Partner In Crime (19 page)

Jenny’s lower lip trembled. “What can you do?”

Dr. Ross shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing, really,” she said. “Sadie’s in pain and she’s suffering. The longer we wait, the harder it will be for her.”

“You mean we should put her to sleep?”

While Joanna found herself unable to speak, Jenny had asked the questions.

“Yes,” the vet replied.

“When? Now?”

“There’s no sense in prolonging it, Jenny. I can do it this afternoon—as soon as you leave.”

“No,” Jenny said at once. “We’re not leaving. I want to be with her.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Dr. Ross said. “She’s still strapped to the gurney. . . .”

“Sadie doesn’t like being at the vet’s, and she hates those metal tables,” Jenny said determinedly. “They scare her. I have her blanket right here. Let’s take her off the gurney and put her on that. I’ll sit on the floor and hold her while you do it. That way she won’t be afraid.”

Millicent Ross nodded. “Good thinking,” she said. “If you’ll come with me, then . . .”

Still clutching the blanket, Jenny stood up. She glanced briefly at Joanna, then she stiffened her shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

As the door to the back office closed, Joanna burst into tears. She fell into Butch’s arms. As he moved to comfort her, his eyes, too, were brimming.

“Jenny knew it was coming,” Joanna managed in a strangled whisper. “That’s why she brought along the blanket.”

“She’s one smart kid,” Butch said admiringly. “I wonder where she gets it.”

I
MADE MY WAY
back uptown and located the Copper Queen Hotel. The closest parking place was two perpendicular blocks away. There was no bellman, but my room was ready. I checked in and then took myself downstairs to the restaurant. My scanty airline breakfast had long since disappeared. I was more than happy to mow my way through one of the Copper Queen’s generously greasy hamburgers. I hadn’t had one that good since Seattle’s old Doghouse Restaurant closed up shop years ago.

Joanna Brady may not have won any Miss Congeniality awards, but something she had said stuck with me. She had called me a plumber, and I supposed that was true. The sheriff of Cochise County wasn’t pissed at me so much as she was at Ross Connors for taking so long in getting back to her department with the needed information. I admit I was puzzled by that, too.

None of the information in Latisha Wall’s file had seemed so volatile or critical or even confidential that it couldn’t have been faxed back and forth to Cochise County without a problem. Due to that AG-enforced lag time, Joanna Brady was going to make me cool my heels for a while. I had told her I would spend my down- time looking for people from Anne Corley’s past. And maybe I would, but there was something almost physically addictive about once again sinking my teeth back into an active homicide investigation. Being benched and put on the sidelines by the likes of Sheriff Brady wasn’t how J.P. Beaumont played the game.

And so, using a paper napkin from the other, unused, place setting at my table, I began making notes. There were really only a few possibilities. One: Rochelle Baxter/Latisha Wall had died of accidental or natural causes. In either of those instances, no one was responsible, and both Joanna Brady’s department and mine were off the hook. Two: The victim had indeed been murdered. Why? A: She had died as a result of something that had happened while living in Bisbee. If that was true, the solution was entirely Joanna Brady’s responsibility. Whatever her “investigators” might or might not have discovered had nothing to do with me.

Or B: The woman Bisbee knew as Rochelle Baxter had been murdered because she was really Latisha Wall. The trail there would likely lead back to her having blown the whistle on UPPI. In that case what had happened to her definitely
was
my business. Ross Connors had blundered along and dragged his feet for two days. Homicide cops call those first forty-eight hours after an incident the magic time. It’s then, right after the death and before the trail goes cold, that most homicides are solved. In Latisha Wall’s case, those hours had been allowed to elapse with no help from the state of Washington.

So who all had information concerning Latisha Wall’s whereabouts?
I asked myself.

As far as I know, I’m not on a nodding-acquaintance basis with anyone currently or formerly in a witness protection program. Even so, I understand that programs like that can operate successfully only so long as the fewest possible people know details of the arrangements. Cumbersome bureaucracies leave behind paper or computer trails with far too many opportunities for unauthorized personnel to access the same information. Computers are susceptible to hacking. Stray pieces of paper can end up damned near anywhere.

I remembered that among the supposedly confidential pieces of paper Harry I. Ball had given me before I left town was one with a list of telephone numbers scribbled on it. I had been directed to guard that scrap of paper with my life. It contained all the confidential phone numbers that belonged to Washington State Attorney General Ross Alan Connors.

“Home, office, and mobile phones,” Harry had said, pointing at each of them with the tip of his pen. “Whatever you do, don’t lose them. You’re to report directly to him by phone on this. No intermediaries. No left messages. No e-mail. Understand?”

“Got it,” I had said, reveling in the first case I could ever remember that came complete with an actual prohibition against writing reports. “This is my kind of case.”

“We’ll see,” Harry I. Ball had muttered in return.

“Ask the AG who knew,” I jotted on the napkin.

There was a stir in the room. Two guys at the table next to me and a woman one table away peered at the dining room entrance with avid interest. As the door swung shut, a hint of flowery perfume wafted through the room. The hostess, carrying a single menu, strode past my table leading a tall, heavyset African- American woman wearing low heels and a gray silk suit that rustled as she walked. The hostess seated the newcomer at a table for two next to a lace-curtained window.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the hostess asked.

“Coffee,” the woman said in a thick Southern drawl. “Coffee and water, please.”

“It takes one to know one,” my mother used to say, and on this occasion that trite old saying was true. I was a stranger in Bisbee, Arizona, and so was the black woman seated three tables away. A single photo of Latisha Wall had been in the file I’d handed over to Sheriff Brady. It had been taken on the occasion of Latisha’s graduation from USMC boot camp. Except for an extra hundred pounds or so, the woman seated across from me could have been Latisha’s older twin.

A waitress brought coffee and water. While the woman studied the menu, I studied her. Long black hair was drawn back into a cascade of neatly braided cornrows that flowed past her shoulders. Her teeth were large, straight, and very white. The fingers that held the menu were topped by long scarlet-tipped nails. Everything except the nails spoke of solemn dignity—and unspeakable sorrow.

“What can I bring you, ma’am?” the waitress asked.

“What’s the soup today?”

“Tortilla/green chili,” the waitress offered cheerily. “It’s really very good.”

The woman look unconvinced. “I’ll have the tuna salad,” she said.

The waitress took my plate away and dropped off the bill. It was a subtle hint for me to move along. “Could I please have another cup of coffee?” I asked.

For some time I sat and wondered about my next move. Clearly this was a relative of Latisha Wall’s—an aunt or a much older sister perhaps—come to bring the dead woman’s body home for burial. Most likely the woman had been summoned by a local coroner or medical examiner’s office in order to make a positive identification. After all, if none of the people in Bisbee knew that Rochelle Baxter was really Latisha Wall, they could hardly be counted upon to make a positive ID.

The woman’s tuna salad arrived at the same time my coffee refill did. She picked at her food with faint interest, as though she was going through the motions of eating because she knew she should rather than because she was hungry. By the time she put down her fork and pushed away her still-laden plate, I had made up my mind.

I stood up and walked over to her table. “Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing. You look so much like Rochelle that you must be related. Please accept my condolences.”

She nodded. Her eyelashes were thick and almost as long as her fingernails. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind. And, yes. Her real name was Latisha, you know. She was my sister, my younger sister.” She held out her hand. “My name is Cornelia Lester. And you are?”

I wondered if, to maintain the subterfuge, I should ask about the Rochelle Baxter alias, but decided against it. At that point, the less said, the better.

“Beaumont,” I told her, returning her solid handshake. “J.P. Beaumont.”

“Have a seat.” She motioned me into the table’s other chair. “I hate eating alone,” she said, as if to explain her uneaten salad. After a pause she added, “Did you know her?”

I sat down and shook my head. “Not really,” I lied. “But I know about her. Bisbee’s a very small town.”

“Yes,” Cornelia agreed. “Small towns are like that. Did you know she was an artist?”

“No.”

“Tizzy was always sketching away when she was a kid. That’s what we called her back home, Tizzy. Other kids would be out playing ball or swimming, or just hanging out, but Tizzy always had a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Even back then we all knew she had a God-given talent, although our parents weren’t much in favor of art for art’s sake. They wanted us to have jobs that would actually pay the rent. It’s bad enough that she’s gone, but to die like that, the night before her first show . . .” Cornelia Lester shook her head and lapsed into silence.

“Show?” I asked.

“Yes. A one-woman exhibition of her paintings at a place called Castle Rock Gallery. The opening party was to be held Thursday night, but Latisha died on Wednesday. I’d really love to see the paintings, but I haven’t been able to. The gallery isn’t open. I checked on my way through town.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s after one,” I suggested helpfully. “Maybe they’re open now.”

Once again Cornelia Lester shook her head. The beads on her cornrows knocked together with a sound that reminded me of a baby’s rattle. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. I talked to a man who owns the antique store next door. He said this is the second day in a row the gallery has been closed. He’s heard rumors that something bad may have happened to the owner. Dee Canfield, I think her name is. She’s been missing for two days now, ever since she posted the notice canceling the show and locked the place up on Thursday afternoon.”

“That’s odd,” I said.

“Yes. I thought so, too,” Cornelia Lester agreed. “Since this Canfield woman and Latisha were evidently friends, I intend to ask Sheriff Brady about this the first chance I can.”

“You haven’t spoken with Sheriff Brady then?” I asked.

“No. I tried calling a few minutes ago and was told the sheriff is currently unavailable. I left a message, but she hasn’t called back. That’s all right. There’s plenty of time. I’ll be here until Tuesday at least. That’s the very soonest the medical examiner may be able to release the body.”

This was all very interesting. It would have been nice if Joanna Brady had bothered to mention that another woman was missing, especially since she was someone closely connected to Latisha Wall, making it more than likely that the two incidents were related. Since Sheriff Brady hadn’t said a word, I decided it was time to follow up on my own leads.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, standing up, “I really must go. It was rude of me to barge in on you this way.”

“Not at all,” Cornelia Lester said. “I enjoyed the company. I was glad to have a chance to talk.”

“Same here,” I said.

I charged lunch to my room and then hurried out to the desk, where I borrowed a local telephone book. Castle Rock Gallery wasn’t listed in the dog-eared copy the clerk handed me, so I asked him instead.

“Oh, that,” he said. “No wonder. The phone book came out last spring. Castle Rock Gallery is brand-new—too new to be listed, but it’s not hard to find. Go straight out here, cross the street, cut through the park, and then turn right on Main Street. The gallery is several blocks up on the right. If you find yourself walking past a big chunk of gray limestone two or three stories tall, that’s Castle Rock. It means you’ve missed the gallery and gone too far. Come back down and try again.”

The uncomplicated directions made it sound fairly close, so I left the Sportage parked where it was and set out on foot. Getting there took me just ten minutes, but it was real walking—all of it uphill. I remembered seeing a sign that said Bisbee’s elevation was over five thousand feet. By the time I arrived at Castle Rock Gallery, I felt every damned one of them.

I was out of breath and sweating up a storm by the time I reached the place. Cornelia Lester had been right. Castle Rock Gallery was locked up tight even though the posted hours said the gallery was open from ten to six on Saturdays. A hand-lettered sign taped to the inside surface of a window next to the door said the grand opening of Rochelle Baxter’s one-woman show had been canceled until further notice.