“Are you telling me Sally Matthews has been cut loose?” Joanna demanded. “Sally Matthews was running a meth lab—an illegal and dangerous meth lab inside the city limits. She broke any number of laws, one of which should be child neglect. Nonetheless, she gets to turn Dora’s death into a get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s not right.”
“Talk to Arlee Jones about that,” Frank Montoya suggested. “Until the voters decide to replace him with a county attorney with brains, that’s what we can expect. In the meantime, the charges are open, so that if she doesn’t carry through on her promises, they can be refiled.”
Joanna shook her head in disgust. “What else?” she asked.
“A single car, non-injury rollover, just outside of Hereford. Then there was a bunch of drunk Harley riders who left one of the bars in Tombstone and then went out to the municipal airport for a late-night fistfight session. When a pair of Border Patrol agents broke it up, everybody else jumped on their bikes and took off. The only one left was the one who was too busted up to leave. He’s in the county hospital down in Douglas with a broken jaw and three broken knuckles. Then there’re two DWIs and a domestic violence down in Pirtleville. Oh, and I almost forgot, yesterday’s carjacking’s car—the Pontiac Grand Am that was taken from over in Texas Canyon—was stopped at the crossing in Naco early this morning with a full load of illegals. The car’s in the Border Patrol’s impound lot down on Naco Highway. The lady’s purse isn’t.”
“What’s the word from the crime scene in Paradise?”
“I talked to Ernie. He and Jaime stayed there until three this morning. According to him, somebody did a half assed job of trying to clean up Rob Whipple’s house, but there are still plenty of traces of blood there. The crime scene team and Casey Ledford will be working that today, as well as Irma Sorenson’s Nissan once we get it dragged out of where it landed and back here to the justice center. Since Rob Whipple was shot in Irma Sorenson’s car, presumably the blood in his cabin will be from someone else.”
“Like Connie Haskell, for instance,” Joanna said. Frank nodded. “But there’s still no trace of Irma or Rob Whipple’s Dodge Ram?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
Joanna shook her head. “Nothing like being under the gun,” she said.
“It’s more than that, Joanna,” Frank returned. “Think about it. We’ve had three homicides in four days, and here the department sits with only two detectives to its name. We’re understaffed and underfunded, and—”
Joanna held up her hand and stopped him. “Please, Frank. Let’s not go into this right now. I know you’re right. What do you think kept me awake half the night? I was worrying about the same thing, but before we go off trying to deal with all the political and financial ramifications, let’s handle what’s on our plates right now. What are Ernie and Jaime doing at the moment?”
“I told them to take the morning off. They have to sleep some time. At noon they’ll head up to Tucson to talk with Chris Bernard and his lawyer. As a result, Rob Whipple’s autopsy will must likely have to be put off until tomorrow.”
“Which shouldn’t hurt Doc Winfield’s feelings any,” Joanna added.
“Since the Grand Am’s been found,” Drank resumed, “it may mean our carjacker will be back on the prowl again. Deputies Gregovich and Howell are also taking the morning off, but I’ve scheduled them to hit I-10 again today. By the way, did you know Kristin thought there was some hanky-panky going on?”
“I hope you told her otherwise,” Joanna said.
Frank nodded. Before he could say anything more, Joanna’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Kristin?”
“There’s someone on the phone who insists on talking to you.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Hardy. Brian Hardy.”
“Brent, maybe?” Joanna asked.
“Sorry. Yes, that’s it. Brent. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through, then,” Joanna told her. “Good morning, Mr. Hardy. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about Irma. She just left.”
“Left from where?” Joanna demanded.
“From here, from Quartzite East,” Hardy said. “Tommy and I had a big argument about whether or not we should call you. He said we ought to mind our own business, but I told him, ‘No way. I’m calling.’“
Joanna switched her phone to speaker. “What exactly happened?”
“Irma must have shown up late last night, after we were asleep. When we woke up this morning, there was a strange car—a big blue Dodge pickup—parked next to her RV. I went over to check, because I was afraid whoever was there was someone who wasn’t supposed to be. I knocked, and Irma herself came to the door. After what you told us about her son, I was really relieved to see her. She told us that the pickup belongs to her son, but that didn’t exactly set my mind at ease, especially since Irma’s been hut s.”
“Hurt?” Joanna asked. “How so?”
“She’s got a gash on her hand. It’s bad enough that it probably should have had stitches. I told her it looked infected to me and suggested she see a doctor. She said she’s been putting Neosporin on it, and she’s sure it’ll be just fine. She told me she’d had an accident in her Nissan and that was how she hurt her hand. Any way, she said the car was totaled and that Rob, her son, had lent her his pickup. She also said that she’s decided to sell the RV. She’s found an RV dealer—in Tucson, I think—who’s willing to pay her for it in cash rather than selling it on consignment. With that kind of hurried sale, she’s probably being taken to the cleaners over it, but it’s not my place to say. Anyway, she asked Tommy and me to help hitch up the pickup to the back of the RV and off she went.”
“How long ago?” Joanna asked.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough for Tommy and me to get into a pissing match over it. Like I said, she came sneaking back into the park late last night, after we had gone to bed. We didn’t even know she was here until this morning. Since neither Tommy nor I actually set foot inside Irma’s RV, I’m thinking it’s possible that her son may be in there—that she drove it out of the park herself so we wouldn’t see her son and know that she was hiding him.”
“Irma Sorenson’s son isn’t in her RV,” Joanna said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” Brent exclaimed. “How did that happen?”
“The incident is currently under investigation. Now, Mr. Hardy, thank you so much for calling, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to. If Irma Sorenson should happen to return, please call us immediately. Dial 911 and have the operator locate me.”
“You sound as though you think she’s dangerous,” Brent Hardy said hesitantly.
“I suspect she is,” Joanna returned. “Possibly to herself more than anyone else, but I don’t think you and Mr. Lowrey should take any more chances.”
“We won’t.”
“I’ll go get a car,” Frank said as Joanna ended the call.
Joanna nodded and dialed Dispatch. “Larry,” she said. “The subject of our APB, Irma Sorenson, is believed to be heading west on I-10. She left Bowie about twenty minutes to half an hour ago, driving a bronze-and-black Marathon motor home and towing a blue ‘97 Dodge Ram pickup. I want her pulled over and stopped in as deserted a place as possible. Not in town, and not, for God’s sake, at one of the rest areas. Maybe it would be a good idea to put down some spike strips on that long grade coming up the San Pedro River in Benson. It’s a long way out of town, so there shouldn’t be lots of people around. She’ll already have lost speed by then, and it’s less likely she’ll lose control when the tires go.”
“Got it,” Larry Kendrick said.
“This woman is armed and dangerous,” Joanna continued. “As soon as she’s spotted, I want you to set up roadblocks and stop all westbound traffic immediately behind her. Eastbound freeway traffic coming into Cochise County should be stopped at J-6 Road. Frank and I are on our way. Once you alert all units, get back to us. We’ll try to deploy manpower in a way that blocks off as many freeway exits and entrances as possible. The fewer innocent people we have caught up in this action, the better.”