shakers behind launching that first Star Trek series. Her mother, Monica Davis, is in her eighties now. In her heyday, before she married Herman, she made a decent living as a bit actress in B-movies.”
“Do you know how we can get in touch with her?”
Diego nodded. “She lives in an assisted-living facility in Burbank. It’s called Hidden Hills, and it’s exclusively for movie and television folk. I can get you the number if you want, but I’m not sure it’ll do you any good. She’s an Alzheimer’s patient, and she’s pretty well out of it. If you contact her, she probably won’t know who you’re talking about.”
“But the facility may have a list of other people-other relatives of Pam’s-who should be notified,” Johnny persisted. ‘And don’t worry about the number. I’m sure I can get it from directory assistance.”
“Did Ms. Leigh say what kind of a story Pam and your sister were working on here?”
Joanna asked. “Not more pedophile priests, I hope.”
“Bigamy,” Diego Ortega answered.
“Bigamy?” Johnny Cruikshank demanded.
“They spent the better part of two weeks up in northern Arizona, in both Page and Kingman. Ms. Leigh said they made several trips to a place called the Arizona Strip investigating a breakaway Mormon group called The Brethren. From what I understand, The Brethren practice bigamy quite openly.”
What Joanna Brady knew about the Arizona Strip came from Arizona Sheriffs’ Association meetings where Mojave County Sheriff Aubrey Drake had complained at length about trying to enforce the law-any kind of law-in the part of his jurisdiction that lay north of the Colorado River. Relatively inaccessible, it was a haven for people who had a penchant for wide
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open spaces and a lack of law enforcement oversight. It was an open secret that bigamy was practiced among some of the reclusive people living on ranches in and around some of the more remote communities.
“They’re not,” Johnny Cruikshank announced abruptly.
“Not what?” asked Sheriff Trotter, looking at his detective with a puzzled frown.
“The bigamists aren’t real Mormons any more than the 9/11 terrorists are real Muslims.
They’re jerks who’ve decided to use religion to justify any kind of outrageous behavior.”
Not even the dim lighting of Esther’s Diner concealed the two angry red splotches that had suddenly appeared in Johnny Cruikshank’s tanned cheeks. So she’s a Mormon, Joanna realized.
Joanna turned her attention to Diego Ortega. “I’ve heard of The Brethren,” she said.
“Edith Mossman, Carol’s grandmother, mentioned that her son Eddie, Carol’s father, belonged to a group by that name.”
Diego Ortega’s eyes hardened. “Have you talked to him yet?”
“No,” Joanna said. “We’ve been trying to contact him, but as far as I know, he’s still in Mexico.”
“If I were you, I’d do more than just contact him,” Ortega said.
“Why?”
“Because,” he replied, “Carol Leigh told me that Carmen and Pam made contact with a second group, one that calls itself God’s Angels. It’s made up of women who have escaped from bigamy situations. The whole purpose of God’s Angels is to help other women do the same thing-escape. Within two days of making contact with that group, Pam received a threatening e-mail that she forwarded to Candace Leigh at Fandango Productions.”
“Do you have any idea what it said?” Joanna asked.
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Diego reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you. Look.”
He unfolded the paper and placed it on the table. The message was short: “Leave my daughters alone” was all it said. It was signed Edward Mossman.
‘At the time, no one at Fandango took it seriously, not even Carmen and Pam,” he said quietly. “Nobody believed it was a death threat. Unfortunately, now we know it was.”
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An hour later, when Joanna finally emerged from Esther’s, she found herself in the strange half-darkness of a full-fledged dust storm. The humidity had shot up, making the heat that much worse. Off to the south, but far closer now, thunder rumbled in unseen clouds. It was the oncoming storm that had finally brought the joint interview with Diego Ortega to a halt. He was hoping to take off and fly north far enough to escape the brunt of the wind and rain.
“Are you sure you want to head home in this?” Randy Trotter asked as he walked Joanna back to her Ciwie.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Most of the culverts on Highway 80 have been replaced.
And usually there’s not that much runoff from the first summer storm.”
Famous last words. The rain hit just as she turned off I-10 onto Highway 80 at Road Forks. The wind-driven rain had so much dust mixed in with it that the water turned to blinding
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mud on her windshield. For the better part of an hour she crept along at twenty and thirty miles per hour. By the time she finally made it as far as Rodeo, the roadside ditches and dips were beginning to run. The storm let up
