Paradise Lost (4 page)

“In other words, while I’m stuck listening to one more dreary speaker, you’ll be spending the day on a bus loaded with a dozen or so women I don’t know.”

Butch lowered the paper and looked at her. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

Joanna shrugged. “Maybe a little,” she admitted.

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“Have youseen any of those other women?” he asked. “They’re all a lot older than you are, Joey, and not nearly as good-looking. In addition, I’m short and bald. That doesn’t make me what you’d call the sexy leading-man type.”

“Yul Brynner and Telly Savalas were both bald,” Joanna coun-tered. “And so is Andre Agassi.

Nobody says any of them aren’t sexy.

She sat down at the table and took a tentative sip of her coffee. He reached across the table and touched her hand. “But I’m in love with you, Joey,” he said. “And you’re in love with me, so don’t go around worrying about the competition. There isn’t any”

She smiled back at him. “Okay,” she said.

Just then Joanna’s cell phone rang. She retrieved it from the bedside table where she’d left it overnight, recharging. The display said the call was coming from High Lonesome Ranch.

“Good morning, Jenny,” she said. “How are things?”

“Do Ihave to go on the camping trip?” Jennifer Ann Brady whined.

Joanna felt a stab of worry. Maybe Jenny was sick. “Are you feeling all right? You’re not running a fever, are you?” she asked.

“I’m not sick,” Jenny answered. “I just don’t want to go is all. Mrs. Lambert told us last night at the troop meeting that we won’t he able to cook over a campfire because we can’t have any fires.

Some dork at the Forest Service decided it’s too dry for campfires. Without cooking, I probably won’t be able to earn any of the badges I thought I was going to earn. I’d rather stay home.”

“You know that’s not an option, Jenny,” Joanna said firmly. “You said you were going when you signed up. Now you have to keep your word.”

“But I hate it. I don’t even want to be a Girl Scout anymore. It’s dorky.”

The word “dork” is certainly getting a workout this morning,Joanna thought. But the idea of Jenny wanting to quit Girl Scouts was news to Joanna. From the moment her daughter had been old enough to join Daisies, Girl Scouting was something Jenny had loved.

“Since when?” Joanna asked. “Is it because you have a new leader? Is that it?”

“No. Mrs. Lambert is nice and so is the new assistant leader. I like them both, but it’s still dorky”

“I’m a little tired of things being dorky at the moment,” Joanna said. “Could you maybe think of some other word to use? As for the subject of quitting, if that’s what you decide to do, fine, but onlyafter we have a chance to discuss it as a family. Right now, you’ve made a commitment to go on a camp-out, and you need to keep that commitment. Mrs. Lambert has made arrangements for food and transportation and all those other details. It wouldn’t be fair for you to back out now. You need to live up to your word, Jenny. Besides, Grandma and Grandpa Brady agreed to look after the ranch for the weekend. They didn’t agree to look after the ranch and you as well.”

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“That’s another thing,” Jenny said crossly. “Grandma Brady found my stupid sit-upon. She says I have to take it along because it was on the list Mrs. Lambert gave us. You know, the sit-upon I made back when I was in Brownies? I always thought you threw it away. Iasked youto throw it away. It’s so ugly. When the other girls see it, they’re going to laugh at me.”

“No, they won’t,” Joanna countered. “You girls were all in Brownies when you made those. I think there’s a good chance that some of theirs are every bit as ugly as yours is. Remember, Mrs.

Lambert said you’re going to be listening to lectures from those young interns from the history department at the University of Arizona. You’ll need something to sit on during those lectures, and a sit-upon is just the thing. Would you rather come home with sandburs in your butt?”

“That means I have to take it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not fair,” Jenny said. “You’re all just being mean to me. I don’t even want to talk to you anymore. Good-bye.” With that she hung up.

Joanna turned to Butch. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “My daughter just hung up on me.”

Butch didn’t seem overly dismayed. “Get used to it,” he said.

“Jenny’s twelve, going on twenty. She’s about to turn into a teenager on you, Joey. It goes with the adolescent territory.”

“Since when do you know so much about adolescents?”

“I was one once.”

“And now she wants to drop out of Girl Scouts,” Joanna con-tinued.

“So I gat I lewd, and maybe she should,” Butch said, from behind his newspaper. “It that’s what she really wants to do. Just because you stayed in Scouting as long as you did doesn’t mean your daughter has to.”

“You’re going to take her side in all this?” Joanna demanded.

“I’m not taking sides,” Butch said reasonably. “But if Jenny really wants to drop out of Girl Scouts, I think we should let her do what she wants to do.”

“What if she wanted to drop out of school?” Joanna returned. “Would you let her do that, too, just because it was what she wanted?”

Butch looked exasperated. “Joanna, what’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I seem to be having a had morning.” With that, she grabbed her purse, stuffed her phone into it, and then stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The loud bang from the closing door reverberated up And down the hallway. Two doors away, Pima County Sheriff Bill Forsythe turned and glanced back over his shoulder.

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“My, my,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Sounds like a lovers’ spat to me.”

Before Joanna could reply, her phone rang again. Considering the fact that she was about to tell Bill Forsythe to mind his own damned business, the ringing phone was probably a lifesaver.

There were two more roosterlike squawks before she managed to retrieve the distinctively crowing cell phone from the bottom of her purse. As soon as she picked it up, Joanna saw her chief deputy’s number on the phone’s digital readout.

“Good morning, Frank,” she said, walking briskly past Bill Forsythe as she did so.

Frank Montoya hailed from Willcox, Arizona, in northeastern Cochise County. He came from a family of former migrant work-ers and was the first member of his family to finish both high school and college. Years earlier he had been one of Joanna’s two opponents running for the office of Cochise County sheriff. After she won and was sworn into office, she had hired him to be one of her two chief deputies. Now Frank Montoya was her sole chief deputy. Hewas also the person Joanna had left in charge of the department during her absence.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked. “Your voice sounds a little strained.”

“I’mfine !”she told him. “Just not having a smooth-running morning today. Now what’s up? I’m on my way to the meeting. Anything happening that I should know about?”

“We had another carjacking on I-10 yesterday afternoon, over near Bowie.”

Joanna sighed. This was the sixth carjacking along the Cochise County stretch of the interstate in as many weeks. “Not again,” she said. “What happened?”

“A guy named Ted Waters, an elderly gentleman in his eighties, had pulled over on the shoulder to rest because he was feeling a lit-tle woozy. Some other guy came walking up to the car and knocked on the window. Waters rolled it down. As soon as he did, the young punk reached inside, opened the door, and pulled Waters out of the car. He threw Waters down on the side of the road and drove off. Border Patrol stopped Waters’ vehicle this morning at their check-point north of Elfrida. It’s a late-model Saturn sedan. At the time it was pulled over, it was loaded with seven UDAs. My guess is that the people in the car this morning had no idea it was stolen.”

“Coyotes again?” Joanna asked.

People who bring drugs and other contraband across the border are called mules. For a price, coyotes smuggle people. Since vehicles involved in smuggling of any kind are subject to immediate confiscation and impoundment, it had suddenly become fashionable for coyotes to use stolen cars for transporting their human cargo. That way, when thevehicles wereimpounded, the coyotes were out nothing. They had already been paid their exorbitant smuggling lees, and someone else’s main wound up in the impound lot. “What time did all this happen?” Joanna asked.

“The carjacking? Four in the afternoon.”

“Good grief!” Joanna exclaimed. “The carjackers have started doing it in broad daylight now?”

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“That’s the way it looks,” Frank said.

“How’s the victim doing? What’s his name again?”

“Waters, Ted Waters. He’s from El Paso. He was on his way to visit his daughter who lives up in Tucson. He was banged up a lit-tle, but not that much. Had some cuts and bruises is all. He was treated at the scene and released. We called his daughter. She took him home with her.”

“Was Mr. Waters able to describe his assailant?”

“Not really. The first thing the guy did was knock off the old luau’s glasses, so he couldn’t see a thing. Waters said he thought he was young, though. And Anglo.”

“The border bandits are hiring Anglo operatives these days?”

“It doesn’t sound too likely,” Frank replied. “But I suppose it could be. We’re asking Border Patrol to bring the car to our impound yard instead of theirs, so Casey can go over it for prints later this morning.”

Casey Ledford was the Cochise Sheriff’s Department’s latent fingerprint expert. She also ran the county’s newly installed equip-ment loaded with the AFIS (Automated Fingerprint Identification System) software.

“Let me know if she comes up with something,” Joanna said. “I’ll put the phone on buzz instead of ring. That way, if you call during a meeting, I’ll go outside to answer or, if necessary, I’ll call you back. What’s DPS doing about all this?”

“After the first couple of carjackings, the Department of Public Safety said they were heeling up patrols on that sector, but so far as I know, that still hasn’t happened,” Frank told her. “We’re the ones who took the 911 call on this latest incident, and our guys were the first ones on the scene. By the time the first DPS car got there, it was all over.”

“Who is it at DPS who’s in charge of that sector?” Joanna asked.

“New guy,” Frank answered. “Name’s Hamilton, Captain Richard Hamilton. He’s based up in Tucson.”

“Do you have his number?”

“No, but I can look it up,” Frank offered.

“I’ll do it,” Joanna told him. “But I won’t have time to call him until later on this morning, when we take our break. Anything else going on down there that I should know about?”

“Just the usual,” Frank said. “A couple domestic violence cases, three DWIs, and another whole slew of UDAs, but that’s about it. The carjacking was the one thing I thought you should be aware of. Everything else is under control.”

“Right,” Joanna told him with a sigh. “Sounds like business as usual.”

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It was late on a hot and sunny Friday afternoon as the four-vehicle caravan turned off Highway 186 and took the dirt road that led to Apache Pass. In the lead was a small blue Isuzu Tracker, followed by two dusty minivans. A lumbering thirty-five--foot Winnebago Adventurer brought up the rear.

Sitting at the right rear window in the second of the two mini-vans, twelve-year-old Jennifer Ann Brady was sulking. As far as she was concerned, if you had to bring a motor home complete with a traveling bathroom along on a camping trip, you weren’t really camping. When she and her father, Andrew Roy Brady, had gone camping those few times before he died, they had taken bedrolls and backpacks and hiked into the wilderness. On those occasions, she and her dad had pitched their tent and put down bedrolls more than a mile from where they had left his truck. Andy Brady had taught his daughter the finer points of digging a trench for bathroom purposes. Jenny’s new Scout leader, Mrs. Lambert, didn’t seem like thetype who would be caught dead digging a trench, much less using one.

The Tracker was occupied by the two women Mrs. Lambert had introduced as council-paid interns, both of them former Girl Scouts and now history majors at the University of Arizona.

Because the assistant leader, Mrs. Loper, was unavailable, they were to help Mrs. Lambert with chaperone duties. In addition, they would be delivering informal lectures on the lifestyle of the Chir-icahua Apache, as well as on the history and aftermath of Apache wars in Arizona.

History wasn’t something Jenny Brady particularly liked, and she wondered how much the interns actually knew. What she had noticed about them was that they both wore short shorts, and they looked more like high school than college girls. But then, she reasoned, since they were former Girl Scouts, maybe they weren’t all bad.

Behind the little blue Tracker rolled two jam-packed minivans driven by harried mothers and loaded to the gills with girls and their gear—bedrolls, backpacks, and the sack lunches that would be that evening’s meal. Once the mothers finished discharging their rowdy passengers, both they and their empty minivans would return to Bisbee. They were due back Monday at noon to retrieve a grubby set of campers after their weekend in the wilderness.

Behind the minivans, Mrs. Lambert and one of her twelve charges lumbered along in the clumsy-looking Winnebago. The motor home belonged to a man named Emmet Foxworth, one of Faye Lambert’s husband’s most prominent parishioners. Upon hearing thatthe U.S. Forest Service had closed all Arizona campgrounds time to extreme fire danger, most youth-group leaders had canceled their scheduled camp-outs. Faye Lambert wasn’t to be deterred. She simply made alternate arrangements. First she had borrowed the motor home and their, since public lands were closed to camping, she petitioned a local rancher to allow her girls to use his private rangeland.

Even Faye Lambert had to admit that borrowing the motor hone had been nothing short of inspired. She might have taken on the challenge of being a Girl Scout leader, but she had never slept on the ground in her life. Having the motor home there meant she could keep her indoor sleeping record unblemished. Also, since the ranch obviously lacked camping facilities, the
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