Missing and Endangered Page 16

  “Which means that Madison had doped Leon Hogan sometime prior to when bullets started flying.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “What’s next, then?” Butch asked.

  “Who knows?” Joanna replied. “For right now the ball is in Dave Newton’s court.”

  She left the house right at seven thirty, and her phone rang before she made it out to High Lonesome Road. Jenny’s face showed in caller ID.

  “Hey,” Joanna said. “I thought you had a final first thing this morning.”

  “I do,” Jenny said. “I’m on my way there now, but I need some roommate advice.”

  Instantly Joanna felt out of her league. She’d had two husbands but no roommates—ever. By the time she was Jenny’s age, she and Andy were married and already had a baby. When it came to roommate issues, Joanna Brady knew absolutely nothing.

  “About what?” she asked.

  “About Beth,” Jenny answered. “I wanted to talk to you about this last night, but with Dad on the phone I just couldn’t.”

  “Talk about what?” Joanna asked.

  “Beth was still asleep when I left the dorm this morning, but she spent most of the weekend crying her eyes out. I’m pretty sure she’s never had a boyfriend before, and losing this one is real hard on her. I’ve tried to get her to talk to me about it, but she won’t. She just says that it’s hopeless—that her life is over and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I don’t know how to help her, Mom. I’m afraid she’s going to go off the deep end.”

  Joanna heard an unfamiliar note of panic in her daughter’s voice. “When you say ‘off the deep end,’ are you saying you’re afraid she might harm herself?”

  Jenny hesitated for a moment before she replied. “I am, actually,” she admitted.

  “Doesn’t NAU have counselors on staff?”

  “They do,” Jenny answered. “I already suggested she look into seeing one, but Beth said no way was she going to talk to one of them ‘over this.’ Those were her exact words. That’s what she said: quote/unquote, ‘over this.’”

  “So does ‘over this’ mean something other than boyfriend troubles?” Joanna asked. “If she meant her boyfriend . . . What’s his name again?”

  “Ron—Ronald Cameron.”

  “Right, of Washington, D.C. So if it’s all about Ron, wouldn’t she have said ‘over him’?”

  “Beats me,” Jenny said gloomily. “I have no idea if the breakup is his idea or hers, but what I do know for sure is that Beth’s taking it really, really hard.”

  “How long were they together?” Joanna asked.

  “Not that long, since shortly after school started last fall,” Jenny said. “They’ve never actually met in person, but they talk back and forth almost every day. I think Beth truly loves the guy. At least she thinks she does.”

  That was something Joanna couldn’t quite understand. How could you possibly fall in love with somebody you’d never met in person? But then she thought about Sage and Denny and Jenny herself. She had loved them long before meeting them in person as living, breathing human beings. And that set of thoughts kept Joanna from saying the first thing that came to mind. She said the second thing instead.

  “Maybe you should call him,” she said. “If they’ve been in constant contact for this long, even if they’re splitting up, chances are he still cares enough about her that he wouldn’t want something bad to happen to her.”

  Like suicide. That was Joanna’s chilling interior thought, one she didn’t mention aloud to her daughter.

  “All right, Mom,” Jenny said. “Thanks. I’m here now. I’ve got to go in. Wish me luck.”

  Chapter 21

  By the time Joanna arrived at the department, Casey Ledford was already sitting in the lobby just outside Joanna’s office, chatting with Kristin.

  “What’s up?” Joanna asked.

  Casey passed her an array of colored photos, the previously mentioned crime scene photos. There were five of them in all, arranged in a fan like a hand of cards.

  “Take a look,” Casey said.

  Joanna did as she was told. The first picture was of a coffee table. An indecipherable piece of paper lay in the middle of the table, with a pool of liquid spilling across it. Some of the dark liquid remained on the table itself, but most of it had soaked into the paperwork, creating a large brown stain. To the left of the puddle, a coffee cup lay on its side, with its handle pointing away from the spill. At the far end of the coffee table was another tipped-over cup and another puddle of spilled coffee. Yes, this cup, too, lay on its side, but with the handle right at the edge of the table, so indications were that whoever had been sitting on the sofa and using that cup had most likely been right-handed.

  The next enlargement focused on the coffee-stained paper itself, with the camera lens close enough that the words on the document, including those obscured by the coffee, were still legible. Leon and Madison Hogan’s names were both front and center.

  “The protection order?” Joanna asked, glancing in Casey’s direction.

  The CSI nodded. “Keep looking,” she said.

  The next three photos were all of the same thing—the tipped-over coffee cup at the far end of the table—and each was somewhat larger than the previous one. It wasn’t until Joanna was studying the final photo that she saw what Casey had wanted her to see in the first place—a dark smudge of lipstick along the rim of the cup.

  “So the cup with the lipstick on it must be Madison’s.”

  Casey nodded again.

  “Did you happen to collect samples from this one?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Casey said regretfully, “but I doubt that it had been tampered with. No one at the scene indicated that Madison was impaired in any way. Hysterical and out of control yes, but not drugged up.”

  “You passed this information along to Dave Newton?”

  “Absolutely,” Casey said. “And if he asks me, I’m planning on telling him that I showed it to you, too.”

  “So she goes there and doses poor Leon with scopolamine in hopes of taking him out. Then, when Leon gets hold of her gun, she runs from the house, and he comes out shooting at her, so confused and doped up that he probably has no idea what he’s doing.”

  Casey nodded. “The fact that he actually hit Armando was nothing but sheer bad luck.”

  “And utterly senseless,” Joanna added, handing the photos back to Casey. “Thanks for letting me see these.”

  Casey took the photos and left. Forty-five minutes later, while Joanna was working her way through that day’s incoming mail, Kristin reached out to her over the intercom.

  “Detective Liam Jackson to see you, Sheriff Brady.”

  Joanna had to smile. Her office door was almost always open, and most people simply walked inside. Kristin was clearly putting on airs for this out-of-town, Department of Public Safety interloper.

  “Sure,” Joanna said. “Send him right in.”

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Liam said.

  Joanna couldn’t help but like the guy. She had developed a BS filter that enabled her to separate phony politeness from the real thing. This was definitely the latter.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Dave wanted me to let you know that we’re pulling up stakes and heading back to the barn.”

  “You mean you’ve finished your investigation?”

  Liam nodded. “We just had a meeting with your county attorney and showed him what we had so far. Mr. Jones told us that in light of additional evidence that surfaced overnight, it’s reasonable to assume Leon Hogan was under the influence of scopolamine at the time of the shooting. Mr. Jones’s determination is that in returning fire, Deputy Ruiz was acting in self-defense and that his use of deadly force was justified.”

  Saying nothing, Joanna sat very still for a moment, allowing a wave of relief to wash over her. Armando was in the clear as far as charges were concerned. Of course, it was typical of Dave Newton that he wasn’t man eno
ugh to show up and admit his defeat to Joanna in person.

  “Thank you so much, Liam,” she murmured at last. “I appreciate your letting me know, although I suspect that your partner was hoping for a somewhat different outcome.”

  Liam nodded, giving her a noncommittal shrug accompanied by a wry grin. “Sometimes you eat the bear,” he said. “Sometimes the bear eats you.”

  And sometimes when you eat bear meat, you end up with trichinosis, Joanna thought, but she didn’t say so aloud.

  “Does that mean that when Deputy Ruiz recovers, I won’t need to keep him on administrative leave?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Does anyone else know?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Liam replied. “Only you.”

  As soon as Liam departed, Joanna hurried to Tom Hadlock’s door and stuck her head in the office. “Arlee Jones has spoken,” she said. “He’s ruled Leon Hogan’s death as justifiable homicide. No charges will be filed. I’d like you to hold a presser and let people know.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Tucson,” she said. “This is news Armando and Amy Ruiz need to hear in person.”

  “Do you want me to send out a departmentwide announcement?” Tom asked.

  Kristin had created and maintained a special-distribution list so that in case of some dire emergency a notification could go out to the cell-phone numbers of every member of Joanna’s department at the press of a button. In this case, however, it would be sending out good news rather than bad.

  “Yes,” Joanna said, “make it short and sweet, something like ‘An independent investigation by the Arizona Department of Public Safety has determined that Cochise County Deputy Armando Ruiz was acting in self-defense in the shooting death of Whetstone resident Leon Hogan.’ That’ll just about do it.”

  Hadlock gave his boss a sly grin. “Are you sure you don’t want me to add a ‘Neener, neener, Detective Newton!’ on the bottom of that message?”

  The fact that Tom was beginning to develop a sense of humor came as something of a shock to Joanna, and she burst out laughing.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “Let’s go with understated elegance, but remember: Don’t send out the text until I give you the go-ahead. I want to let Amy and Armando know before anyone else does.”

  As Joanna drove out of the parking lot, Marliss Shackleford’s RAV4 was driving in. Fortunately for Joanna, Marliss was now Tom Hadlock’s problem. Too bad for him.

  Motoring up and over the Divide, Joanna was lost in thought. Armando might have been exonerated, but Leon Hogan was still dead and his children were still in the custody of their remaining parent, who had possibly not only drugged their father but also intended to kill him.

  What was Joanna’s responsibility here? For one thing, Madison had the presumption of innocence. For another, Joanna understood that standard Child Protective Services protocols attempted to keep families together at all costs. But was this a family that should be kept together? Obviously, Leon himself hadn’t thought so. That’s why he’d been consulting with a divorce attorney—a divorce attorney who lived in Tucson. And not just any attorney—an attorney who happened to be Leon’s father’s childhood pal. Lyndell Hogan had been paying the attorney’s fees on his son’s behalf. That being the case, maybe the attorney would be willing to discuss what had really been going on.

  Before Lyn Hogan had left Joanna’s office the previous day, he’d given her his cell number in case she needed to be in touch. She’d added it to her contacts list as a matter of habit.

  “Siri,” she said aloud, getting the AI’s attention. “Call Lyndell Hogan.”

  “Lyn Hogan speaking,” he answered after picking up.

  Joanna took a deep breath. Since the case surrounding the shooting was no longer active, neither was the prohibition against her discussing it. With that in mind, she wasn’t going to pull any punches.

  “It’s Sheriff Brady,” she told him. “There have been some new developments overnight. Lab results indicate that someone administered scopolamine to your son shortly before the shooting.”

  “Sco- what?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

  “Scopolamine,” Joanna answered. “On the street it’s known as a date-rape drug and is sometimes referred to as ‘devil’s breath.’ It’s a tasteless clear liquid. Once dropped into someone’s drink—that would be coffee in Leon’s case—it’s undetectable. Often victims become confused or even pass out cold. When the drug wears off, they usually have little or no memory of what happened either immediately before or after ingesting the drug.”

  “In other words, when my son came out of the house with that gun in his hand, he wasn’t in his right mind and had no idea what he was doing.”

  “Correct,” Joanna replied. “I’m surprised he could stand on his own, much less shoot. He would have been completely out of control. Earlier today the Department of Public Safety submitted their findings about the incident to the county attorney. Arlee Jones has now ruled your son’s death to be justifiable homicide.”

  “But it happened because he was drugged,” Lyn said.

  “Yes.”

  “Who gave the stuff to him, Madison?”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “Why?”

  “We believe she was after the hundred thousand dollars’ worth of group life insurance that Leon had at work. Unfortunately for her, shortly before this happened, Leon changed his beneficiary designation. As things now stand, all proceeds will be held in trust for the kids. She won’t be getting a dime.”

  “Thank God for small blessings,” Lyn murmured. “Are you going to arrest her and charge her?”

  “Probably not,” Joanna replied. “The presence of scopolamine is real enough, but the rest of it—the idea that she went to Whetstone possibly with the intention of killing him—is all speculation on our part. Without a full confession, I don’t think there’s a chance that we’d be able to get a jury to convict her. It would be so much wasted effort. My main concern right now is with the kids.”

  “Mine, too,” Hogan said. “Izzy and I tried stopping by the house last night. Madison’s mom came to the door, but Madison refused to let us in or even see us.”

  “And didn’t let you see the kids either.”

  “They were probably in bed. We didn’t even ask, but the idea of them being left with her . . .”

  “That’s why I’m calling you, Mr. Hogan,” Joanna said. “Some items have come to light that make me wonder if leaving the two children in their mother’s care is in their best interests.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  Joanna recounted what Deb had learned in the previous day’s interviews—that Kendall had been reluctant to go home, that there seemed to be a steady stream of late-night partying going on at Madison’s residence, that Kendall was being bullied at school for being dirty and because her clothing wasn’t clean, that she’d been caught rescuing food from the trash cans in the cafeteria. Somehow Joanna left out the part about Kendall and Peter being locked in the bedroom at the time Leon Hogan was gunned down.

  “What can I do?” Lyn asked when Joanna finished her recitation.

  “I’d like to speak to your son’s divorce attorney,” Joanna said.

  “Jorge,” Hogan said. “Jorge Moreno.”

  “He’s a friend of yours, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And in a way Jorge was representing your interests as well as your son’s. I don’t know if that connection is enough to release him from his attorney-client privilege, but if he knows that the kids are being mistreated in some fashion and can talk to me about it, there might be a chance for us to help them.”

  “Where are you right now?” Hogan asked.

  “I’m on my way to Tucson. I have an errand to run.”

  “Is it all right for me to give Jorge your number?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” Lyn Hogan said. “I’m pretty sure he’ll give you a call.”<
br />
  Chapter 22

  The next morning, when Grandma Puckett took Peter and Kendall to IHOP for breakfast, they couldn’t have been happier. Daddy had taken them there sometimes, but Mommy never did. Kendall had blueberry pancakes, while Peter ordered the ones made with chocolate chips. Grandma Puckett had scrambled eggs and toast.

  There was a question Kendall had been wanting to ask. She’d been thinking about it in bed overnight, but it wasn’t until breakfast that she managed to work up her nerve.

  “Could Peter and me come live with you in Casa Grande?” Kendall asked quietly.

  Grandma put down her coffee cup. “‘Could Peter and I come,’ not ‘Peter and me,’” she corrected. “But, Kendall, I’m far too old to be raising kids. Why would you even ask such a thing?”

  Because you feed us, Kendall thought, chasing a stray blueberry around on her plate. Because you’re nice to us.

  There were lots of things Kendall could have said, but she chose the one she thought might work. “Because I don’t like Randy,” she said aloud. “He scares me. He has mean eyes.”

  Grandma’s expression hardened, but when she spoke, her voice was full of concern. “Scares you how?” she wanted to know. “Has he ever hurt you?”

  Kendall nodded.

  “How? What did he do?”

  “He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me—real hard. His thumb left a bruise right here.” Kendall pointed to a spot just under her collarbone.

  “Has he ever hurt Peter?”

  Kendall shook her head. “I try to keep Peter out of Randy’s way so that won’t happen,” she whispered.

  A waitress stopped by the table and refilled Grandma Puckett’s coffee cup.

  “I don’t like Randy either,” Peter muttered when the waitress walked away. “I saw him kick Coon once.”

  “Your dog?” Grandma asked, frowning. “That’s terrible. I noticed the dog wasn’t here, but . . .”

  “Mommy said he got out of the yard and got hit by a car,” Kendall supplied.

  “And the vet couldn’t fix him,” Peter added. “So Coon’s dead, too, just like Daddy.”