“Any idea who killed him?”
“It was probably his mother,” Joanna said. “A woman by the name of Irma Sorenson.”
“I was told this was a car accident. Something about it going over a cliff.”
“The victim is in a car that went over a cliff, but since there’s a bullet in the middle of his forehead, and since he wasn’t in the driver’s seat, I have a feeling he was dead long before the car went over the edge.”
“And you think his own mother did it?” George asked wonderingly. “I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand women. But at least I’m still alive—so far.”
“Eleanor’s not going to kill you, George,” Joanna told him. “Even if she’s mad, she’ll get over it.”
George Winfield shook his head. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with her.”
“No, but I’ve done it, and I’ve got the T-shirt!”
About then they reached the edge of the cliff. By the time Dave Hollicker and the two crime scene techs had strung a rope and helped lower George Winfield and his equipment to the ground, Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter had both shown up, accompanied by Frank Montoya.
Ernie peered down over the edge of the cliff and shook his head. “Looks like it’s time for more of Jaime’s crime scene photography. Doc Winfield may have gotten down there, but I’m not climbing down that cliff on a bet.”
“Give me the camera then,” Jaime said. As he headed for the rope, Joanna turned to Ernie.
“Did you guys do any good today?” she asked.
“That depends on what you call good,” he groused. “We talked to Buddy Morns, the kid in Sierra Vista who supposedly saw Dora Matthews get into a car sometime Sunday night. Buddy’s fifteen years old. When I was his age, I knew every make and model of car on the road. When it comes to cars, Buddy Morris is practically useless. He doesn’t know shit from Shinola, if you’ll pardon the expression. He thinks maybe it was a white Lexus he saw, but he’s not sure. Not only that, he couldn’t tell us for certain if it was Dora Matthews he saw getting into the car because he doesn’t really know her, which is hardly surprising since she’d only been in the neighborhood for a little over twenty-four hours.
“Still, Buddy tells us, he thinks the girl was one of the kids front the foster home because they’ve got a special window at the back of the house that they use to sneak in and out of the house at all hours of the night. Why people volunteer to become foster parents in the first place is more than I can understand.
“Anyway, Buddy claims he saw a girl getting in the unknown car with a driver he couldn’t see and the two of them took off in a spray of gravel.”
“What about Walgreens?” Joanna asked.
“Didn’t have time,” Ernie said. “We got the call and carne straight here, but we do have the phone company checking the line at the foster parents’ house to see if Dora may have made any unauthorized phone calls from there. I’ve also asked for them to check the Bernards’ number for any calls going from there to Sierra Vista. Without Frank the phone wizard doing the checking, we probably won’t have results until tomorrow morning, hopefully before our appointment with Christopher Bernard and his Father and his lawyer, and not after. Which reminds me of something else. We were supposed to see them at ten A.M. but there’s a conflict with the doctor. The appointment has now been moved to two o’clock in the afternoon. So that’s all I know, and Frank’s pretty much told me what’s going on here, so why don’t I shut up, go back to the cabin, and get to work.”
With that, Ernie turned and stomped away from them, leaving Joanna and Frank staring at one another in astonishment. “I think that’s more words than I’ve ever heard Ernie Carpenter string together at one time,” Joanna said.
“I didn’t even know he knew that many words,” Frank Montoya agreed.
It was the beginning of another long night. As people showed up and began doing the jobs they were trained to do, it was clear there was little reason for Joanna and Frank to hang around. At nine they finally left the scene for the long drive back to Bisbee.
“I can take you straight home if you want,” Frank offered. “It’s on the way.”
“No, thanks,” Joanna told him. “I’d rather go by the department and pick up my car.”
“Suit yourself,” Frank said.
When they reached the department, Joanna knew that if she even set foot inside her office she’d be trapped, and it would be hours before she got back out again. Instead, she simply exited Frank Montoya’s Civvie and climbed into her own.
As Joanna drove from the justice center toward High Lonesome Ranch, she felt a sense of letdown and disappointment wash over her, draining the last of the waning energy out of her body. In a matter of days, three different homicides had occurred within the boundaries of Cochise County.
Three! Joanna lectured herself. Connie Haskell, Dora Matthews, and now Rob Whipple. If my department is supposed to be serving and protecting, we’re not doing a very good job of it.
She turned off onto High Lonesome Road and drove through the series of three steep arroyos that made the approach to the ranch feel more like a roller coaster than a road. As she crested the final rise, the Civvie’s headlights bounced oil the headlights of a car parked next to Joanna’s mailbox.
A sudden bolt of fear set Joanna’s fingertips tingling and her heart racing. This was the same deserted stretch of roadway where a drug dealer’s hit man had lain in wait to slaughter Andy. Easing her Glock out of its holster, Joanna laid it on the seat beside her. Then, knowing that whoever was waiting in the darkness would be blinded by the sudden light, she switched on her high beams and roared forward. Only as she drew even with the parked car did she recognize her mother’s Buick and slam on the brakes. The speeding Crown Victoria fishtailed back and forth on the rough gravel surface before she finally managed to wrestle it under control and bring it to a stop fifty feet beyond where she had intended.
With her hands shaking and her heart still pounding in her throat, Joanna threw the car into reverse. By the time she reached the mailbox, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield was already out of her car and standing beside the roadway.
“Why on earth were you driving so fast?” she demanded when Joanna rolled down her window. “Do you always speed that way when you’re coming home late at night? You could have been killed, you know “
Having Eleanor go on the attack was so amazingly normal—so incredibly usual—that it was all Joanna could do to keep From laughing aloud.
“What are you doing here, Mother?” she asked.
“Waiting for you. What do you think? And why are you so late?”
“I just left George at a crime scene over by Paradise, Mom,” Joanna said. “He’s upset because he hasn’t heard from you. He says you’ve been among the missing all day, and he’s worried. He’s afraid you’re mad at him. Are you?”
To Joanna’s surprise, Eleanor’s strong facial features suddenly crumpled as she dissolved into tears. Astonished, Joanna flung open the door. Clambering out of the car, she pulled the weeping woman into her arms. She held her mother close and rocked her back and forth as though she were a child. Eleanor had always been taller than her daughter, but Joanna realized with a shock that Eleanor had somehow shrunk and now they were almost the same size. Through their mutual layers of clothing, Eleanor’s body felt surprisingly bony and fragile.
“What’s wrong, Morn?” Joanna begged. “Please tell me what’s the matter.”
“I tried to tell George,” Eleanor croaked through her tears. “I tried to tell him, but he just didn’t understand. I couldn’t make him understand.”