Fire and Ice (21 page)

What now? she wondered irritably. Can’t Tom Hadlock handle anything on his own?

With a resigned sigh and without dealing the cards, she passed the deck to the guy sitting next to her—Bisbee’s chief of police, Alvin Bernard. Then she excused herself and went to the kitchen to take the call.

“Sheriff Brady?” an unfamiliar male voice said when Butch handed her the phone.

“Yes,” she said. “Who is this? I’m really busy at the moment. I have guests. If you’ll excuse me—”

“It’s Beaumont,” the man said urgently. “J. P. Beaumont. Remember me?”

The words stunned her. Beaumont? She remembered—all too well. Hearing both the voice and the name, she was reminded of that one moment in particular. To her dismay she found herself blushing from the top of her collar to the roots of her hair.

Even though their encounter was years in the past, she remembered it as if it had been yesterday. She and the Washington State investigator had found themselves conducting a joint investigation, one that had ended with a life-threatening encounter with a dangerous killer. In the aftermath of that, Joanna and the visiting detective had been caught up in a moment of emotional heat that could easily have gotten out of control.

There was no question that the attraction had been mutual. They had both felt the momentary magnetism. What shamed Joanna now was knowing she had been the instigator in that situation, the one who had made the first move. She might well have gone on to moves two and three as well if Beaumont hadn’t called a halt by summoning her back to reality. She was, after all, a married woman. And once Joanna came to her senses, she agreed wholeheartedly.

As the blush subsided, Joanna stepped into the doorway of her home office to continue the call.

“Of course I remember,” she said. “How nice to hear from you again.”

That was an outright lie. Hearing from him again was anything but nice. With Butch back in the kitchen cleaning up after the party and with a houseful of company, this was not a good time to be reminded of things past. It wasn’t that Joanna had been unfaithful to her husband—it was that she might have been.

“How are you doing?” she asked. “And how did you get my number?”

It seemed unlikely to her that Beaumont would have kept her old phone number or had access to her new one.

“I called your office and spoke to your chief deputy,” Beaumont told her. “A Mr. Hadlock, I believe. When I told him why I was calling, he said I should probably speak to you directly.”

Joanna’s heart gave a little squeeze—a premonition that something was seriously out of whack. Everyone in the department, including Tom Hadlock, knew that handing out her unlisted number to anyone was a big no-no. This had to be important.

“Why?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Actually, there is,” Beau replied. “I’m calling about one of your cases—a missing persons case from last year, a young woman named Marcella Maria Andrade.”

Jaime’s sister! Joanna thought at once. “Marcella,” she repeated. “Have you found her?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid we have.”

Right at that moment Joanna was unable to recall the name of Beau’s agency, but she understood that he worked homicide and the tone of his voice told her what she didn’t want to hear—Marcella’s story wouldn’t have a happy ending.

“She’s dead, then?” Joanna asked.

“Yes,” Beaumont responded. “I’m afraid so. It turns out she has been for several months. The partial remains of an unidentified female homicide victim were found near a town called North Bend, Washington, late last week. It took until today for the M.E. over in Kittitas County to get around to entering the victim’s dental X rays into a national missing persons database. Notification of the hit came back to her office late this evening. When the local homicide dick called to tell me about it, I felt I should make the call.”

During the course of the evening, Jaime had gradually loosened up. For the first time in months, Joanna had actually heard him laugh. The previous summer, Jaime’s life had been slammed with two separate disasters. First had come the line-of-duty death of his young protégé, Deputy Dan Sloan. At about the same time, Jaime’s sister, Marcella, had abandoned her son and disappeared. Since then, Jaime had walked around with a black cloud over his head. Peering around the doorjamb, Joanna looked into the family room, where she spotted Jaime chatting amiably and sharing a joke with Frank Montoya’s new second in command.

Joanna wished she could preserve that precious moment of lighthearted banter, but she couldn’t. It would be gone the moment Jaime heard the bad news.

“Her next of kin is listed as her brother,” Beaumont continued. “A man named Jaime Carbajal. I think we met when I was there in Bisbee.”

As he spoke, Joanna could find no discernible subtext in Beau’s Joe Friday, “just the facts, ma’am” delivery. Maybe she was the only one who actually remembered that moment.

“Yes,” Joanna replied. “That’s correct. Jaime is one of my homicide detectives.”

“In view of that, I was hoping I could ask you to let the family know.”

“Of course,” she said at once. “Absolutely. You don’t even have to ask. I’ll handle that right away.”

The moment I get off the phone with you, she thought.

“The information I have also makes mention of the victim having a son,” Beau continued. “Is there a chance he could provide us with any information about his mother?”

Joanna suspected that might be true. It seemed likely that Luis had known more about his mother’s lifestyle and her unsavory friends and associates than he had ever admitted to anyone, including his uncle or his cousin. Joanna also understood that’s what homicide investigators do—they backtrack through the victim’s circle of family and friends trying to find clues about what happened and why, but Joanna’s first instinct was to protect Luis Andrade from everyone, including J. P. Beaumont.

“He might be able to help you,” Joanna conceded, “but not right now. First he learns his father is dead, and now his mother—”

“Wait a minute,” Beau interrupted, pouncing on that bit of information. “You’re saying his father is dead, too? What happened to him?”

“Luis’s father, Marco Andrade, was a small-time drug dealer. Detective Carbajal learned this morning that Andrade was murdered in prison several months ago.”

“I’ll need the details on that as well,” Beau said. “The two cases could be related.”

“Yes, they could,” Joanna agreed. “And I’ll have Jaime be in touch with you about that as soon as I can. I’ll have him call you, but not until after the family is notified.”

“Of course. Do you need my number?”

“No, thanks. If this is the right number, I can get it off caller ID. But tell me about what happened to Marcella, and why you are involved.”

“My agency is investigating a series of homicides that all have the same MO,” Beau said.

“Which is?”

“It’s ugly,” he said. “We have a total of six young female victims. We suspect that some or all of them may have had connections to prostitution, although Marcella had evidently been making some effort to get out of the business. All of them were bound and gagged, wrapped in construction tarps, and then set on fire.”

“While they were still alive?” Joanna asked.

Beaumont sighed before he answered. “Possibly,” he said. “And in every case but Marcella’s the victims’ teeth were forcibly removed at the time they were killed.”

“In order to make identification more difficult?” Joanna asked.

“Exactly.”

Joanna was appalled. And she hated hearing about these horrifying details. What she hated even more was knowing they would have to be passed along to Jaime so that he in turn could give the devastating information to his parents and to Marcella’s son, Luis.

Joanna retreated into her office far enough to collect a piece of paper and a pen. “When did all this happen?” Joanna asked. “And where?”

“We haven’t established a definite time of death. At the time she disappeared, Ms. Andrade was living in Federal Way, Washington, under an assumed name. She had evidently appropriated the ID of one Marina Aguirre, who died as a child. She was waiting tables in a local Denny’s. As I said before, I think she was trying to put her past behind her.”

That may be a comfort, Joanna thought. But not much.

“Any idea when the body will be released?” she asked.

“We’re not talking about a body,” Beau cautioned. “Skeletal remains only. Her family needs to be prepared for that. As far as a schedule for releasing the remains, her family will need to discuss that with the medical examiner over in Ellensburg.”

He gave her the names and applicable phone numbers.

“And where exactly is Ellensburg?”

“A couple of hours east of Seattle on I-90.”

“All right,” Joanna said after writing it all down. “I’ll talk to Jaime, and then I’ll have him call you.”

When the call ended, Joanna stood in the quiet of her office for a moment, gathering herself. Out in the living room she heard the sound of easy laughter, but she had moved far away from the world of bachelor party fun and playing poker. She went back to the kitchen looking for Butch, who was grabbing a fresh set of sodas. He took one look at her face and got it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“How are you at Texas Hold’Em?” she asked.

“I stink. Why?”

“Because Jaime and I are leaving,” she said. “I just found out that his sister’s been murdered. I have to go tell him.”

Joanna went back into the family room and beckoned for Jaime to come with her. He put down his cards and followed her into the hallway. “What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s Marcella, Jaime,” Joanna said with a catch in her throat. “I’ve just received a call from a homicide detective in Washington State.”

“A homicide detective.” He repeated the words aloud and in the process seemed to come to an understanding of what they meant, even if he didn’t want to. “She’s dead, then?” he asked.

Joanna nodded. “Murdered.”

The naked shock on Jaime’s face left Joanna momentarily unable to speak. She knew that look from the inside out as well as all the hurt that went with it. She had been there herself on the day Andy died.

After a few moments, though, Jaime’s cop mind switched on. “Where?” he asked. “When? What happened?”

“I don’t know the details, but she’s evidently been dead for several months,” Joanna replied. “Her skeletal remains were positively identified through dental records late this afternoon.”

“I’d better go,” Jaime said. “I need to tell Luis and my parents.”

He made as if to turn away, but Joanna caught his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Let me change my clothes. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t need to…”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “Please.”

She handed him the piece of paper with her scribbled notes. Jaime studied it for a moment. Before he could say anything more, she pressed her cell phone into his hand.

“Use this to call the detective,” she said. “I put his number in this. All you have to do is hit ‘send’ twice. That should take you straight to Mr. Beaumont. I’ll be right back.”

Joanna hurried into the bedroom, where she stripped off her jeans and the bright green top. Next-of-kin notifications were tough, but this one in particular required a certain protocol and decorum. One of the grieving family members happened to be a teenager who was about to lose his second parent. Such an occasion called for nothing less than a full-dress uniform.

As Joanna went about putting on her uniform, it seemed to her as though she was also putting on the job. She had zipped up the pants, had fastened the Kevlar vest, and was buttoning her shirt when the name she had been searching for finally came through.

“S.H.I.T.!” she muttered aloud, just as Butch came through the bedroom door and closed it behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “If you’ve lost a button, change shirts. Cussing about it isn’t going to help.”

“I wasn’t cussing,” she said. “I just remembered. S.H.I.T. is the name of the outfit in Washington, the one J. P. Beaumont works for. It’s called the Special Homicide Investigation Team.”

“Oh,” Butch said. “I see. Beaumont. Isn’t that the same guy you worked with a couple of years ago?”

Joanna nodded and hoped to hell she wouldn’t blush again. Fortunately she didn’t.

Butch walked over and waited patiently for her to finish with her shirt. Once she had fastened the last button and tucked in the tail, he gathered her into his arms for a long hug.

“I know you have to go,” he said. “I came in to kiss you good-bye and tell you to be careful.”

“Thank you,” she said, kissing him back. “I will be.”

I always am.

Once I hung up, it seemed like only a few minutes had passed before the phone rang again. Mel had gone into the bedroom and slipped into “something comfortable,” as they say. It was a slick enough outfit that, as soon as I saw her again, I started having amorous ideas. The ringing phone, however, effectively put an end to any considerations other than work.

“Beaumont here.”

“My name’s Jaime Carbajal.” The man’s voice cracked as he spoke.

I hadn’t expected to hear back from him quite that soon. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told him.

If Jaime heard my expression of sympathy, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked a question I didn’t expect. “Did you find the money?”

I paused for a moment, taking stock. Was Carbajal referring to the same money Tom Wojeck had mentioned? And if so, how did Marcella’s brother know about it? Maybe he was involved somehow, and if he was, he wouldn’t be the first cop who had been enticed over to the dark side by the siren song of easy money.

“What money?” I asked aloud. If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, answering a question with a question is usually a good strategy.

“When my sister left here, she had a sum of money in her possession.”

“How much?” I asked.

“I have no idea how much,” he returned. “I didn’t see it. Her son, Luis, did. He said it was quite a lot.”

So we need to speak to the son after all, I thought. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?” I said aloud.