“Drive carefully,” he added.
“I will,” she said.
Fifty yards from the wash and out of sight of the limo, Joanna spotted the driver, squatting on his haunches and dejectedly smoking a cigarette. When Joanna drove up behind him and rolled down her window, he stood up.
“Still no tow truck?” she asked.
The driver shook his head. “No such luck. According to the dispatcher, it could be more than an hour before they send somebody out.”
“As I said before, I have a winch on this thing,” Joanna said. “I’m sure I could raise you up enough to get your vehicle out.”
“Thanks, but no, thanks,” he returned. “Madame made it quite clear that she didn’t want any help from you. She’s using my cell phone right now to tell the American Automobile Association exactly what she thinks of their service, and that’s all to the good. If she’s yelling at somebody else, at least I’m not the target.”
“Ms. Singleton did strike me as a little prickly,” Joanna said.
“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Just because she flew into Tucson International on somebody’s private jet, she seems to think the whole world is supposed to bow and scrape before her. I’m hoping that Triple-A tow truck takes a long damned time to show up. As long as the battery in that cell phone doesn’t run out of juice, it’s no skin off my nose. After all, I’m being paid by the hour.”
Joanna put the Blazer back in gear. “I’ll be going then,” she said. Suddenly remembering that she was still in possession of Clayton Rhodes’ skeleton key, she stopped long enough to dig it out of her purse.
“By the way,” she added, handing it over to the driver. “This is the key to Ms. Singleton’s father’s house. Under the circumstances it’s probably better if someone besides me gives it to her.”
The driver nodded. “I’m sure you’re right about that,” he said. “See you,” he added with an offhand wave.
Down by the wash, Joanna followed the trail Butch’s Outback had blazed through the sand in order to detour around the stalled Lincoln. Reba Singleton looked up as the Blazer went past, but she made no acknowledgment, and neither did Joanna.
Out on High Lonesome Road, Joanna settled back to drive. The crime scene was a good half hour away, well beyond the little farming community of Elfrida and outside an even smaller hamlet called Pearce. She was about to call into the department for directions, when Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher, beat her to the punch.
“Sheriff Brady?”
“Here, Larry. What’s up?”
“I just had a stolen-vehicle alert come in from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, and I thought I should let you know about it right away.”
“What is it?”
“A woman named Melanie Goodson called in early this morning and reported her Lexus stolen. She thinks the person who took it was a guest in her home last night. The name of this alleged car thief is Sandra Ridder.”
“Ridder?” Joanna said. “Wait a minute; isn’t Ridder the same name as that of the fifteen-year-old runaway Frank Montoya was just telling me about?”
“It is,” Larry replied. “Sandra Ridder is Lucinda Ridder’s mother. She went to prison for manslaughter and has spent the better part of the last eight years as a guest of the state of Arizona in the women’s unit up at Perryville. She got out yesterday. Melanie Goodson was Sandra’s defense attorney on the manslaughter charge, and the two women were on good-enough terms that Melanie drove up to the prison and picked Sandra Ridder up yesterday when they let her out.
“The Goodson woman was going to bring Sandra on down to her mother’s place—to Catherine Yates’ place—today. Instead, when Melanie Goodson woke up this morning, Sandra Ridder and Melanie Goodson’s Lexus were both among the missing. Goodson called in and reported the theft right away. She told the Pima County officer that Sandra was probably headed this way. Unfortunately, vehicle theft is such a low priority up in the Tucson area that no one got around to shipping the report down to us until just now.”
“From what you said, it sounds as though the two women are friends,” Joanna suggested. “In fact, you’d have to be damned good friends for someone to make a two-hundred-mile round trip to pick up someone who’s just been let out of prison. Isn’t it possible Melanie lent her car to Sandra Ridder and doesn’t want to admit it?”