Exit Wounds (23 page)

Trotter was old enough that he hailed from a time when women in law enforcement had been anything but commonplace and pregnant women had been rarer still. Joanna expected some kind of comment. All she got right then was a raised eyebrow. “Water, then?” he asked. “Or a soda?”

“Water would be great.”

“Come on into my office,” he said. “The place isn’t much, but it works for me. Have a chair.”

Joanna followed him into his private office, where the wooden desk and creaky chair reminded her even more of her father’s old digs. Randy Trotter walked into the adjacent room and removed a bottle of water from a small refrigerator. He handed it over as Joanna sat down on a battered and lumpy brown leather chair that seemed to swallow her whole body.

“Sorry about that,” Randy apologized. “When push came to shove, there was money enough for a new refrigerator or a new chair. The fridge won.” He glanced at his watch. “Johnny Cruikshank, my homicide detective, is out at the airport now. As soon as Mr. Ortega’s plane lands, Johnny will bring him here to the office. Then, once we make arrangements, we’ll take him to the morgue—what we call the morgue, anyway. It’s really nothing more than a couple of rooms the county leases from a local funeral chapel.”

Sipping her water, Joanna nodded. “Fine,” she said.

Trotter eyed her curiously. “If you’re pregnant, are you still going to run?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do people well…you know…” He paused awkwardly.

“You mean, do they know I’m pregnant?” It was Sheriff Trotter’s turn to nod. “They do,” Joanna continued. “You know how small towns work. I haven’t had my first prenatal checkup yet, but the pregnancy is already hot news in the local paper.”

“So how’s it going then?” he asked, studying her over the rim of his coffee cup.

“My pregnancy or the reelection campaign?”

“Reelection.” He grinned.

Thinking about the demonstrators banging on her car windows and doors as she drove through the Justice Center parking lot, Joanna decided to underplay her hand. “All right, I guess,” she said with an indifferent shrug. “Yours?”

“About the same,” he agreed. “I just wish politics weren’t so dirty. You think about that poor guy out in Kentucky, the one whoops allegedly gunned down by one of his opponent’s henchmen a while ago…” He paused. “I mean, when one candidate for sheriff puts out a contract on the other guy’s life, it kind of defeats the whole idea of law and order, wouldn’t you say? Makes you wonder if it’s worth the time, effort, and trouble.”

Joanna nodded.
You’ve got that right,
she thought.

“I think I’ve heard, but remind me,” Trotter continued. “What’s the name of the guy who’s running against you?”

“Galloway,” Joanna answered. “Kenneth Galloway.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sheriff Trotter said. “Is he one of the old Jiggerville Galloways?”

That brought Joanna up short. Jiggerville was a Bisbee neighborhood that had been dismantled in the early 1950s to make way for Lavender Pit. One by one, houses from places like Jiggerville and Upper Lowell had been removed from their foundations, loaded onto axles, and then trucked to other locations in newly created subdivisions around town. Joanna had heard her father talk about those old parts of town, but for Joanna herself they were pieces of local history and lore rather than places rooted in actual memory.

“I think Ken’s from Saginaw,” she said.

“Right,” Trotter agreed. “That’s where Phelps Dodge put the Galloway house when they moved it. And, from what I’ve heard, Ken’s pretty much a chip off all those old Galloway blocks.”

Joanna looked at Sheriff Trotter in surprise. “You know Ken Junior then?” she asked.

“Not directly, but I know of him and of his family by reputation, if nothing else,” he added. “There was a whole clan of Galloways living in Jiggerville back when my grandparents lived there. Grandpa Trotter was a shift boss—a jigger—in the mines in Bisbee, and Jiggerville was the residential area where most of the shift bosses lived. My dad used to tell stories about living there as a kid—about exploring caves, getting in all kinds of hot water, and pole-vaulting all over God’s creation on agave sticks.

“Dad is one of those old-time, Andy Griffith–type storytellers,” Trotter continued. “The wonderful thing about his stories is that he never edits out any of the bad stuff he did, including all the scraps and scrapes. And I remember that whenever someone named Galloway showed up in one of Dad’s stories, you could bet he’d be tough as nails and mean as hell.”

Joanna gave a wan smile. “Sounds like Ken’s right in there with the rest of them,” she said.

Randy Trotter grinned. “That’s something Grandpa Trotter always used to say. ‘The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.’ ”

It seemed strange for Joanna to be sitting a hundred miles away from Bisbee and hearing about her town’s history.

“According to my father,” Randy continued, “Jiggerville was paradise on earth and the Garden of Eden all rolled into one. It was full of shade trees and fruit trees and lush gardens because back then people could still use the mineral-rich water they pumped out of the mines. There was a trolley stop and a play-field where Dad and his pals played pickup games of baseball and football. Dad said when they had to leave there to move to Lordsburg, he hated it.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“His mother, Grandma Trotter, came from Lordsburg originally. When her mother, my Great-Grandma Clementine Case, took sick, Grandma and Grandpa came back here to look after her. Grandpa had worked in the mines for quite a while, but he got on with Southern Pacific—Sufferin’ Pacific, as he called it—and he worked there until he retired. They built a house next door to Clementine’s. That’s where my dad and uncles were raised. Now, with my mother gone and my father retired from teaching, he lives in Clementine’s House, as we call it. My wife and I live next door.”

“Your father taught school?”

“That’s right. He taught social studies and coached football and basketball right here in Lordsburg. Grandpa said he wanted his sons to work with their brains instead of their brawn, so he made sure they all went to college. It worked, too. Came out with a college professor, a high school principal, and my dad. Then there’s the black sheep of the family, my Uncle Ned. He owns the Ford dealership up in Silver City and probably makes as much money as the other three put together.”

Just then the outside door opened, and two people walked in—a man and a woman. The man was short and dark but fine-featured and handsome. Despite the heat, he wore a starched white shirt and a carefully knotted tie under an expensive lightweight blue silk blazer and exquisitely tailored camel-colored slacks. On his feet were a pair of hand-tooled snakeskin cowboy boots that Joanna estimated could easily have set him back five hundred bucks.

The woman, two or three inches taller than Joanna, was pushing forty and good-looking. Her hair was pulled back in a long smooth ponytail. She wore dangling silver-and-turquoise earrings. Silver rings, heavy with chunks of turquoise, decorated several of her fingers. She was dressed far more casually than the man in what looked like freshly pressed Levi’s topped by a cowboy shirt and a Western-cut jacket. She might have been modeling Western attire if it hadn’t been for her boots. Unlike the man’s highly polished snakeskin footwear, the woman’s worn Judson’s bore the dusty sheen and telltale marks of someone accustomed to working in barns and corrals and dealing with the business end of horses and cattle.

Randy Trotter stood to greet the new arrivals. “You must be Mr. Ortega,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s very good of you to come all this way on such short notice. And this is Sheriff Joanna Brady,” he added, gesturing in Joanna’s direction. “She’s from Cochise County, Arizona, our neighboring county to the west.”

Mr. Ortega shook hands first with Sheriff Trotter and then with Joanna. “Glad to meet you,” Diego Ortega said gravely.

Randy Trotter continued with the introductions. “And this is Detective Cruikshank, Sheriff Brady.”

Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to Joanna that Detective Johnny Cruikshank was a woman rather than a man. The two women sized each other up briefly. Then, after nodding in Joanna’s direction, Detective Cruikshank retreated into the other room and returned pushing two additional desk chairs in front of her.

“We won’t be able to get into the morgue for another half hour,” she explained. “Dr. Lawrence didn’t want to pay any more overtime than absolutely necessary. He told me not to call Bobby Lopez to let us in until after Mr. Ortega was here.”

“Is Bobby on his way?” Sheriff Trotter asked.

Johnny nodded. “Yes, but he’s out at the ranch. He says it’ll take him that long to get here.”

“Thanks for bringing the chairs, then,” Randy said to his detective. “I guess we should all take a load off.”

“It was very kind of you to send Miss Cruikshank to pick me up,” Diego Ortega said, settling himself onto one of the two rolling chairs and carefully easing the knees of his trousers so as to avoid bagging them and spoiling the crease.

“Under the circumstances, it’s the least we can do,” Trotter returned.

“My coming was an absolute necessity,” Diego Ortega replied with a grim smile. “Otherwise, my mother would have killed me. Carmen’s her baby—the youngest. And yesterday was Mom’s birthday. Carmen travels a lot. At times Mama may not hear from her for weeks on end, but when it came to birthdays, no matter where she was, Carmen was always the first to call, usually first thing in the morning.

“By noon yesterday, when Carmen still hadn’t called, Mama was worried. By six o’clock last night she was frantic and on the phone to my brother, Carlos, who happens to be a lieutenant with the LAPD. He’s the one who entered the missing-persons report. Even though it was a holiday, someone from LAPD got through to Fandango Productions. They told us Carmen and Pamela were in Arizona. They also said Carmen and Pamela were expecting to interview Carol Mossman—”

“Who’s also been murdered,” Joanna put in.

Diego Ortega nodded. “So I’ve been told,” he replied. “Once we knew Carol Mossman was dead, it was the weapon connection Sheriff Trotter told me about that brought me here. I told Mama I’d fly out today and make sure, one way or the other. I think not knowing is harder on her than knowing will be. And since I fly my own plane, I didn’t have to mess around with airline schedules. Flying into someplace this small…”

Joanna knew that Lordsburg, New Mexico, like Bisbee, Arizona, was a long way off the map for any regularly scheduled flights. The two cities’ tiny municipal airports were good for little else than serving as bases of operations for local general aviation enthusiasts.

“Tell me about Fandango Productions,” Joanna said.

Diego Ortega studied Joanna appraisingly. “It’s a woman-owned and-operated outfit,” he explained. “It’s run by the well-connected daughters of several old-time television producers. They sell original material to cable channels like Oxygen and Lifetime. That’s where Carmen and Pamela met. A year or so ago, they were assigned to do a story together on pedophile priests. They met at work, and they’ve been partners ever since.”

“In life and work?” Johnny Cruikshank asked.

Diego Ortega nodded. “That was pretty tough for my mother to accept at first. She’s pushing seventy, and she’s pretty old-fashioned about things like that. But when she finally realized Carmen was happier living with Pamela than she’d ever been in her whole life, Mama just sort of got over it. We all did.”

“I know from Carol Mossman’s grandmother that Carol was always short of cash,” Joanna said. “So did Fandango Productions pay for the interview with her?”

“That’s how we first learned Carol Mossman’s name,” Diego replied. “It was on a check requisition that Pamela put in prior to their leaving for Arizona—a check for five thousand dollars. Pamela had the check in her possession when they came to Arizona. As I understand it, the check wasn’t found with the bodies, but as far as anyone knows, it has yet to be cashed.”

Joanna Brady let her breath out. That was why she had come to Lordsburg—to find out if there was some other connection, beyond the ballistics report, between the New Mexico victims and the homicide in her jurisdiction. With Diego Ortega’s revelation about the existence of the missing check, that possible connection moved from theory to reality.

“Do you know where your sister and Pamela Davis were staying?” Joanna asked.

“The Willows Inn in Sierra Vista,” Ortega answered. “I talked to Candace Leigh, the CFO from Fandango about that. She was kind enough to check the transaction records on their company credit cards. They checked into The Willows on Sunday night and booked the room for a whole week. Although they haven’t been seen back at the hotel since Tuesday morning, the hotel clerk said no one was particularly worried about them since it appeared the room continued to be occupied with luggage, clothing, and the like. When they checked in, they said they were working on a story and would be in and out. The last credit card transaction is dinner Monday night at a place called The Brite Spot. They had breakfast at the hotel on Tuesday morning. After that, nothing.”

“We’ll need records of all phone calls made from their hotel room,” Johnny Cruikshank said. “I’m assuming they both have cell phones?”

Diego nodded.

“We’ll need those records, too,” the detective added.

Diego Ortega nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “Ms. Leigh may not have all the information you need at her fingertips, but she’ll be able to find someone who will.” When he gave Johnny Cruikshank a list of Candace Leigh’s telephone numbers, Joanna jotted them down as well.

“What kind of stories did they work on?”

“Pam and Carmen more or less specialized in children’s sexual-abuse cases—that and child pornography. It was something they both had in common.”

“Child pornography?” Randy Trotter asked.

“No, no. Sexual abuse. Carmen was victimized by a parish priest when she was a little girl, although we didn’t find out about it until much later. And Pamela was abused, too, by an older relative, I think. An uncle, maybe, or perhaps a cousin. I don’t know the details. But that’s why, when they were assigned to work the pedophile priest story, they really clicked together. On any number of levels.”