Joanna nodded. She had already surmised that Brent Hardy and Torn Lowrey were a couple, but she was a little taken aback to find them living and running a business in redneck Bowie. “So how are the locals treating you?” she asked.
“It’s not as though I’m an outlander,” Brent replied with yet another grin. “My mother, Henrietta, taught at Bowie High School for thirty-five years, just as her mother, Geraldine Howard, my grandmother, did before that. Between them, they pretty well fixed it so I can do no wrong. At least, forty years later, I can do no wrong. When I was in high school here, that was another matter. Now I’m back and I’m plugging money into the local economy. That makes me all right. And, since Tommy’s with me, he’s all right, too. Not that people say much of anything about us. It’s pretty much don’t ask/don’t tell, which, for Bowie, is progress.”
A car door slammed and Joanna caught sight of Frank Montoya sprinting back up the walkway. “I’ve got it,” he announced as he stepped onto the porch. “Irma’s son’s name is Whipple, Robert Whipple.”
Joanna frowned. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the name of the guard at Pathway to Paradise?”
Frank nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Pathway to Paradise,” Brent said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember Irma saying something about that once, only she just called it Pathway, I think. I got the distinct feeling she thought it was some kind of cult. Is it?”
“Not exactly,” Joanna replied. “But close enough.” She stood up and joined Frank on the steps. “We should be going then,” she added. “Thanks so much for the tea and the information. And if you should happen to hear anything from Irma Sorenson, please contact me or my department right away.” Taking a business card out of her pocket, she handed it over to Brent Hardy.
He looked at it and frowned. “Do you think something’s happened to her or not?” he asked.
That was precisely what Joanna was thinking—that something terrible had happened to Irma Sorenson—but she didn’t want to say so. Not necessarily,” she hedged, but Brent Hardy wasn’t so easily put off.
“When you first got here, you said Irma’s phone call was placed right after a 911 call. What was that all about?”
“There was a call to Tucson’s emergency communications center about a bloodied vehicle found at Tucson International Airport. That vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car, belonged to a woman named Connie Haskell, who was found murdered in Apache Pass last Friday night.”
“What color Lincoln Town Car?” Tom Lowrey asked suddenly. “And what year?”
“A 1994,” Frank Montoya answered before Joanna had a chance to. “A dark metallic blue.”
“I saw that car,” Tom Lowrey said. “Or at least one like it. I never noticed when it drove up. All I know is there was a dark blue Lincoln Town Car parked right behind Irma’s Nissan early Saturday morning when I headed into Tucson to get groceries. I didn’t think all that much about it. I saw it and figured Irma must have been entertaining overnight guests. When I came back home around noon, it was gone, of course. So was the Nissan.”
“Are you saying Irma Sorenson is somehow mixed up in this murder thing?” Brent asked. “That’s ridiculous. Preposterous.”
The pieces were tumbling into place in Joanna’s head. It didn’t seem at all preposterous to her. Irma Sorenson was mixed up in it all right, and so was her son. Had Rob Whipple been on guard when Connie Haskell tried to gain admittance to Pathway to Paradise to see her husband? Had that been Connie’s fatal mistake—speaking to the armed guard stationed in the shack outside the gates of Amos Parker’s treatment center?
“She may be involved,” Joanna said carefully after a momentary pause. “It’s also possible that she may be either an unwitting or an unwilling participant. The woman who called herself Alice Miller—the one who made that 91 I call – obviously wanted the car to be frond. From what Mr. Hardy his told ns about his abortive conversation with Irma a few minutes later, I believe she may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to finish saying whatever it was she had intended to say when she called here.”
“So she’s most likely in danger,” Toni Lowrey concluded.
If she’s not already dead, Joanna thought. “Possibly,” Joanna said with a sigh.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Brent asked.
“You’ve already helped more than you know,” Joanna told them. “Whether Connie Haskell’s killer turns out to be Irma’s son or someone else altogether, there’s obviously some connection between your Irma Sorenson and the dead woman’s car. So if you hear anything from her or her son or if she turns up, please call us immediately. I don’t suppose I need to add that these people should be considered dangerous. Whatever you do, make no attempt to detain either of them on your own.”
The two men nodded in unison as Joanna left the porch and followed Frank Montoya out to the car. He headed for the driver’s seat, but Joanna stopped him. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You run the mobile communications equipment.”
For months, and in spite of unstinting derision from his fellow officers, Frank Montoya had tinkered with his Crown Victoria, taking it beyond the normal patrol-car computing technology and adding additional state-of-the-art equipment whenever the opportunity presented itself. The chief deputy’s Civvie now boasted a complete mobile office with the latest in wireless Internet and fax connections powered by the department’s newest and most expensive laptop. And the investment of both time and money had paid off. In the last several months, Frank Montoya’s high-tech wizardry had saved the day on more than one occasion. Around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, joking references to Frank’s “electronic baby” had been replaced by grudging admiration.
“To do what?” Frank asked.
Joanna got behind the wheel and held out her hand for Frank to pass the keys. “Do you have a cell phone signal?” she asked.
“I get it. You want me to run Rob Whipple’s name through the NCIC database? What makes you think he’ll be there?”
“It’s a long shot, but Doc Winfield says our guy wasn’t a first-timer. I’m thinking maybe he’s been caught before.” With that, Joanna shifted the Crown Victoria into gear and backed out of the parking place.
“And where are we going in the meantime?” Frank asked as he picked up the laptop and turned it on.
“Paradise,” she returned. “We’re going to pay a call on our friend Mr. Rob Whipple. You did get his driver’s license info, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And his address.”
“That too, but do you think going to see him is such a good idea?” Frank asked. “After all, we don’t really have probable cause to arrest the man, and we sure as hell don’t have a search warrant.”
“We’re not going to arrest him,” Joanna returned. “If he’s our man, he may already have taken off for parts unknown. Or, if he is the killer and he’s still hanging around, showing up for work, and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, he may be thinking he’s getting away clean. All I want to do is shake him up a little. Put the fear of God in him. Give him a shove in the right direction and see if we can get him to give himself away.”
Frank shook his head. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “How about calling Jaime and Ernie and letting them know what’s up? They ought to be in on this, you know, Joanna. You and I shouldn’t be off doing this all by ourselves.”
“Jaime and Ernie are in Tucson,” she reminded him. “You can call them, but we’re here—a good hour and a half earlier than they can be. We’re going anyway.”