“But why the big hurry?”
“Because I happen to agree with Mr. Hardy back there. He thinks Irma Sorenson is in danger, and so do I, and I’d a whole lot rather look stupid than hang around doing nothing but wringing my hands until it’s too late.”
Joanna paused uncertainly at the entrance to Quartzite East. “Which way’s faster?” she asked. “Right or left?”
“From here, I’d say down the New Mexico side,” Frank told her.
Joanna nodded. “Time for a little mutual aid,” she said, switching on the flashing light. “Before you start dialing up that database, you’d better call somebody over in New Mexico and let them know we’re coming through.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With the Civvie’s warning lights flashing, Joanna tore east on I-10 and across the state line into New Mexico. By then Frank had alerted the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department and let them know what was happening. Once off the interstate and onto an almost deserted Highway 80, Joanna shoved the gas pedal down and let the speedometer hover around ninety.
“Damn,” Frank muttered finally.
“What’s the matter?”
“I finally managed to dial into the NCIC database, but now I’ve lost the signal. That’s the problem out here in the sticks. Cell-site overage is still too spotty. I’ll have to try again when we get a stronger signal.”
“You could always radio in and have Dispatch run it,” Joanna suggested.
Frank was quiet for a moment but reluctant to give up. “I’ll wait for a better signal,” he said.
Joanna understood completely. He didn’t want someone else to run the computer check any more than she had been eager to call Ernie and Jaime in to contact Rob Whipple.
“What’s the plan in the meantime?” Frank asked.
“We’ll go straight to Pathway,” Joanna said. “Whipple may be there, but I’m guessing he’s taken off. Mostly, I want to talk to Caroline and Amos Parker. I want to know how long Rob Whipple has worked for them and where he came from before that. What’s his address again?”
Frank consulted his notes. “Box 78, San Simon/Paradise Star Route, Paradise, Arizona.”
“Get on the radio to Dispatch about that, then. Have them give us an exact location on that address, complete with detailed directions,” Joanna said. “When it’s time to go there, I don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark getting lost. And while you’re at it,” she added, “find out where Ernie and Jaime are. If they’re not on their way, see if there are any other available units who could back us up on this. Better safe than sorry.”
Nodding, Frank picked up the radio microphone. Meanwhile, Joanna drove on with the heightened sense of awareness left behind by all the extra energy flooding her body. The arch of sky overhead took on a deeper shade of blue while the steep green flanks of the Chiricahua Mountains stood out against the sky with a three-dimensional clarity that mimicked one of her old View Master photos.
In her time as sheriff, Joanna Brady had seen enough action to understand what was happening to both her body and her senses. They were gearing up for whatever was to collie, switching into a state of preparedness a sustained red alert. Although Joanna welcomed the sudden burst of energy, she also recognized how long periods of that kind of tension could sometimes backfire. That was how endorphin-fueled hot pursuits sometimes exploded into incidents of police violence. In hopes of holding herself in check, she deliberately slowed the Civvie and switched off both siren and lights.
On the passenger side of the car, Frank had relented, swallowed his high-tech pride, and asked Dispatch to check on Rob Whipple’s criminal past. Now he was busily jotting down directions to Whipple’s house located off San Simon/Paradise Road. When the Crown Victoria slowed for no apparent reason, he glanced in Joanna’s direction and nodded approvingly.
“Ask Larry what else is happening,” Joanna said.
Frank relayed the question. “There’s been another car jacking,” Larry Kendrick answered over the radio speaker.
“Where?” Joanna demanded. This time no relay was necessary because she had wrenched the radio microphone out of Frank’s hand and was using it herself.
“The rest area in Texas Canyon.”
“When did it happen, and was anybody hurt?”
“About forty minutes ago,” Kendrick replied. “No one was hurt, but it sounds like the perpetrator was the same guy who did the old guy from El Paso last week. This time it was a couple from Alabama. The husband went in to use the rest room, leaving his wife sitting in the car with both the motor and the air-conditioning running. A guy came running up, opened the door, pulled her out, and threw her on the ground. Then he jumped in and drove off. She had a couple of bruises and abrasions, but that’s about it. Her husband’s upset about losing the car. She’s upset about losing her purse.
“Okay,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “‘That’s it. I’m tired of nickel-and-diming around with this thing. We’re going to put a stop it once and for all! Get hold of Debbie Howell and one of her younger deputies. I know: team her up with Terry Gregovich and Spike. Have them dress in plain clothes and drive one of the late-model cars we have locked up in the impound yard. I want them to cruise the freeway and stop at every damn rest area for the remainder of their shifts today. In fact, I want them to do the same thing every day until I tell them otherwise. And if they feel like working longer than that, tell them overtime is authorized—as much as they can handle. Have Debbie stay in the car with Spike while Terry uses the phone or the rest room or whatever. If somebody tries to pull a carjacking then, he’ll be in for a rude surprise when a trained police dog comes roaring out of the backseat.”
By then the Civvie had reached the turnoff to Portal. Needing both hands to keep the speeding Crown Victoria on the washboarded surface of the road, Joanna relinquished the microphone to Frank.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said mildly, even though Joanna knew that when it came time to cut checks for the next pay period, Frank would be griping about having to pay the extra overtime. “You still haven’t heard anything from Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal?” Frank asked into the radio.
“I have now. They’re just leaving Tucson on their way to Sierra Vista,” Larry Kendrick replied. “Anything you want me to tell them, or would you like me to patch you through?”
Frank glanced questioningly in Joanna’s direction. “Tell them to go on to Sierra Vista as planned,” Joanna said. “See who else can backup for us.”
After doing so, Frank put the mike back into its clip. “It could be days, you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
If the carjacker got away with a vehicle today, it could he days before he comes back looking for another one. How much over time are you planning on paying?”
“As much as it takes,” Joanna answered grimly.
It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but as they drove toward Portal, the sun slid behind the mountains, sending the eastern side of the Chiricahuas into a shadowy, premature version of dusk. Fifteen minutes later Joanna drove up to the guard shack at Pathway to Paradise. With her shoulders aching from suppressed tension, she waited to see if Rob Whipple would emerge front the shack. She was disappointed when a young, buck-toothed man in his early thirties approached the Crown Victoria instead. His nane tag identified him as Andrew Simms and his cheerful, easygoing manner made him far less menacing than Rob Whipple had been.
“May I help you?” he asked, leaning down to peer in the window.
“I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, presenting her ID. “We’re here to see Caroline Parker.”
“If I could tell her what this is concerning—” Simms began spouting the party line, but Joanna cut him off.