Dead Wrong

Chapter 12

Leslie Markham returned to the conference room a few minutes later with her husband on her heels. Rory Markham was tall, tanned, fit, good looking, and noticeably older than his wife. Seeing him, Joanna couldn’t help remembering her conversation with Debbie about how it looked as though Leslie Tazewell had managed to marry up. At first glance that still seemed to be the case.

“So some maniac is going around taking pictures of my wife,” Rory Markham said. “Isn’t that against some law or another? Isn’t it an invasion of privacy?”

“It may be disconcerting,” Joanna said, “but it’s not against the law.”

“Well, it should be,” Rory returned. “And it’s a good thing the son of a bitch is already dead. If he weren’t, I’d track him down myself and tear him a new asshole.”

“Rory!” Leslie admonished. “You shouldn’t talk that way.” He leveled a look in Leslie’s direction, and she subsided into silence. This bullying exchange wasn’t lost on Joanna. Was this man understandably concerned for his wife’s well-being, she wondered, or was there something else at work here? Jealousy, perhaps? That was always a powerful motivator, and Rory didn’t look like the type who would appreciate or tolerate having an interloper poaching on his turf. Not only that, it was clear that underneath Markham’s suave exterior of perfect clothing, perfect hair, and perfect teeth lurked something far rougher. Like the refurbished building that held Rory Markham’s business, the man’s lowbrow Tacos to Go roots lingered despite an extensive makeover.

“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.

“Believe me,” Joanna said, “that makes two of us. If there were something I could do to speed things along, I would. Come on now. It’s cold. Let’s go home.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. I’m sure it’s almost time for dinner.”

“All right.”

When Joanna drove into the yard, she could see the glow of the Dixons’ flat-screen TV inside their motor home, which meant they were probably there watching the news. Hoping for a few moments of privacy, she hurried into the house looking for Butch. She found him in the kitchen fixing dinner, but he was in no better spirits than Jenny had been.

“What’s wrong?” Joanna asked.

“The same thing that’s been wrong around here for days,” he grumbled. “I’m glad I got to see Junior put my mother in her place at lunchtime, but she’s been on a tear ever since. I came within two seconds of asking them to leave.”

“You can’t do that, Butch,” Joanna said. “I know they’re annoying as hell, but they are your parents. They’re here because of the baby.”

“The baby,” Butch said ominously, “needs to get a move on.”

“Jenny said pretty much the same thing,” Joanna said with a smile. “And if the way my back hurts is any indication…”

“Your back hurts?” Butch said. “Maybe you should go lie down for a while-at least until dinner is ready.”

Joanna did as she was told, and dinner turned out to be surprisingly uneventful. At first Joanna thought Margaret was merely subdued. About the time they finished their salads, Joanna realized that her mother-in-law wasn’t speaking to anyone, which turned out to be a blessing. Jenny and Joanna were in the kitchen putting away leftovers and loading the dishwasher when the phone rang.

“Jaime Carbajal,” Butch said, handing Joanna the phone.

“How’d you do?” Joanna asked.

“Not that well. We never located Antonio Zavala, but Tucson PD was able to give us the names of a couple of his associates. One is an eighteen-year-old girl named Lupe Melendez. She was cited two months ago for letting her pit bull loose in an off-leash area of a city park, where it mauled three other dogs. We couldn’t find her today, either, but Debbie and I will take another crack at that tomorrow.”

“Did you hear anything from Ernie?”

“I heard from Rose. He’s home and resting and seems to be doing all right, but Rose said the only way he’s coming to work tomorrow is over her dead body.”

“I’m glad to hear it went well,” Joanna said.

She went on to tell Jaime about her trip to Sierra Vista. “Doesn’t sound as though talking to the Markhams helped much,” he said when she finished.

“It didn’t,” Joanna agreed. “But I’d like to know more about Rory Markham. He pretty much accused his wife of having had a previous relationship with Bradley Evans and then lying about it.”

“You’d say Rory Markham is the jealous type?” Jaime asked.

“Enough that I think we should check him out,” Joanna said. “But Frank and I can work on some of that background information. And tomorrow I’ll attend Bradley Evans’s funeral. In the meantime, though, I want you and Debbie to keep working on Jeannine’s case. How’s Debbie working out, by the way?”

“She’ll be fine once she gets a little experience under her belt. She’s still unsure of herself. And speaking of Jeannine, Debbie and I stopped by UMC to check on her before we left Tucson,” Jaime added. “Jeannine’s still in the ICU, but her condition has been upgraded to serious. We didn’t see her, of course, but we talked to Dr. Ross. By the way, thanks for warning me in advance about the deal between her and Jeannine. Otherwise I might have said something stupid. How long has this been going on?”

“Beats me,” Joanna said. “I only just now found out about it myself.”

When she got off the phone with Jaime, Joanna dialed Ernie Carpenter’s number. Rose answered.

“How’s he doing?” Joanna asked.

“Okay,” Rose answered. “But he’s lying down right now. Want me to get him?”

“No,” Joanna said. “Just give him a message. Tell him Sheriff Brady says if he gets past you tomorrow and tries to come to work, he’ll have to deal with me.”

Rose Carpenter laughed. “I’ll tell him, all right,” she said.

With Margaret still not speaking to anyone, she and Don retreated to their motor home early. The rest of the house, emotionally drained from dealing with their disruptive guests, went to bed shortly thereafter. Butch was still watching the Nine O’Clock News on Fox when Joanna rolled over on her side and went to sleep. But going to sleep that early had its disadvantages. By three o’clock in the morning she and her lead-footed baby were both wide awake.

She lay there for a long time thinking about Bradley Evans and about Leslie and Rory Markham. After murdering his wife, Bradley had gone off to prison where he had paid his debt to society and become what seemed to be an exemplary citizen- right up until a week earlier, when he had suddenly gone off the rails and started taking stealth photographs of a woman who claimed to know nothing about him. Joanna knew there had to be some connection.

What is it? she wondered. What am I missing?

After an hour’s worth of restless tossing and turning, Joanna finally bailed out of bed and padded into her office with Lady at her heels. She had read her father’s official version of Bradley Evans’s arrest in the case log, but she wondered if D. H. Lathrop might have written something more about the case in the privacy of his daily journal-something that might shed some additional light on Bradley’s present circumstances all these years later.

Grunting with the awkward position and effort, Joanna managed to rummage through the bottom file drawer until she located the volume in question, one that covered most of 1978 and the beginning months of 1979. She found what she was looking for on Monday, October 30, 1978. The entry read:

Picked up a drunk yesterday morning up on top of the Divide. Blood all over him and everywhere in his truck. His pregnant wife’s missing and most likely dead. The guy must have killed her, but he doesn’t remember a thing. Why do people drink?

That passage was what she had been looking for, and reading something that was related to the case she was working on seemed justified-it didn’t feel like prying. Originally that was all she had intended to do, but of course she didn’t stop reading after that one entry. She kept right on. Not only had D. H. Lathrop faithfully entered notations about his life as a Cochise County deputy sheriff, he had also set down his views of what was going on at home.

Ellie just can’t get used to the fact that I make a lot less money working for the sheriff’s department than I did working underground for P.D. She likes nice stuff, and she got used to being able to go to the P.D. Store and getting whatever she wanted by just signing for it. I keep telling her we can’t live this way. We won’t be able to keep our heads above water. I’m trying to see if they’ll let me put in some overtime.

A few pages later she came across the entry for December 17,1978.

The Christmas Pageant was tonight. J. sang “Silent Night” and “Away in a Manger” with the Junior Choir. She was wearing a beautiful green velvet dress. When I asked Ellie where it came from, she just shrugged. I asked her how much it cost. She said it only cost $40.00!!! Only!!! For a dress J. probably won’t wear more than once or twice. E. and I had a big fight about it, but J. looked so pretty in that dress, I probably should have kept my big mouth shut. We’ll pay for it somehow.

Joanna remembered that dress like no other. It had been a deep, rich green with rhinestone-studded buttons. She had thought it the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, and she remembered her mother telling her to go in the dressing room and try it on. They had been upstairs in Phelps Dodge Mercantile, in the children’s clothing department. When she came out of the dressing room wearing it, she had felt like a princess, and she had been amazed when Eleanor had said to the saleslady, “We’ll take it.”

On the way home she had added, “Now you mustn’t tell your father about this. It’ll be a surprise.”

It had been a surprise, all right, and not a particularly welcome one. But it was one of the few times in Joanna’s life when she remembered her mother going to the mat for her.

Joanna had thought that reading her father’s diaries would be all one-sided, and yet here she was remembering something nice about her mother that she had forgotten completely. She was almost idly skimming through pages when she came across the entry for Friday, February 2, 1979.

Drove Bradley Evans up to the state prison in Florence today and dropped him off. Got eighteen to twenty-five for pleading guilty to killing his wife. I was the one who arrested him the morning after it happened. The problem is, I think the legal system’s got this whole thing dead wrong. Even though he said he did it, I don’t think Bradley Evans killed anybody, and I can’t say why. Call it gut instinct. The judge believed him, and the county attorney believed him. I don’t. Somebody missed something, and I don’t know what it is. As Mama used to say: “Stand alone. Eventually the crowd may fall.” So I’ll just keep on thinking what I’m thinking and wait to see what happens.

Joanna sat for a long time staring at the entry. Stand alone… Those familiar words were ones her father had said to her often, and she had never known they came from her grandmother, a woman who had died long before Joanna was born. And how did those words apply now. Had Bradley Evans willingly spent more than twenty years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed? Was that possible? And, if so, didn’t that mean that Lisa Evans’s real killer had gone free all this time?

From what anyone had been able to learn, as long as Bradley Evans had stayed put in Douglas, everything had been fine. But once he ventured as far afield as Sierra Vista-once he started stalking Leslie Markham and snapping her picture-things had changed. Before he finished shooting that one camera’s worth of film, Bradley Evans was dead.

After talking to Rory Markham that afternoon, Joanna had come away thinking that the real estate broker was a plausible suspect in the Bradley Evans homicide. Jealous husbands were always a good possibility, and no doubt Rory Markham deserved further investigation. But D. H. Lathrop’s journal entry opened the door to other avenues of investigation as well. He claimed something had been missed in the original investigation. What? And how? And by whom? Had it simply been overlooked or had it been deliberately overlooked? And was it possible for a new set of eyes to spot that missing ingredient all these years later?

Joanna felt energized, but she was realistic enough to know her limits. Tomorrow was another long day. She needed her rest. Closing the book, she returned it to the file cabinet drawer. Then she stood up and switched off the lamp. “Come on, girl,” she said to Lady. “Time to go back to bed.”

She managed to get back into bed without disturbing Butch. After that it took time for her to find a comfortable position and time to turn off her brain, which had suddenly slipped into overdrive.

She was in the bathroom the next morning putting on her makeup when Butch came into the room, bringing her a cup of apricot tea and grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re not going to believe it,” he said.

“Believe what?” Joanna asked.

“They left.”

“Who left? You’re not making any sense.”

“My parents. Overnight, they folded up their awning and took off.”

“For where?”

“Home. For Arkansas. They left a note on the kitchen table. Here it is.”

Taking the note, Joanna read: “Thanks for the hospitality. Obviously we’ve worn out our welcome. Mom.”

“Worn out their welcome? How can she say that? We all bent over backwards.”

“And walked on eggshells,” Butch added. “But that’s the way she is.”

Joanna was incredulous. “After driving all this way they’re going to miss out on the birth of their grandchild because of what happened at lunch, because Junior called her on being rude?”

“I guess,” Butch said. “I suppose that’s what started it, but now that she and Dad aren’t speaking, they could go on like that indefinitely. Believe me, we’re better off with them giving each other the silent treatment as far away from here as possible. I had a bellyful of that nonsense growing up, of passing messages back and forth between them for days and weeks at a time. I sure as hell don’t need it now. Actually, though, this is a real stroke of luck for Dad. Mom’s an inveterate backseat driver. With her not speaking to him, it’ll probably be the most enjoyable crosscountry drive he’s made in years.”

Joanna shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like a nice way to travel or to live,” she observed.

Butch shrugged. “They’re used to it,” he said. “They’ve been doing it for years-for as long as I can remember. Now come on. Breakfast is almost ready. I’m making omelets to celebrate. And with them gone, you don’t have to rush things with the baby anymore. He can arrive whenever he wants.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Joanna said. “You’re not the one who’s nine and a half months pregnant.” Then she paused. “Wait a minute. Did you say he?”

Butch heaved a sigh, then he nodded. “Yes, I did,” he said.

“Was that just a figure of speech, or…”

“Mom opened the envelope,” he said. “The one on the refrigerator with the ultrasound results in it. I didn’t know what she’d done until she asked me what we’re going to name him. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I let it slip. Sorry.”

Joanna could barely contain herself. “Your mother actually opened the envelope-the envelope we’ve left sealed all this time? You let her do that?”

“Joey,” Butch said, “I didn’t let her do anything. I told you she’s a snoop. I should have realized she couldn’t leave well enough alone. I should have locked the envelope away in the office along with everything else. I just didn’t think about it. And when I found out what she’d done, I climbed all over her about it. I’m sure that’s the real reason they left. I doubt Junior Dowdle’s comment had a thing to do with it.”

Just then Jenny and the three dogs bounded into the master bedroom behind them. “Hey,” she said, flopping onto their unmade bed. “I was out feeding Kiddo and I just noticed. The motor home is gone. What happened? Where’d they go?”

“They went home,” Butch said.

“Home?” Jenny asked. “But I thought they were going to stay until the baby got here. Why would they leave now? I mean, it can’t be that much longer.”

“It’s a long story,” Butch said.

He looked so disheartened that Joanna couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Whatever Margaret Dixon had done, it wasn’t her son’s fault.

“It doesn’t matter why they left,” Joanna said quickly. “The whole point is, they did. Now let’s have some breakfast. We need to figure out a name for this little brother of yours.”

“Little brother?” Jenny repeated wonderingly. “You mean we know it’s going to be a boy?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Thanks to Margaret Dixon, we do now.”