and I inhabit. I suspect they don’t believe the rules apply to them.”
“In other words, you think Chris found out Dora was pregnant and decided to get rid of her.”
Joanna nodded.
“Well,” Frank said thoughtfully. “He does have a point.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. Christopher Bernard is sixteen—a juvenile. Supposing he gets sent up for murder. What’s the worst that’ll happen to him?”
Joanna shrugged. “He gets cut loose at twenty-one.”
“Right. And the same thing goes if he’s convicted of statutory rape. He’s out and free as a bird in five years. He’ll probably have his record expunged besides. But think about what happens if his girlfriend has a baby and she can prove paternity. Then little Christopher Bernard and/or his family is stuck for eighteen years of child support, minimum. No time off for good behavior. No hiding behind the rules that apply to juvenile justice. Based on that, a murder that unloads both mother and child might sound like the best possible alternative.”
The very thought of it sickened Joanna. “Please, Frank,” she said. “Just drive. I can’t stand to talk about this anymore. The whole thing is driving me crazy.”
For the next twenty minutes Frank drove while Joanna rode in utter silence. As appalling as it was to consider, what Frank had said sounded all too plausible. A juvenile offender could dodge any kind of criminal behavior tin- more easily than he could escape being ordered to pay child support. Joanna knew there were plenty of deadbeat dads out there who didn’t pay their court-ordered support money, but it was disturbing to think that the justice system was more eager to order teenagers to pay uncollectible child support than it was to hold them accountable for other far more serious offenses.
Whatever happened to motherhood, apple pie, and the American way? she wondered. One case at a time Joanna Brady was learning that what her father had always told her was true. In the criminal justice system, there was always far more gray than there was either black or white.
They hit I-10 just north of Cochise and turned east. They exited at Bowie and followed the directions on a billboard advertising Quartzite East that said: TURN SOUTH ON APACHE PASS ROAD.
Seeing that sign sent a shiver of apprehension down the back of Joanna’s neck. In some way she didn’t as yet understand, the dots between the mysterious Alice Miller and the location of Connie Haskell’s body seemed somehow to be connected.
“I didn’t realize Apache Pass Road came all the way into Bowie” was all she said.
“Oh, sure,” Frank agreed. “I knew that, but then I grew up in Wilcox. You didn’t.”
When they reached the entrance to Quartzite East, it had the look of a family farm turned RV park. The building marked OFFICE was actually an old tin-roofed house that looked as though it dated from the 1880s. Around it grew stately old cottonwoods. A checkerboard of orchards surrounded the house. Laid out among the carefully tended orchards were fifty or so concrete slabs complete with utility hookups. This was early June, so while the trees were laden with green fruit, most of the slabs were empty. By March or April at the latest, most Arizona snowbirds had usually returned home for the summer. As fir as Quartzite Last was concerned, however, several had evidently decided to summer over, since a number of spaces were still occupied.
Frank pulled up next to the farmhouse and parked in a place that was designated REGISTRATION ONLY. Just to the right of the house was a clubhouse and swimming pool area surrounded by a tall adobe wall. As soon as Joanna stepped out of the car and closed the door, a man appeared on the far side of the fence. He was wearing overalls and carrying a paintbrush.
“Just a second,” he called. “I’ll be right there as soon as I finish cleaning my brush. You might want to go up on the porch and wait for me there.”
Nodding, Joanna and Frank did as directed. A screened-in porch covered the front of the house. Outside the screen, swags of wisteria dripped clusters of dead and dying blooms. Inside the screen sat a line of wooden rocking chairs.
“Take a load off,” Frank said, pushing one of the chairs in Joanna’s direction. They both sat and waited. Several minutes passed before the man from the swimming pool reappeared. He was tall and good-looking, tanned and fit. His paint-spattered clothing had been replaced by a monogrammed golf shirt, a pair of well-worn Dockers, and scuffed loafers. He held out a work-callused hand. “The name’s Brent Hardy,” he said.
“Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she responded. “This is Frank Montoya, my chief deputy”
“You’ve found her, haven’t you?” Brent said, easing into a rocking chair of his own.
“Found who?” Joanna asked.
“Irma,” he said. “Irma Sorenson. Tom and I have been arguing about it ever since Saturday—about whether or not we should call and report her missing. When I saw the cop car pull up, I thought maybe he’d finally come to his senses and called in the cavalry.”
“Who’s Toni?” Frank asked.
“Tom Lowrey’s my partner,” Brent replied. “We run this place together. Irma is one of our guests.”
“And she’s missing?”
“I happen to think she’s missing,” Brent replied. “Tommy’s of the opinion that I’m pushing panic buttons, but then Tom didn’t talk to her on Saturday, and I did. She didn’t sound right on the phone. Something about it was off. Of course, Tom does have a point. Some of our guests are a bit elderly, and a few of them get somewhat confused now and then. Toni thinks Irma called to tell us where she was going, but once she got on the phone, she forgot what she meant to say—that she was going off to visit friends or relatives or something. I say that if she was that confused, maybe she was sick and landed in a hospital. I thought we should report her missing and let the cops find her. Have you?” he asked. “Found her, that is?”
“Tell me about Irma Sorenson,” Joanna said. “When was it you talked to her on the phone?”
“Saturday morning. Sometime around mid-morning, I suppose,” Brent replied. “And her voice sounded funny to me. Shaky. Just not herself. But if you haven’t found her, what’s all this about?”
“We’re actually looking for a woman named Alice Miller,” Joanna said. “She placed a 911 call in Tucson from the same pay phone that was used to call here a few minutes later. We were wondering if there’s a chance Alice Miller and Irma Sorenson are one and the same.”
Brent Hardy shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said.
“When Irma called, what exactly did she say?” Joanna asked.
“That’s the thing. She didn’t say much. She said, ‘Oh, Brent, I’m so glad to hear your voice. I just wanted to tell you . . .’ And then she just stopped. Then, after a moment or two, I heard her say, ‘Oh, never mind.’ Then she mumbled something about a wrong number, but I couldn’t quite make it out. She hung up. That’s all there was to it. As I told you, I tried to convince Tom that it wasn’t right, but he said not to worry. He said she’d turn up sooner or later. She always does.”