Paradise Lost (22 page)

“But why?” Frank asked. “We still don’t have a court order. Judge Moore won’t be back until tomorrow”

“We don’t need a court order,” Joanna said. “We’re not going there to question Ron Haskell.

This is a humanitarian gesture—a matter of courtesy. We’re going there to notify the poor man of his wife’s death—assuming, of course, that he isn’t already well aware of it.”

“What makes you think we’ll be able to get inside Pathway to Paradise when Ernie and Jaime couldn’t?” Frank asked.

“For one thing, they weren’t wearing heels and hose,” Joanna said.

Frank Montoya glanced dubiously at Joanna’s grubby crime scene tennis shoes. “You aren’t either,” he ventured.

“No,” Joanna Brady agreed. “I may not be right now, but my good shoes are in the car. By the time we get to Paradise, I will be. Now how do we get there?”

Pointing at the map, Frank showed her the three possibilities. Portal and Paradise were located on the eastern side and near the southern end of the Chiricahua Mountains. One route meant tak-ing their Arizona law enforcement vehicles over the border and into New Mexico before crossing back into Arizona’s Cochise County in the far southeastern corner of the state.

Potential jurisdictional conflicts made that a less than attractive alternative. Two choices allowed them to stay inside both Arizona and Cochise County for the entire distance. One meant traveling all the way to the southern end of the mountain range before making a lung U-turn and heading back north. The other called for crossing directly through the Chiricahua Mountains at Onion Saddle.

“It’s getting late,” Joanna said. “Which way is shorter?”

Frank shrugged. “Onion Saddle’s closer, but maybe not any faster. It’s a dirt road most of the way, although, since there’s been no rain, we shouldn’t have to deal with any washouts.”

“We can make it over that even in the Civvies?” Joanna asked.

“Probably,” Frank replied.

Joanna nodded. “I choose shorter,” she said. “We’ll go up and over Onion Saddle. Did Ernie or Jaime mention who’s in charge at Pathway to Paradise?”

Frank consulted a small spiral notebook. “Someone named Amos Parker. I don’t know anything more about him than his name and that he wasn’t interested in allowing Ernie and Jaime on the premises.”

“Let’s see if we have any better luck,” Joanna told him.

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More than an hour later, with the afternoon sun slipping behind the mountains, Joanna stopped beside the guard shack at the gated entrance to Pathway to Paradise. The shack came complete with an armed guard dressed in a khaki uniform who pulled on an unnec-essary pair of wraparound mirrored sunglasses before strolling out-side. Joanna rolled down the window, letting in the hot, dusty smells of summer in the desert.

“Like I’ve told everyone else today,” he said. “We’re posted no hunting, no hiking, no trespassing. Just turn right around and go back the way you came.”

Joanna noted that the guard was middle-aged, tall, and lanky. A slight paunch protruded over the top of his belt. As he leaned toward Joanna’s open window, he kept one hand on the holstered pistol at his side. A black-and-white plastic name tag identified him as Rob Whipple.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Whipple,” Joanna said carefully, opening her identification wallet and holding it for him to see. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said. “Frank Montoya, my chief deputy, is in the next car. We’re here to see Mr. Parker.”

“Is Mr. Parker expecting you?” Rob Whipple asked. “Don’t recall seeing your names on this afternoon’s list of invited guests.”

Rob Whipple’s thinning reddish hair was combed into a sparse up-and-over style. A hot breeze blew past, causing the long strands to stand on end. The effect would have been comical if the man’s hand hadn’t been poised over his weapon.

“Chief Deputy Montoya and I don’t have an appointment,” Joanna said easily. “We’re here on urgent business. I’m sure Mr. Parker will be more than willing to see us once he knows what it is.”

Whipple’s eyes may have been invisible behind the reflective glasses, but Joanna felt them narrow. A frown wrinkled across the man’s sunburned forehead. “Does this have anything to do with those two detectives who were by here yesterday?” he asked “Like I already told them. This here’s private property. No one’s allowed inside unless Mr. Parker or his daughter gives the word. Mr. Parker’s last order to me was that no cops were to enter unless they had themselves a bona-fide court order.”

“We’re here to speak to Mr. Parker,” Joanna insisted. “And since he’s not a suspect of any kind, we don’t need a court order for that. Would you call him, please, and let him know we’re here?

You can assure him in advance that we won’t take up much of his valuable time.”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am, you’d best tell me what this is in regard to,” Whipple countered.

“I do mind,” Joanna replied with an uncompromising smile. “My business with Mr. Parker is entirely confidential.”

Shaking his head, Rob Whipple sidled back into his guard shack. Joanna saw him pick up a small two-way radio and speak into it. What followed were several of what appeared to be increasingly heated exchanges. Finally, shaking his head in disgust, Rob Whipple slammed down the radio and then emerged from the shack, carrying a clipboard.

“Miss Parker says you can go in,” he growled. “Sign here.” Taking the clipboard, Joanna quickly scanned the paper. Blanks on the sheet called for date, time of entrance, time of departure,
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name, and firm, along with a space for a signature. Joanna noted that the first date mentioned on that sheet was May 22. Several of the listed firms were companies that delivered foodstuffs and other supplies to her department back in Bisbee, but of the names of the eighteen delivery people listed, Joanna recognized no one. Nowhere on the sheet was there any listing for Constance Marie Haskell. Ernie Carpenter’s and Jaime Carbajal’s names were also conspicu-ous by their absence.

“Are you going to sign in or not?” Whipple demanded. He was clearly angered by being countermanded. Joanna filled in the required information, signed her name, and handed Whipple his clipboard. As soon as she did so, the guard slapped a VISITOR sticker under her windshield wiper. “Wait right here,” he ordered. “Someone’s coming down to take you up.” Still brandishing his clipboard, he stomped back to have Frank Montoya sign in as well.

It was several long minutes before a sturdy Jeep appeared, mak-ing its way down a well-graded road. The vehicle was totally enclosed in dark, tinted-glass windows that allowed no glimpse inside. When the door opened, Joanna expected another uni-formed guard to emerge. Instead, the woman who stepped out wore a bright yellow sundress and matching hat. The ladylike attire stood in stark contrast to the rest of her outfit, which consisted of thick socks and heavy-duty hiking boots. Punching the button on an electronic gizmo, she opened the gate. Then, returning to her vehicle, she waved for Joanna and Frank to follow in theirs. They drove up and over a steep, scrub-oak-dotted rise and then down into a basin lined with a series of long narrow pink-stuccoed build-ings complete with bright red-tiled roofs.

The Jeep stopped near the largest of the several buildings, one that was fronted by a wooden-railed veranda. The wood may have been old, but it was well maintained with multiple layers of bright blue paint. Joanna’s first impression was that they had strayed into some high-priced desert resort rather than a treatment renter. On either side of the front entrance stood two gigantic clumps of prickly pear, both of them at least eight feet high. Joanna may not have heard of Pathway to Paradise until very recently, but it certainly wasn’t a new establishment.

Those two amazing cacti had been there for decades.

The woman in the yellow dress led Joanna and Frank up onto the veranda. Once in the shade, she removed her hat. Without the hat brim concealing her face and hair, Joanna realized the woman was probably well into her fifties, but she was tan and fit with a farce whose fine lines and wrinkles revealed a history of too much time in the sun. The smile she turned on her visitors, however, was sur-prisingly genuine and welcoming.

“I’m Caroline Parker,” she said, holding out her hand iii greet-ing. “Amos Parker is my father.

It’s before dinner siesta time, so he’s taking a nap at the moment, as are most of our clients. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna told her. “This is my chief deputy, Frank Montoya. We’re hoping to speak to a man named Ron Haskell who is thought to be staying here. Do you know it that’s the case?”

Caroline Parker frowned. “Didn’t someone come by yesterday looking for him as well?”

Joanna nodded. “That would have been my two homicide detectives, Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal. They were turned away at the gate and told not to come back without a court order.”

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Caroline nodded. “I heard about that,” she said. “I was away at the time, and it did cause something of a flap. My father tends to be overprotective when it comes to our clients. He doesn’t like to have them disturbed, you see. It gets in the way of the work they’re here to do, which is, of course, paramount. Won’t you step inside?”

She opened an old-fashioned spindle-wood screen door and beckoned Joanna and Frank inside.

They entered a long room that was so dark and so pleasantly cool that it almost resembled a cave. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Joanna saw that the flag-stone floor was scattered with a collection of fraying but genuine Navajo rugs. The furnishings were massive and old-fashioned. The set of indestructible leather chairs and couches might once have graced the lobby of a national park hotel. At the far end of the room was a huge fireplace with its face covered by a beautifully crafted brass screen. The walls were lined with bookshelves whose boards sagged beneath their weighty loads. The room smelled strongly of wood smoke and furniture wax.

Caroline Parker walked across the room and switched on a lamp that cast a pool of golden light on the highly polished surface of a mahogany desk. Then she seated herself in a low, permanently dented leather chair and waved Joanna and Frank onto a matching leather couch.

“What kind of work do your clients do?” Joanna asked.

“As you may have surmised, Pathway to Paradise is a recovery center,” Caroline explained. “A Bible-based recovery center.”

“Recovery from what?” Joanna asked.

“Not alcohol or drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Caroline responded. “We have a doctor on staff, but we’re not a medical facility. We specialize in treating addictions of the soul. In the past we’ve worked mostly with folks who have sexual and gambling difficulties. Now we’re seeing people who are addicted to things like the Internet or day-trading. Whatever the problem, we approach it with the underlying belief that people suffering from such disorders have handed their lives over to Satan. Pathway to Paradise helps them tied their way back.”

.’I’ve been sheriff here for several years,” Joanna said. “Until the last few days, I didn’t know you existed.”

“That’s exactly how we like it,” Caroline Parker returned. “We’ve been here for almost thirty years. We prefer to maintain a low profile, although the people in need of our services have an uncanny way of finding us.”

“Only thirty years?” Joanna questioned. “This room looks older than that.”

Caroline nodded. “Oh, the buildings are, certainly. In the thirties, the place was a dude ranch. It fell on hard times and was pretty much a wreck when Daddy and I bought it.”

“Why the armed guard?” Joanna asked.

“To keep out troublemakers. We set up shop here because we wanted privacy and affordability.

The same holds true far any number of our neighbors who are looking for privacy and cheap land, too. The problem is, some of them aren’t necessarily nice people. We had a few unfortunate incidents early on. We found we were too far off the beaten path to ask for or
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receive timely help, so we created our own police force. That’s also part of our creed here: God helps those who help themselves.”

“That doesn’t explain what happened to my officers,” Joanna said. “They had a legitimate reason for coming here, and they were turned away.”

Caroline shook her head. “Over the years we’ve heard all kinds of stories,” she said. “You’d be surprised at the number of off duty police officers who turn out to be moonlighting process servers trying to get to our clients because a disgruntled spouse is trying to file for a divorce, for example. We’ve had to become very proactive in the area of looking out for our clients. They’re often in extremely vulnerable states, especially when they first arrive. We have an obligation to see to it that they’re not trampled on by anyone, be it angry ex-spouses or parents or even officers of the law. If our clients have legal difficulties, it’s our belief that they’ll be better able to deal with those problemsafter they’ve gotten themselves square with God.”

“Does that include withholding the timely notification that a client’s wife has died?” Joanna asked.

Caroline Parker’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you telling me Ron Haskell’s wife is dead?”

“Yes,” Joanna answered. “I certainly am. Constance Marie Haskell was murdered over the weekend. She was last seen alive in Phoenix on Thursday. Our understanding, from her sister, is that Mrs. Haskell was on her way here to meet with her husband. Her body was found in Apache Pass Friday evening. Detectives Carbajal and Car-penter were here to notify Ron Haskell of what had happened.”

“Was my father aware of that?” Caroline asked.

“Was I aware of what?” a stern voice asked behind them.

Joanna turned in time to see a tall, stoop-shouldered man enter the room. In the dim light his wispy white hair formed a silvery halo around his head. Even in the gloom of that darkened room he wore a pair of sunglasses, and he made his way around the furniture by tapping lightly with a cane. Amos Parker was blind.

“Daddy,” Caroline said, “we have visitors.”

“So I gathered,” Amos Parker said, stopping just beyond the couch where Joanna and Frank were sitting. “And they are?”