Joanna retreated into her office far enough to collect a piece of paper and a pen. “When did all this happen?” Joanna asked. “And where?”
“We haven’t established a definite time of death. At the time she disappeared, Ms. Andrade was living in Federal Way, Washington, under an assumed name. She had evidently appropriated the ID of one Marina Aguirre, who died as a child. She was waiting tables in a local Denny’s. As I said before, I think she was trying to put her past behind her.”
That may be a comfort, Joanna thought. But not much.
“Any idea when the body will be released?” she asked.
“We’re not talking about a body,” Beau cautioned. “Skeletal remains only. Her family needs to be prepared for that. As far as a schedule for releasing the remains, her family will need to discuss that with the medical examiner over in Ellensburg.”
He gave her the names and applicable phone numbers.
“And where exactly is Ellensburg?”
“A couple of hours east of Seattle on I-90.”
“All right,” Joanna said after writing it all down. “I’ll talk to Jaime, and then I’ll have him call you.”
When the call ended, Joanna stood in the quiet of her office for a moment, gathering herself. Out in the living room she heard the sound of easy laughter, but she had moved far away from the world of bachelor party fun and playing poker. She went back to the kitchen looking for Butch, who was grabbing a fresh set of sodas. He took one look at her face and got it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“How are you at Texas Hold’Em?” she asked.
“I stink. Why?”
“Because Jaime and I are leaving,” she said. “I just found out that his sister’s been murdered. I have to go tell him.”
Joanna went back into the family room and beckoned for Jaime to come with her. He put down his cards and followed her into the hallway. “What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s Marcella, Jaime,” Joanna said with a catch in her throat. “I’ve just received a call from a homicide detective in Washington State.”
“A homicide detective.” He repeated the words aloud and in the process seemed to come to an understanding of what they meant, even if he didn’t want to. “She’s dead, then?” he asked.
Joanna nodded. “Murdered.”
The naked shock on Jaime’s face left Joanna momentarily unable to speak. She knew that look from the inside out as well as all the hurt that went with it. She had been there herself on the day Andy died.
After a few moments, though, Jaime’s cop mind switched on. “Where?” he asked. “When? What happened?”
“I don’t know the details, but she’s evidently been dead for several months,” Joanna replied. “Her skeletal remains were positively identified through dental records late this afternoon.”
“I’d better go,” Jaime said. “I need to tell Luis and my parents.”
He made as if to turn away, but Joanna caught his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Let me change my clothes. I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t need to…”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “Please.”
She handed him the piece of paper with her scribbled notes. Jaime studied it for a moment. Before he could say anything more, she pressed her cell phone into his hand.
“Use this to call the detective,” she said. “I put his number in this. All you have to do is hit ‘send’ twice. That should take you straight to Mr. Beaumont. I’ll be right back.”
Joanna hurried into the bedroom, where she stripped off her jeans and the bright green top. Next-of-kin notifications were tough, but this one in particular required a certain protocol and decorum. One of the grieving family members happened to be a teenager who was about to lose his second parent. Such an occasion called for nothing less than a full-dress uniform.
As Joanna went about putting on her uniform, it seemed to her as though she was also putting on the job. She had zipped up the pants, had fastened the Kevlar vest, and was buttoning her shirt when the name she had been searching for finally came through.
“S.H.I.T.!” she muttered aloud, just as Butch came through the bedroom door and closed it behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “If you’ve lost a button, change shirts. Cussing about it isn’t going to help.”
“I wasn’t cussing,” she said. “I just remembered. S.H.I.T. is the name of the outfit in Washington, the one J. P. Beaumont works for. It’s called the Special Homicide Investigation Team.”
“Oh,” Butch said. “I see. Beaumont. Isn’t that the same guy you worked with a couple of years ago?”
Joanna nodded and hoped to hell she wouldn’t blush again. Fortunately she didn’t.
Butch walked over and waited patiently for her to finish with her shirt. Once she had fastened the last button and tucked in the tail, he gathered her into his arms for a long hug.
“I know you have to go,” he said. “I came in to kiss you good-bye and tell you to be careful.”
“Thank you,” she said, kissing him back. “I will be.”
I always am.
Once I hung up, it seemed like only a few minutes had passed before the phone rang again. Mel had gone into the bedroom and slipped into “something comfortable,” as they say. It was a slick enough outfit that, as soon as I saw her again, I started having amorous ideas. The ringing phone, however, effectively put an end to any considerations other than work.
“Beaumont here.”
“My name’s Jaime Carbajal.” The man’s voice cracked as he spoke.
I hadn’t expected to hear back from him quite that soon. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told him.
If Jaime heard my expression of sympathy, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked a question I didn’t expect. “Did you find the money?”
I paused for a moment, taking stock. Was Carbajal referring to the same money Tom Wojeck had mentioned? And if so, how did Marcella’s brother know about it? Maybe he was involved somehow, and if he was, he wouldn’t be the first cop who had been enticed over to the dark side by the siren song of easy money.
“What money?” I asked aloud. If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, answering a question with a question is usually a good strategy.
“When my sister left here, she had a sum of money in her possession.”
“How much?” I asked.
“I have no idea how much,” he returned. “I didn’t see it. Her son, Luis, did. He said it was quite a lot.”
So we need to speak to the son after all, I thought. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?” I said aloud.
“We believe it was money Marcella’s husband had stolen from a drug dealer down here in Arizona. But now the husband is dead, too. He was murdered in prison in California several months ago. Somebody shanked him. I’m guessing that whoever killed him may also be responsible for killing Marcella.”
“Do you have any idea who?” I asked.
“I’ve only been able to pull up one name, Juan Francisco Castro,” Jaime said. “His street name is Paco. He’s a drug dealer who moves back and forth between Arizona and Mexico, and probably California as well.”
I wrote down the name.
“Do you have any idea where Paco might be right now?”
“Not really. I’ve had feelers out all along. So far nothing’s turned up.”
In the background I heard Joanna Brady’s voice. “Ready?” she asked.
“I have to go now,” Carbajal said. “We’ve got to go talk to my nephew, Marcella’s son.”
That wasn’t a job I envied.
“You go ahead,” I said. “But keep me posted. If you learn anything on your end, let us know. We’ll do the same.”
“What?” Mel asked.
I handed her the piece of paper I had used to jot down Juan Francisco Castro’s name. “Let’s look into this
