“Where are we going?” Frank asked once they were in his Crown Victoria. “Anna Marie Crystal’s place on Short Street in Sierra Vista.”
“Lisa’s mother?”
“Right,” Joanna said. “Do you know how to get there?”
“No,” Frank said. “But I can find it.” While he adjusted his portable Garmin GPS, Joanna shuffled through the stack of papers he had handed her. Most of the material consisted of archived articles from various Arizona newspapers-many of them dealing with Arizona Supreme Court decisions in which Lawrence Tazewell was mentioned briefly as part of either the majority or dissenting opinion. After skipping over most of those, Joanna settled in to read a long feature article from the
It was a mostly laudatory piece with several color photographs of Judge Tazewell and his wife, Sharon. One showed them posing arm in arm on the patio of their home, with Camelback Mountain looming in the background. Another showed them standing in a living room next to a white grand piano with a huge oil painting of the Grand Canyon covering the wall behind them. There were mentions of the Tazewells both as participants and movers and shakers in various social and charitable events. Clearly they were members in good standing of the Paradise Valley and greater Phoenix social scene.
Lawrence Tazewell, a man who had come from humble beginnings in the copper-mining town of Morenci, Arizona, had obviously done all right for himself. No doubt hard work accounted for what he had achieved and acquired along the way, but Joanna suspected that a couple of fortuitous marriages-one of them to Aileen Houlihan of Triple H Ranch-had benefited Judge Tazewell’s plentiful bottom line, but the only reference to that long-ago marriage came at the very end of the article in a sentence that read:
Judge Tazewell’s only child, a daughter from a previous marriage, still resides in Sierra Vista.
“So,” Joanna said when she finished reading. “Aileen and Lawrence Tazewell convince Lisa Marie Evans to hand her baby over to them, she disappears into thin air, and then Judge Tazewell makes sure Bradley goes away for a very long time. Neat. Ties up all the loose ends.”
Frank nodded. “Everything goes swimmingly until Bradley comes back, runs into Leslie Markham by accident, and then there’s trouble. If any of the old stuff comes out, then it’s bye-bye to Larry Tazewell’s next judicial appointment.”
Joanna’s telephone rang.
“Hi, Sheriff Brady,” Debbie Howell said. “Wanted to let you know what’s going on. Jaime and I are still in Tucson. We’re still not having much luck tracking Tony Zavala and his friends. They all seem to have gone to ground. The media coverage probably has them scared.”
“So keep looking,” Joanna said.
“We will,” Debbie agreed. “We’re particularly interested in talking to Tony’s girlfriend, the one with the city of Tucson dog-fighting citation. From everything we’re hearing on the street, she’s a ringleader. We did spend some time over at the Humane Society. According to the guy we spoke to there, Roostercomb pit bulls are legendary in dogfighting circles for being killers. They go for top dollar.”
“The O’Dwyers sell them?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right.”
“If all this is happening in my jurisdiction, why don’t I know about it?”
“It turns out there’s a lot we don’t know about the O’Dwyers,” Debbie answered. “Not only do they breed and sell the dogs, they also offer a venue for the fights and run a lucrative betting operation on the side.”
“Sounds like they’re a regular pair of entrepreneurs. I’m surprised someone hasn’t signed them up for the local chamber of commerce.”
“Right,” Debbie said. “The only question is figuring out which chamber of commerce applies.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re pretending to operate out of New Mexico,” Debbie explained. “People who come to see the fights evidently use a road off I-10 that runs through New Mexico in order to gain access to Roostercomb Ranch through a back entrance. That way they don’t have to drive through San Simon, where extra traffic would be more noticeable.”
“Which also explains why the surveillance we set up in San Simon over the weekend came up empty,” Joanna said.
“Exactly. As far as sales are concerned, the kennel’s official address is actually a post office box in Road Forks,” Debbie added. “By operating in another state, they’ve managed to stay under everybody’s radar.”
“Until Jeannine started finding dead and dying dogs along I- 10.”
“Right,” Debbie agreed. “So is it time someone went over to Roostercomb Ranch and had a chat with them?”
“No,” Joanna said. “Absolutely not. Let’s see what we can do to get the goods on them before we make contact. That means, if and when you do find one of the gang of thugs who beat up Jeannine, let them know that we’re willing to deal. Tell them that the first guy who gives us enough evidence to convict Clarence and Billy O’Dwyer of conspiracy to commit murder can plan on getting special treatment.”
“A bargaining chip?”
“You bet,” Joanna said. “And if they’re taking bets, once we wrap them up I’m sure the feds will be interested in little things like income-tax evasion. It should turn into quite a nice package.”
“We’ll keep plugging,” Debbie said. “We’re motivated.”
“I know you are,” Joanna said. “But the hours…”
“Don’t worry about Bennie,” Debbie returned. “He’s having a great time with his cousins. Believe me, the extra hours are not a problem.”
Frank waited until she ended the call. “Sounds like you could be venturing into the unauthorized-plea-bargain business,” he said. “Shouldn’t you clear that offer with the county attorney before you make it?”
“I’ll call Arlee Jones first thing in the morning and bring him into the loop, but I’m not particularly worried about it. He’s so lazy he’d rather do a plea bargain any day. Actually trying a case would require his getting off his dead rear end.”
“Don’t hold back,” Frank said with a grin. “Why don’t you say how you really feel?”
“But there is someone else I need to call,” she added. “Sheriff Randy Trotter.”
Through the years Joanna had had enough dealings with Hidalgo County Sheriff Randy Trotter in New Mexico that his numbers were programmed into her cell phone. Minutes later she had the man on the phone.
“Are you still working?” he asked once he knew who was calling. “I thought you’d be off having your baby by now. What can I do for you?”
“What would you think if I said the names Billy and Clarence O’Dwyer?” Joanna asked.
“I’d think I was glad Roostercomb Ranch is mostly on your side of the state line,” Randy Trotter answered. “Those two guys are mean as snakes, and the less my officers and I have to do with them the better. Why?”
“Because it looks like they’re operating a criminal enterprise that straddles the state line the same way their ranch used to.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this,” Randy said, “but I guess you’d better tell me.”
It was ten after four and Joanna had just gotten off the phone with Sheriff Trotter when Frank pulled up in front of Anna Marie Crystal’s modest home on Short Street.
“You never did say how we’re going to play this,” Frank observed as they walked up the sidewalk. “Are you going to tell her about Leslie Markham’s resemblance to her dead daughter?”
“Not if we don’t have to,” Joanna returned. “For one thing, until we know whether or not her daughter is dead or alive, I don’t want to get the poor woman’s hopes up.”
Fritz, the silky terrier mix, began barking the moment they stepped onto the porch. Through the door they could hear Anna Marie muttering to herself while she shut off the blaring television set, confined the dog to the kitchen, and then came to the door. When she opened it, a thick cloud of stale cigarette smoke wafted outside.
“Oh,” Anna Marie said, looking at Joanna and shaking her head in apparent disgust. “It’s you again. What do you want this time?”
“This is my chief deputy, Frank Montoya,” Joanna said. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”
