“You wouldn’t happen to have any idea about how that might have happened, would you?”
Rory drew himself up and glared down at Joanna with total disdain. “Certainly not!” he exclaimed. “Are you accusing me of having something to do with the man’s murder?”
“I’m simply asking questions,” Joanna said. “That’s what we do in the aftermath of a homicide-ask questions, particularly if someone seems to have issues with the victim.”
“Show him the man’s picture,” Leslie urged. “Maybe he’ll recognize him.”
Joanna produced the faxed copy of Bradley’s jail ministry ID photo and handed it to him. Rory looked at it for a moment and then gave it back. “I’ve never seen this jerk before in my life. Who the hell was he?”
“His name was Bradley Evans.”
“What was he, one of those papa-whatevers?”
“Paparazzi?” Joanna supplied.
“Right,” Rory said. “That’s what I meant. One of those… paparazzi. Maybe that’s why he was taking pictures of Leslie. Maybe he worked for one of those scumbag kinds of newspapers. You know what I mean-the ones they sell in grocery stores-the National Enquirer or something like that.”
“Why would they be interested in your wife?” Joanna asked.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Leslie mused. “With my father up for that federal appointment…”
“Your father?” Joanna repeated. “Who’s he?”
“Justice Lawrence Tazewell. He’s on the Arizona Supreme Court, but now he’s up for a possible federal judgeship.”
For the first time it occurred to Joanna that she had been wrong. Leslie wasn’t the one who had married up. Her husband had. And as far as that went, it meant Leslie was following a longstanding family script-one that remained a lingering part of Cochise County‘s social fabric. Joanna simply hadn’t connected Leslie to that particular family of Tazewells.
Local lore had it that, in the late sixties, while an impoverished law school student at the University of Arizona, Lawrence Tazewell had won the heart of Aileen Houlihan, a fellow student who sprang from some of southeastern Arizona‘s finest pioneer stock. Aileen’s paternal great-grandparents had settled in the northeastern corner of the San Pedro Valley while marauding Apaches, annoyed at being barred from their traditional hunting lands, were still a very real danger. The Triple H Ranch, in the foothills of the Whetstones, had been named for the family patriarch, Henry Hieronymus Houlihan. The Triple H had started out as a cattle ranch, raising Herefords, but now it was primarily known for its prizewinning quarter horses.
“My parents divorced a long time ago,” Leslie continued. “But now that my father’s being considered as a possible nominee for one of the open federal judgeships, everything about his life is back in the news, including my mother and me. This could be related to that.”
“I doubt it,” Joanna said. “Bradley Evans was working as a drug and alcohol counselor at the Arizona State Prison Complex down in Douglas. He went to prison in 1978 for murdering his wife. After his release two years ago, he started working for a jail ministry organization. He was still working for them at the time he died.”
“That doesn’t come close to explaining why he was taking pictures of Leslie,” Rory Markham put in.
“No,” Joanna agreed. “It doesn’t. Are there any other possibilities that come to mind?”
Rory turned to his wife. “Well?” he asked.
The one-word question wasn’t asked in a polite way. His tone of voice underscored the decades of difference in their ages. Rory sounded less like a husband and more like an irate father who had caught his teenage daughter smoking forbidden cigarettes out in the backyard.
“Maybe he’s someone from before,” Rory suggested. “Maybe he’s someone you dated before I came along.”
Leslie looked stricken. “You know better than that,” she said, blushing furiously. “You’re the only man I’ve ever dated. And, as I already told her, I have no idea who this person is.”
Rory picked up one of the photos and examined it before tossing it back down on the table. “If he was close enough to take a picture like this, how can you claim you never saw him?”
“As you can see, I was busy,” Leslie said. “I was pushing the grocery cart. I was opening the car door. I was walking. He may have seen me, but I didn’t see him. Besides,” she added, turning to Joanna, “don’t these guys have telephoto lenses?”
“Not this one,” Joanna answered. “He used a throwaway.”
“See there?” Rory demanded. “What did I just tell you?”
Without answering, Leslie rose and fled the conference room. She wasn’t in tears, but she was close to it. Rory stayed where he was for a moment longer after the door slammed shut, then he turned to Joanna and shrugged. “I guess we can’t help you,” he said.
“I guess not,” Joanna agreed. “Thank you anyway.”
“Can you find your own way out?”
“No problem.” Joanna gathered up the photos and put them back into the envelope and then returned to her Crown Victoria. No wonder Rory Markham Real Estate Group boasted such a humble physical presence. Rory had started out by making a bad impression, and it had been all downhill from there. In a service industry based on interpersonal relationships, it was a miracle he was able to stay in business at all.
I wouldn’t buy a used car from that turkey, Joanna thought to herself as she headed back to Bisbee. What in the world does Leslie see in him?
But as far as what Rory might see in Leslie, that was much clearer. Leslie Tazewell was bound to turn into an heiress the moment her mother died. That explained why, in addition to her youth and good looks, Rory might be interested in her, but nothing Joanna had learned came close to explaining Bradley Evans’s interest in the woman. That was still very much a mystery.
By the time Joanna made it back to the Justice Center, it was already after five. She was tired. If something urgent happens, she told herself, they can call me at home. And home she went.
Along the road the scrawny trunks and tangled bare branches of mesquite trees gleamed black in the late-afternoon sun. Ready to be home and warm, Joanna was surprised to find Jenny out on High Lonesome Road riding Kiddo at a full gallop, with all three dogs trailing along behind. When Joanna pulled up beside her and rolled down her window, Jenny reined in the horse.
“Out having fun?” Joanna asked.
“Not exactly,” Jenny said with a scowl. “I had to get away. Butch’s mother follows me everywhere I go, even into my room, asking me all kinds of stupid questions-things that are none of her business. When are they ever going to leave, Mom? It feels like they’ve been here forever. Why did Butch let them come?”
“He didn’t,” Joanna said. “Having them show up was as much a surprise to him as it was to us.”
“But that’s rude. I mean, shouldn’t they have waited for an invitation?”
“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It is rude, but Margaret and Don are Butch’s parents. We have to put up with them.”
“Why?”
“Because we have to. They’re excited about the baby, and they want to be part of it.”
“I want you to have this baby right now!” Jenny urged.