“Call into Dispatch and let them know you’re on assignment. If the need arises, they’ll have to bring in officers from other sectors to cover problems in yours. And when you go off shift, have the Night Watch Commander send someone else out here to take your place.”
“Sure thing.”
Leaving her Blazer parked on the shoulder of the roadway, Joanna followed Frank to his waiting Crown Victoria. Without a word, Frank got in, slammed the car door shut, started the engine, and then rammed the gearshift into drive for a tire-spinning, gravel-spattering U-turn. From the set of Frank’s jaw, Joanna knew her chief deputy was ripped. For the next several minutes they maintained a strained silence, punctuated here and there by radio chatter.
“What’s wrong, Frank?” Joanna asked at last.
He turned and glowered at her. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I feel like you left me out of the loop back there. Like there were things going on that I should have known about and nobody told me.”
“Come on,” she pleaded. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. It was nothing but an oversight on my part. It certainly wasn’t deliberate. We were all busy, Frank, and it slipped my mind. Besides, until Lance brought up the subject of the Lexus, there was no possible way for anyone to see a connection between the two cases.”
“I suppose not,” Frank grumbled, but Joanna could tell he was still provoked, and that made her uneasy. Not only was Frank Montoya her chief deputy, he had long been Joanna’s greatest ally in the department. She could ill afford to offend him.
“Tell me about Catherine Yates,” she said, trying to change the subject. “If she didn’t bother to mention that her daughter was being released from prison, she wasn’t exactly being forthright with you. What’s her story?”
“I don’t know. She’s an Indian-part, anyway. Apache, I believe. She told me that her granddaughter has lived with her for several years. She implied there was some kind of family problem-a sticky divorce or something. But when I asked if Lucy might have gone off to live with her father, she said that wasn’t possible. That he wasn’t in the picture.
“Here’s the turnoff to her place,” Frank added, switching on the turn signal.
“Wait,” Joanna said. “Stop here a minute and let me check something.”
Obligingly, Frank pulled over next to a mailbox on top of a leaning wooden post and put the Ford in neutral. Meanwhile, Joanna plucked Frank’s radio microphone out of its clip and thumbed the “talk” button.
“Larry,” she said when the dispatcher’s voice came through. “When Pima County sent down the information on that stolen Lexus, did they include a rap sheet on Sandra Ridder?”
“Sure did.”
“Does it say what she went to prison for?”
“Man-one. Sentenced to ten years and served almost eight.”
“Does it say who she killed?”
“Yup, her husband, one Thomas Dawson Ridder.”
“Thanks, Larry,” Joanna told him. “That’s a big help. What about a mug shot?”
“We’ve got one of those, too.”
She glanced at Frank. “Is your wireless fax working?”
Frank Montoya had spent months and several thousand drug-enforcement dollars turning his Crown Victoria into a fully equipped mobile office.
He nodded.
“Fax everything you have to Frank’s computer.”
“Will do, Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick replied. “But it’s going to take a couple of minutes. I’m here by myself and another call is just coming in.”
“Take your time, Larry,” she told him. “No rush.”
Putting the microphone down, Joanna turned back to Frank. “Being dead is a damned good reason for the father not being in the picture,” she said. “So what do you think is going on?”
“This is how it looks to me.” Frank held up one hand and began ticking off his fingers. “On the surface of it, it’s easy to say that a marauding band of UDAs is responsible for whatever went on back there and let it go at that. But I’ve got a different idea. How does this sound? First Mommy whacks Daddy, and somebody sees to it that Mommy goes to prison. Later Mommy gets out of prison. As soon as she does, somebody whacks her. Immediately prior to that or else immediately thereafter, Baby Daughter disappears. Sounds to me like one way or the other, we’ve got a whole new set of reasons to go looking for Lucinda Ridder. Either she’s a victim, too, or else she’s something a whole lot worse.”
Sighing, Joanna leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Let’s go. By the time we finish talking to Catherine Yates, we’ll have what we need from Dispatch. In the meantime, I have to say, I hope to God you’re wrong. I don’t want to be stuck tracking down some nice, gun-wielding fifteen-year-old.”
“That’s funny,” Frank said.
“What’s funny?”
“That’s exactly what Catherine Yates told me earlier this afternoon about Lucinda. She said Lucy’s a nice girl.”
“Right,” Joanna returned sarcastically. “I’ll just bet she did. That’s what grandmothers always say-that their particular little darlings are nothing but sweetness and light. I’ll bet if someone had asked Lizzie Borden’s grandmother, she probably would have given the exact same answer: She would have said, ”Little Elizabeth’s an adorable child. She’s just as nice as you please and wouldn’t hurt a fly if her life depended on it.“ ”
CHAPTER 7
As soon as Frank’s Crown Victoria pulled into Catherine Yates’ yard, the porch light snapped on and the front door slammed open. A stocky woman in blue jeans and a flapping denim shirt came hurrying off the front porch of a tiny square house.
“Did you find her?” she demanded of Frank Montoya as he rolled down the driver’s window.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry to report that we still haven’t found your granddaughter. I’ve brought Sheriff Joanna Brady along with me, Ms. Yates. She and I need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Joanna stepped out of the car and went around to the other side, offering her hand. “How do you do, Ms. Yates.”
Catherine Yates’ work-hardened fingers closed around Joanna’s with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Nice to meet you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess I didn’t really expect that the sheriff herself would show up.”
“I came because we need to speak to you about your daughter,” Joanna said.
“About Sandra?” Catherine asked. “How come? My granddaughter’s the one who’s missing.”
“You told Frank that you were expecting Sandra home soon. Is it possible that she and Lucinda took off together?”
Asking the question, Joanna knew she was stalling for time, postponing the inevitable moment when she would most likely have to deliver the painful news. Joanna fully expected Larry Kendrick’s mug shot would confirm that Catherine’s daughter was dead. In the meantime, asking questions was an acceptable delaying tactic. Even so, if Sandra was the victim, the awful task of telling Catherine Yates that her daughter was dead couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Notifying bereaved next of kin was Sheriff Joanna Brady’s job-part of it, anyway.
Behind her, Frank switched off his Crown Victoria-his Civvie, as he preferred to call it-and emerged into the chill early evening air.
“No,” Catherine Yates was saying. “That wouldn’t have happened. Lucy wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her mother.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Joanna asked. “Her mother’s been away for some time. Doesn’t it stand to reason that she’d be glad to see her?”
Catherine Yates simply shook her head and said nothing.
“All right, then,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about your daughter’s recent whereabouts.”
