Paradise Lost

“Pathway to Paradise,” Brent said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember Irma saying something about that once, only she just called it Pathway, I think. I got the distinct feeling she thought it was some kind of cult. Is it?”

“Not exactly,” Joanna replied. “But close enough.” She stood up and joined Frank on the steps. “We should be going then,” she added. “Thanks so much for the tea and the information. And if you should happen to hear anything from Irma Sorenson, please contact me or my department right away.” Taking a business card out of her pocket, she handed it over to Brent Hardy.

He looked at it and frowned. “Do you think something’s hap­pened to her or not?” he asked.

That was precisely what Joanna was thinking—that something terrible had happened to Irma Sorenson—but she didn’t want to say so. Not necessarily,” she hedged, but Brent Hardy wasn’t so easily put off.

“When you first got here, you said Irma’s phone call was placed right after a 911 call. What was that all about?”

“There was a call to Tucson’s emergency communications cen­ter about a bloodied vehicle found at Tucson International Airport. That vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car, belonged to a woman named Connie Haskell, who was found murdered in Apache Pass last Friday night.”

“What color Lincoln Town Car?” Tom Lowrey asked suddenly. “And what year?”

“A 1994,” Frank Montoya answered before Joanna had a chance to. “A dark metallic blue.”

“I saw that car,” Tom Lowrey said. “Or at least one like it. I never noticed when it drove up. All I know is there was a dark blue Lincoln Town Car parked right behind Irma’s Nissan early Satur­day morning when I headed into Tucson to get groceries. I didn’t think all that much about it. I saw it and figured Irma must have been entertaining overnight guests. When I came back home around noon, it was gone, of course. So was the Nissan.”

“Are you saying Irma Sorenson is somehow mixed up in this murder thing?” Brent asked. “That’s ridiculous. Preposterous.”

The pieces were tumbling into place in Joanna’s head. It didn’t seem at all preposterous to her. Irma Sorenson was mixed up in it all right, and so was her son. Had Rob Whipple been on guard when Connie Haskell tried to gain admittance to Pathway to Par­adise to see her husband? Had that been Connie’s fatal mistake—speaking to the armed guard stationed in the shack outside the gates of Amos Parker’s treatment center?

“She may be involved,” Joanna said carefully after a momen­tary pause. “It’s also possible that she may be either an unwitting or an unwilling participant. The woman who called herself Alice Miller—the one who made that 91 I call – obviously wanted the car to be frond. From what Mr. Hardy his told ns about his abortive conversation with Irma a few minutes later, I believe she may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to finish saying whatever it was she had intended to say when she called here.”

“So she’s most likely in danger,” Toni Lowrey concluded.

If she’s not already dead, Joanna thought. “Possibly,” Joanna said with a sigh.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Brent asked.

“You’ve already helped more than you know,” Joanna told them. “Whether Connie Haskell’s killer turns out to be Irma’s son or someone else altogether, there’s obviously some connection between your Irma Sorenson and the dead woman’s car. So if you hear anything from her or her son or if she turns up, please call us immediately. I don’t suppose I need to add that these people should be considered dangerous. Whatever you do, make no attempt to detain either of them on your own.”

The two men nodded in unison as Joanna left the porch and followed Frank Montoya out to the car. He headed for the driver’s seat, but Joanna stopped him. “I’ll drive,” she said. “You run the mobile communications equipment.”

For months, and in spite of unstinting derision from his fellow officers, Frank Montoya had tinkered with his Crown Victoria, tak­ing it beyond the normal patrol-car computing technology and adding additional state-of-the-art equipment whenever the oppor­tunity presented itself. The chief deputy’s Civvie now boasted a complete mobile office with the latest in wireless Internet and fax connections powered by the department’s newest and most expensive laptop. And the investment of both time and money had paid off. In the last several months, Frank Montoya’s high-tech wizardry had saved the day on more than one occasion. Around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, joking references to Frank’s “elec­tronic