“If she didn’t bother to mention that her daughter was being released from prison, she wasn’t exactly being forthright with you. What’s her story?”
“I don’t know. She’s an Indian—part, anyway. Apache, I believe. She told me that her granddaughter has lived with her for several years. She implied there was some kind of family problem—a sticky divorce or something. But when I asked if Lucy might have gone off to live with her father, she said that wasn’t possible. That he wasn’t in the picture.
“Here’s the turnoff to her place,” Frank added, switching on the turn signal.
“Wait,” Joanna said. “Stop here a minute and let me check something.”
Obligingly, Frank pulled over next to a mailbox on top of a leaning wooden post and put the Ford in neutral. Meanwhile, Joanna plucked Frank’s radio microphone out of its clip and thumbed the “talk” button.
“Larry,” she said when the dispatcher’s voice came through. “When Pima County sent down the information on that stolen Lexus, did they include a rap sheet on Sandra Ridder?”
“Sure did.”
“Does it say what she went to prison for?”
“Man-one. Sentenced to ten years and served almost eight.”
“Does it say who she killed?”
“Yup, her husband, one Thomas Dawson Ridder.”
“Thanks, Larry,” Joanna told him. “That’s a big help. What about a mug shot?”
“We’ve got one of those, too.”
She glanced at Frank. “Is your wireless fax working?”
Frank Montoya had spent months and several thousand drug-enforcement dollars turning his Crown Victoria into a fully equipped mobile office.
He nodded.
“Fax everything you have to Frank’s computer.”
“Will do, Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick replied. “But it’s going to take a couple of minutes. I’m here by myself and another call is just coming in.”
“Take your time, Larry,” she told him. “No rush.”
Putting the microphone down, Joanna turned back to Frank. “Being dead is a damned good reason for the father not being in the picture,” she said. “So what do you think is going on?”
“This is how it looks to me.” Frank held up one hand and began ticking off his fingers. “On the surface of it, it’s easy to say that a marauding band of UDAs is responsible for whatever went on back there and let it go at that. But I’ve got a different idea. How does this sound? First Mommy whacks Daddy, and somebody sees to it that Mommy goes to prison. Later Mommy gets out of prison. As soon as she does, somebody whacks her. Immediately prior to that or else immediately thereafter, Baby Daughter disappears. Sounds to me like one way or the other, we’ve got a whole new set of reasons to go looking for Lucinda Ridder. Either she’s a victim, too, or else she’s something a whole lot worse.”
Sighing, Joanna leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Let’s go. By the time we finish talking to Catherine Yates, we’ll have what we need from Dispatch. In the meantime, I have to say, I hope to God you’re wrong. I don’t want to be stuck tracking down some nice, gun-wielding fifteen-year-old.”
“That’s funny,” Frank said.
“What’s funny?”
“That’s exactly what Catherine Yates told me earlier this afternoon about Lucinda. She said Lucy’s a nice girl.”
“Right,” Joanna returned sarcastically. “I’ll just bet she did. That’s what grandmothers always say—that their particular little darlings are nothing but sweetness and light. I’ll bet if someone had asked Lizzie Borden’s grandmother, she probably would have given the exact same answer: She would have said, ‘Little Elizabeth’s an adorable child. She’s just as nice as you please and wouldn’t hurt a fly if her life depended on it.’ “
CHAPTER 7
A s soon as Frank’s Crown Victoria pulled into Catherine Yates’ yard, the porch light snapped on and the front door slammed open. A stocky woman in blue jeans and a flapping denim shirt
“I don’t know. She’s an Indian—part, anyway. Apache, I believe. She told me that her granddaughter has lived with her for several years. She implied there was some kind of family problem—a sticky divorce or something. But when I asked if Lucy might have gone off to live with her father, she said that wasn’t possible. That he wasn’t in the picture.
“Here’s the turnoff to her place,” Frank added, switching on the turn signal.
“Wait,” Joanna said. “Stop here a minute and let me check something.”
Obligingly, Frank pulled over next to a mailbox on top of a leaning wooden post and put the Ford in neutral. Meanwhile, Joanna plucked Frank’s radio microphone out of its clip and thumbed the “talk” button.
“Larry,” she said when the dispatcher’s voice came through. “When Pima County sent down the information on that stolen Lexus, did they include a rap sheet on Sandra Ridder?”
“Sure did.”
“Does it say what she went to prison for?”
“Man-one. Sentenced to ten years and served almost eight.”
“Does it say who she killed?”
“Yup, her husband, one Thomas Dawson Ridder.”
“Thanks, Larry,” Joanna told him. “That’s a big help. What about a mug shot?”
“We’ve got one of those, too.”
She glanced at Frank. “Is your wireless fax working?”
Frank Montoya had spent months and several thousand drug-enforcement dollars turning his Crown Victoria into a fully equipped mobile office.
He nodded.
“Fax everything you have to Frank’s computer.”
“Will do, Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick replied. “But it’s going to take a couple of minutes. I’m here by myself and another call is just coming in.”
“Take your time, Larry,” she told him. “No rush.”
Putting the microphone down, Joanna turned back to Frank. “Being dead is a damned good reason for the father not being in the picture,” she said. “So what do you think is going on?”
“This is how it looks to me.” Frank held up one hand and began ticking off his fingers. “On the surface of it, it’s easy to say that a marauding band of UDAs is responsible for whatever went on back there and let it go at that. But I’ve got a different idea. How does this sound? First Mommy whacks Daddy, and somebody sees to it that Mommy goes to prison. Later Mommy gets out of prison. As soon as she does, somebody whacks her. Immediately prior to that or else immediately thereafter, Baby Daughter disappears. Sounds to me like one way or the other, we’ve got a whole new set of reasons to go looking for Lucinda Ridder. Either she’s a victim, too, or else she’s something a whole lot worse.”
Sighing, Joanna leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Let’s go. By the time we finish talking to Catherine Yates, we’ll have what we need from Dispatch. In the meantime, I have to say, I hope to God you’re wrong. I don’t want to be stuck tracking down some nice, gun-wielding fifteen-year-old.”
“That’s funny,” Frank said.
“What’s funny?”
“That’s exactly what Catherine Yates told me earlier this afternoon about Lucinda. She said Lucy’s a nice girl.”
“Right,” Joanna returned sarcastically. “I’ll just bet she did. That’s what grandmothers always say—that their particular little darlings are nothing but sweetness and light. I’ll bet if someone had asked Lizzie Borden’s grandmother, she probably would have given the exact same answer: She would have said, ‘Little Elizabeth’s an adorable child. She’s just as nice as you please and wouldn’t hurt a fly if her life depended on it.’ “
CHAPTER 7
A s soon as Frank’s Crown Victoria pulled into Catherine Yates’ yard, the porch light snapped on and the front door slammed open. A stocky woman in blue jeans and a flapping denim shirt
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