the end it was Adam York, Joanna’s friend at the DEA, who tipped the scales in favor of mounting the operation when he offered Joanna the use of one of his crack squads of undercover agents. That way, all the visiting officers would be known to one another and, hopefully, unknown to whatever bad guys might show up.
At one o’clock in the morning, when Butch and Jonathan Becker had left, the outlined game plan had seemed feasible enough. At seven-thirty that same morning and in the cold, harsh light of day, it didn’t seem like nearly such a good idea.
Stiff, sore, sluggish from lack of sleep, and with her two black eyes glowing like purple beacons despite a dusting of Coverup, Joanna straggled into the office at ten after eight. When she tore off the topmost sheet on her desk calendar, it didn’t help her mood when she saw that the date was Friday the thirteenth. Leaving her purse on her desk, she hurried out into the lobby in search of a cup of coffee. She found Frank Montoya waiting by Kristin’s desk, a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of paperwork in the other.
“Whoa,” he said when he caught sight of Joanna. “That’s a matched pair of shiners if I ever saw one.”
“Thanks,” she said. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear.”
By the time Joanna returned to her office with her own cup of coffee, Frank was already seated at the conference table and sorting through copies of incident and contact reports. Joanna stopped by her desk and picked up two messages. Drew Gunderson’s name and telephone number was on one. The other was from Detective Hank Lazier with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department.
“What’s this?” Frank asked when she set Gunderson’s message in front of him.
“The name and number of the lawyer who set up Junior Dowdle’s guardianship arrangement.”
“Junior Dowdle?” Frank repeated. “You mean we’ve figured out Junior’s last name? We know where he lives? How did you do that?”
“I didn’t,” Joanna admitted. “Butch did. He located the mother with the help of some people from Special Olympics. Her name is Ellen Dowdle, and she’s in a nursing home in Rapid City, South Dakota. Because Ellen has been left incapacitated by a stroke, Junior was placed in the care of relatives-Ellen’s niece and the niece’s husband, Chuck and Irene Johnson. Last known address on them was in Mesa, but they’ve skipped. My guess is they’re the ones who ditched Junior at the arts fair. I’d also be willing to bet that just because they’re no longer caring for Junior doesn’t mean that they’ve stopped cashing the checks that were supposed to go for his care and upkeep. I want someone to start skip-chasing on them right away. I tried calling the lawyer, Drew Gunderson, last night, but he had already gone home for the day.”
“Would you like me to call him?” Frank asked.
“No,” Joanna said. “I will, but not until after I drink at least one cup of coffee and get my head screwed on straight. In the meantime, I need to bring you up to speed on the Jonathan Becker situation.”
“What about him? He’s still missing, isn’t he?”
“No, he’s not. I found him last night. Becker’s going to be at his wife’s funeral this afternoon, along with several other people.”
“What people?” Frank asked. “What all went on last night?”
“You’d be surprised,” Joanna told him. Half an hour later, Frank Montoya left Joanna’s office with a whole series of marching orders which included checking with the attending physicians for both Ross Jenkins and Dena Hogan as well as coordinating the joint operation which would include Adam York’s DEA squad along with Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal.
By ten o’clock that morning, Joanna was on the phone with Drew Gunderson in Aberdeen, South Dakota. “I wish I could say I’m surprised,” he said, when Joanna finished reeling off her story. “I never did like the man Irene Wilcox married. Smiles all the time, but smarmy. Tried to tell Ellen as much, but she insisted it would be all right. It was either let Irene and Chuck have Junior or send him to a home. Ellen’s kept her son out of a home all her life. In fact, I’m sure the strain of it is part of why she ended up having that stroke. She’s not very old, you know, only seventy-five.”
Listening to him, Joanna wondered how old Drew Gunderson was-probably some years older than Ellen Dowdle.
“I’ll have to make arrangements to go over to Rapid to see Ellen this weekend,” he continued. “I had other plans, but I’ll change them. Ellen and I will talk it over and try to decide what to do, although talking isn’t quite the right word. I talk and Ellen blinks-one for yes and two for no. I’m not sure what to do with Junior in the meantime. Is there someplace down there where you can send him to be cared for until I can make arrangements to have someone come get him?”
“Sure,” Joanna said. “That won’t be a problem. Junior’s staying with a friend of mine right now-Butch Dixon. He won’t mind keeping him for a few days longer.”
As soon as Joanna had finished that call and put down the phone, it rang. That was the story of her life. It seemed she spent most of her waking hours with a phone held to her ear.
“Joanna? Ernie.”
“What’s up?”
“A couple of things. Have you talked to Hank Lazier?”
“I hadn’t gotten around to calling him. I’ve been too busy.”
“And I guess he couldn’t wait any longer. He called to let us know that one of the search warrants paid off. They found a television set and a VCR that match the makes and models missing from Alice Rogers’ house. They also found a paper bag stuffed with jewelry and savings bonds made out in Alice Rogers’ name.”
“Where did they find them?” Joanna asked.
“You’ll never guess. In Joaquin Morales’ mother’s garage.”
“Joaquin Morales?” Joanna repeated. “The guy the Pima prosecutor cut a deal with?”
“That’s the one.”
“What’s Hank Lazier going to do about that?” Joanna asked.
“Beats me,” Ernie replied. “That’s his problem.”
“Is that all?” Joanna asked.
“Not quite. I just talked to Doc Winfield about Clete Rogers’ autopsy. According to the doe, Clete put up quite a fight. He’s got flesh and fiber scrapings from under Clete’s fingernails. That means that if we ever find the guy, we may not have any fingerprints, but we should have DNA.”
“That’s good news, Ernie,” Joanna told him. “As far as it goes. Now what?”
“Jaime and I are about to head over to Tombstone to meet up with Adam York’s guys from DEA. I just heard Frank’s already there. You’re bringing Becker?”
“That’s right. He’s still up at the hotel. The funeral starts at two. I told him I’d pick him up around one.”
“All right,” Ernie said. “See you there. I hope this works.”
A few minutes later, when Joanna’s private line rang, she wasn’t at all surprised to hear Butch on the phone.
“Am I forgiven about last night?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” Joanna conceded.
“Lunch, then?”
Joanna had planned to tell Butch about Junior right away and ask if he’d mind keeping his charge a little longer. On second thought that request seemed like something best discussed in person.
“As long as it’s soon,” Joanna said. “I’m famished.”
They met at Daisy’s. “Beautiful pair of shiners,” Daisy announced as Joanna slid into the booth where Butch was already seated.
“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I forgot and left my sunglasses in the car. From now on, I’m keeping them in my purse. For the next few days, I’m going to be wearing them inside and outside both. Now, what’s for lunch?”
“Fresh Welsh pasties today,” Daisy replied. “Just out of the oven ten minutes ago. Big, though. I’d think about splitting one if I were you. “
“Good idea,” Joanna said. “Sold.”
Butch grinned as Daisy reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill which she slapped down on the table in front of him.
“What’s that all about?” Joanna asked.
“I told her that’s what you’d say,” Butch said. “And she bet you wouldn’t.”
