“According to the report in hand, Ms. Goodson was very firm on that,” Larry Kendrick responded. “She says that Sandra Ridder has been out of circulation for nearly eight years. That means she has no insurance and no valid driver’s license.”
“See there?” Joanna asked. “And if anything happens to the car while Sandra Ridder is driving it—if it ends up in some kind of wreck—Melanie Goodson’s insurance will still be valid as long as she claims the car was being driven without her permission at the time of the accident. This also gives us a pretty good idea of how and why Lucinda Ridder disappeared. As soon as Grandma Yates goes to sleep, Sandra Ridder pulls up in the Lexus—stolen or not—and then she and her daughter drive off into the sunset.”
“Do you want me to call this over to Chief Deputy Montoya?”
“No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. I’m almost there now. I’ll tell him myself. In the meantime, give me all the pertinent information on that missing Lexus.”
Driving with one hand, Joanna used her other hand to make a series of quick notes on the notepad that was mounted to the Blazer’s dash. By the time she had jotted down the make, model, and license number of Melanie Goodson’s missing Lexus, Joanna was driving through Elfrida.
Ending the radio transmission, Joanna watched as the little farming community sailed past her windows. Elfrida was a one-horse town, even more so than Bisbee. If gossip-mongers in Elfrida were anything like the ones in Bisbee, having the mother of a local student get out of prison and come to town to retrieve her daughter would be big news. This was the kind of juicy tidbit that could keep jaws flapping for weeks. Maybe Sandra Ridder and Lucinda wanted a little privacy—a little family time to get reacquainted before facing the rest of the community. A desire for privacy was something Joanna Brady could understand, although stealing a car didn’t seem like the right way to go about conducting a mother-daughter reunion.
At Pearce, Joanna turned left and started up toward Cochise Stronghold and the Dragoon Mountains. For a short while the road was paved. Just when the road surface changed to washboarded gravel, Joanna met a group of people—twenty or so—walking in groups of two or three along the sandy shoulder of the road.
Joanna’s initial thought was that this was some kind of protest march. Then she remembered, a group of Volksmarchers had been scheduled to have an event that weekend—a ten-kilometer walk from Pearce to Cochise Stronghold and back. The very thought made Joanna groan. That’s what every homicide investigation needs—several hundred sets of unidentified footprints walking through and over the crime scene.
She picked up her radio and had Larry Kendrick patch her through to Frank Montoya. “Did you know there’s a Volksmarch scheduled for Cochise Stronghold today?” she asked her chief deputy.
“Sure I knew that,” Frank responded. “The guy who’s in charge of the march is named Hal Witter. I thought I told you about him. He’s the one who found the injured woman lying in a ditch.”
“You said someone found her, but you didn’t happen to mention that the guy had a hundred or so people with him when he did it.”
“One hundred three, to be exact,” Frank Montoya replied. “That’s how many people are participating in today’s march, but it turns out Mr. Witter was all by himself when he found the victim.”
“Well, then,” Joanna returned. “I guess we should be thankful for small favors.”
CHAPTER 6
When Joanna arrived at the crime scene, her Blazer was third in line, behind both Frank Montoya’s Crown Victoria and Detective Carbajal’s Ford Econoline van. Frank Montoya, Jaime Carbajal, and another man Joanna didn’t recognize stood pointing off the road into a brush-clogged drainage ditch.
“I know it would have been better if we hadn’t had to disturb the crime scene,” the unidentified man was explaining to Detective Carbajal. “But as long as there was a chance of saving her, I figured that took higher priority than preserving evidence.”
“This is the spot then?” Joanna asked, walking up behind them.
The three men turned to face her. “Sheriff Brady,” Frank said. “Yes, this is it. Down in the culvert. And this is Hal Witter, the man who found the victim.”
Joanna held out her hand. From her height of five feet four, Hal Witter seemed tall. He was silver-haired and in his mid-to-late sixties. Distinguished-looking, he carried himself with the straight-backed bearing of a military officer.
“Glad to meet you, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I’ve had some dealings with your office over traffic concerns for our various Volksmarches, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you in person.”