Left for Dead (30 page)

“I’m investigating a homicide,” he replied. “As it happens, you’re one of the people I’m going to need to interview. When’s the last time you saw Phil?”

“Saturday,” Patty said. “At work. But where did the marijuana come from? How did it get into a flat-rate box?”

“I’m sure Phil could have answered that question,” Zambrano answered. “Unfortunately, he’s dead. It’s possible Christine could have told us, too. Unfortunately, she’s a raving maniac, and she’s not talking to anybody. She’s a lot more into screaming than she is into talking. Bottom line, I’m assuming Phil’s the one who put it there. You always think of drug dealers having exotic smuggling arrangements. I have to say, packing it up and sending it through the mail has a certain understated elegance.”

“Phil Tewksbury was not a drug dealer,” Patty Patton said.

“Look, Patty,” Zambrano said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you thought you were close to the guy, but we don’t always know nearly as much about other people as we think we do. If you were to ask me about Jose Reyes, the same thing happened to me with him. I would have sworn Jose wouldn’t be caught dealing drugs. Turns out I was just as wrong about him as you are about Phil.”

“But this makes no sense,” Patty objected. “Besides, Phil knew the ropes. Border mail gets spot-checked by sniffer dogs right along with everything else. The boxes wouldn’t have made it past the dogs.”

Zambrano sighed again. “Look, Patty, we found the drugs right here in Phil’s garage, packaged and ready to tape shut and ship. We’ve lifted prints off the boxes. I’m willing to bet you any amount of money
that those prints will turn out to belong to Phil Tewksbury. Maybe his wife figured out what he was up to and decided to put a stop to it. Or else maybe after all those years of living as a recluse, she finally blew a gasket and beat the crap out of him.”

“Christine did not do this,” Patty declared. “No way. Couldn’t be.”

“If you’d been the one she came chasing after with a bloody baseball bat in her hand, you might be singing another tune.”

“Softball bat,” Patty said.

Zambrano nodded. “Softball,” he agreed.

Watching this exchange from the sidelines, Ali wondered how it was that Patty knew what kind of a bat it was.

“I don’t care if she came after you with a broomstick,” Patty said. “Christine definitely didn’t kill Phil, not if he died in the garage. Is that where it happened?”

Zambrano nodded.

“Well, then,” Patty said, “trust me. Christine hasn’t left the house for years, hasn’t so much as stepped outside. It’s what, forty feet from the back door of the house to the door to the garage? She wouldn’t go that far on her own. Ever.”

“Look,” Zambrano said, “I’ve heard all about that—the whole deal with the dead daughter and the Christmas tree and not leaving the house. I’m not buying it.”

“Where is she?” Patty asked.

“Christine? She refused to respond to police orders. When we tried to remove her from the residence, she became combative and had to be restrained. She’s been transported to the hospital in Nogales. From there she’ll most likely go to Catalina Vista in Tucson, where she’ll undergo a psych evaluation.”

“What’s wrong with you people?” Patty demanded. “You’re dealing with a woman who hasn’t set foot outside the four walls of her house in at least the past ten years, that I know of, so you can be pretty sure she’s troubled to begin with. Then you turn up—burst into her house—and tell her that her husband is dead. What would you do in that situation, Detective Zambrano? Maybe you’d go berserk, too, especially if someone was bodily carrying you out of your own house. I’m pretty sure I would.”

“We felt she was a danger to herself and others,” Zambrano
countered. “We did what we had to do.” His cell phone rang. “Right,” he said after a pause. “I’ll go get ’em. On my way.” He turned back to Patty. “Sorry,” he said. “I need to go. If it’s okay, I’d like to stop by the post office in the morning to do an official interview.”

“Knock yourself out,” Patty muttered as he walked away. “I don’t care what you say. Christine didn’t do it.” She turned to go to her car and ran directly into Ali. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot you were here.”

“I’ve been listening to every word,” Ali said. “It sounds as though, despite the evidence, you don’t believe your friend was dealing drugs.”

“I don’t,” Patty said. “Absolutely not! Phil was a worker, not a dealer; a saver, not a spender. It nearly killed him a couple of months ago when he had to cough up money to replace the windows on his house. Drives an old Ford pickup. Drove,” she corrected. “Doesn’t anymore.”

“So not a flamboyant lifestyle.”

“Hardly. As for Detective Zambrano’s idea that Phil was trying to ship drugs in flat-rate boxes? Ridiculous. They’d never pass muster at the Border Patrol checkpoints. Phil wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“What about his wife?” Ali asked. “Would she be involved in any of this—the drug dealing, any of it?”

Patty shook her head. “No.”

“And what about her husband’s death?”

“Christine may be a lot of things, but she’s not a killer. I believe somebody did this and they’re trying to make it look like she’s responsible because they know she’s incapable of defending herself.”

“Why?” Ali asked. “What’s the matter with her?”

“With Christine?”

For the next little while, Patty recounted what she knew about Phil and Christine’s history together, about the death of their only child and the painful aftermath. Patty didn’t count it as gossiping, exactly. Other people might be busy pointing the finger at Christine, and the only way she could make that stop was to tell what she knew.

“And she never left the house after that?” Ali asked.

“Not as far as I know. Wouldn’t set foot outside, including walking as far as the garage. That’s how come I know for sure she didn’t kill Phil.” Patty ground out her last cigarette. “I’d better go,” she said. “I need to track Jess down and let him know what’s happened.”

“Who’s Jess?” Ali asked.

“My substitute driver,” Patty said sadly. “My permanent substitute driver. And I’ll be back at work in the morning so I can talk to that damned detective, if nothing else. If you want to get hold of me to help organize that cleanup, that’s where I’ll be—at the post office. If you need to call me, my number’s in the book.”

2:00
P.M
., Monday, April 12
Fountain Hills, Arizona

Humberto Laos had become an old crook by being a smart crook. He
paid his people good money, and he expected them to earn it. When Tony and Sal had come back from dumping the girl’s body, he had taken them at their word and hadn’t given the matter another thought. They’d told him she was dead; he believed the girl was dead. He had told them to dump her in the desert. With any kind of luck, it would be months before someone stumbled across her body.

Because Humberto had plenty of money, he had plenty of sources of information. There were people in various cop shops and media outlets who, for a hefty cash payment made by a discreet third party, would provide the inside scoop on things that interested him, in this case the murder investigation into the death of Chico Hernández. When Humberto heard from one of his informants that a person of interest in the case was a seventeen-year-old girl who had been missing for three years, that made sense. The girls Chico pimped hadn’t fallen out of trees. They had to come from somewhere.

So far, that was all to the good. Humberto knew that the girl the cops were looking for—presumably, the one whose prints they had found in his vehicle—was lying dead in the desert somewhere. As long as they were looking for the dead girl, they weren’t looking at Humberto.

But Humberto believed in being thorough. So he checked with two more sources, both of whom were inside Phoenix PD. There he learned that the person of interest, the missing girl, was named Rose
Ventana. She had run away at age fourteen and was thought to have a rose tattoo on her right boob.

Humberto knew for a fact that the part about the rose tattoo was true. The girl Chico had called Breeze definitely did have a rose tattoo, one with a few recent additions to the original design. Again, he wasn’t especially concerned, but then things started to go south. One of his media sources came up with a very disturbing piece of information—a rumor, a tweet from Rose Ventana’s sister—that maybe Rose wasn’t dead at all; that she had been found badly injured on Friday and was being treated at an as yet unnamed hospital somewhere in Tucson.

Humberto was appalled. He could afford a lot of things, but he couldn’t afford to have Breeze Domingo or Rose Ventana or whoever she was alive and able to talk. That was unacceptable. It was time for serious damage control, and it had to happen right away.

Humberto didn’t call Sal and Tony in and read them the riot act. Instead, he opened the safe in the wall behind his desk and took out seventy-five thousand in cash. Then he went online and found photos of some of the known players—especially the parents and the homicide cop—anything that would help identify the targets.

With photos and the money loaded into a briefcase, Humberto left his chauffeur and the Bentley behind and drove himself to Phoenix in his silver Carrera. He parked outside a building that contained a high-end detail shop. Tossing his keys to an attendant, he went inside to look for Angel Moreno. Angel’s company, Starshine, specialized in auto detailing. Angel himself was into another kind of work altogether.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Humberto said, setting the briefcase on Angel’s Formica-topped desk. “Three of them, actually. The sooner the better.”

2:30
P.M
., Monday, April 12
Tucson, Arizona

In her years as a patient advocate, Sister Anselm had dealt with plenty
of challenging family situations, and this one was no different. She let Rose know that her family was waiting outside, but that was all. Her patient’s wishes were paramount. It wasn’t her responsibility to convince Rose to change her mind. It was a matter of watching and waiting. That was something Sister Anselm knew how to do. She was surprised, however, that the Fox family as a group seemed prepared to do the same thing—wait indefinitely.

They settled into the ICU waiting room and did just that. By midafternoon Rose’s condition had improved enough that there was a good possibility she’d be moved out of the ICU later in the day. That was another bit of good news Sister Anselm couldn’t share with Rose’s anxious family, not until it actually happened.

Then Rose surprised her. “Still here?” she asked. With her jaw wired shut, the words came out in a distorted whisper, almost baby talk, but she was making the effort to speak, and Sister Anselm got the message.

“You mean is your family still here?” Sister Anselm asked.

Rose nodded.

“Yes, they are,” Sister Anselm told her, sensing that something had changed. “They’re waiting right outside.”

“Sisters, too?”

“Yes, I’ve met Lily and Jasmine. They’re lovely. You can only have one visitor at a time. Which one would you like me to send in first?”

There was a pause before Rose whispered, “…father.”

That was not the answer Sister Anselm had expected. “That’s who you want to see—your stepfather? Mr. Fox?”

Rose nodded. “Please.”

“Right now?”

Rose nodded again.

Sister Anselm went to the door. “Mr. Fox? You can come in now.”

He looked stunned. “Who, m-me?” he stammered.

“Yes, you,” Sister Anselm said.

“But what about her mother?” Fox asked, giving his wife a questioning look as he rose to his feet. “This must be a mistake. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sister Anselm said. “You’re the one she asked for.”

Once inside the room, Sister Anselm was prepared to leave them alone. “Stay,” Rose ordered.

James Fox moved toward the bed. When he saw Rose’s shattered face, he couldn’t conceal his shock and dismay. Or his tears.

“Look awful,” Rose managed.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “For running away.”

“My fault,” he said. “All my fault. We just want you home, Rose. We want you to get better.”

“Good father,” she said.

The unexpected praise caught James Fox by surprise. He sank into the room’s only chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed while Sister Anselm looked on in wonder. She knew she might have played some small part in making this miracle happen, but she wasn’t sure how.

By the time James Fox’s five minutes were up, he had managed to quit crying. “We’ll be outside,” he said. “I’ll send your mother in next.”

Rose nodded. “Not yet,” she said. “Later.”

“See there?” Sister Anselm said to Rose once Fox left. “I told you your family wants you home.”

“Yes,” Rose whispered. Then, exhausted by the conversation, she drifted off to sleep. For the first time, there was a slight smile in the curve of her swollen lips.

Leaving Rose to sleep, Sister Anselm stepped into the waiting room where the Fox family was huddled together. Just then Al Gutierrez
arrived with a middle-aged woman in tow. As soon as Al saw James Fox, the younger man stopped short, as if unsure what to do—stay or turn around and go. Fox solved the dilemma for them both by rushing over to him, grasping one of Al’s hands in his, and pumping it. “Thank you,” he said. “We can’t thank you enough for finding her and saving her. And I’m sorry about last night.”

By the time Fox’s effusive greeting ended, the woman stepped forward to introduce herself. “I’m Detective Ariel Rush,” she said. “You’re Rose’s family?”

The two parents and the two sisters nodded in unison.

“And you must be the patient advocate, the one Al told me about.”

“Yes. I’m Sister Anselm.”

Detective Rush looked around the room. “Has there been any public announcement about this—about your finding her?”

“Not yet,” Connie answered. “We wanted to check with Rose before we said anything.”

“Excellent,” Detective Rush said. “Now, is there a conference room of some kind where we can have a private conversation? There have been some serious new developments in the case.”