Twenty minutes later Joanna Brady and Frank Montoya finally managed to reach the crumpled remains of Irma Sorenson’s pale pink Nissan. By then it was mostly dark. When they were finally able to approach the driver’s side together, Joanna found it necessary to switch on the tiny flashlight she kept clipped to her key ring. Steeling herself for what lay inside, Joanna was astonished to see that the driver’s seat was empty. The passenger seat wasn’t. There, a lone figure, still secured by a seat belt, dangled upside down.
When the beam of light from her flashlight finally settled on the figure’s face, Joanna could barely believe her eyes. “I’ll be damned!” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe it!”
“What?” Frank demanded.
“See for yourself,” she said.
Joanna handed him the flashlight and then let her body slip down beside the crumpled doorframe. The person hanging in Irma Sorenson’s Nissan wasn’t Irma at all. It was her son, Rob Whipple, with what looked like a single bullet hole marring the middle of his forehead.
“How the hell do you think that happened?” Frank Montoya asked.
“The usual way,” Joanna returned. “We’d better go back to the car and change that APB. So much for saving the Irma Sorensons of the world.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the time Joanna and Frank had climbed back up the cliff and hiked back to the Civvie, they were both beat. Fortunately, by then their requested backup had arrived in the person of Deputy Dave Hollicker. While Frank set about making the necessary notifications, Joanna brought Hollicker up to speed on what had happened.
“I want you to go up to the wash and make plaster casts of the tire tracks you’ll find there,” she told him. “If nothing else, the tracks can tell us which was the last vehicle to drive out this way. The sooner the casting is done, the sooner we’ll be able to get other vehicles in and out to the crime scene. If we’re all on foot, it’s a hell of a long walk.”
Hollicker retrieved his casting kit and set off for the wash just as Frank finished up on the radio. “I talked to Doc Winfield,” he said. “He’s on his way. So are Jaime and Ernie. And I revised the APB. I gave them Irma Sorenson’s name and driver’s license number so they can post her picture. I also said she could be armed and dangerous.”
“Good,” Joanna returned.
Frank went to the trunk and returned with two bottles of water, one of which he handed over to Joanna. “Better have some of this,” he said.
The water was warm, but as soon as Joanna tasted it, she realized how dehydrated she was. “Thanks,” she said. “I needed that.”
They both drank silently until the bottles were empty. “Do you really think Irma did it?” Frank asked at last. “Rob Whipple was her son, for God’s sake.”
Joanna nodded.
“How come?”
“How come she did it or how come I think so?”
“Both,” Frank replied.
“The reason Caroline Parker talked to us as much as she did is that both she and her father are grappling with the fact that their supposedly ‘cured’ killer has killed again. I’m guessing Irma reached the same conclusion. She must feel responsible for what her son did. I think I’d feel the same way if I were in her position.”
“Enough to kill your own child?” Frank returned.
Joanna sighed. “Probably not,” she said.
“But aren’t we jumping to conclusions here? We don’t
