Shoot / Don't Shoot jb-3 Read online

  Stopping off at the lower-floor student lounge, Joanna found the place deserted. She made straight for the telephone. It was far too late to phone High Lonesome, but Frank Montoya had told her that he never went to bed without watching The Tonight Show.

  “How are things going?” she asked, when he answered. “I tried calling earlier, but neither you nor Dick Voland could be found.”

  “Well,” Frank said slowly, “we did have our hands full today.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For one thing,” he replied, “somebody sent a petition signed by sixty-three prisoners as that you fire the cook in the jail.”

  “Fire him? How come?”

  “They say the food’s bad, that they can’t eat and that he cooks the same thing week after week.”

  “Is that true?” Joanna asked. “Is the jail food ally as bad as all that?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  “No, but ...”

  “These guys are prisoners,” Joanna said. “We supposed to house and feed them, but nobody said it has to be gourmet cuisine. You taste the food, Frank, and then you decide. If the food’s fit to eat, tell the prisoners to go piss up a rope. If the food’s as bad as they say, get rid of the cook and find somebody else.”

  “You really did hire me to do the dirty work, didn’t you?” Frank complained, but Joanna heard the unspoken humor in his voice and knew he was teasing.

  ‘What else is going on down there today?”

  ‘The big news is the fracas at the Sunset Inn out over the Divide.”

  The Mule Mountains, north of Bisbee, effectively cut the town off from the remainder of the state. In the old days, the Divide, as locals called it, was a formidable barrier. Now, although modern highway engineering and a tunnel had tamed the worst of the steep grades, the name—the Divide—still remained.

  The Sunset Inn, an outpost supper club on the far side of the Divide, had changed ownership and identities many times over the years. It had reopened under the name of Sunset Inn only two months earlier.

  “What happened?” Joanna asked.

  “From what we can piece together this is a pair of relative newlyweds, been married less than a year. It turns out the husband’s something of a slob who tends to leave his clothes lying wherever they fall. His wife got tired of picking up after him, so she took a hammer and nailed them all to the floor wherever they happened to fall. He tore hell out of his favorite western shirt when he tried to pick it up. Made him pretty mad. He went outside and sliced up the tires on his wife’s Chevette.”

  “Thank God it was only the tires,” Joanna breathed. “I guess it could have been worse.”

  Frank laughed. “Wait’ll you hear the rest. One of our patrol cars happened to drive by in time to see her taking a sledgehammer to the windshield of his pickup truck—unfortunately with him still inside. She’s in jail tonight on a charge of assault with intent, drunk and disorderly, and resisting arrest. The last I heard of the husband, he took his dog and what was left of his truck and was heading back home to his mother’s place in Silver City, New Mexico.”

  The way Frank told the story, it might have sounded almost comical, but Joanna was living too close to what had happened in the aftermath of similar violence between Serena and Jorge Grijalva. Right that minute, she couldn’t see any humor the situation.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Joanna said. “Especially with a young couple like that. It’s too bad they didn’t go for counseling.”

  “Did I say young?” Frank echoed. “They’re not young. He’s sixty-eight. She’s sixty-three or so, but hell on wheels with a sledgehammer. The whole time the deputy was driving her to jail, she yelling her head off about how she should have known better than to marry a bachelor who was also a mama’s boy. Mama, by the way—the one he’s going home to—must be pushing ninety if she’s a day.”

  Joanna did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. “I thought people were supposed to get wise when they got that old.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Frank advised. “So that’s what’s happening on the home front. What about you? How’s class?”

  “B-O-R-I-N-G,” Joanna answered. “It’s like being thrown all the way back into elementary school. I can’t wait for Thanksgiving vacation.”

  “And is Dave Thompson still the same sexist son of a bitch he was when I was there a couple of years ago?” Frank asked.

  “Indications are,” Joanna answered, “but I prob­ably shouldn’t talk about that now. You never can tell when somebody might walk in.”

  “Right,” Frank said. “Well, hang in there. It’s bound to get better. What about Jorge Grijalva?” he asked, changing the subject. “Did you have time to check on him?”

  “I just came home from seeing him a few minutes ago.”

  “What do you think?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m doing some checking. I’ll let you know.”

  “Fair enough. Should I tell Juanita you’re looking to it?”

  “For right now, don’t tell anybody anything.”

  “Sure thing, Joanna,” Frank Montoya answered. “You’re the boss.”

  There was no hint of teasing in Frank Montoya’s voice now. Joanna knew that he really meant what he said.

  “Thanks,” Joanna said. “And thanks for keeping an eye on things while I’m gone.”

  Once off the telephone, Joanna headed for her room. In the breezeway outside, she almost col­lided head-on with Leann Jessup. The other woman was dressed in tennies, shorts, and a glow-in-the-­dark T-shirt. “I’m going for a run,” she said. “Care to join me?”

  The idea of going for a jog carried no appeal. “No, thanks,” Joanna replied. “I’m saving myself for that first session of physical training tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to shower, hit the books, and then try to get some sleep.”

  For a moment Joanna watched Leann’s stretching exercises, then she glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. “Isn’t this a little late to go jogging?”

  Leann grinned. “Not in Phoenix it isn’t. Most of the year it’s too hot to go out any earlier. Besides, I’m a night owl—one of those midnight joggers. Actually, this is early for me.”

  Joanna laughed. “Where I come from, coyotes are the only ones who go jogging this time of night.

  Back in her dormitory room, Joanna quickly stripped out of her clothing and headed for shower.

  Standing under the torrent of pulsing hot water, Joanna marveled at the unaccustomed force of the water. Back on the High Lonesome, a private w ell, temperamental pump, and aging pipes all combined to create perpetual low pressure. Reveling in the steamy warmth, she stayed in the shower far longer than she would have at home.

  When she finally emerged from the shower, she once again found her bathroom tinged with cigarette smoke. The bath towel she used to dry her face, the one she had brought from home, stank to high heaven.

  Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Ever since she’d been forced to use high school rest rooms that had reeked of smoke, she had been bugged by the p­eople who hid out in bathrooms to smoke. Why the hell couldn’t they be honest enough to smoke in public, in front of God and everybody? She thought. Why did so many of them have to be so damned sneaky about it?

  With the exhaust fan going full blast, the mirror cleared gradually. As the steam dissipated, Joanna’s body slowly came into focus. Back home, with Jenny bouncing in and out of rooms, standing naked in front of a full-length mirror wasn’t some­thing Joanna Brady did very often. Now she subjected her body to a critical self-appraisal—something she hadn’t done for years. In fact, the last time she had looked at herself in that fashion had been nine years earlier, just after Jenny’s birth. She had been concerned about whether or not she’d get her pre-pregnancy figure back.

  She had, of course, within months, thanks more to genetics than to dietary diligence on Joanna’s part. Even in her sixties, Eleanor Lathrop remained pencil thin, and Jo
anna had inherited that tendency. Now, except for two faded stretch marks—one on each breast—there were no other physical indications that she had ever borne a child. Her breasts were still firm. Her small waist curved out into fuller hips. Her figure suffered some in com­parison with that of someone as elegantly tall as Leann Jessup. For one thing, Joanna was somewhat heavier. So be it. Joanna wasn’t a daily—or nightly—jogger. Her muscle tone came from real work on the ranch—from wrestling bales of hay and long-legged calves—rather than from a prescribed program of gym-bound weight lifting.

  Moving closer to the mirror, Joanna examined her face. She still wasn’t sleeping through the night. She hadn’t done that regularly since Andy died, but she was getting more rest. Her skin was clear. The dark circles under her eyes were fading. The new hairdo Eleanor had badgered her into on the day of the election was an improvement over her old one. Even though she still wasn’t quite accustomed to the shorter length, Joanna had to admit it was easier to care for. She found herself using far less shampoo, and the time she was forced to waste waving her hairdryer around in the bathroom been reduced from ten minutes to five.

  Standing there naked, Joanna Brady finally saw herself for the first time as someone else might see her, the way some man who wasn’t Andy might see her. A man who ...

  With a start, she remembered Butch Dixon staring at the rings on her fingers. She saw him standing there talking to her, leaning against the bar obviously enjoying her company. She saw again the pleased look on his face when she had walked back into the Roundhouse after her trip down to the Maricopa County Jail. She remembered how quickly he had apologized when he’d inadvertently stumbled onto Andy’s death, and how he’d jumped down the throat of the poor guy he thought might have insulted her.

  Certainly Butch Dixon wasn’t interested in her, was he?

  Joanna barely allowed her mind time enough to frame the question.

  “Nah!” she said aloud to the naked image staring back at her from the mirror. “No way! Couldn’t be!”

  With that, pulling on her nightgown, Joanna headed for bed. She fell asleep much later with the light on and with the heavy textbook open on her chest—only thirty pages into Dave Thompson’s seventy-six-page reading assignment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Because Jim Bob and Eva Lou were both early risers, Joanna had read another twenty pages and was down in the student lounge with the telephone receiver in hand by ten after six the next morning. Her mother-in-law answered the phone.

  “Is Jenny out of bed yet?” Joanna asked.

  “Oh, my,” Eva Lou replied. “She isn’t here. Your mother invited her to sleep over in town last night. I didn’t think it would be a problem. I know Jenny will be sorry to miss you. If you want, you might try calling over to your mother’s.”

  “Except you know how Eleanor is if she doesn’t get her beauty sleep,” Joanna returned. “And by the time she’s up and around, this phone will be too busy to use. I’ll call back later this evening. Tell Jenny I’ll talk to her then.”

  “Sure thing,” Eva Lou replied. “As far as I know, she plans on coming straight home from school.”

  Relinquishing the phone to another student, Joanna poured herself juice and coffee and a toasted couple of pieces of whole wheat bread. Then she settled down at one of the small, round tables, flipped open Historical Guide to Police Science, and went back to her reading assignment of which she still had another twenty-six pages to go.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  Joanna looked up to find Leann Jessup standing beside the table. She was carrying a loaded breakfast tray. “Sure,” Joanna said, moving her notebook and purse out of the way. “Be my guest. There’s plenty of room.”

  Leann began unloading her tray. Toast, coffee, orange juice, corn flakes, milk. She set a still-folded newspaper on the table beside her food.

  “Not much variety,” Leann commented. “By Christmas, the food in that buffet line could become pretty old. But I shouldn’t complain,” she added. ‘It’s food I don’t have to pay for out of my own pocket.

  “How close are you to done with that stupid reading assignment?” Leann asked, nodding in the direction of Joanna’s textbook as she sat down.

  Joanna sighed. “Twenty pages to go is all. History never was my best subject, and this stuff is dry as dust.” While she returned to the book, Leann Jessup picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. Moments later she groaned.

  “Damn!” Leann Jessup exclaimed, slamming the palm of her hand into the table, rattling everything on its surface. “I knew it. As soon as she turned missing, I knew he was behind it.”

  Joanna glanced up to find Leann Jessup shaking her head in dismay over something she had read in the paper.

  “Who was behind what?” Joanna asked. “Is something wrong?”

  Tight-lipped, Leann didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped the opened newspaper across the table. “It’s the lead story,” she said. “Page one.”

  Joanna picked up the paper. The story at the top of the page was datelined Tempe.

  The battered and partially clad body of a woman found in the desert outside Carefree last week has been identified as that of Rhonda Weaver Norton, the estranged and missing wife of Arizona State University economics professor, Dr. Dean R. Norton.

  According to the Maricopa County Medical Ex­aminer’s Office, Ms. Norton died as a result of hom­icidal violence. The victim was reported missing last week by her attorney, Abigail Weismann, when she failed to show up for an appointment. When Ms. Weismann was unable to locate her client at her apartment, the attorney called the Tempe police saying she was concerned for Ms. Norton’s safety.

  Two weeks ago Ms. Weismann obtained a no-contact order on Ms. Norton’s behalf. The court document ordered her estranged husband to have no further dealings with his wife, either in person or by telephone.

  Reached at his Tempe residence, Professor Norton refused comment other than saying he was deeply shocked and saddened by news of his wife’s death.

  The investigation is continuing, but according to usually reliable sources inside the Tempe Police De­partment, Professor Norton is being considered a person of interest.... see Missing, pg. B-4.

  Instead of finishing the article, Joanna looked up Leann Jessup’s pained face.

  “I took the missing person call,” Leann explained. “Afterward, I checked the professor’s address for priors. Bingo. Guess what? Three domestics reported within the last three months. The son of a bitch killed her. He probably figures since he’s a middle-aged white guy with a nice time and a good job, that the cops’ll let him off. And the thing that pisses the hell out of me is that he’s probably right.”

  “Three separate priors?” Joanna asked. “When the officers responded each of those other times, was he ever arrested?”

  “Not once.”

  “Why not?” Joanna asked.

  Leann Jessup’s attractive lips curled into a disdainful and decidedly unattractive sneer. “Are you kidding? You read what he does for a living.”

  Joanna consulted the article to be sure. “He’s a professor at ASU,” she returned. “What difference does that make?”

  “The university is Tempe’s bread and butter. The professors who work and live there can do no wrong.”

  “Surely that doesn’t include getting away murder.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you,” Leann answered bitterly. As she spoke, she thumbed through the pages until she located the continuation of the article. “Do you want me to read aloud?” she asked.

  Joanna nodded. “Sure,” she said.

  Lael Weaver Gastone, mother of the slain woman, was in seclusion at her home in Sedona, but her husband, Jean Paul Gastone, told reporters that women like his stepdaughter—women married to violent men—need more than court documents to protect them.

  “Our daughter would have been better off if she had ignored the lawyers and judges in the court system and spent the same amount of money on a .357 Magnum
,” he said from the porch of his mountaintop home.

  Much the same sentiment was echoed hours later by Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz, spokeswoman for a group called MAVEN, the Maricopa Anti-Violence Empowerment Network, an umbrella organization comprising several different battered women’s ad­vocacy groups.

  “Handing a woman something called a protective order and telling her that will fix things is a bad joke, almost as bad as the giving the emperor his nonexistent new clothes and telling him to wear them in public. If a man doesn’t respect his wife—a living, breathing human being—why would he re­spect a piece of paper?”

  Ms. Hirales-Steinowitz stated that crimes against women, particularly domestic-partner homicides, have increased dramatically in Arizona in recent years. According to her, MAVEN has scheduled a candlelight vigil to be held starting at eight tonight on the steps of the Arizona State Capitol building In downtown Phoenix.

  MAVEN hopes the vigil will draw public attention not only to what happened to Rhonda Norton but also to the other sixteen women who have died as a result of suspected domestic violence in the Phoe­nix metropolitan area in the course of this year.

  Michelle Greer Dobson, a friend and former classmate of the slain woman, attended Wicken­burg High School with Rhonda Weaver Norton. According to Dobson, the victim, class valedictorian in 1983, was exceptionally bright during her teenage years.

  “Rhonda was always the smartest girl—the smartest person—in our class when it came to cracking the books. She went to Arizona State Uni­versity on a full-ride scholarship. As soon as she ran into that professor down there at the univer­sity, she was hooked. I don’t think she ever looked at another boy our age.”

  According to Ms. Dobson, Rhonda Weaver met Professor Norton when she took his class in mi­croeconomics as an ASU undergraduate student nine years ago. Norton divorced his first wife the following summer. He married Rhonda Weaver a short time later. It was his third marriage and her first. They have no children.