came hurrying off the front porch of a tiny square house.
“Did you find her?” she demanded of Frank Montoya as he rolled down the driver’s window.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry to report that we still haven’t found your granddaughter. I’ve brought Sheriff Joanna Brady along with me, Ms. Yates. She and I need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Joanna stepped out of the car and went around to the other side, offering her hand. “How do you do, Ms. Yates.”
Catherine Yates’ work-hardened fingers closed around Joanna’s with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Nice to meet you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess I didn’t really expect that the sheriff herself would show up.”
“I came because we need to speak to you about your daughter,” Joanna said.
“About Sandra?” Catherine asked. “How come? My granddaughter’s the one who’s missing.”
“You told Frank that you were expecting Sandra home soon. Is it possible that she and Lucinda took off together?”
Asking the question, Joanna knew she was stalling for time, postponing the inevitable moment when she would most likely have to deliver the painful news. Joanna fully expected Larry Kendrick’s mug shot would confirm that Catherine’s daughter was dead. In the meantime, asking questions was an acceptable delaying tactic. Even so, if Sandra was the victim, the awful task of telling Catherine Yates that her daughter was dead couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Notifying bereaved next of kin was Sheriff Joanna Brady’s job—part of it, anyway.
Behind her, Frank switched off his Crown Victoria—his Civvie, as he preferred to call it—and emerged into the chill early evening air.
“No,” Catherine Yates was saying. “That wouldn’t have happened. Lucy wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her mother.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Joanna asked. “Her mother’s been away for some time. Doesn’t it stand to reason that she’d be glad to see her?”
Catherine Yates simply shook her head and said nothing.
“All right, then,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about your daughter’s recent whereabouts.”
Catherine glanced warily at Frank Montoya before she answered. “I heard from Sandra just yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Sandy called from Tucson and told me she had been released. She said she was spending last night in Tucson with a friend. I told your deputies that earlier. I expect her home sometime today or tomorrow.”
“What friend?” Joanna asked.
“A friend, that’s all.”
“Look, Ms. Yates, I’m sure this is all terribly painful for you to discuss. Otherwise you would have told Chief Deputy Montoya the whole story earlier. We already know that your daughter was released from prison yesterday afternoon, so it’s no secret. Just tell us. Have you heard from her since then?”
Catherine Yates bowed her head. For a moment her face was obscured by a curtain of shoulder-length gray hair. Seeing her face in the dim glow of a yard light, it was easy to understand why Frank might have been in doubt about the woman’s ethnic heritage. She could easily have passed for either Hispanic or Indian, although there was clearly some Anglo blood mixed in as well.
“No,” Catherine said finally. “Sandra hasn’t called me, and I haven’t tried reaching her, either. In fact, I’ve been dreading talking to her all day long—ever since I realized Lucy was gone. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell Sandy that Lucy had run away.”
“Who’s the friend?” Frank interjected. “The one Sandra’s supposed to be staying with?”
Catherine bit her lip. “Her name’s Melanie Goodson, and she’s not much of a friend, if you ask me. She lives somewhere out on Old Spanish Trail. She was Sandy’s attorney years ago. She’s also the one who let that stupid plea bargain go through. I don’t know if she was lazy or what. I
“Did you find her?” she demanded of Frank Montoya as he rolled down the driver’s window.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry to report that we still haven’t found your granddaughter. I’ve brought Sheriff Joanna Brady along with me, Ms. Yates. She and I need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Joanna stepped out of the car and went around to the other side, offering her hand. “How do you do, Ms. Yates.”
Catherine Yates’ work-hardened fingers closed around Joanna’s with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Nice to meet you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess I didn’t really expect that the sheriff herself would show up.”
“I came because we need to speak to you about your daughter,” Joanna said.
“About Sandra?” Catherine asked. “How come? My granddaughter’s the one who’s missing.”
“You told Frank that you were expecting Sandra home soon. Is it possible that she and Lucinda took off together?”
Asking the question, Joanna knew she was stalling for time, postponing the inevitable moment when she would most likely have to deliver the painful news. Joanna fully expected Larry Kendrick’s mug shot would confirm that Catherine’s daughter was dead. In the meantime, asking questions was an acceptable delaying tactic. Even so, if Sandra was the victim, the awful task of telling Catherine Yates that her daughter was dead couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Notifying bereaved next of kin was Sheriff Joanna Brady’s job—part of it, anyway.
Behind her, Frank switched off his Crown Victoria—his Civvie, as he preferred to call it—and emerged into the chill early evening air.
“No,” Catherine Yates was saying. “That wouldn’t have happened. Lucy wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her mother.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Joanna asked. “Her mother’s been away for some time. Doesn’t it stand to reason that she’d be glad to see her?”
Catherine Yates simply shook her head and said nothing.
“All right, then,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about your daughter’s recent whereabouts.”
Catherine glanced warily at Frank Montoya before she answered. “I heard from Sandra just yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Sandy called from Tucson and told me she had been released. She said she was spending last night in Tucson with a friend. I told your deputies that earlier. I expect her home sometime today or tomorrow.”
“What friend?” Joanna asked.
“A friend, that’s all.”
“Look, Ms. Yates, I’m sure this is all terribly painful for you to discuss. Otherwise you would have told Chief Deputy Montoya the whole story earlier. We already know that your daughter was released from prison yesterday afternoon, so it’s no secret. Just tell us. Have you heard from her since then?”
Catherine Yates bowed her head. For a moment her face was obscured by a curtain of shoulder-length gray hair. Seeing her face in the dim glow of a yard light, it was easy to understand why Frank might have been in doubt about the woman’s ethnic heritage. She could easily have passed for either Hispanic or Indian, although there was clearly some Anglo blood mixed in as well.
“No,” Catherine said finally. “Sandra hasn’t called me, and I haven’t tried reaching her, either. In fact, I’ve been dreading talking to her all day long—ever since I realized Lucy was gone. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell Sandy that Lucy had run away.”
“Who’s the friend?” Frank interjected. “The one Sandra’s supposed to be staying with?”
Catherine bit her lip. “Her name’s Melanie Goodson, and she’s not much of a friend, if you ask me. She lives somewhere out on Old Spanish Trail. She was Sandy’s attorney years ago. She’s also the one who let that stupid plea bargain go through. I don’t know if she was lazy or what. I
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