Authors: J. A. Jance
“I’m not sure how it happened, but for the first time I can remember we weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe part of it was not being in the same household and having some distance between us. We’d talk about what was going on in our day-to-day lives. Even though I had been married for seven years, Mother had never met Mel. I told her about him, about our house and garden, and about both our jobs. Mel has a private practice in Cheyenne. I’m a corporate attorney for an oil-exploration company. I thought hearing that would freak her out, but it didn’t. She never said a word.
“She told me about what it was like to live in Bisbee, about the little house she had bought—the first one ever—and about the new man in her life, a guy named Warren Gibson. As a kid, that was one of the reasons I despised my mother. There was
always
a new man in her life. They came and went with astonishing regularity. But I could tell from the way she talked about Warren, this time things were different. She really liked the guy; really cared about him. I think she was finally ready to settle down to something permanent, and she believed Warren Gibson was it.
“She told me about the work they did together on the gallery, getting it ready to open. She also told me about the upcoming showing of Rochelle Baxter’s stuff. Mother was really excited about it and proud of having discovered someone she fully expected to turn into one of this country’s up-and-coming African-American artists.”
Serenity stopped long enough to sip her water before continuing. “She sent me this e-mail on Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, I was out of town and didn’t read it until yesterday.”
Unfolding the single piece of paper that had been lying in her lap, Serenity Granger handed Joanna the printed copy of an e-mail.
Dear Serenity,
Something terrible has happened. Rochelle Baxter is dead, murdered. She died last night sometime. The grand opening of her show is tonight. The caterer will be here in a little less than two hours. I found out about Shelley too late to cancel the food. Since I have to pay for it anyway, I decided to go ahead with the party.
The problem is Warren. He and I were among the last people to see Shelley before she died. The cops wanted to talk to both of us. Detective Carbajal is with the sheriff’s department. He told me this afternoon that they’ll also need to fingerprint us since we’d both been at Shelley’s place earlier in the day. We went there to collect the pieces from her studio to hang them here in the gallery.
When I told Warren about the fingerprint thing, he went nuts. We ended up having a huge fight. In all the months I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so upset. He’s off doing some errands right now. I’ve been sitting here thinking about all this—thinking and wondering.
Is it possible Warren could have had something to do with what happened to Shelley? I mean, we were both there in her house. I can’t think of any other reason why the very mention of fingerprints would
The e-mail ended in midsentence. “Where’s the rest of it?” Joanna asked.
“That’s just it,” Serenity returned. “There isn’t any more. It’s like Mother had to hit the ‘Send’ button in a hurry. Warren may have come into the gallery right then, and she didn’t want him to know about her suspicions or about her sending them along to me.
“As soon as I accessed my e-mail yesterday evening, I started trying to call. I called both the gallery and the house several times and left messages. Naturally, there wasn’t any answer. Then, an hour or so later, when a Cheyenne PD patrol car stopped in front of our house, I knew what was up. The officer didn’t have to tell me Mother was dead. I already knew.
“So where’s Warren Gibson, Sheriff Brady? I am convinced he killed my mother, and he must have murdered that other woman as well. I want him caught.”
“I can assure you, Ms. Granger, so do we. Now, please excuse me for a moment while I make a phone call.”
Joanna picked up her phone. It was Sunday, after all. Frank Montoya could have been home or at church. On a hunch, though, she dialed her chief deputy’s office number. He answered after half a ring.
“You’d better come into my office, Frank,” she told him. “Dee Canfield’s daughter is here. I’m sure you and Detective Carbajal will both be interested in what she has to say. Is Jaime in, by the way?”
“No,” Frank Montoya said. “But he will be as soon as I can reach him.”
It took only half an hour for both Frank and Jaime to converge on Joanna’s office. For the next hour or so, they pumped Serenity for information.
“Did your mother tell you anything in particular about Warren Gibson?” Jaime Carbajal asked.
“Just that he was good with his hands. He could put up drywall, plaster, install wiring, and do any number of things she would have had to spend money on otherwise.”
“She didn’t say where he came from?”
“Not that I remember. At the beginning, I think she maybe hired him to do a couple of days’ worth of odd jobs. Before very long, though, he had moved in with her. As far as Mother was concerned, that’s typical. It also goes a long way to explain why I was a twenty-six-year-old virgin when I got married.”
The sardonic self-deprecation in that sentence lodged like a sharp-edged pebble in Joanna Brady’s heart. Dee Canfield and her daughter had spent a lifetime locked in almost mortal combat. Serenity Granger’s strategy had been to look at what her mother did and then do the opposite. The same was true for Joanna and Eleanor Lathrop.
What will happen with Jenny?
Joanna wondered.
Since I’m a cop, does that mean she’s destined to end up a crook? Or will she really turn into a veterinarian?
Joanna was drawn out of her reverie, not by the continuing questions and answers, but by a sudden urgent knocking on her office door. Why was it that just when she had something important going on—just when she needed a little peace and quiet—her office turned into Grand Central Station?
Not wanting to disrupt Jaime’s interview with Serenity Granger, Joanna hurried to the door. Casey Ledford stood outside holding several pieces of computer-generated printouts.
“What is it, Casey? We’ve got an important interview going on in here.”
“Yes, I know.” Casey nodded. “Lupe told me, but this is important, too. I got a hit from one of the prints I took off a hammer I found in a drawer up at Castle Rock Gallery. Everything else was pretty clean, but whoever wiped the place down must have forgotten about the hammer or maybe didn’t see it. Anyway, here’s the guy’s rap sheet. I thought you’d want to check it out.”
Joanna took the paper and looked at the mug shot. The name said Jack Brampton, but the photo was clearly Dee Canfield’s boyfriend, the man known around Bisbee as Warren Gibson. Joanna’s memory flashed back to when she had last seen him, standing in Castle Rock Gallery, glaring threateningly at Bobo Jenkins and tapping the head of a hammer—perhaps the very same one—in the open palm of his hand. Brampton had served twenty-one months in a medium-security Illinois prison for involuntary manslaughter committed while driving drunk. He had previously worked as a pharmaceutical salesman.
That might be enough for him to know something about sodium azide,
Joanna thought.
Enough to make him very dangerous.
“Good work, Casey,” she said. “Can I keep this?”
Casey nodded. “Sure. I’m making copies for everyone who’ll be coming to the one-o’clock meeting.”
“Terrific. Drop one off with Dispatch as you go. I want an APB out on this guy ASAP. He’s got a good head start on us, so we may have a tough time catching up. We’ll assume, for right now, that he’s still driving Deidre Canfield’s Pinto. It’s distinctive enough that it shouldn’t be hard to find.”
While Casey hurried away, Joanna turned back into her office. The interview was coming to an end. Serenity Granger, purse in hand, stood just inside the door. “So you think it’s going to be several days before Mother’s body can be released?”
“Several for sure,” Jaime Carbajal said. “First there’ll have to be an autopsy. The medical examiner won’t release the body until well after that. If I were you, I’d find a hotel room where you can settle in and wait.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Probably the Copper Queen back uptown in Old Bisbee,” he told her. “But regardless of where you stay, please let us know where you’ll be.”
Serenity Granger nodded. “Of course,” she said.
Joanna wished Jaime Carbajal hadn’t suggested the Copper Queen. Pretty soon everyone staying at the old hotel would be connected to this case, one way or the other. But she didn’t voice her objection aloud. After all, the only thing Joanna wanted was for Serenity Granger to leave her office. The information about Warren Gibson’s criminal past was far too important to blurt out with a civilian present, even if that civilian was vitally concerned with finding the person under investigation.
“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” Frank Montoya offered.
“Don’t bother,” Serenity said, turning him down. “I can find my way.”
As soon as the door closed behind her, both Frank and Jaime turned to Joanna expectantly. “All right,” Frank said. “Give.”
Joanna handed him the paper. “Warren Gibson’s real name is Jack Brampton,” she said. “He’s an ex—pharmaceutical salesman who’s done time for DWI and involuntary manslaughter. Casey’s made copies of the rap sheet so we’ll have them available for the task force meeting at one. I want everybody there. I also want copies available of everything we have so far, including a written report of what we’ve just learned from Serenity Granger. By the way, Beaumont will be here for the meeting.”
Both men looked at Joanna. “Since when?” Jaime asked.
“Since last night when I invited him,” Joanna said.
Jaime shook his head. “Great,” he muttered. “Guess I’d better get started typing my report, then.”
Jaime stalked from the room. Joanna glanced at Frank to see if he shared Jaime’s opinion about including Beaumont in the task force. If the chief deputy disapproved, it didn’t show. He walked over to Joanna’s desk and retrieved a pile of papers he’d brought along with him into her office.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Copies of everything we had up to this morning. Even with Beaumont included, there’ll be enough to go around. I thought you might want to go over them yourself before the meeting.”
“Thanks, Frank. You’re good at keeping me on track. I really appreciate it.”
“And then there’s this.” He removed a fat manila envelope from the bottom of the stack and passed it over as well.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A present,” he said. “It’s the information you asked me to track down on Anne Rowland Corley,” Frank told her. “There’s quite a bit of it—probably too much to read between now and one o’clock, but you might want to skim through some of it. If what I’m picking up is anything close to accurate, whoever sent Special Investigator Beaumont to Bisbee wasn’t doing the poor guy any favors.”
Joanna pulled out the topmost clipping and glanced at it. The article, dated several years earlier, was taken from the
Seattle Times
. It reported that a special internal investigation conducted by the Seattle Police Department had concluded that a deranged Anne Corley had died three weeks earlier as a result of a single gunshot wound, fired by her husband of one day, Seattle Homicide Detective J.P. Beaumont. The fatal shooting had occurred at a place called Snoqualmie Falls State Park. Anne Corley’s death had now been officially ruled as self-defense, and Detective Beaumont had been recalled from administrative leave.
Putting the paper down, Joanna stared at her chief deputy. “It sounds to me like cop-assisted suicide,” she said.
Frank Montoya shrugged his shoulders. “Or husband-assisted suicide,” he said. “Take your pick. Now I’d better get going, too. I’m working on the telephone information you asked me to get, but weekends aren’t the best time to do that.”
He went out then, closing the door behind him. Meanwhile, Joanna shuffled through the contents of the envelope. Looking at the dates, she realized that at the time Anne Rowland Corley died, Joanna had been a working wife with a husband, a young child, and a ranch to look after. In addition to her full-time job as office manager for the Davis Insurance Agency in Bisbee, she had been making a two-hundred-mile commute back and forth to Tucson twice a week while she finished up her bachelor’s degree at the University of Arizona. No wonder Anne Rowland Corley’s death hadn’t made a noticeable blip on Joanna’s mental radar.
As Frank had suggested, Joanna scanned several more articles from Seattle-area papers. Most of them were from immediately before and after the fatal shooting. One piece was a blatantly snide commentary from a columnist named Maxwell Cole connecting Detective Beaumont with a “mysterious lady in red.” Finally, Joanna came to a much longer, denser article from the
Denver Post
. This one, running several pages in length, was an in-depth piece that had been part of an investigative series dealing with female serial killers.
A look at the clock told Joanna she was running out of time. Intriguing as the article might be, her first responsibility was to be properly prepared for the upcoming task force meeting. Thoughtfully, Joanna shoved the collection of papers back into the envelope, which she dropped into her briefcase.
From the moment Joanna had met J.P. Beaumont, she had thought of him as a smart-mouthed jerk. Last night, at the Copper Queen, when he had been straight with her and told her about his interview with Marliss Shackleford, she had glimpsed something else about him—that he was probably a good cop, a straight and trustworthy one.
Now, though, she realized there had been something else there as well, a certain indefinable something she had recognized without being able to put her finger on it, a sort of common denominator between the two of them that she couldn’t quite grasp. Now she knew what it was. Beaumont’s wife had died tragically; so had Joanna Brady’s husband. Having survived that kind of event didn’t excuse the man’s smart-mouthed attitude, but it made it a hell of a lot easier to understand.