Skeleton Canyon Read online

  Coming around a curve, Joanna encountered a Y in the road. Never having been to the place before, Joanna might have taken the wrong fork. Fortunately, an all-terrain vehicle, its original color obscured by a layer of red dirt, sat idling at the intersection. The driver-a cigar-chomping cowhand with a roll of fat around his middle-waved her on, sending her down the right-hand fork and slipping onto the roadway be-hind her.

  A white-stuccoed ranch house appeared a moment later. Surrounded by yet another razor wire-topped fence, the house was set in a small basin, nestled in among a stately copse of green-leafed cottonwoods. Once again Joanna had to wait for an electronically operated gate to open to allow her access to the house itself.

  Threading her way through a collection of several parked police vehicles and past another fiberglass-topped ATV, Joanna pulled up under a shaded portico and parked next to David O’Brien’s customized Aerostar van. In front of the van sat Katherine O’Brien’s distinctive Lexus LS 400-the only one like it in town. On the verandah, beyond David O’Brien’s wheelchair-accessible van and next to a gurgling fountain, stood the hulking figure of Chief Deputy Richard Voland. He was talking to another man, one Joanna didn’t recognize. Beside the stranger sat a huge panting German shepherd.

  Voland glanced up as Joanna approached. “Afternoon, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This is Alf Hastings, Mr. O’Brien’s operations manager.”

  Alf was a suntanned forty-something man with a cream-colored straw Resistol cowboy hat pulled low over pale blue eyes. Joanna might not have recognized the face immediately, but she did recognize the name.

  In Arizona law enforcement circles, Alf Hastings was notorious. As a Yuma County deputy, he had been the focal point of one of the biggest police scandals in the state’s history. He and three other deputies had been fired for systematically brutalizing a group of teenaged undocumented aliens (UDAs) who had been caught crossing the Mexican border just north of San Luis. The four officers had herded the UDAs into a van, driven them just inside the Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge, and left them there-after first beating the crap out of them and taking their water. No doubt all six of them would have died had they not been found by a feisty Good Samaritan-a spelunking retired schoolteacher from Wooster, Ohio. She had given them water, loaded them into her Jeep Wagoneer, and then carted them off to the nearest hospital.

  In the resulting investigation, the cops had lost their jobs, although none of them actually went to prison. An ensuing flurry of civil lawsuits, shades of California ’s Rodney King, had put a big hole in Yuma County ’s legal contingency fund.

  “So you’re our local lady sheriff, are you?” Alf said with what was no doubt calculated to be an engaging grin. “Glad to meet you.”

  He held out his hand. Joanna shook it without enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you had moved to Bisbee,” she said.

  “I haven’t exactly,” he returned. “Unless the Bisbee City limits come all the way out here. My wife and I live at the hired help’s compound just a ways back up the road here. Mr. O’Brien was good enough to set aside six mobile homes for those of us who work here, except for Mrs. Vorevkin, the housekeeper. She has a room here at the house.”

  Hastings ’s pocket radio squawked to life. As the operations manager walked away to answer his summons in private, Joanna turned to Dick.

  “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

  Voland frowned. “As near as I can tell, he’s probably doing the same thing he was doing before-keeping America safe for Americans, only on a private basis, this time, not a public one.”

  “Have we had any complaints?”

  “Not so far,” Voland answered. “My guess is he’s been keeping a pretty low profile.”

  “Did you tell him we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior around here?”

  “The subject didn’t come up,” Voland said.

  “Never mind,” Joanna said. “I’ll tell him myself the next time I see him. In the meantime, what’s going on? Any word about the girl?”

  At six-four, Chief Deputy Voland towered over Joanna by a whole foot. The top of her head barely grazed the bottom of his chin. For months now, the sheriff had been aware of the possibility that her not-quite-divorced second in command might have a crush on her. Always gruff and blustery in public, his private dealings with Joanna had changed. Too much the professional to say anything directly, his feelings were betrayed by ears that reddened when she spoke to him in private as well as by sudden bouts of his being tongue-tied in her presence.

  As a consequence, in her dealings with Dick Voland, Joanna always found herself walking a tightrope. Because he was in charge of the day-to-day functioning of her department, it was essential that she have a good working relationship with the man. On the other hand, she didn’t want to say or do anything that would encourage him or give him the wrong idea.

  “Nothing much so far,” he said. “Ernie just got here a little while ago. He’s inside talking to the parents. You can go on in, if you want to.”

  “How are the O’Briens holding up?” Joanna asked.

  “About how you’d expect,” Voland answered. “The mother is brokenhearted; the father is pissed. If I were Brianna O’Brien’s daddy,” he added, “I would be, too.”

  As soon as Joanna rang the bell, the O’Briens’ front door was opened by a round-faced red-haired woman who spoke with what sounded to Joanna like a thick Russian accent. “I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, showing the woman her photo ID and badge. “I’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “Of course. This way, please.”

  Inside, away from the blazing heat, the interior of the air-conditioned house felt almost chill. As Joanna followed the shuffling, heavyset housekeeper across a smooth saultillo tile Boor, she was struck by the scale of the house. The ceilings were high and broken by walls with clerestory windows that provided light without letting in heat. The housekeeper led the way down a long hallway that was almost twice as wide as those in most private homes. The white walls were adorned with groupings of carefully lit and lavishly framed art. Some of the pieces looked familiar. Walking past, there was no way for Joanna to tell whether or not any of the pieces were originals or whether they were simply extremely well-executed reproductions.

  Surely they’re not originals, Joanna thought. No one in his right mind would bring a valuable collection of original art right here to the border…

  But then, thinking about the razor wire-topped chain-link fence and the ATV-mounted security guards, the video monitoring system, and what was no doubt a trained guard dog, she reconsidered. Maybe this was original artwork after all.

  Al the far end of the long hallway, the housekeeper paused. “You wait,” she said.

  Before Joanna, set in an alcove that had clearly been designed for that specific purpose, sat an exquisite, two-foot-tall marble statue of the Madonna and Child. The baby was roly-poly and clung to his mother’s waist with one chubby bare leg. The young mother’s face seemed almost alive with a benevolent, welcoming smile. Her one free hand reached out in graceful, openhanded greeting to all who looked upon her. Beneath the statue sat a polished rosewood prie-dieu. On the prie-dieu lay an open Bible, an onyx-beaded rosary complete with a gold crucifix, and a single lit votive candle. The brown leather of the padded knee rest glowed with the patina of long and faithful use.

  Feeling as though she were standing in a chapel, Joanna gazed up at the statue while running an admiring finger over the satin-smooth grain of the wood.

  “Sheriff Brady?”

  Like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t, Joanna turned to face the lady of the house. The luxury automobiles parked under the covered portico, the spaciousness of the beautifully tiled hallway, the elegance of the artwork had all led Joanna to expect that Katherine O’Brien would be someone equally elegant-slender, fashionable, and maybe even a little on the delicate side.

  Joanna was surprised to see before her a plain-faced and sturdy wo
man in her early to mid-fifties. She was dressed casually in a tank top, Bermuda shorts, and leather thongs. Her brunette hair, going gray around the temples, was drawn back in a casual, foot-long ponytail. As soon as Joanna saw the woman she realized she had seen her before-in the grocery store and post office on occasion-without having the smallest glimmer of who she was.

  “I’m sorry,” Joanna apologized. “The wood is so lovely I couldn’t help touching it.”

  Katherine smiled sadly and nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on my knees there, praying. Both pieces, the prie-dieu and the statue, came from a Sisters of Silence convent in upstate New York. When the Cistercian Order closed the place down, they asked Sotheby’s to auction off all the contents. The prie-dieu and the statue had both been in the mother superior’s private chapel. I was glad David was able to buy them so we could keep them together.”

  Katherine stopped abruptly, as though the customary graciousness of telling visiting guests about her objets d’art had somehow outdistanced the painful circumstances that had brought this particular visitor into her home. “Sorry,” she said. “Detective Carpenter and my husband are out back by the pool. If you’ll come this way.”

  Katherine O’Brien led Joanna past a formal dining room and through a large kitchen where the housekeeper was busy cooking something meaty that smelled absolutely wonderful. Beyond the kitchen was an informal dining room and a family room complete with a massive entertainment unit. French doors from the family room led to a fully enclosed patio complete with black wrought iron furniture, a permanently installed canopy, a hot tub, and a lap pool. The interior wall of the patio was lined with raised flower beds that held an astonishing assortment of vividly colored, dinner plate-sized dahlias.

  An empty wheelchair sat parked next to the edge of the pool. In the pool itself, a silver-haired man Joanna recognized as David O’Brien swam back and forth. Meanwhile, Detective Ernie Carpenter, overdressed as usual in his customary double-breasted suit, sat sweltering under the canopy.

  As soon as Joanna and Katherine came out onto the porch, O’Brien used two swift strokes to propel himself over to a stainless steel pole that stood next to the wheelchair. Turning his hack to the side of the pool, he did something that activated a whirring motor. Moments later, he emerged from the water seated on what was evidently a one-person lift. The lift stopped when David O’Brien was exactly level with the seat of the chair. Using the strong, well-defined muscles in his arms and shoulders, David swung himself from lift to chair.

  A stack of terry cloth towels sat on the table. David O’Brien rolled his chair over to the table. Taking the top towel off the pile, he draped that over his deformed and useless legs. He used a second towel to dry his hair, face, and upper body.

  “It’s about time you got here, Sheriff Brady,” he grumbled. “Maybe now you can get Detective Carpenter here to stop asking all these damn fool questions about Bree’s friends and start doing something useful like actually looking for her.”

  “They are looking for her, David,” Katherine reminded her husband gently. “Detective Carpenter already told us that they have deputies and the highway patrol searching all the roads between here and Playas…”

  “But she didn’t go to Playas!” David O’Brien exploded, pounding the table with his fist. The powerful blow sent Ernie’s almost-empty glass of iced tea skipping across the surface of the table. The detective managed to catch it, but only just barely.

  “What would you like us to do, Mr. O’Brien?” Joanna asked. “Call in the FBI. Get some manpower on this thing.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Hello, Sheriff Brady,” Ernie said, nodding in greeting. He was a solidly built, beetle-browed man in his early fifties. His tie and stiffly starched white shirt were wilting fast.

  “Mr. O’Brien here is under the impression that his daughter has been kidnapped.” He finished his tea and returned the emptied glass to the table.

  “Kidnapped,” Joanna repeated. “Why? Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “Nothing like that,” Ernie replied. ‘‘Not so far.”

  “What about the pay phone call? If that wasn’t an abortive tall for ransom…” David O’Brien interjected.

  “What phone call?” Joanna asked.

  “The O’Briens have caller ID on their phones,” Ernie said. “A call came in a few minutes ago, just about the time I got here. The monitor reported it as a pay phone call. I traced it to a location near the Kmart down in Douglas. The problem is, whoever it was hung up.”

  “So you didn’t actually speak to anyone?” Joanna asked Katherine.

  “No.”

  “And there was no request for ransom?” Joanna continued.

  “‘That’s true,” Katherine agreed.

  “But that’s where ransom calls usually come from, isn’t it?” O’Brien interrupted. “From pay phones so the calls can’t be traced back to the kidnapper’s residence or place of business.”

  “It could have been nothing more ominous than a wrong number,” Joanna suggested. “What makes you think otherwise? Have there been kidnapping threats in the past?”

  “No. Not really. But look around,” O’Brien said brusquely, with an expansive gesture that took in both the patio and the opulent home beyond it. “My wife and I have money, plenty of it. What better way for someone to lay hands on some of it than by kidnapping our only daughter? It’s not as though her existence is some kind of secret. Her graduation picture was plastered all over the papers a few weeks back. It’s no wonder-”

  Joanna glanced back at Ernie. “Any sign of violence or foul play?”

  The detective shook his head. “Not that I’ve found so far. In addition, Brianna has evidently taken off like this on at least two other occasions. According to Mrs. O’Brien here, there have been two other similar incidents in the last few months-times when Brianna has left for the weekend without arriving at her supposed destination. Each time it’s been with the understanding that she was going to visit this same girl, this” -Ernie paused to consult his notes- “this Crystal Phillips over in Playas. The problem is, Crystal ’s father says Brianna hasn’t ever been there.”

  “But she keeps pretending that’s where she’s gone,” Joanna said.

  Ernie nodded. “Right. Each time, she left home late in the day on a Friday and returned Sunday evening. As long as her folks here didn’t call to check up on her, everything was peachy. My expectation is that she’s pulled the same stunt this time, too. She isn’t lost at all. Late Sunday she’s going to show up thinking everything’s all fine and dandy. Only this time, she’ll find out the game’s up. When she comes waltzing home on Sunday afternoon, she’s going to be one mighty surprised young lady.”

  Ernie finished his speech by hauling out a hanky and mop-ping his sweat-drenched brow. His theory sounded reasonable enough, and Joanna wanted it to be right. She wanted to believe that an errant Brianna O’Brien would arrive home on Sunday night in time to be read the riot act by both her out-raged parents for having been AWOL all weekend long. Still, Joanna couldn’t dodge the premonition that had come to her before she ever left the parking lot on Mount Lemmon one that left her believing that Brianna O’Brien was already dead.

  Standing there fully clothed with the late afternoon sun blazing down on her, Joanna was already regretting having changed clothes. The O’Briens’ flower-bordered patio might have been fine if you were dressed in shorts or if you had just stepped out of a swimming pool. For people dressed in business clothing and wearing body armor, though, it was like playing dress-up in the middle of a blast furnace.

  David O’Brien glared across the table at the detective. “My daughter is an honor student,” he announced. “She’s never lied to me about anything in her life. I can’t understand why she’d start now. But since we’ve done our jobs as parents, how about you starting to do yours as cops?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joanna knew there were lots of people in to
wn who were intimidated by David O’Brien. It was easy to see why. He was a craggy-faced man whose suntanned arms and chest glistened with silvery hair. He had a long, hawkish nose and piercing blue eyes. He was ruggedly handsome in an aging Marlboro man kind of way. In fact, at that very moment, he reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay on the table in front of him. Watching him light up, Joanna estimated that he had to be somewhere in his late seventies-of an age when he might be more likely to be a teenager’s grandfather rather than her father.

  “You’d say you’re on good terms with your daughter, then?” Joanna asked.

  “Absolutely!”

  “David, please don’t shout,” Katherine said quietly, giving him a lingering look Joanna noticed but couldn’t quite decipher. “That isn’t necessary. And we’re forgetting our manners. Won’t you sit down, Sheriff Brady? This chair is still in the shade. Would you care for a glass of iced tea? And, it you don’t mind, I’ll switch on the mist cooler.”

  Accepting the offer of tea, Joanna sank into the chair Katherine had indicated. Meanwhile, Katherine herself walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. Instantly a fine spray of water Nettled over the patio. It was a cooling device Joanna had seen in Phoenix and Tucson at nicer restaurants with outdoor seating areas, but this was the first time she had seen that kind of setup in a private home. She would have loved to strip off her jacket, but that would have revealed that she was armed, twice over. Her Colt 2000 rested in a shoulder holster under her arm. Her backup weapon-a Glock 19-was hidden in a discreet small-of-the-back holster.

  “Did you already tell Detective Carpenter what kind of vehicle your daughter is driving?” she asked.

  “A red Toyota,” Katherine said.

  “It’s a Tacoma,” David added. “She could have had any kind of car, but what she wanted was a damned pickup. We gave it to her three months ago as a combination birthday/ graduation present.”