CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In the office, it took only a few minutes to formalize the paperwork to have Dena Hogan admitted to Southeastern Arizona Medical Center. Once Joanna had managed to locate the necessary forms, she typed them up herself. Twenty minutes later, she was part of a two-car caravan headed for Douglas. Handcuffed and shackled both, Dena rode in a patrol car accompanied by two deputies. Joanna drove the aging white Bronco that had, for years, been assigned to Deputy Dick Voland.
S.A.M.C., was still called County Hospital by locals, situated just outside the town of Douglas. As Joanna drove there, she couldn’t help thinking about Alice Rogers and those first few chapters of her memoirs-the ones that dealt with her happy childhood years spent in Douglas. Reflecting about Alice inevitably led Joanna to the missing Farley Adams.
Her investigation had determined that Adams wasn’t his real name. That meant that he, like some of the other people Joanna had encountered in the past few days, had played fast and loose with the truth. If there were people in North Las Vegas who were looking for him and wanting to kill him, maybe Jonathan Becker had good reason to lie about his name. What Joanna wondered was, had he lied to his wife or not? Had he told Alice the truth about his past, or had Becker been as dishonest with Alice as Dena Hogan had been with Rex? Had he married Alice in hopes of inheriting a portion of her estate, as Susan Jenkins believed? Or was it possible that the man who called himself Farley Adams had really loved Alice Rogers and that the look captured on his face in Jessie Morgan’s postcard wedding portrait had been one of real affection rather than a supreme job of acting?
Keeping one eye on the road, Joanna dug around in her purse until she located the copy of that picture she had stowed there. Switching on the reading light, she held the picture close to the light and glanced at it several times. There was no getting around it. Both people pictured looked incredibly happy. Neither of them seemed to be faking it.
Joanna put the piece of paper down on the seat. Supposing he really did love her and supposing he’s still alive, she wondered, what will he do now?
Joanna suspected that the people looking for Jonathan Becker were prepared to go to a good deal of trouble to find him and get rid of him. And there was always a chance that they had already succeeded in doing so. But if they hadn’t, and if he had really loved Alice Rogers, would he simply turn his back and walk away, or would he be there for her-even in death?
Once at the hospital, Joanna turned Dena Hogan over to the emergency room people and directed the deputies to take turns guarding her. Meanwhile, Joanna went to work on the admissions process. Even though she had come armed with all the necessary information and documents, it still took the better part of an hour before Dena Hogan’s admission was complete. And all the while the watch on Joanna’s arm and the clock over the admission clerk’s head continued to tick.
Free at last, Joanna raced out to the Bronco. It was eight-thirty. No doubt Alice Roger’s visitation at the funeral home would end at nine. With no time to lose, Joanna started the Bronco and switched on the pulsing blue emergency lights for the next several miles. Once she hit Douglas proper, she turned off the flashing lights and slowed to a more reasonable pace. By the time she drove under the railroad underpass, she was actually driving at the speed limit.
Garrity’s Funeral Home had once been a massive old house on G Street. It was situated only a few blocks from Jessie Monroe’s Golden Agers Nursing Home, and only a few more blocks from where Alice Monroe Rogers and her brothers and sisters had played hide-and-seek as children.
Joanna shivered as she stepped out of the Bronco and walked toward the mortuary. It was a cold, brisk night, but the chill she felt was more than that. Joanna knew from reading Alice’s own words that she had lived her whole life trying to escape Douglas. Now, at the end of her life, here she was again, mere blocks from where she had started. To Joanna, it all seemed pointless somehow, and, at the same time, inevitable.
With her copy of the wedding picture folded into a small square in her hand, Joanna walked into the plushly carpeted lobby of the mortuary. A man in a suit and tie met her at the door. “Are you here for Mrs. Rogers?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Second door on the right,” he directed. “But the visitation is almost over,” he added. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it or not, but there’s been another tragedy in the family today. As a result, most family members had to leave earlier than expected. There are only a few stragglers left.”
The man’s politely unspoken message was clear: It’s over, lady. All the important people are gone already, so don’t hang around and waste my time.
“That’s fine,” Joanna said. “I won’t be long.”
She walked into the room. Like the lobby, the small, chapel-like room was plushly carpeted. An open casket, eerily lit, sat at the front. Glancing around the room, Joanna realized that the man in the lobby was wrong. Besides Alice, there was only one person left in the dimly lit chapel-a man, seated near the front. His head was bowed. He appeared to be deep in prayer.
Walking silently, Joanna moved forward. She took a seat three rows back from the man and waited. For a long time, he continued to sit there without moving. Finally he stood up. As he turned to walk toward the aisle, Joanna recognized him. She also saw that he was carrying something-a flower, a single rose. Once in the aisle, he walked to the casket and placed the rose inside.
It was such a simple, moving gesture, that Joanna felt her heart squeeze. He does care, she thought. The look on his face in the wedding picture isn’t a lie.
Knowing the man known as Farley Adams still thought himself alone, Joanna waited for him to turn. She had no idea what he would do when he saw her. Was he armed? Would he think she was someone sent to kill him?
As soon as he saw her, Joanna saw the look of dread that passed briefly over his tear-stained face. His eyes shifted desperately from side to side, as if searching frantically for some other way out of the room. Realizing there was none, he turned back. For a long moment, the two people stared silently at one another. Finally Farley Adams shook his head. The look of fear on his face was replaced by one of profound resignation. His shoulders sagged, then, slowly, he raised his hands.
“All right,” he said. “It’s no use. I can’t run anymore. You’ve got me. Go ahead and get it over with.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Becker,” Joanna said softly. “I’m not one of them. My name’s Joanna Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady. We need to talk.”
“But you called me Becker,” he objected. “You must know all about me then?”
“And about your son,” Joanna replied. “And about the dirty cops from North Las Vegas who killed your son and who want you dead as well.”
Becker dropped into one of the rows of seats and covered his face with his hands. “If you could find me this easily, they will, too. I knew better than to go to the funeral, but I thought I could take a chance on coming here. There were so few people. Nobody recognized me-except you. I know it’s all my fault. That’s why Alice is dead. The people who are looking for me must have thought she would lead them to me, although I don’t know how they found out.”
“They didn’t,” Joanna said.
“They didn’t?” Joanna saw the smallest flicker of hope register on the man’s haunted features. “You mean somebody else killed her?”