Joanna wanted to grab the man by his shoulders and give him a shake. She wanted to flood Workman with the same kind of urgency she felt, but he didn’t have people in his jurisdiction dying right and left. He didn’t have some nutcase walking around his town carrying God knew how much more sodium azide. But Joanna understood she had already pushed him just getting him to create the evidence log. If she said much more, it would likely slow the process rather than speed it up.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”
I GOT A KICK OUT OF WATCHING it go down. It occurred to me while Sheriff Brady was nailing Ron Workman’s feet to the floor that even though the Haz-Mat squad leader was a good twenty years younger than Harry I. Ball, the two men were cut from the same cloth.
Most people are under the mistaken impression that sexism is limited to old farts like Harry and me. They think one of these days all of the old guys will die off, sort of like the dinosaurs did, and the problem will disappear from the face of the planet. I have bad news for those folks. Since Ron Workman wasn’t a day over thirty-five, they probably shouldn’t look for it to happen anytime soon.
The Haz-Mat guys and Deputy Hollicker were packing up to leave when Joanna’s cell phone rang again. She answered and then handed it over to me. “For you,” she said.
“I’ve got two things to tell you,” Frank Montoya reported excitedly. “Number one: I checked on that Gardendale Correctional Institute you asked me about. It’s private, not public, owned and operated by UPPI.”
“And the other?”
“I’ve finally managed to get a hold of some of the phone records we need. I started with the pay phones down by the post office, and I’ve found something very interesting. There are three long-distance calls that were placed from one of those phones to Winnetka, Illinois, on Thursday. One was at eleven-twenty. The second was at three forty-six, the third at three-fifty. The first two went to the offices of a law firm named Maddern, Maddern, and Peek. The last one was to the residence of someone named Louis F. Maddern, the Third. That call lasted for close to ten minutes. Does the name ‘Maddern’ ring a bell?”
“Not to me,” I told him, jotting the information into my notebook. “Never heard of the guy or the law firm, either one.”
“It could be nothing,” Frank was saying. “Since Brampton is evidently from Illinois, it could be Maddern is a friend or a relative. But still, the timing…”
I was doing some dot-connecting. Frank Montoya was right. The timing of the calls was critical. Vital, even. One had been placed in the morning, probably shortly after the end of the donnybrook at Castle Rock Galley. The second two had been placed within minutes of Brampton’s finding out he was about to be fingerprinted in regard to the Latisha Wall homicide. If he’d had something to do with her death – if he was in any way responsible – he might have been operating in a state of near panic about then. Everyone pretends that detectives solve cases by virtue of pure skill and dogged determination. The truth is, we usually catch crooks because they make stupid mistakes.
“This is good stuff,” I told him. “Thanks.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Frank replied.
I started to hand the phone back to Joanna, then changed my mind. “Could you check on one more thing?” I asked.
“What’s that?” Frank returned.
“UPPI and the state of Washington are currently involved in some upcoming litigation. How about checking to see if a company named Maddern, Maddern, and Peek is representing in that case.”
“Sure thing,” Frank said. “I’ll see what I can do.” I heard someone speaking to Montoya in the background. When he returned to the radio mike, his voice crackled with new urgency. “Have the Haz-Mat guys left yet?” he demanded.
I looked around. The yard was empty. While we talked, Joanna had evidently followed Ron Workman and his crew back down to the street. “I’m not sure,” I told him. “If they’re not already gone, they’re packing up to leave. Why?”
“Somebody’d better grab them before they do,” Frank Montoya returned. “Casey Ledford just radioed in from Dee Dee Canfield’s house out in Huachuca Terraces. She says there are clear signs of a struggle in the living room, and there are traces of a white powder on the furniture and in the rugs. She’s evacuated the place and is awaiting Haz-Mat assistance.”
Before the call even ended, I was thundering down the stairs, looking for Joanna Brady. Ron Workman was shaking her hand and about to get into his truck when I caught up with them. I gave her Frank’s message, which she immediately passed along to Ron. He took the news of this additional Haz-Mat site with all the eye-rolling good grace of a fifth grader who’s just been told the principal has canceled recess.
“Where’s this one?” he demanded.
“A few miles from here,” Joanna said. “You’ll get there faster if I lead the way.”
With that, Joanna Brady struck off up the street toward the parked Blazer. Since I was currently without wheels of my own, I jogged along. If where we were going was “a few” miles away, I had no intention of walking.
Riding through town, I was struck by the general junkiness of the place. Homes and businesses alike seemed to have collections of old cars, washing machines, refrigerators, and other rusty equipment that defied identification moldering around them. Evidently the city of Bisbee wasn’t big on litter patrol.
The route we took around the traffic circle and out of town was familiar. We’d gone that way the day before when I had followed Joanna’s Crown Vic to Naco. This time, though, we blew straight through that critical intersection. Half a mile later, we turned left into a little subdivision of humble-looking late-fifties bungalows, complete with what looked distinctly like another hazardous material – asbestos siding.
Dee Canfield’s house was the most beat-up place on the block. A seven-foot-tall chicken, made of soldered-together scrap metal and too tall to fit under the low-slung front porch’s overhang, stood sentry in the middle of a weed-clogged front yard.
Joanna parked on the street. While she hurried off to confer with her deputies and the Haz-Mat guys once again, I stayed put. I didn’t have the patience or the inclination to go hang around another crime scene. Playing fifth wheel and staying out of the way of the people who are doing useful work doesn’t suit me.
That’s how come I was still in the car and half-dozing when the radio call came in from Frank Montoya.
“Sheriff Brady,” he asked. “Can you put Beaumont on?”
I picked up the radio. “I’m here,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Maddern, Maddern, and Peek may not be representing UPPI in Washington State, but they are in several other jurisdictions – Missouri, Arkansas, and Pennsylvania, to be exact. The law firm UPPI is using in Washington is actually McRainey and Dobbs. They’re located in a place called Bellevue.”
My heartbeat quickened. It may have been entirely circumstantial, but here was a connection – a real connection – between Latisha Wall’s killer and UPPI. I could hardly wait to tell Ross Connors that I was making progress.
“Thanks, Frank,” I said. “Thanks a lot. I’ll let Sheriff Brady know right away.”
But before I did that, I picked up my cell phone. Without thinking, I dialed the attorney general’s cell phone number, only to discover I had once again been captured by that Spanish-speaking babe from Old Mexico.
“Damn!” I exclaimed, whacking the phone on the dashboard in utter frustration. What’s the point in packing the damned thing if it doesn’t work most of the time?
Climbing out of the car, I went looking for Joanna Brady.
“What now?” she asked when I interrupted her yet again. I was going to ask to borrow her phone, but she looked so harried that I simply passed along what Frank Montoya had told me. “I need to get back up to the hotel,” I added. “I want to call my boss and let him know what’s happened.”