Damage Control (12 page)

TO JOANNA’S SURPRISE, WHEN THE INTERVIEW ENDED LUCINDA
Mappin insisted that she wanted to view her daughter’s remains before heading back to Eloy. Joanna couldn’t help thinking that if skeletal remains were all that was left of Wanda, there wouldn’t be much for her mother to see.

“You may not be able to do that,” she warned instead. “Today is Sunday. There’s a good chance Dr. Winfield, our medical examiner, won’t be available.”

But Lucinda wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Would you mind checking?” she asked. “Please.”

Hoping George wouldn’t be there, Joanna picked up her phone and dialed his number. George answered on the second ring. “Have you heard from Ellie?” he asked.

“This isn’t about that,” Joanna said. “I have Wanda Mappin’s
mother, Lucinda, with me. She drove down from Eloy this morning and would like to view her daughter’s remains before she goes home.”

“I’m not at all sure that’s wise,” George said. “There won’t be anything she’ll recognize, and the last thing I need is to have some hysterical woman—”

Although Joanna was inclined to agree with the medical examiner on this subject, it seemed only fair that Lucinda’s wishes should take precedence over theirs. “Ms. Mappin’s daughter has been missing for months,” Joanna interrupted. “She’s been apprised of the condition of Wanda’s remains, but she still wants to view them. It’s her choice.”

“All right, then,” George agreed reluctantly. “Tell her she’s welcome to stop by. That way I’ll be able to discuss whatever final arrangements she’ll want to make once I’m ready to release the remains. Will the mother be alone or with someone?”

“She’ll be accompanied by Detective Carbajal.”

“And about your mother—” George began.

“We’ll have to deal with that later,” Joanna interrupted. “For right now, let’s focus on Ms. Mappin.”

Once Jaime and Lucinda left the room, Joanna reached across the table and picked up Dave Hollicker’s evidence bag, the one with the heart-shaped locket in it.

“Fingerprints?” Joanna asked.

Dave shook his head. “Casey says not.”

Peering at the locket through the clear material, Joanna studied the diamond-studded monograms on either side. Using the tip of her finger, she began to count them.

“There are fifty altogether,” Dave said. “Originally there were
fifty-two. Two of them must have come loose from their settings and gotten lost along the way.”

“But even with these tiny baguettes, that’s a lot of diamonds,” Joanna observed. “How much do you think the locket is worth?”

“The last time I priced diamonds was when Shannon and I were engaged and we were out shopping for her ring,” Dave said. “From what I saw back then, I can say with reasonable certainty that this little piece of jewelry is worth a lot of money—several thousand dollars at least.”

“Someone’s treasure, then,” Joanna said. “It looks old-fashioned and a little clunky—more like an heirloom rather than a piece that would be worn on a regular basis. So the question remains: Where did this come from and why did Wanda have it? Was it something she was wearing at the time of her death, or is it something that was thrown into the bags with her?”

“No way to tell,” Dave said.

“It’s pretty distinctive,” Joanna said, handing the bag over to Dave. “Maybe it was lost and Wanda found it somewhere—on the street or in a park. With her intellectual deficits, she might have picked it up because she thought it was pretty without having any idea about how valuable it was.”

“On the other hand, it could be stolen,” Dave said as he put the bag with the locket back in the evidence box. “It might even be on a stolen-property list somewhere, but I don’t know how we’d go about finding it. Since Wanda lived in Tucson, I can start with the property guys at Tucson PD, but I’m not sure if they maintain a computerized list. Without something like that to work from, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Joanna grinned at him. “But isn’t that why I pay you the big bucks—to look for needles in haystacks?”

Nodding, Dave took the box and went to return it to the evidence room. As Joanna started into her own office, the telephone was ringing. When Joanna answered, Lisa Howard, the weekend desk clerk from the public office in the outside lobby, was on the phone.

“Sheriff Brady,” she said, “I know you’re in right now, but since it’s Sunday, I didn’t know if you’re really in, if you know what I mean. There’s someone out here who’s asking to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“Says his name is Irwin Federer. He’s an attorney hired to represent one of the ‘sister’ inmates in the jail. He’s made a special trip down from Tucson, and he says that it’s urgent that he speak to you in person.”

“Which one of the Beasley girls are we talking about?” Joanna asked. “Sandra or Samantha?”

“Sandra,” Lisa replied. “Sandra Wolfe.”

“And he’s already stopped by to visit his client?”

“Evidently.”

“Is Tom Hadlock anywhere around?”

“Not as far as I know.”

In other words, Joanna was on her own on this one. “All right,” she said. “Can you bring him back to my office?”

“Sure thing.”

The man Lisa escorted to Joanna’s office a few minutes later was casually dressed in Dockers, a Boss golf shirt, and a pair of high-end loafers, no socks. He looked to be in his early forties. From the studied casualness of his hairstyle to his artificially whitened teeth, Irwin Federer appeared to be immensely impressed with himself. Joanna didn’t like him on sight. Nonetheless, she stood to greet him. Federer, however, didn’t seem inclined to be civil.

“Sheriff Brady,” he announced brusquely. “I’m here to protest your casual disregard of my client’s safety and well-being. Considering the fact that Samantha Edwards viciously attacked Sandra last night—a completely unprovoked attack, I might add—it’s entirely irresponsible for you and your department to have those two women locked in the same cell. It’s irresponsible, and totally uncalled for.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Joanna returned calmly. “Once Sandra Wolfe and Samantha Edwards were placed under arrest, I’m the one who determined where they’d be held. For as long as they’ve been here, the guards in charge of my jail facility have been monitoring the situation in that cell very carefully—the same way they monitor all the other cells, by the way. I can assure you there’s been no problem between the two women, none whatsoever, but if there had been, my people would have moved in to put a stop to it. Keeping the peace among prisoners is a major part of their job description.”

“There may have been no problem so far,” Irwin said ominously, “but that doesn’t mean there won’t be. And if something bad were to happen to Mrs. Wolfe as a result of your actions here—if Samantha Edwards were to harm Sandra in any fashion—I must warn you that there would be very serious consequences…very costly consequences.”

Joanna Brady, a woman with a flash-point temper that matched her bright red hair, had never reacted well to being patronized or threatened.

“You’re saying you’d sue me?” Joanna asked. “Let me be sure I have this straight. You would prefer that we keep your client locked up with inmates in the regular jail population—with my
two accused female murderers, for example, or with several assorted drug dealers and DUI offenders—rather than being confined to a cell with her very own sister? I’d say we were being incredibly lenient with your client instead of the other way around.”

Federer remained unconvinced. “As I said, that ‘very own sister,’ as you call her, viciously attacked my client last night. When she did so, she was intent on inflicting serious bodily harm.”

“It turns out there was plenty of bodily harm to go around,” Joanna interjected. “Neither of the two sisters is what you could call blameless. I happen to have copies of their individual booking sheets right here, and I was reviewing them while I waited for you to come down the hall. Yes, two separate booking statements and the results of two separate Breathalyzer tests. As it turns out, at the time Samantha Wolfe and Sandra Edwards were busy breaking up housekeeping at the Branding Iron Restaurant dining room and bar, assaulting my officers, and resisting arrest, both of them were more than legally drunk. Now that they’re sober, I think it’s a lot less likely that they’ll do each other any additional bodily harm.”

“But you can’t guarantee that it won’t happen,” Federer asserted. “Besides, my client was simply defending herself. People in this state are allowed by law to do that—to protect themselves in the event of a physical attack.”

“So are my officers,” Joanna pointed out. “According to statements from my two deputies, when they arrived on the scene they were assaulted by both Samantha and Sandra. That’s what often happens in domestic-violence situations, Mr. Federer. Feuding family members stop fighting with one another and turn their
ire on the officers who’ve been sent to intervene in their dispute. That’s why Ms. Wolfe and Ms. Edwards landed in jail—for assaulting my officers and for disturbing the peace. As for their being locked up together? If your client was assigned to a cell with one of my two accused murderers—one of them a long-term drug user—I couldn’t guarantee her safety in that instance, either.”

“So you’re not going to move her?”

“I’m not going to move either one of them,” Joanna replied. “The preliminary hearing is tomorrow, probably ten
A.M.
or so. I’d suggest you come back then and do what you can to bail your client out.”

“But, Sheriff Brady,” the attorney sputtered. “I really must protest—”

“You can protest all you want, Mr. Federer, but I don’t believe we have anything further to discuss,” Joanna said evenly. “Sandra Wolfe and Samantha Edwards aren’t media stars, and this isn’t Hollywood. In addition, I’m quite busy at the moment, so if you don’t mind, I’ll let you see yourself out.”

She gave the man enough time to get back down the hall to the lobby. Then she went over and slammed her door shut behind him. “Arrogant jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

Joanna didn’t like Federer and, by extension, she didn’t like his client, either. Lucinda Mappin, faced with the tragedy of her daughter’s murder, was responding to the crisis in her life with considerable dignity and grace. Dealing with a similarly tragic loss, Alfred and Martha Beasley’s bickering daughters came up short. Behaving like aging spoiled brats and caught up in their own selfishness, all they were capable of was broadcasting their decades-old feud far and wide. Joanna sat at her desk for a few moments, contemplating the vast difference.

I think Alfred and Martha deserve better,
she told herself finally.

Picking up her phone, she dialed Lisa Howard’s extension. “I’ll be out of the office for a while,” she said. “I’m going over to the jail.”

Managing the jail and its attendant difficulties was a troublesome job all its own. Joanna’s first jail-related crisis had occurred less than a month into her tenure as sheriff, when the then cook, who had been skimming food and money to his own advantage, had decamped, taking the jail’s supply of Thanksgiving turkeys with him. Since then, Joanna had been doing what she could to improve conditions inside the county’s lockup facility. She had allowed the establishment of a jail ministry and had encouraged inmates to participate in GED classes. On one occasion, when the need had arisen, she had even used the jail as an emergency shelter for pit bull puppies rescued from a puppy mill. In the process Joanna had come to see the inmates as individual people rather than nameless prisoners—two of whom happened to be female and also accused murderers.

One of them had come home from work and found her philandering husband in bed with another woman. She had shot her husband dead on the spot and had chased his stark-naked lover out of the house. The other, a drug-dealing prostitute, had plugged her pimp in the course of an argument over money. Joanna had implied to Irwin Federer that Sandra Wolfe would be safer if kept apart from the two accused killers, but that had been more for effect than anything else. Joanna doubted either of those unfortunates posed an actual threat to anyone other than the two people they’d already done away with.

Joanna hadn’t been concerned about protecting the two sisters from any particular risk when she had locked them in the
same cell. She had done so for one reason and one reason only: that’s where she thought they belonged—together.

After crossing the parking lot and securing her weapons in a locker, Joanna waited while the guards, using video monitors and remotely operated electronic locks, allowed her access to the women’s unit.

As she approached the cell, Joanna saw someone she assumed was Samantha Edwards sitting at the table reading a paperback book. The other woman lay on the top bunk with one arm slung over her eyes to shut out the light. It was only when Joanna came closer that she realized she had no idea which sister was which. The two women looked so much alike that they might have been twins. The fact that they were both dressed in identical orange jail jumpsuits didn’t help, either.

“I’m Sheriff Brady. Which one of you is Sandra Wolfe?” Joanna asked.

The woman at the table put down her book and turned to face her. Her left eye was seriously black and blue. “I am,” she said.

“Your attorney just came to see me.”

“Irwin? Yes,” Sandra said. “My husband must have called him. Are you going to get me out of here so I don’t have to put up with
her
any longer? Doesn’t locking us in here together constitute cruel and unusual punishment or something?”

“Oh, cut the crap and shut the hell up, Sandy,” the woman on the bunk groused down at her. “I’m not the one who’s blabbing here.”

“Come down, Samantha,” Joanna ordered. “I want to talk to both of you.”

Rolling her eyes, Samantha climbed down from the bunk. She came over to the front of the cell and stood with her back to her sister, staring out through the bars without really looking Joanna
in the eye. Joanna noticed that she, too, was more than a little worse for wear. There was a long straight scratch on the side of one cheek, and she had a distinctly fat lip that had nothing to do with collagen.