You may think it’s impossible, Sister Celeste, Joanna thought. But I will be back.
Joanna was still sitting in the Quick Custom Metals parking lot and holding her phone when it came to life in her hand. When she answered, her caller turned out to be Detective Carpenter.
“Thought you’d like to know that we’re having the Lexus towed to the impound lot,” Ernie said. “Looks like our victim was there, all right. Or, if not Sandra Ridder, somebody else bled all over the leather upholstery. Casey Ledford came out to the site and did a preliminary look-see. She tried lifting prints from several places and couldn’t find any.”
“No prints again,” Joanna breathed. “Just like all those plastic water jugs.”
“Right,” Ernie agreed. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see one of your ordinary run-of-the-mill UDAs working that hard to keep his fingerprints out of sight and out of our computers. That suggests to me that whoever it is has been in some kind of hot water before, and he knows once we get a lock on his prints, we’re going to get a hit on AFIS and know exactly who he is.”
“Can you tell where whoever it was went after abandoning the Lexus?”
“I’d say the driver of the Lexus was picked up by someone driving a second vehicle. The driver went from one vehicle to the other without leaving any kind of prints we could cast. And the tire tracks of the second vehicle are in the roadway, so they’ve long since been obliterated by passing traffic. We’ll probably pick up trace evidence from the car’s interior that will help us get a conviction if we ever catch who did it, but for right now…”
“The Lexus is a dead end for identifying the suspect,” Joanna supplied, “unless Casey can pull something out of the hat.”
“How many low-life crooks do you know who are this cagey?” Ernie Carpenter asked. “Most of them never consider the possibility that they might get caught. In other words, Joanna, I’m getting a funny feeling about this case.”
“What kind of feeling?” Joanna asked.
“Like we’re supposed to think we’re dealing with illegals when we’re not.”
“Who then, Lucy Ridder?”
“She’s fifteen years old. I doubt very much that a kid her age would know enough or be sophisticated enough about criminal procedures to wipe down prints. Besides, she doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“I don’t think Lucy Ridder has a license to carry, either,” Joanna said. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to fire that twenty-two she stole from her grandmother.”
“Point taken,” Ernie said.
There was a momentary pause before Joanna spoke again. “What if all this has something to do with what went on eight years ago? Maybe it goes back to Tom Ridder’s murder. Maybe that’s why Lucy was trying to get in touch with all those folks from back then. Is Jaime there?”
“He’s driving,” Ernie replied. “I know better than let him talk on the cell phone when he’s supposed to be concentrating on the road. What do you want to know?”
“He’s talked to Melanie Goodson, hasn’t he?”
Ernie was off the phone for a few seconds. “He says three times so far. Why?”
“Did she say anything about receiving a middle-of-the-night phone call around three o’clock on Saturday morning?”
Ernie passed along the question. “No,” he said when he came back on the line “She never mentioned it. Do you want him to ask her about it?”
“Why don’t I do it?” Joanna said. “After all, I’m right here in Tucson. Where’s her office?”
“On Speedway. The street number is four fifty-eight.”
“Tell him I’m on my way. And, Ernie?” Joanna added. “One more thing. When you get back to the department, I want you to ask Frank Montoya to get on the horn and try to get faxed copies of all the Tucson newspaper reports from back then that dealt with either Tom Ridder’s death and/or with Sandra Ridder’s prosecution. I’m convinced that what went on then has something to do with what’s happening now, but I don’t know what.”
“This sounds suspiciously like we’re operating on women’s intuition again,” Ernie said.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Joanna asked.
“Not at all,” Ernie Carpenter told her cheerfully. “Whatever works works for me.”
CHAPTER 15
When Joanna turned off I-10 onto Speedway Boulevard, the speed limit was signed at 35 miles per hour. Most traffic, including not one but two City of Tucson patrol cars, whizzed around Joanna at ten to fifteen miles above the posted limit. Meanwhile, knowing she’d be turning right somewhere beyond Fourth Avenue, Joanna stayed in the right hand lane stuck behind a Nebraska-licensed Buick whose snowbird driver was content to drive at five miles under.
I guess they got the name right when they called it Speedway, she thought.
Number 458 was one of those old stucco places that dated from the twenties or thirties. Most of the remaining houses on that stretch of Speedway seemed to come from that same pre-air-conditioning era and had been built along the same lines, with cavernously shaded front porches designed to keep out the worst of the afternoon sun. In the fifties and sixties, most of those old houses had fallen on hard times and decrepitude. Many had been carved up into boardinghouse-style living spaces for students attending the University of Arizona a few miles to the east.
It was possible there had been a similar house on the lot just to the west of number 458. If so, all sign of it had been erased, bulldozed into oblivion to make way for a smoothly paved parking lot that came complete with accents of blooming bright-pink verbena. Joanna parked her Blazer between a boxy bright-red Cadillac and a white Nissan Sentra.
Walking past them, Joanna forced herself to notice details about them-the gold emblem on the Caddy’s trunk and the smashed left rear fender on the Sentra. That was one part of Joanna’s law-enforcement training that was still giving her trouble. She constantly had to battle herself to notice and identify the vehicles she saw around her.
Walking from the lot to the office, Joanna found that in its new incarnation as a professional office, the former residence boasted a desert-friendly but beautifully Xeriscaped front yard that was alive with an abundance of drought-resistant blooms-verbena, purple sage, and desert poppies, accented here and there by clumps of prickly pear, agave, and barrel cactus. Not a single stray weed poked its nervy head out of the red-gravel-covered earth. Joanna knew from looking at it that, in the middle of the city, that kind of artfully created and impeccably maintained “natural” landscaping didn’t come cheap.
Bathed in shadow from afternoon sun, the magnificent hand-carved mahogany front door with its brass-plated handle contained an oval of etched, leaded glass. The door may not have been part of the house’s original equipment, but the look of it left little doubt that the house and door were full contemporaries, and if the door had been expensive back then, now it was even more so. Stenciled onto the glass in blocky gold letters were the words melanie j. goodson, attorney at law.
Pressing down the old-fashioned thumb latch, Joanna let herself into dusky, air-conditioned comfort. The entryway floor was shiny, high-gloss hard wood. It was covered with a Navajo rug that spoke of both age and money. Joanna had seen rugs like that before, but the people she knew who owned those Native American treasures had long since declared them far too valuable to continue using them on floors.
“May I help you?” Behind the reception desk was a mid-twenties woman with a headful of loose auburn hair. She was decked out in suitably serious business attire-blazer, skirt, silk shirt, and heels. If it hadn’t been for the seven or eight pierced earrings decorating both ears and a mouthful of very expensive orthodontia, Joanna might have taken her for Melanie Goodson herself.