Dead Wrong (18 page)

“What about these?” Joanna asked. She
held the envelope over the table and let the photos spill out.

Leslie studied several of them. When she looked
back at Joanna there could be no doubt about her dismay.
“Where did you get these?” she demanded. “Who
took them? Am I under surveillance for something?”

“These aren’t police photos,”
Joanna said. “We believe you were being stalked.”

“Stalked,” Leslie echoed faintly.

“Do you have any idea when they were
taken?” Joanna asked.

Leslie studied the photos more closely. “It
must have been sometime last week,” she said. “I bought
that outfit on my last trip to Tucson two weeks ago. Last week was
the first time I wore it to work.”

“Do you know what day that was?” Joanna
asked.

“Wednesday or Thursday. I guess it must have
been Wednesday, but tell me, who took these pictures?” Leslie
demanded. “And how were they taken without my knowledge?
Whoever did it must have followed me for hours—from the post
office to the mall to the grocery store. This is too creepy.”
She paused and then shivered slightly as a look of understanding
crossed her face. “Wait a minute. It’s him, isn’t
it,” she said. “The guy whose picture you just showed
me is the one who was following me around. Who is he? What does he
want?”

“His name is Bradley Evans,” Joanna
said. “I was hoping you could tell me what he
wanted.”

“How can I? I’ve never met the man or
even heard his name.”

“Is it possible you might have met him
somewhere? Maybe he went by another name.”

“No. I already told you. I’ve never
seen him before.”

“And you have no idea why this complete
stranger would have wanted to take your photograph?” Joanna
asked.

“None whatsoever,” Leslie said
defiantly. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you ask
him?”

“We can’t because he’s
dead,” Joanna answered. “Because somebody murdered him.
We found the camera with the photos still in it hidden in his
vehicle.”

Leslie Markham’s eyes widened. Then she stood
up. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I
think I need to go get my husband.”

L
eslie
Markham returned to the conference room a few minutes later with
her husband on her heels. Rory Markham was tall, tanned, fit, good
looking, and noticeably older than his wife. Seeing him, Joanna
couldn’t help remembering her conversation with Debbie about
how it looked as though Leslie Tazewell had managed to marry up. At
first glance that still seemed to be the case.

“So some maniac is going around taking
pictures of my wife,” Rory Markham said. “Isn’t
that against some law or another? Isn’t it an invasion of
privacy?”

“It may be disconcerting,” Joanna said,
“but it’s not against the law.”

“Well, it should be,” Rory returned.
“And it’s a good thing the son of a bitch is already
dead. If he weren’t, I’d track him down myself and tear
him a new asshole.”

“Rory!” Leslie admonished. “You
shouldn’t talk that way.”

He leveled a look in Leslie’s direction, and
she subsided into
silence. This bullying
exchange wasn’t lost on Joanna. Was this man understandably
concerned for his wife’s well-being, she wondered, or was
there something else at work here? Jealousy, perhaps? That was
always a powerful motivator, and Rory didn’t look like the
type who would appreciate or tolerate having an interloper poaching
on his turf. Not only that, it was clear that underneath
Markham’s suave exterior of perfect clothing, perfect hair,
and perfect teeth lurked something far rougher. Like the
refurbished building that held Rory Markham’s business, the
man’s lowbrow Tacos to Go roots lingered despite an extensive
makeover.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any idea
about how that might have happened, would you?”

Rory drew himself up and glared down at Joanna with
total disdain. “Certainly not!” he exclaimed.
“Are you accusing me of having something to do with the
man’s murder?”

“I’m simply asking questions,”
Joanna said. “That’s what we do in the aftermath of a
homicide—ask questions, particularly if someone seems to have
issues with the victim.”

“Show him the man’s picture,”
Leslie urged. “Maybe he’ll recognize him.”

Joanna produced the faxed copy of Bradley’s
jail ministry ID photo and handed it to him. Rory looked at it for
a moment and then gave it back. “I’ve never seen this
jerk before in my life. Who the hell was he?”

“His name was Bradley Evans.”

“What was he, one of those
papa-whatevers?”

“Paparazzi?” Joanna supplied.

“Right,” Rory said. “That’s
what I meant. One of those…paparazzi. Maybe that’s why
he was taking pictures of Leslie. Maybe he worked for one of those
scumbag kinds of newspa
pers. You know what I
mean—the ones they sell in grocery stores—the
National Enquirer
or something like
that.”

“Why would they be interested in your
wife?” Joanna asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Leslie
mused. “With my father up for that federal
appointment…”

“Your father?” Joanna repeated.
“Who’s he?”

“Justice Lawrence Tazewell. He’s on the
Arizona Supreme Court, but now he’s up for a possible federal
judgeship.”

For the first time it occurred to Joanna that she
had been wrong. Leslie wasn’t the one who had married up. Her
husband had. And as far as that went, it meant Leslie was following
a long-standing family script—one that remained a lingering
part of Cochise County’s social fabric. Joanna simply
hadn’t connected Leslie to that particular family of
Tazewells.

Local lore had it that, in the late sixties, while
an impoverished law school student at the University of Arizona,
Lawrence Tazewell had won the heart of Aileen Houlihan, a fellow
student who sprang from some of southeastern Arizona’s finest
pioneer stock. Aileen’s paternal great-grandparents had
settled in the northeastern corner of the San Pedro Valley while
marauding Apaches, annoyed at being barred from their traditional
hunting lands, were still a very real danger. The Triple H Ranch,
in the foothills of the Whetstones, had been named for the family
patriarch, Henry Hieronymus Houlihan. The Triple H had started out
as a cattle ranch, raising Herefords, but now it was primarily
known for its prizewinning quarter horses.

“My parents divorced a long time ago,”
Leslie continued. “But now that my father’s being
considered as a possible nominee for one of the open federal
judgeships, everything about his life is back in the news,
including my mother and me. This could be related to
that.”

“I doubt it,” Joanna said.
“Bradley Evans was working as a drug and alcohol counselor at
the Arizona State Prison Complex down in Douglas. He went to prison
in 1978 for murdering his wife. After his release two years ago, he
started working for a jail ministry organization. He was still
working for them at the time he died.”

“That doesn’t come close to explaining
why he was taking pictures of Leslie,” Rory Markham put
in.

“No,” Joanna agreed. “It
doesn’t. Are there any other possibilities that come to
mind?”

Rory turned to his wife. “Well?” he
asked.

The one-word question wasn’t asked in a
polite way. His tone of voice underscored the decades of difference
in their ages. Rory sounded less like a husband and more like an
irate father who had caught his teenage daughter smoking forbidden
cigarettes out in the backyard.

“Maybe he’s someone from before,”
Rory suggested. “Maybe he’s someone you dated before I
came along.”

Leslie looked stricken. “You know better than
that,” she said, blushing furiously. “You’re the
only man I’ve ever dated. And, as I already told her, I have
no idea who this person is.”

Rory picked up one of the photos and examined it
before tossing it back down on the table. “If he was close
enough to take a picture like this, how can you claim you never saw
him?”

“As you can see, I was busy,” Leslie
said. “I was pushing the grocery cart. I was opening the car
door. I was walking. He may have seen me, but I didn’t see
him. Besides,” she added, turning to Joanna,
“don’t these guys have telephoto lenses?”

“Not this one,” Joanna answered.
“He used a throwaway.”

“See there?” Rory demanded. “What
did I just tell you?”

Without answering, Leslie rose and fled the
conference
room. She wasn’t in tears, but
she was close to it. Rory stayed where he was for a moment longer
after the door slammed shut, then he turned to Joanna and shrugged.
“I guess we can’t help you,” he said.

“I guess not,” Joanna agreed.
“Thank you anyway.”

“Can you find your own way out?”

“No problem.” Joanna gathered up the
photos and put them back into the envelope and then returned to her
Crown Victoria. No wonder Rory Markham Real Estate Group boasted
such a humble physical presence. Rory had started out by making a
bad impression, and it had been all downhill from there. In a
service industry based on interpersonal relationships, it was a
miracle he was able to stay in business at all.

I wouldn’t buy a used
car from that turkey,
Joanna thought to herself as she
headed back to Bisbee.
What in the world does
Leslie see in him?

But as far as what Rory might see in Leslie, that
was much clearer. Leslie Tazewell was bound to turn into an heiress
the moment her mother died. That explained why, in addition to her
youth and good looks, Rory might be interested in her, but nothing
Joanna had learned came close to explaining Bradley Evans’s
interest in the woman. That was still very much a mystery.

By the time Joanna made it back to the Justice
Center, it was already after five. She was tired.
If something urgent happens,
she told herself,
they can call me at home.
And home she
went.

Along the road the scrawny trunks and tangled bare
branches of mesquite trees gleamed black in the late-afternoon sun.
Ready to be home and warm, Joanna was surprised to find Jenny out
on High Lonesome Road riding Kiddo at a full gallop, with all three
dogs trailing along behind. When Joanna pulled up beside her and
rolled down her window, Jenny reined in the horse.

“Out having fun?” Joanna asked.

“Not exactly,” Jenny said with a scowl.
“I had to get away. Butch’s mother follows me
everywhere I go, even into my room, asking me all kinds of stupid
questions—things that are none of her business. When are they
ever going to leave, Mom? It feels like they’ve been here
forever. Why did Butch let them come?”

“He didn’t,” Joanna said.
“Having them show up was as much a surprise to him as it was
to us.”

“But that’s rude. I mean,
shouldn’t they have waited for an invitation?”

“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It is
rude, but Margaret and Don are Butch’s parents. We have to
put up with them.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to. They’re excited
about the baby, and they want to be part of it.”

“I want you to have this baby right
now!” Jenny urged.

“Believe me,” Joanna said, “that
makes two of us. If there were something I could do to speed things
along, I would. Come on now. It’s cold. Let’s go
home.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. I’m sure it’s
almost time for dinner.”

“All right.”

When Joanna drove into the yard, she could see the
glow of the Dixons’ flat-screen TV inside their motor home,
which meant they were probably there watching the news. Hoping for
a few moments of privacy, she hurried into the house looking for
Butch. She found him in the kitchen fixing dinner, but he was in no
better spirits than Jenny had been.

“What’s wrong?” Joanna asked.

“The same thing that’s been wrong
around here for days,” he grumbled. “I’m glad I
got to see Junior put my mother in her
place at
lunchtime, but she’s been on a tear ever since. I came within
two seconds of asking them to leave.”

“You can’t do that, Butch,”
Joanna said. “I know they’re annoying as hell, but they
are your parents. They’re here because of the
baby.”

“The baby,” Butch said ominously,
“needs to get a move on.”

“Jenny said pretty much the same
thing,” Joanna said with a smile. “And if the way my
back hurts is any indication…”

“Your back hurts?” Butch said.
“Maybe you should go lie down for a while—at least
until dinner is ready.”

Joanna did as she was told, and dinner turned out
to be surprisingly uneventful. At first Joanna thought Margaret was
merely subdued. About the time they finished their salads, Joanna
realized that her mother-in-law wasn’t speaking to anyone,
which turned out to be a blessing. Jenny and Joanna were in the
kitchen putting away leftovers and loading the dishwasher when the
phone rang.

“Jaime Carbajal,” Butch said, handing
Joanna the phone.

“How’d you do?” Joanna asked.

“Not that well. We never located Antonio
Zavala, but Tucson PD was able to give us the names of a couple of
his associates. One is an eighteen-year-old girl named Lupe
Melendez. She was cited two months ago for letting her pit bull
loose in an off-leash area of a city park, where it mauled three
other dogs. We couldn’t find her today, either, but Debbie
and I will take another crack at that tomorrow.”

“Did you hear anything from Ernie?”

“I heard from Rose. He’s home and
resting and seems to be doing all right, but Rose said the only way
he’s coming to work tomorrow is over her dead
body.”

“I’m glad to hear it went well,”
Joanna said.

She went on to tell Jaime about her trip to Sierra
Vista. “Doesn’t sound as though talking to the Markhams
helped much,” he said when she finished.

“It didn’t,” Joanna agreed.
“But I’d like to know more about Rory Markham. He
pretty much accused his wife of having had a previous relationship
with Bradley Evans and then lying about it.”

“You’d say Rory Markham is the jealous
type?” Jaime asked.

“Enough that I think we should check him
out,” Joanna said. “But Frank and I can work on some of
that background information. And tomorrow I’ll attend Bradley
Evans’s funeral. In the meantime, though, I want you and
Debbie to keep working on Jeannine’s case. How’s Debbie
working out, by the way?”

“She’ll be fine once she gets a little
experience under her belt. She’s still unsure of herself. And
speaking of Jeannine, Debbie and I stopped by UMC to check on her
before we left Tucson,” Jaime added. “Jeannine’s
still in the ICU, but her condition has been upgraded to serious.
We didn’t see her, of course, but we talked to Dr. Ross. By
the way, thanks for warning me in advance about the deal between
her and Jeannine. Otherwise I might have said something stupid. How
long has this been going on?”

“Beats me,” Joanna said. “I only
just now found out about it myself.”

When she got off the phone with Jaime, Joanna
dialed Ernie Carpenter’s number. Rose answered.

“How’s he doing?” Joanna
asked.

“Okay,” Rose answered. “But
he’s lying down right now. Want me to get him?”

“No,” Joanna said. “Just give him
a message. Tell him Sheriff Brady says if he gets past you tomorrow
and tries to come to work, he’ll have to deal with
me.”

Rose Carpenter laughed. “I’ll tell him,
all right,” she said.

With Margaret still not speaking to anyone, she and
Don retreated to their motor home early. The rest of the house,
emotionally drained from dealing with their disruptive guests, went
to bed shortly thereafter. Butch was still watching the
Nine O’Clock News
on Fox when
Joanna rolled over on her side and went to sleep. But going to
sleep that early had its disadvantages. By three o’clock in
the morning she and her lead-footed baby were both wide awake.

She lay there for a long time thinking about
Bradley Evans and about Leslie and Rory Markham. After murdering
his wife, Bradley had gone off to prison where he had paid his debt
to society and become what seemed to be an exemplary
citizen—right up until a week earlier, when he had suddenly
gone off the rails and started taking stealth photographs of a
woman who claimed to know nothing about him. Joanna knew there had
to be some connection.