than they were with a cheating spouse. And so, although Ron Haskell might well turn into the prime suspect, Joanna wasn’t ready to dismiss the idea of a crazed carjacker who, upon finding a lone woman driving on a freeway late at night, might have veered away from simple carjacking into something far worse.
Picking up her cell phone, Joanna dialed Frank Montoya’s num her. “What are you doing calling me?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal and dinner.”
“Think again,” she told him. “I’m on my way to Bisbee bringing with me a lady named Maggie MacFerson. We have reason to believe she’s the sister of Constance Marie Haskell, the Jane Doe from Apache Pass. I’m bringing her down to George’s office so she can ID the body.”
“On your weekend off?” Frank objected. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t Maggie know how to drive?”
“Knows how but can’t,” Joanna replied. “She hurt her hands.”
She discreetly left out the part about probable blood alcohol count in case Maggie MacFerson wasn’t sleeping as soundly as she appeared to be.
“How about calling Doc Winfield and having him meet us at his office uptown,” Joanna continued. “It should be between eight-thirty and nine, barring some unforeseen traffic problem.”
“Wait a minute,” Frank said. “I’m the one who’s supposed to tell your mother her husband has to go in to work on Saturday night? Is that so you don’t have to do it?”
“That’s right,” Joanna returned evenly. “You’re not Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s daughter. She can’t push your buttons the way she does mine.”
“Okay, Boss,” Frank said. “But I’m putting in for hazardous-duty pay.”
Joanna smiled sadly. It hurt to know that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s reputation for riding roughshod over everybody was common knowledge around the department.
“What else?” Frank asked.
“According to Maggie MacFerson, Connie’s husband, Ron Haskell, emptied his wife’s bank accounts before he took off for parts unknown. He left a message on his wife’s answering machine Thursday sometime. Ms. MacFerson inadvertently erased it, so I don’t know exactly what it said. Something about seeing Connie in paradise, which Ms. MacFerson seems to have concluded was a death threat.”
“You want me to trace the call?”
“You read my mind.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Frank, an inveterate note-taker, may have balked at having to deal with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, but he had no concern about tackling telephone-company bureaucracy. As far as Joanna was concerned, that left Eleanor in a league of her own.
“Next?” Frank prodded through the momentary silence.
“Did you get a list from the DMV on vehicles registered to that Encanto Drive address?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have it here somewhere. A Lincoln and a BMW, if I remember correctly.”
Joanna listened as he shuffled through loose papers. “Once you find them,” she said, “I want those vehicle descriptions posted with all of our patrol units and with the folks from Border Patrol as well.”
“So you’re still thinking this might be just another carjacking?” Frank asked.
“Until we know otherwise, I’m not dismissing any possibilities,” she replied. “A single woman traveling alone at night might be easier pickings for a carjacker than that little old guy in his Saturn.”
“We don’t know for sure Connie Haskell was coming to Cochise County,” Frank objected.
“We sure as hell know that’s where she ended up!” Joanna responded. “And since she didn’t fly from Phoenix to Apache Pass, that means she must have driven.”
“I see your point,” Frank conceded. “I have that DMV info. It was buried on my desk. I’ll have Dispatch put it out to the cars right away.”
