Exit Wounds

EXIT WOUNDS

i

Joanna Brady Mysteries

Desert Heat

Tombstone Courage

Shoot/Don’t Shoot

Dead to Rights

Skeleton Canyon

Rattlesnake Crossing

Outlaw Mountain

Devil’s Claw

Paradise Lost

J. P. Beaumont Mysteries

Until Proven Guilty

Injustice for All

Trial by Fury

Taking the Fifth

Improbable Cause

A More Perfect Union

Dismissed with Prejudice

Minor in Possession

Payment in Kind

Without Due Process

Failure to Appear

Lying in Wait

Name Withheld

Breach of Duty

Birds of Prey

and

Hour of the Hunter

Kiss of the Bees

Partner in Crime

WILLIAM MORROW

An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

exit wounds.

Copyright Š2003 by J. A. Jance.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

FIRST EDITION

Designed by Cassandra. Pappus

Printed on acid-free paper

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jance, Judith A. Exit wounds I J. A. Jance’-1st Ed.

that . cm.

ISBN 0-380-97731-1 1. Brady, Joanna (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 2. Fourth of July

celebrations-Fiction. 3. Policewomen-Fiction. 4. Sheriffs-Fiction. 5. Cochise County (Ariz.)-Fiction. 6. Arizona-Fiction.

J. Title.

PS3560.A44 E88 2003 813/.54212002035891

03 04 05 06 07 WBC/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

ii ForJon

iii

EXIT WOUNDS

1

The woman lay in her bed, tossing and turning, and tried to sleep. It was hot, but southern Arizona in July is always hot. Due to unpaid bills, the power company had shut off electricity to the shabby mobile home months ago. By now she was pretty well used to sleeping without benefit of a cooler or even a blowing fan.

The heat was a factor, but more disturbing than physical discomfort was thinking about the approaching interview. She had kept her mouth shut for almost thirty years.

For that long, other than pouring her heart out to her grandmother, she had been part of an ugly conspiracy of silence. No more. Tomorrow-today, in fact-she was going to talk. To strangers. To reporters. She was going to let it all hang out.

The question was, what would happen then?

Someone had told her once—wasn’t it that same grandmother? —that the truth will set you free. The story she was about to tell was the truth, but would it really free her of the

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demons that plagued her? The terrible sense of dread she felt wasn’t at all like being set free. What if she only made things worse? What if telling damned her forever?

Finally, around four, a slight breeze ruffled the frayed curtain over her bed, and she drifted off. A scarce three hours later, awakened by a recurring nightmare, she staggered out of bed and into the bathroom. When she turned on the water faucet in the lavatory, nothing happened.

“Damn!” she muttered. “What a time to run out of water.”

Pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she hurried outside into the relative cool of the early morning. The dogs, locked in the straw-bale shed, heard the back door slam and set up a terrific racket. If she was outside, they wanted to be outside, too. She went over and opened the door on the make-do shed where she kept her motley collection of dogs overnight. As soon as the door opened, the dogs cascaded joyfully out into the early-morning sunlight.

As always, Streak, the fleet-footed beagle, led the way, followed by Jasper, a mutt who was more German shepherd than anything else. There was FiFi, the three-legged poodle, followed by Donner and Blitzen, the two malamutes the woman had found as tiny puppies left in a box outside Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve two years ago. Fat Albert, the dachshund, raced through the doorway carrying a ball and wanting her to throw it. Razzle, Yo-Yo, and Pansy, three rescued greyhounds, pranced out daintily, with Yo-Yo stopping long enough for a leisurely stretch and to have his ears scratched.

Angel was an ugly, wrinkle-faced chow and Roger a doberman whose ears had been mangled in an amateur attempt at cropping. Mikey, the boxer, gave his owner a slobbery-faced greeting while newcomer Hombre—a black-and-3

tan hound-sidled shyly past her as if still unsure about whether or not he could trust her.

The older dogs came later. Chief, a collie mix of some kind, had lost several teeth, and Mopsy was a black Lab with a developing hip problem. The Lab had recently given birth to a batch of pups, only one of which had survived. The woman hoped that with money from her upcoming interview, she’d be able to afford to get the dogs not only their shots and licenses, but some veterinary care as well. Lester, a happy-go-lucky black cocker with an age-grizzled muzzle, was virtually blind due to cataracts that had dimmed both his eyes. Expensive canine cataract surgery would far outstrip his owner’s meager ability to pay.

Last in line was her favorite, a beloved mongrel named Oscar, who was evidently the result of an unfortunate mating between a German shepherd and a dachshund. Oscar’s large shepherd body tottered around on legs barely six inches tall, but what he lacked in height, Oscar more than made up in love.

Four of the dogs—Chief, Oscar, Roger, and Streak—had been with the woman for years, through a series of dingy apartments and humiliating evictions and, finally, at the very end, before her grandmother had let them come here, the dogs had lived with their owner in her Datsun 710 wagon. That was the wonderful thing about dogs—they loved you no matter who you were or where you lived.

After Oscar emerged, the woman glanced inside the gloomy shed to see if she had missed anyone. She didn’t remember having seen Shadow, Mopsy’s eight-week-old pup, but she was sure he must have come out with the others. Shutting the door while the dogs wandered off to relieve themselves, the woman turned resolutely toward the pump.

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When she first moved in, she had cursed her grandfather for stubbornly continuing to use an old-fashioned rope-pull gasoline-powered pump on the well rather than switching over to an electric one that would have operated automatically or with nothing more than the touch of a switch. But now that same rope-pull pump, hard as it might be to start sometimes, was a blessing rather than a curse because it continued to work without benefit of electricity. The woman hoped that maybe, after she took care of the dogs, there’d be enough money left over to make up those months of unpaid bills and have her power restored.

The mobile home was parked on three acres just east of the San Pedro River. Sheltered on three sides by mesquite and brush and on the river side by a grove of cottonwoods, it was so isolated that, once the noisy pump had water flowing into the storage tank, the woman had no qualms about bathing outside under an outdoor Shower head her grandfather had installed between the tank and the house. She had finished and was toweling off when the dogs began barking and racing toward the gate.

The woman’s heart pounded in sudden panic. Most people weren’t pushy enough to drive past the bullet-riddled No Trespassing sign wired to the gate. And, although the two reporters weren’t due until eleven—she had told them not to come any sooner than that—she was dismayed to think they might have decided to arrive early.

Dreading seeing them and hoping vaguely for some other stray visitor, she grabbed up her discarded clothing and raced toward the back door, calling to the dogs as she went. Hearing the distress in her voice, the dogs came as one. She stood just inside the door and pulled on her shorts and T-shirt as they bounded past her. Once Oscar, always the slowest, had lunged

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his way up the wooden steps and into the house, she slammed the door shut behind them.

Even though it was still early, the inside of the house had never cooled off overnight and was already terribly hot. The woman knew that neither she nor the dogs could stay there very long. In order to keep vermin away from the place, she always fed the dogs inside the mobile. Milling around her in the kitchen, that’s what they expected now—breakfast. She had planned to feed the dogs and then return them to the relative cool of the tree-shaded shed while she met with the reporters.

But the dogs were oblivious to her uncertainty and concern. They simply wanted to eat, and so she fed them. At first her quaking hands fumbled clumsily as she grabbed for dog dishes and filled them with food, but gradually that simple task had a calming effect. By the time all the dogs were happily munching through their dry food, she rushed into the bathroom to peer at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked at herself so seldom that she was shocked by what she saw. Her face seemed gaunt and pale. There were deep shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her lank, uncombed hair flopped in wet tangles around her face. In other words, she looked like hell. She had desperately wanted to make a good impression on her visitors.

Since they had mentioned videotaping the interview, she had hoped to sit in the sun long enough to dry her hair. She had even planned on putting on some makeup, if she still had any, that is.

Now, though, by arriving early—while the dogs were still underfoot and before she could make herself presentable—her visitors had ruined everything. No one would take her seriously if they thought she was nothing more than a madwoman living in a house overrun by a pack of unruly dogs. The reporters 6

would probably take one look at her and write her off as a hopeless Nut case.

She was still staring in the mirror when a car door slammed outside. Streak, always the first to finish eating, abandoned his dish and raced to the front door, barking furiously. Leaving their food uneaten, the other dogs followed suit in a raucous, noisy chorus.

“Quiet,” the woman urged. “It’s all right.”

Milling in excited circles, the agitated dogs paid no attention. The woman waded through them as far as the front window. Tweaking one corner of the curtain, she peeked outside. She recognized the familiar truck as soon as she saw it.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, without moving toward the door.

The dogs had quieted briefly. At the sound of her voice they resumed barking. “Quiet,”

she ordered once more. This time the dogs didn’t stop. Their deafening barking continued unabated as her unwelcome visitor began pounding on the front door.

“Open up,” a voice called from outside. “Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

“No. Go away. Leave me alone. Please.”

The woman watched spellbound as the front doorknob jiggled. Fortunately the door was Locked. She always kept it that way. After a long moment, the jiggling stopped abruptly. Creaking footsteps retreated across the rickety front porch and down the steps. As they started around the side of the mobile, the woman realized in dismay that she had been in such a rush when she came into the house with the dogs that the back door might still be unlocked.

Alarmed, she headed there. Her overly excited dogs impeded 7

her progress at every step. No matter how she tried to maneuver, one or another of them was in her way. She reached the back door just in time-just as that doorknob, too, began to turn. When the door started to open, the woman sprang against it and slammed it shut. First she twisted the small button on the knob that locked the door.

Then, for good measure, she shoved home the dead bolt as well.

“Let me in!” her visitor complained. “I have to talk to you.”

Breathing rapidly, the woman leaned against the door and closed her eyes in relief.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she retorted. “Go away.”

She was still standing just that way when the first of the bullets ripped through the door’s thin aluminum shell and slammed into her midsection. The powerful .45-caliber bullet ripped into her flesh and propelled her backward until she came to rest against the flimsy paperboard wall behind her. As the wall collapsed under her weight, another bullet found its mark and pounded into her shoulder. She was already off balance and falling, and the force of the second bullet spun her around so that when she landed she was facedown. Other bullets were fired as well, but they flew harmlessly overhead. The fallen woman wasn’t conscious of any of them. All she heard was the sound of her dogs, barking, and barking—trying to protect her. But it was too late for that—much too late.

Sometime later, she came to. Oscar was pressed to her side, whining and licking her face. In the background she heard the other dogs as well, whimpering and whining.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, she tried to reach out to pet Oscar, but her right arm was useless. She saw that the dog was covered with blood. At first she thought Oscar had been shot as well, but as

8

soon as she attempted to move, she knew the truth. Wounded, bleeding badly, and in need of help, she was the one who was in trouble.

Using only her left arm and with terrible effort, she inched her way along the linoleum-covered floor, down the hall, through the kitchen and into the living room. All the while the dogs continued to race around her as if trying to understand if this was some new game. The woman knew that the phone was there-in the living room. All she had to do was reach it and dial 911. If she did that, someone would come to help her.

And they would have, too, but the woman never made it that far. She dragged her bleeding body as far as the living room, where the telephone sat on a corner table next to the couch. It was no more than a foot away from her grasping fingers, but it might just as well have been on the moon.

Weakened by loss of blood, she dropped onto the orange shag carpet and didn’t move again. Hours passed. Some time later, with her overheated dogs still hovering anxiously around her, the woman died. All through the day, the temperature in the closed mobile home continued to soar. And, with their mistress dead, one after another, the dogs, too, slowly succumbed to the heat.

9

Late on Tuesday afternoon, Sheriff Joanna Brady sat at her desk, stared at the pages of her calendar, and knew that Butch Dixon, her husband, was absolutely right. She was overbooked. When he had mentioned it at breakfast that morning, she had done the only reasonable thing and denied it completely.

Coffeepot in hand, Butch had stood looking at the week’s worth of calendar he had finally convinced Joanna to copy and tape to the refrigerator door in a vain attempt at keeping track of her comings and goings.

“Two parades on Friday?” he had demanded, studying the two pages of copied calendar entries she had just finished posting. ‘According to this, the parades are followed by appearances at two community picnics.” Butch shook his head. ‘And you still think you’ll be at the fairgrounds in time for Jenny’s barrel-racing event, which will probably start right around four? You’re nuts,

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Joey,” he concluded after a pause. “Totally round the bend. Or else you’ve picked up a clone without telling me about it.”

“Don’t worry” she told him. “I’ll be fine.”

Butch had poured coffee and said nothing more. Now, though, late in the afternoon and after putting in a full day’s work, Joanna studied her marathon schedule and worried that maybe Butch was right. How would she cover all those bases?

The Fourth of July had always been one of Joanna’s favorite holidays. She loved going to the parade, hosting or attending a backyard barbecue, and then ending the evening in town watching Bisbee’s community fireworks display.

But this wasn’t a typical Fourth of July. This was an election year, and Joanna Brady was an active-duty sheriff trying to do her job in the midst of a stiffly contested reelection campaign. Rather than watching a single parade, she was scheduled to participate in two of them—driving her Crown Victoria in Bisbee’s parade starting at eleven and in Sierra Vista’s, twenty-five miles away, starting at twelve-thirty. She was also slated to appear briefly at two community picnics that day-in Benson and St.

David. The day would end with her making a few introductory remarks prior to the annual fireworks display eighty miles from home in Willcox. Stuffed in among all her official duties, she needed to be at the Cochise County fairgrounds outside of Douglas at the stroke of four o’clock.

After years of practicing around a set of barrels positioned around the corral at High Lonesome Ranch, Jennifer Ann Brady had declared that she and her sorrel quarter horse, Kiddo, were ready for their public barrel-racing debut. That Fourth of July would mark Jenny’s first-ever competition on the junior rodeo circuit. Joanna’s showing up for the barrel-race rodeo had nothing at all to do with politics and everything to do with motherhood.

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Be there or be square, Joanna told herself grimly.

Looking away from her calendar, Joanna walked across to the dorm-sized refrigerator Butch had brought back from Costco in Tucson and installed in her office. She retrieved a bottle of water. Taking a thoughtful drink, she stared out the window at the parched hills surrounding the Cochise County Justice Center. The thermometer perched in the shade under the roof of a covered parking stall just outside her office door still hovered around 103 degrees. Summertime temperatures in and around Bisbee seldom exceeded the low nineties, so having the temperature still that hot so late in the afternoon was bound to be a record breaker.

Inside Joanna’s office, things weren’t much better. The thermostats at all county-owned facilities were now set at a budget/ energy-conscious 80 degrees—too warm to think or concentrate. She had a fan in her office, too, but she hated to use it because it tended to blow loose papers all over her desk-and there were always loose papers.

The radio, playing softly behind her desk, switched from music to bottom-of-the-hour news where the weather was a big concern. All of Arizona found itself in the grip of a severe drought and what was, even for July, a fierce heat wave. The radio reporter announced that flights in and out of Phoenix’s Sky Harbor airport had been grounded due to concerns that the heat-softened runways might be damaged by planes landing and taking off in the record-breaking 126-degree temperatures. The announcer’s running gag about its being a dry heat didn’t help Joanna’s frame of mind. Bisbee, situated two hundred miles southeast of Phoenix, was a couple of thousand feet higher than Phoenix and more than twenty degrees cooler, but that didn’t help, either. Deciding to ignore the weather, Joanna switched off

J. A. Jance

the radio and returned to studying her calendar and its self-inflicted difficulties.

Months earlier, one of her least favorite deputies, Kenneth . Galloway, had officially announced his intention to run against her. Bankrolled by a wife with a booming real estate business in Sierra Vista, Ken, Jr., had resigned from Joanna’s department within weeks of announcing his candidacy. Minus the burden of a regular job, Galloway had been on the stump ever since. He spent every day on the campaign trail, crisscrossing the county with doorbelling efforts and public appearances.

And that was where he had Joanna at a disadvantage. With a department to run, she couldn’t afford to doorbell all day long. She had done her share of rubber-chicken banquets and pancake-breakfast speeches for local civic organizations, but she’d had to squeeze them in around her regular duties. Which was why she had said yes to appearing at all those various Fourth of July events. She’d be able to cross paths and shake hands with far more people at those holiday get-togethers than she would have been able to see under ordinary circumstances. But now, at the end of a long day, the prospect of keeping multiple far-flung commitments seemed nothing less than daunting. She wished she had said no more times than she had said yes.

The phone rang. Thinking Kristin would answer it, Joanna let it ring several times before she realized it was a quarter to six. Her secretary, Kristin Gregovich—a young working mother with both an eight-month-old baby girl and a baby-sitter waiting at home—punched out each afternoon at the stroke of five. Sighing, Joanna picked up the phone.

“Hi, Joey,” Butch Dixon said. “How’s it going?”

Just hearing her husband’s cheerful greeting lifted Joanna’s 13

sagging spirits. “My head aches and my feet hurt,” she told him. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

“So it’s off to Sierra Vista?” he asked.

“That’s right,” she said, reading from the calendar notation. “Seven p.m., Karen Oldsby, Sierra Vista Tribune. Interview.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it,” Butch said.

“I’m not,” Joanna agreed. “It’s so hot in this office I could scream.”

“Couldn’t you do the interview by phone?”

“Ms. Oldsby prefers doing interviews in person, but while I’m driving out there I’ll turn the air-conditioning on full blast. That way, by the time I get there, I’ll have had a chance to cool off. Maybe I’ll feel better.”

“Do you want me to hold dinner for you?” he asked.

Other husbands might have suggested Joanna cancel the interview and come straight home. She appreciated the fact that Butch did no such thing. He understood as well as she did that politicking had to be done during off-duty hours, during what should have been considered family time. It was clear to her that it was Butch’s backstopping of her-his being at home, doing chores, cooking meals, and looking after Jenny-that made Joanna’s run for office possible. It had also given her a new understanding of and respect for her mother, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, who, years earlier, had supplied the same kind of priceless but unpaid behind-the-scenes labor for Joanna’s deceased father, D. . Lathrop, when he had run for and won the same office Joanna now held. However, Joanna’s newfound respect for her mother didn’t make the woman any less annoying.

“Joey?” Butch asked. “Are you still there?”

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“Yes,” she said quickly, embarrassed to have been caught woolgathering. “I’m here.”

“You never answered me about dinner.”

“Sorry. No, don’t bother keeping anything warm. If I’m hungry, I’ll grab something on my way to Sierra Vista. Otherwise, I’ll dig through the fridge when I get home.”

“Or have a bowl of Malt-o-Meal,” Butch said, making no effort to mask his disapproval.

For years Butch Dixon had run a Phoenix-area restaurant—the Roundhouse Bar and Grill in downtown Peoria. He had hired cooks, but he was also a respectable short-order cook in his own right. Joanna’s propensity for coming home late and having a bowl of cereal or cocoa and toast for a supper drove him nuts.

“Drive carefully,” he said. “See you when you get here.”

“I will,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

In the aftermath of the Twin Towers tragedy, where so many police and fire officers had died, those were words they exchanged without fail every single day. They said the words, and they meant them.

Joanna put down the phone and then scrounged around under her desk for the pair of low heels she had kicked off in the course of the afternoon. Her feet squawked in protest as she tried to slip the shoes back on. Was it possible her feet had grown a full size in a matter of hours? Shaking her head, Joanna limped over to the mirror on the back of the door and did a quick hair and makeup check. Her short red hair would need to be cut soon, and there were deep shadows under her bright green eyes.

I’m a mess, she thought grimly. And, with my luck, they’ll probably want a photo.

After all, the possibility of having her picture taken for the paper was the reason she had chosen to wear a skirt

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and blazer that morning rather than her uniform. She had wanted to look businesslike and not too official. But that was also before she had put in a full day and then some in her anything but cool office at the Cochise County Justice Center.

Joanna had picked up her purse and was on her way to the door when her phone rang again. She hurried back to her desk to answer. “Sheriff Brady.”

“Oh, good,” dispatcher Tica Romero said. “You’re still there. I was afraid you’d already left the office.”

“Why?” Joanna said. “What’s up?”

“Manny Ruiz is on the line,” Tica said. “He’s out near the San Pedro and needs assistance.

I’m sending him some backup, but I thought you’d want to talk to-“

“Put him through,” Joanna said.

Early in the year, the head of Cochise County Animal Control had left the county to take a better-paying job elsewhere. Struggling to come to terms with an out-of-balance budget, the board of supervisors had decided against replacing her. Instead, they had folded the Cochise County Animal Control unit into Joanna’s department. Now, in addition to her law enforcement duties, Sheriff Brady was responsible for running the local pound as well. Fortunately, the core members of the Animal Control unit had stayed on when their supervisor left. Joanna may have been less than thrilled with her additional responsibilities, but at least she was supervising a group of people who knew what they were doing.

“What is it, Manny?” she asked when Animal Control Officer Ruiz came on the line.

“Sorry to bother you, Sheriff Brady,” Ruiz said. “I’m out off the Charleston Road.

You know, where Graveyard Gulch runs into the San Pedro? I came out to check on that hoarder, Carol

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Mossman. You remember her, don’t you? The one with all those dogs? I gave her a citation two weeks ago. But they’re dead, Sheriff Brady. All dead.”

Manuel Ruiz was usually a very slow talker, known for a ponderous delivery that tended to hold back far more information than it passed along. This time his words tumbled over themselves in a rush.

Joanna did indeed remember Carol Mossman. In the last six months, thirty-seven rabid skunks and three rabid coyotes had been found inside the boundaries of Cochise and Santa Cruz counties. As a result a rabies quarantine was now in effect in those two adjoining southern Arizona jurisdictions. Carol Mossman had come to the attention of Animal Control due to complaints that her loose dogs had been chasing some of her neighbor’s horses.

Two weeks earlier, Manny Ruiz had driven out to the Mossman place expecting to find one or two unlicensed and unvaccinated dogs. Instead he had discovered a total of eighteen, most of them confined to a dog-crate-lined straw-bale shed out behind a rundown mobile home. The crates had been shaded by a makeshift roof constructed of discarded lumber and delaminating cast-off doors. When Carol Mossman had been unable to produce valid vaccination records for any of her animals, Officer Ruiz had issued a citation. Yesterday had marked the end of her two-week compliance period.

Today he had returned to see if the animals had now been properly licensed.

“The dogs are all dead?” Joanna asked, trying to clarify what Manny Ruiz had said.

“Are you telling me she chose euthanasia over licensing?”

“I don’t think she chose anything,” Manny replied. “I think 17

she’s inside the trailer along with all her dogs. I looked in through one of the living room windows. There are dead dogs everywhere and no sign of movement. The door’s locked from the inside, and there’s a bunch of waist-high bullet holes punched through the back door. In the living room I can see a foot sticking out from behind the couch, but I can’t tell if whoever’s there is alive or not. Should I break in to check on her, or what?”

Joanna closed her eyes. If Carol Mossman was already dead, then it was important not to disturb the crime scene. If, however, there was the smallest chance the woman was still alive, saving an injured woman’s life automatically took precedence over preserving evidence.

“Is there another door?” Joanna asked.

“Yeah, the front door. I already checked. It’s locked, too.”

“Open it if you can,” Joanna said. “Break it down if you have to. If Carol Mossman’s still alive, call for an ambulance. If she’s dead, don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Manny Ruiz said.

“Call right back and let me know what you find out,” Joanna added. “I’ll wait here until I hear from you.”

As soon as she ended the call, Joanna dredged her calendar out of her purse. She had been scheduled to meet Karen Oldsby at the Tribune office on Fry Boulevard at 7 p.m. Whether or not Carol Mossman was dead, what had happened at her mobile home constituted a more compelling demand on Sheriff Joanna Brady’s time than a newspaper interview.

Joanna dialed the phone number she had scrawled in the calendar next to Karen Oldsby’s name. When a canned, computer-generated voice mail announcement came on, it gave the dialed

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telephone number only. There was no way for Joanna to tell whether she had dialed the reporter’s home or office number. She left a brief message anyway.

“Karen. Sheriff Brady here. There’s been a possible homicide out near the San Pedro.

I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make our appointment this evening. Please call my office tomorrow and reschedule.”

Ducking into the coat closet just inside her back door, Joanna ditched her heels and changed into jeans, a T-shirt, white socks, and tennis shoes. She was finishing tying the second shoelace when the phone rang again.

“She’s dead,” Manuel Ruiz announced flatly when Joanna answered. “Shot in the belly.”

“And the dogs?”

“They’re all dead, too,” he replied. “I counted seventeen in all. The place was like a goddamned oven. No air-conditioning. The windows were open, but the mobile was sitting in direct sun most of the day. Must be at least a hundred and twenty inside.

I’m sure that’s what killed the dogs. Heat prostration. Dogs can’t take it, you know.

Coop ‘em up inside a hot building like that or in a car, and it kills ‘em every time.”

The dead woman may have been Joanna’s problem, but the dead dogs were Manny Ruiz’s primary concern.

“Are you back in your vehicle?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait right there,” Joanna told him. “I’m on my way.”

After putting the phone down, Joanna stared at it for an indecisive moment, then picked it back up and dialed Tica’s number.

“Officer Ruiz told you what’s up?” Joanna asked.

“Yes.”

“So who all’s heading to the scene?”

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“Detective Carpenter’s on call tonight,” Tica replied, naming Joanna’s lead homicide detective. “Dave Hollicker’s on his way. So is Casey Ledford.”

With her investigative team-a detective, her crime scene investigator, and her latent fingerprint tech-all en route, Joanna nodded. “What about Doc Winfield?” she asked.

“The ME will be heading out in a couple of minutes,” Tica replied.

“Good,” Sheriff Brady said. “So am J.”

Grabbing her purse, Joanna hurried outside. As she stepped through the door, late-afternoon heat hit her like a physical blow. Her shiny Crown Victoria was parked in a shaded spot right outside her private back-door entrance, but knowing she was headed for a less than perfect road, Joanna bypassed that vehicle. Instead, she vaulted into her much dented but entirely trustworthy four-wheel-drive Blazer. As soon as she started the engine, she turned on the air-conditioning as well, although for the first several minutes the only thing blowing through the vents was nothing but more overheated air.

Pausing for traffic at the entrance to the Justice Center, Joanna searched the sky for some sign of the few stray clouds that had poked their puny tops over the edge of the horizon earlier in the day. Now those wisps of cloud had disappeared entirely, leaving behind not so much as a single drop of moisture. Cochise County old-timers swore the rainy season always started on the Fourth of July, usually just in time to drown out the municipal fireworks display. If that was going to be the case this year, weather conditions would have to change drastically in the course of the next few days. Joanna Brady didn’t hold out much hope. The summer monsoon rains would come when they were damned good and ready and not a day before.

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Convinced she’d encounter less traffic by going through Tombstone, Joanna headed in that direction. As she drove, her mind began sifting through the officers at her disposal and considered what additional assets she’d need at the crime scene. She clicked on her radio.

“Which deputies from Patrol are en route to the crime scene?”

“Raymond and Howell,” Tica Romero replied.

“According to Manny, we’ve got seventeen dead dogs to handle,” Joanna said. “That being the case, we’d better call out Jeannine Phillips, too.”

Jeannine Phillips was Joanna’s second full-time Animal Control officer. “We’re going to need another pair of hands. Tell her to bring along the Animal Control equivalent of body bags. We’ll need a bunch of those.”

Joanna dreaded what would happen when word of the canine fatalities leaked out. Arizona was a state where it was legal for unrestrained children to ride as passengers in the back of moving pickup trucks, but it was against the law to have an unrestrained dog riding there. Obviously the dog lobby was far more powerful than whoever was supposed to be looking out for little kids. Joanna was convinced that the deaths of seventeen dogs would create far more outrage than Carol Mossman’s apparent murder.

And, since the deaths had occurred in Joanna’s jurisdiction and on her watch, she suspected that any public outrage would be aimed squarely in her direction.

As the miles ticked by, she tried to remember the exact sequence of events in which she had first been made aware of the Mossman situation and what actions she should have or could have taken to prevent this from happening. Manny Ruiz’s initial report had shown up in a mid-June morning briefing.

21

“What’s a hoarder?” she had asked Chief Deputy Frank Montoya.

“Jeannine tells me they’re people who are a couple of bubbles out of plumb,” Frank replied. “As long as their lives are going along normally, they’re fine, but once they go off the tracks, they start ‘saving’ animals. They usually mean well, but they often end up taking in far more animals than they can care for properly.”

“And they don’t have them vaccinated,” Joanna offered.

“Because they don’t take them to see vets,” Frank added. “With that many dogs, it’s too expensive. Same thing goes for buying decent food.”

Joanna had skimmed down Manny Ruiz’s report. “It says here that the dogs seem to be well cared for.”

Frank nodded. “And when he went by that day, none of the dogs were loose. They were all in their crates in a shed. That’s why Manny issued a citation rather than taking the dogs into custody.”

“And gave her two weeks to comply,” Joanna added.

Which she probably didn’t do, Joanna thought.

As she left Tombstone on the Charleston Road and headed west, the glare of the setting sun was blinding. Even with the help of her visor and sunglasses, it was almost impossible to see oncoming traffic.

She crossed the spindly bridge across the San Pedro River—the same river Cortes had followed north in search of the Seven Cities of Gold-and turned right. She knew from Manuel Ruiz’s previous report that Carol Mossman’s single-wide mobile home was about half a mile north of the intersection. As soon as she turned off, she could see the clutch of vehicles that meant some, if not all, of her officers had already arrived.

22

Slowing the Blazer, Joanna steeled herself for what was to come. Crime scene investigation wasn’t one of her favorite things. As sheriff, she certainly wasn’t required to be a part of every homicide investigation. Nonetheless, ever since taking over the helm of the department, she had insisted on being present and accounted for each time a homicide had occurred inside her sixty-four-hundred-square-mile jurisdiction.

Andy, Joanna’s first husband, had been a deputy sheriff campaigning for the office of sheriff when he was gunned down by a drug dealer’s hit man. Despite Joanna’s own lack of law enforcement experience, she had been asked to run for office in his place.

To everyone’s surprise, including her own, she had been elected by a wide margin in what her detractors called a “sympathy” vote. Those same naysayers had expected her to confine herself to administrative duties only. Instead, in the course of those first few treacherous months in office, she had sent herself off to take police academy training and had made it her business to be personally involved in the process of fighting crime at its most basic and gut-wrenching level. Her active personal involvement in each of her department’s homicide cases had gone a long way toward winning her the grudging respect and cooperation of the career police officers under her supervision.

She came to the grim task of homicide investigation with the clear knowledge that every murder affected far more than a single victim. The dead were already beyond help. As someone whose husband had died as a result of violent crime, Joanna was focused on helping to bring closure and comfort to those who were left behind. It was far more than just a job for her. It was a mission—and a calling.

When Joanna arrived at the address, she went in through an 23

open gate and then followed a gravel track until she reached a rundown fourteen-by-seventy mobile home baking in the full heat of the late-afternoon sun. A covered wooden porch had been tacked onto the front of the mobile. Off to one side was a lean-to carport with a dark green Datsun 710 station wagon parked under its sagging roof. Whatever else might have happened here, attempted car theft most likely wasn’t part of the program. A chain-link fence separated the mobile and shed from the surrounding desert.

Joanna tucked her Blazer in amid the collection of other official vehicles, identifying each and taking informal attendance. Manny Ruiz’s pickup with its cage-laden bed blocked the opening to the carport. Parked nearby were two Ford Econoline vans belonging to Detective Carpenter and Crime Scene Investigator Dave Hollicker, who was already busily casting tire tracks. Casey Ledford’s aging but dependable Taurus was parked directly behind the vans. The medical examiner’s van was notable by its absence.

The only officer visible other than Dave Hollicker was Manny Ruiz. With his head resting on his arms, the Animal Control officer leaned heavily on his pickup’s hood.

As Joanna approached, Manny straightened up. Joanna noticed at once that he looked uncommonly pale. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’ve seen gut-shot animals before,” he murmured. “But never a person.” He broke off.

You get used to it, Joanna thought. “It’s pretty bad then?” she asked.

Ruiz nodded. “It’s bad, all right. She must’ve been right in front of the back door when she got hit. There’s blood everywhere and a trail of it through the kitchen and into the living

24

room like she was dragging herself along on her belly. I think she musta been trying to get to the phone to call for help. She never made it.”

Concerned over Manny’s unnatural pallor, Joanna took him by the arm. “Come back and sit with me in the Blazer for a minute,” she said. “You don’t have any animals stuck in your truck, do you?”

Ruiz shook his head. “Nope. This was my first stop of the day. I was afraid I’d be bringing all of Carol Mossman’s dogs back to the pound with me. I wanted to have plenty of room. Even starting out empty, I figured it would still take two trips.”

Once Manny Ruiz was seated in the Blazer, Joanna handed him a bottle of water. He drank half of it without pausing for breath.

“And the dogs?” Joanna asked.

“Heat,” Manny replied. “If the cooler’d been turned on, the dogs would probably be okay. If they got thirsty, they could have drunk water out of the toilet. And if they’d gotten hungry enough, they could’ve …” He left the sentence go unfinished.

Joanna saw where he was headed with that bit of speculation. With an effort she managed to prevent her own mind from completing the image.

Manny took another drink. Polishing off the contents of the bottle with his second gulp, he handed the empty back to Joanna. They were sitting in the front seat of her Blazer with the doors open and the radio chattering in the background. The radio was silent for the space of a moment or two. Suddenly, Manny sat up straight. “Did you hear that?” he demanded.

“Hear what?” Joanna asked, thinking she had missed an important radio transmission.

But Manny Ruiz had already vaulted out of the Blazer.

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Rumbling along with the gait of an upright grizzly bear, he charged past the mobile home and headed for the river. Once Joanna was outside the car, she heard what he had heard—the unmistakably mournful cry of a bereft puppy. Running to keep up, Joanna followed Manny around the trailer to the jury-rigged hut where Carol Mossman had confined her pack of dogs.

The building was exactly as Manuel Ruiz had described it in his initial report. It was approximately the size of a two-car garage. Walls of straw bales covered with a thin veneer of stucco rose from the ground to a height of about ten feet, at which point the builder ran out of money, patience, or both. The roof consisted of a shaky collection of two-by-fours held up by several interior four-by-four upright posts.

On top of the skeleton of two-by-fours lay a collection of scavenged lumber and doors, all of which would have toppled down at the first hint of a monsoon-driven wind.

While Joanna paused long enough to examine the exterior of the building, Manny Ruiz disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later cradling a tiny ball of black fluff in one of his massive fists. “Look here,” he announced. “Here’s one little guy that made it.” He passed the whimpering puppy to Joanna. “And I’ll bet he’s starved,”

Manny continued. “I’ve got some milk in my thermos. If you’ll hold on to him for a minute, I’ll go get it.”

Joanna was still holding the puppy when Dr. George Winfield, the Cochise County Medical Examiner and Joanna’s relatively new stepfather, showed up behind her. “Looks like a single survivor was pulled from the wreckage,” he observed, peering over her shoulder for a closer look at the squeaking ball of fur still squirming fitfully in Joanna’s hands.

“He wasn’t in the wreckage,” Joanna said. “If he had been, he’d be dead by now, too, right along with the others. Somehow

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he ended up being left in the shed when all the other dogs went inside the trailer.”

“Lucky for him,” George said.

And for us, Joanna thought. Crime scenes were usually places of utter desolation, yet here was a little life-affirming miracle, a scrap of hope. She clutched the puppy more tightly and cradled him to her breast.

About then Manny Ruiz showed back up with his thermos. He poured some milk into the cup of the thermos, then he gently removed the puppy from Joanna’s grip and held its nose to the milk, which it lapped up hungrily. The puppy may not have been old enough to be weaned, but with his mother likely numbered among the dead dogs inside the mobile home, he was weaned now.

The puppy drank until he seemed ready to pop. He would have drunk more, but Manny took the cup away and poured out what was left. “That’s enough, little fella,” he said. “You drink any more right now, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Manuel Ruiz put the puppy down on the ground, where it staggered around in circles for a moment or two, then dropped onto Manny’s booted foot and fell sound asleep.

The heavyset officer stared down at the puppy with a look of such tender concern on his face that Joanna was almost embarrassed to have seen it. Somehow she had fallen victim to the kind of stereotypical thinking that assumes Animal Control officers don’t like animals. Clearly that wasn’t the case with Officer Ruiz.

“He is a cute little guy,” Doc Winfield agreed. “And I could stand here watching him sleep all day, but I’d better go have a look at my victim. Your detectives will be pissed at me for holding up the show.”

He strode off, leaving Joanna and Manny looking down at 27

the puppy. “He’s so little, I hate to take him to the pound,” Manny said thoughtfully.

Joanna looked at the contented wad of sleeping puppy. It was months now since Jenny’s blue tick hound, Sadie, had succumbed to cancer. Neither Joanna nor Butch had brought up the subject of getting another dog, and Jenny had seemed content to divide her time and attention between Kiddo, her horse, and her remaining dog, Tigger, a comical half pit-bull, half golden-retriever mutt. Now, though, seeing this homeless puppy, Joanna knew this was the right dog at the right time.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joanna said, reaching down and plucking the sleeping puppy off Manny Ruiz’s boot. “Lucky’s going home with me.”

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Finished making his tire-and footprint casts, Dave Hollicker had disappeared into the mobile home while Joanna spoke to Manny. Now, as the CS1 emerged once more, Joanna went to meet him. Dave’s face was flushed and his clothing was soaked with sweat.

“What’s up?” Joanna asked.

“It’s hotter’n hell in there,” he said, wiping his streaming forehead. “No electricity, so there’s no air-conditioning, and we’re losing the light. Doc Winfield’s wondering if you have an extra trouble light with you. And where’d you get that cute little puppy?”

The puppy, cradled in Joanna’s arm, was still fast asleep. Stuffing the sleeping animal inside her shirt, Joanna tumbled the Blazer keys out of her pocket and handed them over. “Manny found him out in the shed,” she explained. “There’s a trouble light in the back of the Blazer. Doc Winfield is welcome to it, but 29

what’s the matter with the electricity? Can’t you replace a fuse or pull a breaker and get the cooler running again?”

Dave shook his head. “We’ve placed a call to the power company. They told us the juice is turned off due to lack of payment. We’ve requested that they switch it back on as soon as possible, but they don’t seem to be in any particular hurry.”

Two more patrol cars and a second Animal Control vehicle drove up. “That’ll be Deputies Raymond and Howell,” Dave said. “What do you want them to do?”

“The shots came through the back door, right?”

Hollicker nodded.

“And you’ve done all the footprints?”

“All I could find.”

“While it’s still light enough, then, have Raymond and Howell start a preliminary foreign-object search,” Joanna said.

“Will do.”

Jeannine Phillips walked into the yard lugging a large box.

Dave started away, then turned back to the two Animal Control officers. “Doc Winfield also said that he’d like you to remove those dead dogs as soon as possible. There are dog dishes and dead dogs everywhere. The ME needs them out of the way. Since there’s so little room to work in, maybe one of you could go inside and ferry the dogs as far as the door. Remember, though, this is a crime scene. Whoever goes inside needs to wear booties and sign in on the crime scene diary.”

“I’ll go,” Manny offered. Wordlessly Jeannine handed him the box with its load of large plastic bags.

During the next half hour, Joanna watched as Manny carted one heavily laden bag after another to the door, where he passed the burden along to Jeannine, who then hauled it out

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to the waiting trucks. It offended the dog lover in Joanna to see all those dead animals carted off like so much unwanted garbage. Mentally keeping track of the number of trips, Joanna was doubly conscious of the tiny heart of the contentedly sleeping puppy beating a feather-light tattoo against her lower ribs.

Which one of those black bags holds Lucky’s mother? she wondered. And how come he’s still alive when all the other dogs are dead?

Jeannine Phillips was a strapping young woman who had once, as a junior in high school, gone out for boys’ football. Bis-bee High School’s football coach had let her try out for the Pumas’ JV team, but a broken leg during a pre-season workout session had put an end to her football-playing ambitions. It had also left her with a slight but permanent limp. After only a year or so of junior college, she had started working Animal Control on a part-time basis and had never left. Now the situation was reversed, however. She worked full-time for Animal Control and was a part-time student at the University of Arizona’s satellite campus in Sierra Vista, where she was within twenty or so units of completing her bachelor’s degree.

Clearly the situation that afternoon offended Jeannine Phillips every bit as much as it did Joanna Brady.

“This never should have happened,” Jeannine grumbled as she returned to collect yet another bag. “If we weren’t so damn shorthanded, maybe one of us could have gotten back out here earlier to check on things. Maybe all these dogs wouldn’t be dead now.”

On her best days, Jeannine Phillips was a naturally taciturn loner. On occasion she was downright surly. This time, as far as Joanna was concerned, the woman’s complaint and attitude

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were both entirely understandable, and although Joanna tried not to take the criticism personally, she knew some of it was justified. With all the other demands on her time, Sheriff Brady was too busy to give Animal Control the kind of attention it deserved. It was hardly surprising that they viewed themselves as unwelcome stepchildren inside Joanna’s department.

As for Jeannine Phillips, she had more grounds for dissatisfaction on that score than all of her compatriots put together. When the previous head of Animal Control had resigned the position, Jeannine should have been the logical choice for promotion.

After all, she had worked in the unit longer than anyone else. She knew the procedures and understood how things were supposed to work. Now, with Joanna’s time and attention often focused elsewhere, Jeannine had been forced to assume the unenviable position of unofficial acting manager. As such, she supervised the unit’s day-to-day activities without the added credibility of an official title or any additional pay to compensate her for the extra work.

“I was under the impression it was handled properly,” Joanna offered. “Manny told me when he came here earlier today, it was at the end of Carol Mossman’s two-week compliance period.”

“Right,” Jeannine muttered. “But if we’d been doing the job we should have been doing, we would have known about this woman a long time ago. Maybe we could have done something to correct the situation long before she had a chance to work herself all the way up to eighteen dogs.”

There was no arguing with that. Just then, Manny emerged carrying one last bag. He paused next to Joanna. “This is it, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “If you want to go in, it’s clear now.”

Manny trudged away toward his truck, still wearing his crime scene booties. Steeling her heart for whatever gruesome sight

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awaited her inside the overheated mobile home, Joanne went looking for a pair of booties of her own. Before she could put them on, however, a cab drove down the gravel driveway and stopped in front of the gate in the chain-link fence. Moments later, the driver hopped out of the cab, opened the back door, and reached in to help his passenger exit.

While Joanna watched, a pint-size white-haired woman, moving with the aid of a walker, emerged from the backseat. Impatiently shaking off the cab driver’s helping hand, she headed straight for Manny Ruiz, who had just finished loading the final bag into his truck.

“You can’t take Carol’s dogs away!” she shrieked at the Animal Control officer. Her walker got hung up briefly on a clump of dried grass. For a moment Joanna feared the woman would pitch forward over the handlebars and land on her head. Instead, she righted herself and resumed her tirade.

“Do you hear me, young man? You can’t.” A moment later she had closed the distance between them. Parking her walker directly in front of the startled Manuel Ruiz, she glared up at him and shook a tiny fist in his face.

“You let those dogs out of that truck right this minute!” she ordered. “Whatever the fine is, I’ll pay it. I have my checkbook right here.” Leaning on the walker with one hand, she seized a purse out of the basket on the handlebars and flailed that at him as well. Fortunately for all concerned, Manny dodged out of the way before the purse connected with his chin.

Joanna hurried over to the melee. “Please, ma’am,” she said. “Officer Ruiz is just doing his job.”

The woman abandoned her attack on Manny Ruiz and rounded on Joanna instead. “His job?” she demanded. “Just

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because Carol doesn’t make enough money to pay expensive vet bills is no reason to come take her pets away. What a heartless, mean-spirited thing to do. She loves those dogs, you see. Loves them and needs them.”

“You know Carol Mossman, then?” Joanna asked.

“Know her!” the woman snorted. “Of course I know her! Why wouldn’t I? She’s my granddaughter, isn’t she?” The old lady glowered at Joanna through narrowed eyes. “And who are you?”

she demanded. “Another one of these glorified dogcatchers?”

“Hey, lady,” the cab driver called. “How long do you think you’ll be? My dispatcher wants to know when I’ll be back in Sierra Vista.”

Now the woman turned her considerable ire on him. “You just hold your horses, young man,” she snapped. “Can’t you see I’m busy? It’s going to take however long it takes.

I already told you I’ll pay for you to hold the cab, so hold it!” She turned back to Joanna. “Now who did you say you are again?”

“I didn’t have a chance to say,” Joanna said, removing her ID wallet from her hip pocket. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady. These are my two Animal Control officers, Jeannine Phillips and Manuel Ruiz.”

The woman glanced briefly at Joanna’s ID and then handed it back. “Since when is the sheriff in charge of the dog pound?” she demanded. “I should think, as sheriff, you’d have far more important things to do. And since when does it take this many people to pick up a few dogs? But as long as you’re here, maybe you can help me get them to let Carol’s dogs loose. As I tried to explain to this officer here, I’ve come with my checkbook. However much the fine is, I’m willing to pay it.”

“And your name is?” Joanna asked.

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“Mossman. Edith Mossman.”

“That’s my car right over there,” Joanna suggested, pointing toward the parked Blazer.

“Maybe we should go sit in it for a few minutes.”

“Sit in it?” Edith demanded. “What do you mean, sit in it? Are you placing me under arrest, is that it? Is it illegal for me to try to get my granddaughter’s property back? Or are you implying that I hurt that officer in any way? I never touched you, now did I? In fact, I never laid a glove on you.”

Manny Ruiz nodded warily but maintained a discreet distance.

“I’m not placing you under arrest,” Joanna continued quickly. “Not at all. I just thought you might be more comfortable sitting down while we talked.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable standing right here,” Edith Mossman insisted. “And I’ll be even more comfortable once Mr. Dogcatcher here lets those poor dogs out of his truck. It’s inhumane to have them locked up like that on such a miserably hot day.

I can’t see that there’s anything else to discuss.”

“Mrs. Mossman,” Joanna said gently. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but there’s something I must tell you. We’re here this afternoon because this is a homicide scene.”

Edith Mossman frowned as though she hadn’t quite understood the word. “Homicide?”

she repeated. “You mean someone’s dead?”

“Yes,” Joanna said quietly. “Inside the mobile home.”

“In Carol’s mobile home?”

Joanna nodded. Edith Mossman pointed her thumb in Manny’s direction. “What’s he doing here, then?”

“He came to pick up the dogs,” Joanna said with a sigh.

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“They’re dead, too, Mrs. Mossman. Except for one, they were all locked inside the trailer with no air-conditioning and no water …”

“Are you telling me Carol’s dead? My sweet little Carol?”

“I’m so sorry,” Joanna said, “but, yes. We’re quite certain she’s the one who’s dead.

Officer Ruiz here had encountered your granddaughter before and knew her on sight.”

All the spunk and fight drained out of Edith Mossman. Her grip on the handlebars of her walker went flaccid while her eyes rolled up into the back of her head. Seeing her knees crumple, Manny Ruiz leaped forward. He caught the unconscious woman before she could fall to the ground. He lifted her waist-high as easily as he had carried the dead dogs.

“Where to, Sheriff Brady?” he asked.

“To the Blazer,” Joanna said. “Put her in the backseat. Jeannine, quick. Bring some water.”

Edith was out cold for only a matter of seconds, but the momentary fainting spell seemed to last forever—long enough for Joanna to wonder if the woman had suffered a heart attack or stroke. But by the time Manny Ruiz deposited Edith in the Blazer the stricken woman had regained consciousness and was struggling to sit up. Impatiently she pushed aside Jeannine’s proffered bottle of water.

“I have to see her,” Edith sputtered, struggling to clamber back out of the vehicle.

“I have to see Carol. Take me to her.”

“That’s not possible at this time,” Joanna said. “It’s a crime scene, Mrs. Mossman.

Other than the investigators, no one’s allowed inside until they and Dr. Winfield finish their onsite work.”

“You mean there’s a doctor in there with her?” Edith 36

demanded. “Maybe he can help her. Maybe she’ll be all right then.”

Joanna shook her head. “He’s not that kind of doctor, Mrs. Mossman. Doc Winfield is the Cochise County Medical Examiner. It might be best if you went home and waited for them to finish up inside. At that point, we will need a family member to make a positive identification, but there’s no sense in your waiting around here. It could take hours.”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Edith announced. “I’ll wait. I can do the identification here, can’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you can. But as I told you, there’s no telling how long this will take.”

“Can you have someone take me back to Sierra Vista afterward?”

Joanna nodded. “I suppose so, but …”

“Call that cab driver over here, then,” Edith said. “I’ll pay the man off and send him on his way. It’s already cost me a fortune.”

The cab driver was reluctant to leave his cab in answer to Edith Mossman’s summons.

His frame of mind wasn’t greatly improved by the size of the tip she placed in his hand as she dismissed him. “You said your dispatcher wanted you back, didn’t you?”

Edith inquired.

“Right.”

“So get going then,” Edith told him. Shaking his head, the cabbie stalked off.

“Do you need anything else at this time, Sheriff Brady?” Manny Ruiz asked. “It’s hot. We should take care of these animals as soon as possible.”

“Did Doc Winfield say he wanted to run any further tests on them?”

“No, ma’am. It had to be more than a hundred and twenty 37

degrees in there when I found them. He’s sure the heat is what killed them.”

“You and Jeannine go ahead then, Manny,” Joanna said. “Thanks for all your help.”

Nodding, Manny walked away. Meanwhile, Edith Mossman had listened to this entire exchange with avid interest. “Is that what killed Carol too, then?” she asked. “The heat?”

“No,” Joanna said. “The information I have says she was shot.”

Edith took this news in silence. Moments later, the two Animal Control trucks drove away, taking their tragic loads with them. About the same time Lucky stirred restlessly inside Joanna’s shirt.

“What’s that?” Edith asked, catching sight of the movement.

Guiltily, Joanna removed the squirming puppy and placed him on the ground. He waddled around sleepily for a little while before peeing. After that, he curled up again on a clump of grass and went right back to sleep.

“One of Carol’s?”

Joanna nodded. “He’s too young to go to the pound. I decided to take him home with me instead, but of course, if you’d like to have him …”

“Oh, no,” Edith said. “Not me. I’m far too old for a puppy. I’ve always been more of a cat person than a dog person, but it doesn’t matter either way. I can’t have pets at Ferndale anyway. They don’t allow pets of any kind.”

“Ferndale?” Joanna asked.

“Yes. It’s one of those assisted-living places. On Fry Boulevard. Used to be a motel back in the old days, but they changed it a couple of years ago. Remodeled it. Now it’s where I live. Number 261. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s plenty good enough for 38

me. The food’s nothing to write home about, but the price is right.”

Joanna removed a notebook from her pocket. “I’m sure my detectives will need to speak to you eventually, Mrs. Mossman. If you could give me the address and phone number-“

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Call me Edith. I can’t stand all this Mrs. Mossman stuff. And whatever happened to the water that dogcatcher lady was trying to give me? I didn’t want it then, but I do now. I’m parched.”

Joanna retrieved the bottle of water from where Jeannine Phillips had left it on the front floorboard. She handed the bottle over to Edith Mossman, who took a long, grateful drink. When she had finished, she sighed and stared long and hard at the partially empty bottle as though hoping to find answers there.

“Tell me about your granddaughter,” Joanna said quietly.

“Carol?” Edith Mossman asked, taking another drink. “What do you want to know?”

“Was she ever married? Does she have children?”

“No children,” Edith said. “Only dogs.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Not that I know of. If she had one, she never mentioned him to me.”

“Did she work?”

“Oh, she worked all right. It took a while, but she finally got a job clerking at that new Shell station out on Highway 92. Didn’t make enough money to make ends meet.

Barely enough to pay for gas and dog food most of the time. If she’d had to pay rent on this place, I’m sure she would have starved to death and her dogs right along with her.”

“She evidently didn’t pay the electric bill,” Joanna observed. “That’s why the house was so hot. No electricity, so no cooler.”

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“I’m not surprised,” Edith said. “She’s not the kind of person to ask for help unless things are really tough. If I’d known things were that bad, I would have helped her.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Joanna agreed. “But you’re saying she lived here rent-free?”

“That’s right.” Edith was indignant. “You don’t think I’d charge rent to my own flesh and blood, do you? What kind of a person do you think I am, Sheriff Brady? I wouldn’t do any such thing!”

“This is your place then?”

“Yes. It’s mine until I die. Then it goes to the Nature Conservancy. When Grady and I—Grady was my husband, you see. We first bought acreage and the trailer back in the mid-seventies. When we lived in it, that trailer was neat as a pin. Clean, too.

Carol’s not big on cleaning. I think she worries way more about the dog runs and crates than she does the house itself. The last I saw of the inside, the place was a pigsty. That’s when I decided I wasn’t coming back. At least I stopped going inside.

Couldn’t stand to see it that way. Made me want to haul out a mop and a dust rag and go to work.”

“But you did come by today,” Joanna said.

“Well, of course. Carol asked me to because she needed help.”

“What with?”

“With her dogs, what else?” Edith asked with a resigned shrug. “She never said a word about her electricity bill, but she wasn’t too proud to ask for help with the dogs. She said she needed to get them all vaccinated and licensed. The problem is, I wanted to wait until after the first of the month-until after my Social Security check was in the bank. If I had known she was really desperate, I could have done something sooner, but it

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would have meant cashing in one of the CDs. I didn’t want to do that if I didn’t have to. Grady wouldn’t have approved, you see. He was always warning me about that.

‘Now, Edie,’ he’d say, ‘you watch your money. Whatever you do, you don’t want to outlive your money.’ And he’s right about that. I’ve seen what happens when people do-outlive their money, that is. It’s hell. For everybody.”

“So Carol asked you for help with the Animal Control situation?”

Edith Mossman nodded. “She said she wouldn’t be able to get them all licensed and still keep her head above water. Must have been close to two weeks ago now when she dropped by my place to talk to me about it. I can see now, I should have come quicker.

It makes me sick to think that just by dipping into one of my CDs I could have prevented all this. I’m sure it’s all my fault.”

For the first time, the old woman struggled to find words. Tears sprang to her eyes.

It was as though, for the first time, the awfulness of the situation was finally sinking in.

“Believe me,” Joanna assured her, “it’s not your fault.”

Edith’s lower lip trembled. “Is it a suicide?” she asked softly.

Joanna shook her head. ‘As I understand it,” she said, “one or more shots were fired through the back door while your granddaughter was standing in front of it. All the dogs, with the exception of Lucky here, were locked inside with her.”

“When did it happen?” Edith asked.

“We don’t know,” Joanna replied. “At least not at this time. That’s one of the things the medical examiner “will be working on—establishing time of death.”

“She didn’t go to work today,” Edith volunteered. “I know that much. I was planning to go by the gas station and take her my check. Since I have to hire a cab to go anywhere, seeing her at

41

work in town would have been a lot easier than coming all the way out here. But when I called to talk to her, her boss said she had taken today off for an appointment of some kind.” Edith Mossman paused. “Remind me to call him. I need to let him know what’s happened.”

Joanna knew that any useful information she could gather now would offer a needed assist for her detectives later on. “If you’ll give me Carol’s work number and the name of her supervisor,” Joanna said, “someone from my department will be glad to take care of that for you.”

“Thank you,” Edith said. “Thanks so much. That’ll be one less thing for me to worry about anyway.”

“Would you be considered her next of kin, then?” Joanna asked, after jotting down the information. “Is there anyone else who should be notified—parents, perhaps?

Brothers or sisters?”

“Carol’s mother is dead,” Edith said curtly.

“And her father?” Joanna prodded.

“I can’t tell you for sure if my son is dead or alive,” Edith Mossman said. “If Edward is still alive, I have no idea where to find the son of a bitch. And I’ll tell you this. If he is dead, I’d be first in line to piss on his grave.”

The utter fury in Edith Mossman’s voice when she spoke of her son took Joanna’s breath away. She considered asking more about him but changed her mind, contenting herself, instead, to making a note of Edith’s reaction in her notebook.

“What about siblings?” Joanna asked.

“Three sisters,” Edith answered. “You maybe know Stella Adams. She and her family live in Bisbee. Down in Warren, actually, at the far end of Arizona Street. Andrea lives in Tucson. She’s not married. She works at the U of A as a secretary in the Chemistry Department. Kelly is still in Mexico, down in 42

Obregon. I doubt you’ll be able to get in touch with her there. I’m not even sure if she has a phone, and she most likely won’t be coming home for the funeral.”

“In other words, she and Carol weren’t close.”

The rheumy eyes Edith Mossman turned on Joanna were filled with a terrible sadness.

“Yes,” she said. “I guess you can say Carol and Kelly aren’t the least bit close.

Besides, Carol preferred dogs to people.”

Just then Joanna caught sight of a group of people emerging from the trailer. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Edith, I’ll go see how we’re doing.”

Scooping up the puppy and stowing him back inside her shirt, Joanna hurried over to the small wooden porch that had been built outside the mobile home’s front door.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the Huachuca Mountains. It wasn’t quite nighttime yet, but it would be soon. In the deepening twilight, the entire investigative team stood on the porch, swilling down bottled water. From the looks of the sweat-drenched crew, Joanna was grateful she’d been standing outside, in the relative cool of evening, interviewing Edith Mossman. Clearly, the tough duty was happening inside.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Hotter’n hell in there,” Ernie Carpenter muttered, echoing Dave Hollicker’s earlier sentiments. He nodded in the direction of Joanna’s Blazer. “Who’s the old lady?”

he added.

“Edith Mossman,” Joanna told him. “Carol Mossman’s grandmother.”

“Good work,” George Winfield said, inserting himself into the previously two-way conversation. “At least I won’t have to knock myself out trying to locate the next of kin. But what’s she doing here? Who called her?”

43

“Nobody,” Joanna answered. “She came to see Carol without knowing anything was “wrong.

I tried to get her to go home. She says she’s waiting for you to finish up so she can do the identification.”

George frowned. “It’s really bad in there, Joanna,” he said, while Dave Hollicker nodded in somber agreement. “No way the grandmother should see the inside of that house. Can’t you talk her out of it?”

“Like I said,” Joanna told him, “I’ve tried, but I haven’t made any progress so far.”

The medical examiner glanced toward the darkening sky. “We’ll probably finish up in another fifteen or twenty minutes,” he said at last. “I still think it’s a bad idea to do this here, but we’ll put the victim in a body bag and bring her out on a gurney so Granny can take a look.”

Joanna’s cell phone rang just then. Seeing her home number in the screen, Joanna excused herself and walked a few feet away before she answered.

“Where the hell are you?” Butch Dixon demanded. “I’ve been scared to death.”

“What do you mean, where am I? I’m at a crime scene. There’s been a murder out by the San Pedro.”

“What about your interview with Karen Oldsby?” Butch responded. “She called here a few minutes ago, mad as a wet hen and wondering where you were. She’s been sitting in her office for over an hour waiting for you to show up. I told her I’d try to track you down if I could and have you call her back right away.”

“Butch, I did call Karen Oldsby,” Joanna interjected. “I called even before I left the office to come here. I said in the message that I’d been called to investigate a possible homicide and that she’d need to call tomorrow to set up another appointment.”

44

“The mood she’s in right now, I suspect that wouldn’t be such a good idea. If Karen Oldsby does the interview at all, she’s likely to tear you to pieces.”

“Give me her number again,” Joanna said. “I’ll call and explain.”

Karen Oldsby answered after only one ring. “Oldsby here.”

“Karen, this is Joanna Brady. I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding-“

“There wasn’t any misunderstanding. The appointment was for seven o’clock, right here in my office. I couldn’t have been more specific about that.”

Joanna could tell from the reporter’s tone of voice that Butch was right. Karen Oldsby was pissed.

“As I told you in my message,” Joanna said, “something came up. There’s been another homicide and-“

“I didn’t get any message,” Karen interrupted.

“But I called and left one,” Joanna said. “I left it on voice mail.”

“Not here, you didn’t,” the reporter replied, sounding less than mollified. “Or if you did, it isn’t here now. Where did you leave it? Was it on this number or the one at home?”

Joanna had been carrying her purse with her the whole time she’d been at the scene.

Now, holding the tiny phone against her left shoulder, she struggled to reclaim her calendar from the depths of the bag. Once she’d dug it out, she had to walk all the way back to the Blazer and turn on the reading light before she could make out the numbers she had scribbled down next to Karen Oldsby’s name. She read them into the phone.

“That’s not my number,” Karen announced brusquely when she heard it. “You reversed two of the numbers.”

“I’m so sorry about this,” Joanna said. “Things have been 45

really hectic. I must have been suffering from momentary dyslexia and written them down wrong, but I have my calendar right here with me. If we could go ahead and reset-“

“I’ll let you know,” Karen Oldsby interrupted. “My week is pretty hectic, too. If it looks like I’ll have time to schedule another interview, Sheriff Brady, I’ll be in touch. But since we’ve already missed this week’s deadline, I don’t know when we’ll be able to squeeze you in.”

With that, Karen Oldsby hung up. Brimming with indignation, Joanna stuffed her calendar back into her purse. Then she walked far enough away to be out of Edith Mossman’s earshot before she redialed her home number.

“Oldsby just hung up on me,” Joanna told Butch when he answered. “I evidently wrote her number down wrong, so when I called and left my message, she didn’t get it. I tried to apologize, but the woman acted like I committed a federal offense.”

“Don’t worry about it, Joey,” he said. “She’ll get over it eventually, but tell me.

Who’s dead?”

“A woman named Carol Mossman. Her place is out here by the river, just off the Charleston Road. George is inside. The victim’s grandmother and I are waiting for him to bring the body out so she can make the formal ID. After that, I’ll need to drop her off at her assisted-living facility in Sierra Vista on my way home.”

“Can’t someone else drop her off?” Butch asked. “Think about it, Joey. It’s late.

You’ve already put in a full day at the office. When are you going to give yourself a break?”

“When Edith let her cab go, I told her I’d see to it that she got home,” Joanna told him. “And I will. It won’t take that long.”

“Suit yourself,” Butch said. “I’ll see you when you get here.” Then he, too, hung up.

46

Exasperated by what felt distinctly like two separate dressing-downs, Joanna turned her phone’s ringer on “silent” and stuck it in her pocket. If anyone else called, she didn’t want to talk to them. They could damn well talk to her machine.

After all, Carol Mossman had been murdered. Finding her killer was far more important than chatting on a cell phone.

47

While Joanna had been juggling phone calls, Deputy Raymond had removed a gurney from the back of George Winfield’s van. Now, unfolded, it sat outside the front door of the mobile home waiting to be taken inside and loaded.

“They’ll be bringing the victim out soon and taking her over to the ME’s van,” Joanna told Edith Mossman. “Do you think you could walk that far, or should I have them bring her over here?”

“I may have to use a walker, but I’m not helpless,” Edith said. “I’m perfectly capable of walking from here to there.”

As Joanna and Edith started their slow progress toward George Winfield’s minivan, Deputy Raymond pushed the gurney into the house. By the time Joanna had guided Edith to the back of the van, Matt Raymond and Debra Howell had rolled the gurney back out through the front door and eased it down the wooden steps. They headed for the van with the medical

48

examiner close on their heels. Once the gurney came to a stop, George Winfield stepped forward and held out his hand to Edith.

“I’m Dr. George Winfield,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“My name’s Edith,” she answered. “Edith Mossman. Carol’s my granddaughter.”

“If you don’t want to do this here …” he began. “No. There’s no sense in putting it off,” Edith replied. “I need to know for sure, and so do you.”

“Deputy Raymond,” George said, “would you please bring one of the trouble lights out here?”

Nodding, Matt Raymond hurried into the trailer. Back beside the gurney, he held the light aloft while George unzipped the body bag, immediately letting loose the foul stench of rapidly decomposing human flesh.

Joanna knew what to expect. She looked warily at Edith Mossman, worried that the awful odor, combined with seeing her granddaughter’s dead face, might cause the woman to faint again, but she didn’t. Leaning on her walker, Edith studied the face for a moment. Then she nodded.

“It’s her,” she said. “It’s Carol.” With that, she turned to Joanna. “If that’s all you need, Sheriff Brady, I’d like to go home now. There are people I’ll need to call.”

After helping Edith Mossman into the Blazer, Joanna hurried back to the mobile home.

Not wanting to have to go through the booties routine, she called Detective Carpenter over to the door and gave him a rundown of the information she had gleaned from talking to Edith.

“Did deputy Raymond tell you he found several pieces of .45-caliber brass in the backyard?”

“No,” Joanna said. “He didn’t tell me, but I’m glad to hear it.”

49

“Me, too,” Ernie Carpenter said. “It’s a start, but he and Debbie Howell didn’t have time to do a complete foreign-object search. We’ll have to continue that tomorrow.”

Joanna nodded. “You’ll leave someone here to secure the scene when you go?”

“You can count on it,” Ernie said.

Joanna and Edith Mossman drove into Sierra Vista in virtually unbroken silence. The day’s trauma had exhausted the old woman’s energy, leaving her devoid of speech.

Twice Joanna glanced at her passenger, thinking she might be asleep, but Edith was wide awake, staring straight ahead into the beams of oncoming headlights.

By the time they arrived at the Ferndale Retirement Center, Lucky was eager to extricate himself from the confines of Joanna’s shirt. In his eagerness to escape, his tiny sharp claws left long trails of scratches in the skin of Joanna’s chest. After Edith had limped off down the open breezeway to her unit, Joanna took the puppy out, gave him a drink of water, and let him relieve himself once more. She was grateful that he made no effort to run away.

This time, though, when Joanna tried to return him to her shirt, Lucky was in no mood to be locked back up. He had slept long enough. He was ready to be up and exploring-or chewing. Reluctant to let him loose in the Blazer while she drove, Joanna finally emptied the contents out of one of the plastic carrying cases she used to hold equipment.

She moved the plastic carton to the front seat and put Lucky inside that. Standing on his hind legs, he was tall enough to peek out over the edge, but not quite tall enough to scramble out.

It was only as Joanna pulled out of the retirement center’s parking lot that she realized she had failed to mention anything

50

at all to Butch about bringing home a puppy. Now, as she headed home, she wished she had given her husband some advance warning.

“Well, sport,” she said aloud to Lucky, “you’ll probably go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.”

Which immediately brought her to another problem, one she’d been deliberately dodging all day long. Was she or wasn’t she? For someone whose menstrual cycles were as regular as clockwork, Joanna Brady was now a whole week late. She hadn’t worried about it much for the first couple of days. After all, she was on the Pill, wasn’t she? She took one of those every morning right along with the vitamins Butch dished out. But a whole week?

Joanna and Butch had discussed having a child someday, but they had both agreed that now was too soon. They had wanted time to settle into being a married couple. So why exactly had Joanna waited this long to tell him about her suspicions? Was it because she wanted to know for sure before she mentioned it, or was it because she was just a tiny bit worried about how he might react? Was Butch’s saying he wanted a baby the same as really wanting a baby? During the course of the week, Joanna had examined her own varied reactions to the possible pregnancy. She had determined that she was both scared and exhilarated. Worried and happy. Concerned and thrilled.

But what if Butch’s feelings were far more one-sided than hers? What if his reaction was totally negative? What if he turned out to be scared, worried, and concerned without being exhilarated, happy, and thrilled? Joanna wondered if she would be able to look at his face when she gave him such earth-shattering news and know what was really going on inside that thick skull of his.

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And what would Jenny think once she heard she was going to be joined by a baby brother or sister? She was thirteen and about to enter eighth grade. Joanna was afraid Jenny would be mortified when she found out. After all, what better proof could one have that her parents were actually “doing it” than being presented with the inarguable reality of a baby? Joanna knew that at thirteen she wouldn’t have wanted to see either of her parents as a sexual being, so why would Jenny? Even now, as a married adult, she found it difficult to see her mother, Eleanor, making goo-goo eyes at her relatively new husband, George Winfield.

Then, of course, Joanna had her job to think about. Butch had told her early on that if they ever did have a baby, he’d be more than happy to stay home and take care of it. His first novel remained unsold, but he was convinced he could work on a second or third and look after a baby at the same time. Joanna had to acknowledge that Butch was a pretty capable guy. It was more than likely that he’d do a great job of being a stay-at-home father to a newborn. After all, he had negotiated the dicey minefield of stepparenting Jenny with little apparent difficulty. Still, Joanna remembered what it had been like having a newborn baby in the house. She wondered if Butch had a realistic idea of the nitty-gritty involved.

And what about the people of Cochise County, the ones who had elected Joanna three and a half years ago? Would they go for having a sheriff whose newborn baby was being cared for by a stay-at-home father? Outside the metropolitan areas, Arizona voters were a pretty staid and conservative bunch. Could they be persuaded to vote for a sheriff’s candidate who was already four or five months pregnant on election day?

What if she kept it quiet? Wouldn’t it be dishonest to get herself elected without telling her constituents what was really going on? Didn’t the 52

voters have the right to know a candidate was pregnant before they marked their ballots one way or the other? Election rules obliged Joanna to fill out any number of financial disclosure forms. Shouldn’t she also be obliged to disclose this?

Lost in thought, Joanna turned off Highway 80 onto High Lonesome Road. Then, without thinking, she automatically turned into the driveway that led to High Lonesome Ranch—the old driveway to the old house, the one where she used to live, rather than the new driveway a mile up the road that led to the new house on what had once been Clayton Rhodes’s place. Joanna Brady and Butch Dixon’s new rammed-earth house had been completed two months earlier. They had lived in it now for almost a month and a half. It was a sign of how distracted Joanna was that she made the wrong turn.

You’d better get a grip, she told herself sternly.

Their old house had a detached garage. The new one had attached garages-two of them, his and hers. Joanna could open the garage door with a wireless remote control and then walk from the car into the laundry room without ever having to set foot outside.

Butch had installed a weapons safe next to the laundry room door so she could remove her two Clocks and put them away without bringing them into the house proper. Butch had designed the whole project, down to the tiniest detail. Every part of it had been done with utter practicality and convenience in mind.

And with a new puppy around, Joanna thought as she took the time to remove her weapons, it’s a good thing we have mostly Saltillo tile on the floors rather than carpet.

Prepared for the worst, she went back to the Blazer, retrieved the puppy-laden carton, and headed into the house. Butch sat at the kitchen counter, laboring over his laptop.

There was an

53

office in the house—a spacious, nicely furnished office off the dining room, but that was used mostly as Joanna’s at-home office. Butch preferred to work in the kitchen, where he could write and keep tabs on the laundry and the progress of dinner at the same time.

He looked up from the screen when she came in. “What’s this?” he asked, spying the carton. “Surely you didn’t bring home more work to do-” He broke off in mid sentence when Lucky poked his tiny black nose up over the edge of the box. Butch’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t tell me you brought home a puppy!”

“I couldn’t help it,” Joanna explained quickly. “The woman who was murdered had a whole bunch of dogs, including Lucky’s mother …”

“You’ve already named him?” Butch asked. “That sounds a whole lot like we’re keeping him.”

“Lucky’s the only survivor—the other dogs all died, Butch,” Joanna told him. “They were locked in an overheated mobile home with Carol Mossman. We think the heat did them in.”

“Which is why he’s Lucky, I suppose,” Butch said, reaching out and lifting the squirming black fuzz of a dog out of the box.

“By the way, where’s Tigger?” Joanna asked, suddenly worried how their resident half pit-bull, half golden retriever mutt might react to the interloper’s presence.

“In Jenny’s room,” Butch replied, stroking the puppy’s ears. “She has tennis in the morning, so she and Tigger went to bed early. Has this little guy eaten, by the way?”

“Not recently,” Joanna answered. “He had some milk earlier this afternoon.”

“We’re a bit shy on Puppy Chow at the moment,” Butch said. “And he’s way too little for Dog Chow, so let’s see what we can do.”

55

With that, Butch handed Lucky over to Joanna and went prowling in the refrigerator.

He returned with a half gallon of milk and some bread, which he crumbled into a cereal bowl. Then he poured milk over it and set the concoction down on the floor in front of the famished puppy, who stepped into it with both front feet.

“That’s one thing I love about you,” Joanna said softly as they both stood watching the puppy eagerly lap up his milk and bread. “You’re totally unflappable.”

“I like to think I try,” Butch said modestly.

“What say we go for broke, then?” she asked, gathering her courage.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What are you saying? Is there another puppy out in the car that you haven’t brought in yet?”

“Not exactly.”

“What then, exactly?” Butch prodded.

Joanna took a deep breath. “What if I told you I might be pregnant?”

“Pregnant? You’re kidding!”

“No. I’m not kidding. I’m late. Over a week now.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. I mean, I’m sure I’m late, but I’m not remotely sure if I’m pregnant.

It’s possible, though.”

Suddenly, Lucky was forgotten. Grinning from ear to ear, Butch grabbed Joanna by the waist and swung her around the kitchen in a series of circles. “Joey, this is wonderful news. It’s great! I can hardly wait to find out for sure. What time is it?”

“It’s nine o’clock. Why?”

“What time does Safeway close?”

“I don’t know—nine or maybe ten. Why?”

“Let’s go right now and get a pregnancy test. You can buy 54

EXIT WOUNDS

them over the counter, can’t you? I mean, you don’t need a prescription or anything, do you?”

“I don’t think so,” Joanna told him. “But can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Butch shook his head. “No, ma’am. If I’m going to be a father, I want to know it now, not later. Besides,” he added with a grin, “we need Puppy Chow anyway. Now, are you and Lucky coming along, or are the two of you staying here?”

In the end, Lucky and Joanna rode along while Butch drove like a maniac. Two hours later, they were lying in bed side by side, giddy and sleepless. “A father,” Butch murmured over and over. “I’m going to be a father. I never thought it would happen to me.”

Joanna lay beside him as he rambled on and thought how different this was from when she’d told Andy she was pregnant with Jenny. They’d been at the drive-in theater on Alvernon in Tucson and to this day she had no idea what movie they had gone to see because she had blurted out the news without even waiting for the show to begin.

Where Butch was almost delirious with happiness at the news, Andy had been resolved-maybe even resigned. Of course he would marry her. Of course he would do the right thing.

But for years, there had always been that nagging little question in Joanna’s mind.

And, although they had never discussed it, maybe the same question had plagued Andy as well. Would Joann Lee Lathrop and Andrew Roy Brady have married if she hadn’t been pregnant? Or would they have broken up eventually and lived entirely different lives?

But they hadn’t, and thirteen-year-old Jennifer Ann Brady was very much a part of this new equation.

“We should tell Jenny in the morning,” Joanna said. “First thing. We don’t want her thinking we’ve been sneaking around, keeping secrets.”

56

“Right,” Butch agreed. “We’ll tell her at breakfast.”

“I thought you said she had tennis early.”

“We’ll get up even earlier. And, in that case, we’d better try to get some sleep.”

And they might have slept. It’s possible they could have slept, except right then, as soon as they stopped talking, Lucky, confined to his bedside carton, set up a mournful wail—the same keening cry that had summoned Manny Ruiz earlier that evening.

Within seconds Tigger, at the far end of the hall, began barking his head off and throwing himself against the door to Jenny’s bedroom.

Butch sighed. “Well,” he said, hopping out of bed, “I suppose we’d better get used to it.”

Joanna turned on the bedside lamp. Butch had just grabbed Lucky up and was trying to quiet him when Jenny began pounding on their bedroom door. “What’s going on in there?” she demanded. “What’s that awful noise? Tigger’s having a fit. He woke me up.”

Holding the puppy, Butch jumped back into bed and snuggled Lucky under the covers.

“All right,” Butch said. “You can come in, Jen, but you’d better leave Tigger in the hall.”

“How come?”

“Because. Trust me.”

Moments later, a pajama-clad Jenny was in their bedroom, looking more than a little cross. “What’s going on?” she asked indignantly.

Standing with her hands on her hips and with a disapproving frown on her face, Jenny looked like a miniature Eleanor Lathrop Winfield. And sounds like her, too, Joanna realized in dismay.

In answer to Jenny’s question, Butch pulled the wiggling Lucky out from under the covers and held him up in the air.

57

Jenny’s blue eyes widened in delight, then she vaulted onto the bed between Butch and Joanna.

“He’s so cute!” Jenny exclaimed breathlessly. “Where did you get him? Is he ours?

Can we keep him? What’s his name? Can I hold him?”

In answer to the barrage of questions, Butch simply handed Lucky over to Jenny. The puppy scrambled up her bare shoulder and buried his nose in her long blond hair.

“His name is Lucky,” Butch replied. “And we will keep him—if you can keep Tigger from eating him, that is.”

“Tigger won’t eat him,” Jenny declared. “He’ll be fine, I know he will be. Should I let him in now, so we can introduce them?”

“I don’t think so,” Butch said. “Not right now.”

“Why not?”

Taking a deep breath, Butch looked from Jenny back to Joanna. “Because,” he said finally, “I think your mother has something important to tell you.”

Joanna was already in her office and at her computer when Chief Deputy Frank Montoya came in for the morning briefing.

“What’s up?” he asked, placing a sheaf of papers on Joanna’s polished wood desk and taking a seat in one of the captain’s chairs.

“What do you mean, ‘What’s up’?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Sheriff Brady. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

Joanna got up, walked over to the door that led to the interior lobby and Kristin’s desk, and pulled it shut.

“I guess I did, in a manner of speaking,” she said. “Swallow the canary, that is.”

58

Frank seemed mystified. Joanna sat back down and looked at him across her desk. “I’m pregnant, Frank.”

“Whoa! Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I took a pregnancy test last night, and I’m definitely pregnant.”

Frank’s face broke into a grin. “Well, congratulations, then. That’s big news!”

“I’ll say.” Joanna grinned back at him.

“So who knows?”

“Well, Butch, Jenny, and now you.”

“What are you going to do?” Frank asked.

“What do you think? I’m going to have the baby.”

“What about the election? Are you going to drop out?”

Joanna was adamant. “And give Ken Junior a free ride? No way.”

“So are you going to keep it … well, under wraps until after election day?”

“We probably should delay making an announcement, just in case of a miscarriage, but Butch and I already talked it over. I’m going to go public with it. ASAP. I may even give our old friend, Marliss Shackleford, an exclusive on this.”

Marliss, a columnist for the local paper, The Bisbee Bee, had long been a thorn in Joanna’s side.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Frank asked. “She’s done everything but post ‘Galloway for Sheriff’ signs at the top and bottom of her column.”

“That’s exactly why I want Marliss to be one of the first to know,” Joanna responded.

“It’ll be one of her biggest scoops ever in “Bisbee Buzzings.’ Knowing Marliss is solidly in Ken Junior’s corner, people are bound to read the column and talk about it for days afterward. I figure, if the voters know about the baby in 59

advance and elect me anyway, then no one will be able to complain about it later on. And if I lose? Then I lose. I’ll go back to selling insurance—although that wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“I take it you and Butch have talked this through?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, then,” Frank said. “If you two are okay with it, then I’ve got no complaints.”

He picked up his stack of papers. “Sorry I wasn’t there to help out last night,”

he added.

“Don’t apologize, Frank,” Joanna told him with a smile. “You get to have some time off, and so do I. Now, what more do you have for me this morning?”

For the next twenty minutes or so they went over routine departmental business, including the previous day’s incidents reports. They ended with a discussion of the Mossman homicide.

“Ernie Carpenter will be at the autopsy later this morning,” Frank said. “Jaime Carbajal will start canvassing the neighborhood around Carol Mossman’s place and talking to her supervisor and coworkers. He’ll also be organizing an inch-by-inch search of the property. Dave Hollicker believes that since the shots were fired through a locked door, there’s a good chance the killer never made it inside Carol Mossman’s place.

That means any physical evidence left behind by the killer would most likely be outside the trailer rather than inside it.”

Joanna nodded. “This whole thing offends me,” she said, her green eyes flashing in sudden outrage. “Most people, including Carol’s own grandmother, might consider that rundown trailer little more than a hovel, but it was Carol Mossman’s home, Frank—her place of refuge. She and her animals were inside it, unarmed and defenseless, when somebody blew her away and killed all her dogs in the process. It’s true that, in trying to help all those strays, Carol Mossman may have broken some of the 60

dog-ownership statutes, but at the time she was killed, she and her dogs weren’t hurting anybody.” “No, they weren’t,” Frank agreed.

“I was on the scene last night. We were all working and doing our jobs. This morning, I realize it was like it was all business as usual. It would be all too easy to write Carol off as some kind of weirdo who was somehow responsible for what happened to her, but if the Carol Mossmans of this world aren’t safe in their own homes, nobody else is, either. I want whoever did this caught!”

By the time Joanna paused, Frank Montoya seemed a little taken aback by the strength of her emotion on the subject. “I see what you mean,” he said. “So what’s the next step?”

“Have Jaime contact that Explorer troop out on post at Fort Huachuca to see if they can help with the foreign-object search.” “Will do,” Frank said.

“And we should probably get the Double C’s in here to update us sometime this afternoon.”

The term Double C’s was departmental shorthand for the two homicide detectives, Carbajal and Carpenter.

“Okay,” Frank agreed. “Anything else?” Joanna asked.

The chief deputy looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, there is one more thing,”

he said.

“What’s that?” “It’s about the dog.” “What dog?”

“The one you took from Carol Mossmans home last night.” “It’s not a dog, Frank.”

Joanna responded. “It’s a puppy—a cute little fuzzy black puppy 61

“Jeannine Phillips has lodged a formal complaint.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I were,” Frank said regretfully. “She says you confiscated the dog yourself rather than following established procedures.”

“Frank, the puppy’s mother was dead. Lucky was practically starving to death.”

“Lucky. You mean you’ve named him?”

“Yes, I’ve named him. He’s not a dog, Frank. He’s a baby-barely weaned, if that.

Somehow he was left alone when all the other dogs got locked inside the trailer with Carol Mossman’s body. It’s a wonder he was still alive. I brought him home. Butch fed him bread and milk and then went straight out to buy Puppy Chow. What’s wrong with that? What was I supposed to do, ship him off to the pound so they could keep him for however long they keep animals before they put them down?”

“And how long is that?” Frank asked.

Joanna shrugged. “I don’t know for sure—a couple of weeks. A month, maybe.”

“You should probably know,” Frank put in mildly, “the correct answer is actually seventy-two hours.”

Joanna was shocked. “That’s all?” she demanded. “You mean, from the time the animals are picked up?”

“That’s right. If they’re not claimed by an owner or adopted by the end of seventy-two hours, they’re out of there.”

“As in put to sleep.”

“Right.”

“That’s awful. I was sure they had longer than that.”

“I thought so, too, boss, but I checked the statute just this morning. If you care about animals at all, and if those are the

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kinds of conditions Animal Control is working under, maybe that’s part of the reason Jeannine Phillips is so pissed off all the time. I sure as hell would be.”

“Do you think she’ll take her complaints to Ken Junior?” Joanna asked.

“If she’s in a mood to make trouble, what do you think?” Joanna thought about that.

Finally she said, “If I end up losing this election, will it be because I’m pregnant or because I took in an orphaned puppy?”

Frank Montoya grinned and shook his head. “Anybody’s guess,” he said.

After the chief deputy sauntered out of her office, Joanna sat staring out into the lobby through the open doorway. She thought about the scene in her kitchen earlier that morning, when Tigger met Lucky for the first time. Jenny had put Tigger on a “Wait” command at the door to the kitchen. But the word wait meant nothing to the puppy. He had scampered across the room and, despite Tigger’s bared teeth, had leaped up and licked the big dog’s face. Offended, Tigger had grabbed the puppy by the scruff of the neck and put him down, where he lay stock-still on the floor with his paws straight up in the air. Only the tiniest tip of his tail had moved-a twitch rather than a wag.

After several seconds, Tigger had let his captive go. Lucky had jumped up and gone racing around the room, his tiny claws clicking on the tile floor as he skidded around the corners. Each time he returned to Tigger, the older dog had growled and bared his teeth again, but he made no further move to attack the little interloper. The scene was so comical that Jenny had giggled with delight. Butch and Joanna, too, had laughed aloud. And now, because she had taken in the little rascal to give him a good

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home, Joanna was suddenly in the doghouse with her Animal Control officers.

Making up her mind, Joanna punched her intercom button.

“Yes, Sheriff Brady,” Kristin Gregovich answered.

“I’m going out for a while,” Joanna said.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” Joanna replied. “I’m on my way out to Animal Control. You might call ahead and see if Officer Phillips is there. Let her know I’m coming to see her.”

The several miles between the Justice Center and the Animal Control compound on the far side of Tin Town gave Joanna plenty of time to think about her upcoming meeting.

And the more she thought about it, the more she suspected Jeannine Phillips was in the right and she was wrong. After all, police officers investigating crime scenes were charged with collecting evidence connected to whatever crime had occurred. At the same time, they were prohibited from taking any items not thought to be part of the criminal investigation.

Going strictly by the rule book, Joanna had no excuse for taking the puppy. But Lucky was by no means part of the Carol Mossman homicide, and the animal was far too small to be shipped off to a pound. That opinion was underscored when, a few minutes later, she found herself wandering through a maze of dog runs searching for Jeannine Phillips.

Joanna’s passage set off a cacophony of barking. She found it difficult to look at the sad collection of animals, their muzzles pressed hopefully up against the chain-link gates, watching as Joanna walked by. One in particular caught her eye—a blue-eyed Australian shepherd bitch.

Joanna finally located Jeannine Phillips. Hose in hand, she 64

was cleaning out an empty run. Joanna didn’t want to consider what had happened to the previous occupant. The Animal Control officer nodded in greeting when Joanna walked up, but continued hosing down the concrete-floored run.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff Brady?” she asked finally after turning off the hose.

“I suppose you’re here to bitch me out for lodging the complaint?”

“Not exactly,” Joanna said. “Although I did come to talk to you about that.” She paused. “I guess it never occurred to me that saving one puppy’s life was a breach of procedure.”

“If it had been a child,” Jeannine said brusquely, “you would have turned it over to Child Protective Services.”

“But there were all those other dead dogs,” Joanna objected. “Seventeen dead dogs.”

“Right,” Jeannine agreed. “What’s the big deal about seventeen dead dogs? We put away that many every week. And by the time we get through with the Fourth of July weekend-with all the dogs that get scared and run away from home because of firecrackers and are never reclaimed-we’ll do double that next week.”

Joanna felt sickened. “That’s outrageous!” she exclaimed. “We euthanize that many?

I had no idea.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Jeannine Phillips said. “But don’t feel bad. Nobody else knows, either. Since puppies don’t eat much, we can keep them a little longer. And we could probably have placed your puppy. It’s a different story with older dogs.

For one thing, they aren’t that cute, and they eat too much. When the board of supervisors dished out the budget cuts, our unit took a ten percent hit right along with everyone else, Sheriff Brady. But so far I haven’t been able to convince any of the dogs that they should eat ten percent less.”

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As the morning sun climbed higher in the sky, the temperatures in the unair-conditioned kennel area was heating up as well. Joanna followed Jeannine back through the kennel, the woman stopping here and there to turn on big industrial fans.

“They help some,” she said. “If nothing else, they keep the air circulating.”

Inside the building, Joanna and Jeannine walked through a hallway lined with cat cages. Most of those were full as well. Animal Control’s ramshackle office was furnished with discarded, mismatched furniture that had seen better days. Joanna soon realized the office wasn’t air-conditioned, either. An old swamp cooler halfheartedly blew tepid air and the odor of mildew into the room as Jeannine sat down behind a scarred wooden desk.

“We should have two full-time kennel attendants,” she told Joanna. “Since we only have one, Manny and I end up doing kennel duty when we should be out on patrol. If somebody actually wants to adopt a dog, we have to be paged so we can come back and handle the paperwork. It’s no surprise that so few dogs get adopted.

“Before she left, Donna Merrick had all kinds of bright ideas. She had met with several local veterinarians and was hoping to get the county to contract with them for low-cost spaying and neutering. Donna thought we’d have better luck finding homes for animals if we brought the animals to the people instead of waiting for people to come to us. She had even talked to some of the local store managers about having adoption clinics on Saturday mornings. Donna wanted to pay for a dog groomer so the animals would be cleaned up and looking good the mornings of the clinics.”

“Sounds good to me,” Joanna said. “What happened?”

“Donna talked the idea up and the Wal-Mart managers in 66

Douglas and Sierra Vista were all for it. So was the manager of the Safeway store here in town. But when the board of supervisors heard about it, they wouldn’t even consider it. Said that running adoption clinics went beyond our ‘legal mandate’ and that the taxpayers would think it a waste of money. And, once Donna went up against the board, the next thing we knew, she was gone. Now we’re part of the sheriff’s department, and we’re even more shorthanded than before.”

“So I guess we need to do something about this,” Joanna said when she finished.

Jeannine nodded. “Yes, we do,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced that anything would change.

“How long have you worked here?” Joanna asked. “Eight years.” “And Manny?” “Six.”

Joanna nodded. “So what do you want me to do about the puppy? Should I bring him back here? I offered him to Carol Mossman’s mother, but she didn’t want him. The place where she lives doesn’t allow pets.”

“Manny said you’d already named him,” Jeannine said. “I thought he was lucky, so that’s what I named him-Lucky.” “Go ahead and keep him,” Jeannine said in exasperation.

“Since he’s already got a home, there’s not much sense bringing him back here. You’re supposed to have him properly licensed, once he has his shots, and he’ll need to be neutered.” “Right,” Joanna said. “We’ll take care of it.” “Good enough,” Jeannine said.

Joanna stood and started toward the door. Then she stopped and turned back. “How long has that little Australian shepherd been here?” she asked. “The one in that last bunch of kennels.”

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“Oh,” Jeannine said. “You mean Little Blue Eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Three days,” Jeannine replied. “She’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Gone as in adopted?” Joanna asked.

“No,” Jeannine said. “Gone as in gone.”

Sheriff Joanna Brady thought about that, but not for long. Butch won’t mind, she thought. “My husband and I live on a ranch out on High Lonesome Road,” she said.

“There’s plenty of room for dogs.”

Jeannine Phillips’s sullen expression brightened slightly. “You mean you’d like to take her?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I think I would.”

“She’ll need to have her shots, too, and be licensed.”

‘And spayed,” Joanna added.

“No,” Jeannine said, “you won’t have to worry about that. She’s already been fixed.

But you should know, she doesn’t like men much-not even Manny, and he’s a real sweetheart when it comes to dogs.”

“That’s all right,” Joanna said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to manage.”

For the first time in Joanna’s memory, the grim set of Jeannine Phillips’s face was replaced by a tentative smile. “Great, Sheriff Brady,” she said. “I’ll get started on the paperwork right away.”

And I’ll go back to the office, Joanna thought, and see how much progress we’re making in catching Carol Mossman’s killer.

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Half an hour later, using a bright red disposable leash, Joanna led her new dog out of Jeannine Phillips’s office. The Australian shepherd walked in a demure, ladylike fashion. Clearly someone somewhere had taken the time to give her a bit of obedience training. By the time the dog hopped in through the Civvie’s back door and settled gracefully into the backseat, Joanna was ready to give her a new name.

“Little Blue Eyes doesn’t suit you,” she said aloud. “But we’ll see what Butch and Jenny want to call you.”

On the way back to the Justice Center, Joanna stopped off at Dr. Millicent Ross’s veterinary clinic. Joanna emerged from the clinic half an hour later with a properly vaccinated dog and accompanying documentation that would allow her to license an Australian shepherd still officially known as Blue Eyes. Once inside Joanna’s office, the dog disappeared into the cavelike kneehole under the desk. Joanna left her there and went looking for a

69

dish and some water. Her search took her to the lab, where her latent fingerprint tech, Casey Ledford, liberated an aluminum pie plate that would work temporarily for dog-drinking purposes.

Joanna peered around the lab. “What are you up to?”

“I’ve processed the prints I took from Carol Mossman’s back door. The ones I have don’t match the victim.”

“Have you run them through APIS?” Joanna asked, referring to the Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

“Sure did,” Casey replied. “No hits so far.”

“What about Dave?” Joanna asked, peering around the lab shared by Casey and the crime scene investigator. “Is he back out at the scene?”

“No,” Casey said. “I’m pretty sure he’s down the hall on his computer. He’s working on the brass they found yesterday.”

Taking the pie plate with her, Joanna went to the doorway to the crime scene investigator’s cubicle, where she found him staring closely at his CRT. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Take a look at this, Sheriff Brady,” Dave said, moving aside and allowing her access to his computer. “It’s really interesting.”

On his screen was a large circle with a much smaller one inside it. Two straight lines went from the outside of the smaller circle to the edge of the larger circle, dividing the larger one in half. At the top of the larger circle was the initial . At the bottom, the number 17.

“One of the casings from yesterday’s homicide?” Joanna asked.

Dave nodded.

“Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“An antique, for one thing,” Dave said. “This is a Colt military head stamp. It was used on ammunition manufactured prior to 1921. See that seventeen?” Dave asked, pointing with the tip of

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his pencil. Joanna nodded. “That’s the year of manufacture-1917. The on top stands for where it was made-Springfield, Massachusetts.”

Joanna was astonished. “You’re telling me Carol Mossman died after being shot by a bullet that’s eighty-six years old?”

“Two shots were fired,” Dave replied. “The one to her lower body is the one that actually killed her. The other went through her shoulder. I dug most of that slug out of the paneling on the wall behind her.”

Joanna Brady was amazed. “I’m surprised ammunition that old still works.”

“I’m not,” Dave said. “I suppose you could expect a certain degree of unreliability, but if the bullets have been kept dry, there’s no real reason why they shouldn’t work.”

“And they did,” Joanna supplied. “But where did they come from, and where have they been all this time?”

“Who knows?” Dave replied. “That’s what I’m trying to find out right now. I can’t just call up Colt and ask for records from way back then.”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I suppose not.”

“I’ve sent a copy of the firing fingerprint to the NIBIN,” Dave Hollicker continued.

“So far there’s no match.”

Joanna was well aware of the National Integrated Ballistics Information Network.

Functioning much the same way APIS does for fingerprints, NIBIN provides a computerized database of weapons signatures collected from crime scenes nationwide. It allows investigators to know when the same weapon is being used to commit crimes in more than one jurisdiction. It also makes instantaneous connections between solved and unsolved crimes that would otherwise be regarded as unrelated incidents. Following the travels of a particular weapon sometimes makes it 71

possible for detectives to track the movements of an individual perpetrator as well.

“You don’t really expect them to come up with a match, do you?” Joanna said. “How many eighty-six-year-old homicides do you think have been entered in the system?

As I recall, computers weren’t even a gleam in engineers’ eyes back in 1917.”

“That’s not true,” Dave said.

“It isn’t?”

“And you of all people should know it,” Hollicker told her. “Have you ever heard of Augusta Ada Byron King, Countess Lovelace?”

“Never. Who’s she?”

“Her daddy was a guy named Lord Byron.”

‘As in Shelley and Keats-Lord Byron, the poet?”

“Right. She was born the year her parents were divorced, and her father never saw her after that, but she was one smart little girl whose mother saw to it that she was trained in mathematics. At eighteen she went to hear a lecture by Charles Babbage on what he called his ‘difference engine.’ Ada managed to finagle an introduction to the man. When she saw Babbage’s machine itself, she was one of the few people who immediately grasped how it worked and could visualize its long-term potential.

She and Babbage went on to become more than friends,” Dave said. “Not only that, from what I heard, she’s the one who created the first punch cards and invented computer programming.”

“When was all this?” Joanna demanded.

“Sometime in the mid-1800’s, I think,” Dave Hollicker answered. He was clearly getting a kick out of their sudden reversal of roles.

“And how come you know about this … What’s her name again?” Joanna asked.

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“Augusta Ada Byron King, Countess Lovelace.”

“How come you know about her and I don’t?”

“Because when you sent me to CSI school in Quantico, Virginia, one of my instructors, Agent Amanda Blackner, had a real thing about women doing all of the grunt work and getting none of the credit. You’d better believe it. If you didn’t know about Lady Ada in full, essay-answer detail, you didn’t pass Blackner’s class.”

“I might not have taken that class, but I know about Ada Lovelace now. Thanks,” Joanna said and then changed the subject. “Did you pick up anything else from the crime scene last night?”

“Some tire casts,” Dave answered. “And casts of a footprint or two. Hiking boots.

Could be either a small man or a large woman.”

“Or a juvenile,” Joanna suggested.

Dave nodded. “That, too,” he said. “In fact, speaking of juveniles, I need to be on my way. Jaime said that the Explorer troop will be on tap at one to help with the foreign-object search. I want to be there when they do it.”

“Good enough,” Joanna said. “And good luck.”

With that she took the pie plate and retreated to her office, pausing long enough at the hallway water fountain to fill it. Then she continued on toward her office, holding the pie plate carefully in both hands to keep the water from spilling.

“Whose dog?” Kristin asked, nodding toward Joanna’s closed office door.

“Mine,” Joanna said.

Without having to be asked, Kristin got up and opened the door. The Australian shepherd was waiting anxiously just inside.

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When the animal saw Joanna, her cropped tail wagged furiously. Joanna set the plate of water down and watched while the dog lapped it dry.

“When I took the mail in, I wasn’t expecting to find a dog in your office,” Kristin said. “She scared me so much I almost dropped the mail. I guess I scared her, too.”

“Sorry,” Joanna said. “I meant to tell you but you weren’t here when I went by and-“

“Is that the dog from last night’s crime scene?” Kristin asked. “Somebody said it was a puppy, but this doesn’t look like a puppy.”

“Different dog,” Joanna said. “This one’s from Animal Control. They were getting ready to put her down, so I decided to take her. You and Terry wouldn’t happen to want another dog, would you?”

“We’ve already got Spike,” Kristin said, shaking her head. “If we brought home another dog, our landlady would have a fit.”

Kristin’s husband, Terry, and his eighty-five-pound German shepherd, Spike, constituted the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s K-9 unit.

“Right,” Joanna said. “I’m sure she would.”

The phone rang, and Kristin reached to answer it. “It’s Tom Hadlock,” Kristin told Joanna. “He says the jail AC has gone out again. He’s done his best to restart it but so far no luck. Now he’s asking what you want him to do about it.”

Joanna sighed and looked longingly at her desk, where that day’s worth of correspondence was already laid out and awaiting her attention.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Joanna said.

Walking between her office and the jail commander’s, 74

Joanna found herself squinting in the unrelenting sun. She didn’t need a thermometer to tell her that, for the third day in a row, the midday temperature was already over a hundred.

Tom Hadlock sat at his desk with the top two buttons on his uniform unbuttoned and sweat pouring down his face when Joanna entered his office. A small personal fan sat on his desk, facing him and oscillating feebly. The moving fan blades stirred the air slightly, but the resulting breeze did little to take the edge off the heat.

“I’m on hold with the AC company in Tucson,” he said. “The first person I talked to said they could probably have someone here the day after tomorrow at the earliest.”

“That’s not good enough,” Joanna said.

Hadlock nodded. “I told her that. She said she’d see what she could do. That’s what we get for going with the lowest bidder,” he added. “Sammy Cotton here in town handled our AC contract for years. Whenever we called him, he was always Sammy-on-the-spot, but then the board of supervisors decided we needed to put the contract out to bid.

This outfit up in Tucson underbid Sammy but … Hello? Who’s this?”

Tom punched the speakerphone button so Joanna could hear what was being said.

“I’m Alexander Blair, the owner of Anchor Air Conditioning.”

“Well, Mr. Blair,” Tom replied, “I’m Tom Hadlock, the jail commander down here in Bisbee. You could say I’m a little hot under the collar at the moment. We’ve got an air-conditioning problem here at the jail—an air-conditioning crisis, actually.

The girl who answered your phone told me you wouldn’t be able to have anyone here until the day after tomorrow. That’s totally unacceptable.”

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Joanna winced at Tom’s use of the word girl. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one to take umbrage.

“That ‘girl’ happens to be my mother,” Alex Blair answered stiffly. “She’s been in the business for thirty-some-odd years. If she says that’s the soonest we can get to you, then that’s the way it is. Like she said, we’ll have someone down there first thing the day after tomorrow.”

“But,” Tom Hadlock sputtered, “I have the contract right here. It says we’ll receive ‘priority’ treatment.”

“That is priority treatment,” Blair returned. “In case you haven’t noticed, all of Arizona is in the middle of a heat wave at the moment. Every single one of my technicians is out on calls. We’re doing the best we can.”

Joanna stood up and turned the speakerphone in her direction. “Then it’s not good enough,” she said.

“Who’s this?”

“Sheriff Brady, Mr. Blair,” she replied. “Sheriff Joanna Brady. What day is today?”

“The second,” he replied after a pause.

“And that would make the day after tomorrow July Fourth. Do you really think you’ll have a technician willing to come down here on a national holiday, Mr. Blair? And what if he needs parts? Will any of your suppliers be open that day?”

“Sheriff Brady-” Blair began, but Joanna cut him off.

“The weather reports I’ve seen indicate this weather pattern is going to continue for the next few days, so I’m giving you a choice, Mr. Blair. Either you have someone here to fix our problem prior to five p.m. today, or I’m calling someone else. Once they get us up and running again, they can send their bill to you. We’ll just assume you’ve subcontracted the job out.”

“We can’t do that.”

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“Oh?” Joanna asked. “How are you being paid for maintaining our facility, Mr. Blair?”

She knew exactly how much Anchor Air Conditioning was being paid on a monthly basis as an ongoing maintenance retainer. When the board had come up with that brilliant idea, she had argued against it—argued and lost.

“Monthly,” Alex Blair returned.

“Right. Because the board of supervisors wanted to have a regular budgetary item they could count on rather than having occasional spikes, right?”

“Yes,” Blair replied. “I believe that’s correct.”

“And how long have you had the contract?”

“Six months or so,” Blair said.

“Seven,” Joanna corrected. “I have it right here. It started in December of last year.”

“Well, seven then,” Blair admitted grudgingly.

“And how much time have you put in at our facility?”

Blair paused again. Through the phone Joanna could hear him shuffling papers. “That would have been two months ago, when we came out to fire up the AC units and get them ready for summer.”

“Seven months,” Joanna said. “And your people have been here exactly once. As I said before, Mr. Blair, you’d better have someone here working on our equipment by five o’clock today. Otherwise, I’m calling in a pinch-hitter repair company and reporting you to the board of supervisors as well.”

She punched the speakerphone button, ending the call, cutting Alex Blair off in mid-excuse.

“Do you think these clowns will actually show up, Sheriff Brady?” Tom Hadlock asked.

“They’d better,” she said. “But if I were you, I’d call Sammy 77

Cotton and give him a heads-up. Tell him if Anchor Air Conditioning isn’t here by five, I want his crew here by five after.”

“What if Sammy does the job and Anchor doesn’t pay him for it?”

“Anchor will pay, all right,” Joanna said grimly. “I’ll see to it. Now tell me, what do we do in the meantime? I don’t want to lose anyone—guards or prisoners—due to heat prostration.”

“We can let the prisoners out in the yard, I suppose,” Tom Hadlock said dubiously.

“It’s cooler outside in the shade than it is in here, but I hate to have that many people outside all at once. If there was any trouble …”

“Call Chief Deputy Montoya,” Joanna said. “Have him come over. I need him to give me a hand.”

Frank Montoya arrived at the jail a few minutes later. “What’s up, Sheriff Brady?”

he asked.

“What can we do about the prisoners?” Joanna asked. “We’ve got to let them cool off.

Can we let them outside?”

Frank thought about it for a minute. “If everyone is loose in the yard at once, we should probably bring in some of the patrol deputies to back up the detention officers just in case there’s trouble.”

Joanna nodded. “Good idea.”

‘I’ll get on the horn and see how long it’ll take to get them here.”

Joanna nodded and turned to Hadlock. “Before we let them into the yard, I want water out there—water and ice—plenty of it. Plenty of paper cups, too. Got it?”

“Right,” the jail commander said. “I’ll notify the kitchen right away. Anything else?”

“Yes. How do I make a jailwide announcement?”

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Tom Hadlock motioned to an old-fashioned-looking microphone that stood on the credenza behind his desk. “Help yourself,” Tom said. “Hold down that button and talk into the mike.”

“What next?” Frank asked.

“I’m going to make an announcement over the jail intercom,” Joanna told him. “And, for the sake of our non-English speakers, you’re going to translate.

“This is Sheriff Brady speaking,” Joanna said. “As you have no doubt noticed, our air-conditioning units have gone out and won’t be repaired until much later this afternoon. We have a choice here. You can spend the afternoon sweltering in your cells, or we can do something about it.”

She passed Frank the microphone and then waited for him to translate before she continued.

“At this point it’s probably cooler outside than it is inside. We’re willing to let people outside, but only if we can have some assurances that there won’t be any difficulty.”

Again she waited while Frank translated. “Once we have additional personnel in place, we’ll be moving you out into the rec yards where we plan to have ice, water, and towels. We’ll let you out. We’ll do it in an orderly, careful fashion, but let me warn you—if there’s any trouble, and I mean at the first sign of trouble—heat or no heat, you go back inside under full lockdown.”

By the time Tom Hadlock returned to his office, Frank had finished translating the last segment of Joanna’s announcement. “The kitchen will have the water and ice out there within the next fifteen minutes,” Hadlock reported.

“It’ll take more time than that to get our people here,” Frank said.

“Okay,” Joanna said. “Wait on the ice, and don’t start 79

emptying the units until we have backup on the scene, Tom. Frank will let you know when they’re here.”

“Fair enough,” Hadlock replied. “You say the word, and we’ll start moving ‘em out.”

“Did you call Sammy Cotton?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, ma’am. He says if we need him, he can be here with a crew at five-oh-five.”

“Now that we’ve called Mr. Blair’s bluff, that probably won’t be necessary,” Joanna said. “Anchor Air Conditioning has had a trouble-free ride up to now. I’m guessing Mr. Blair isn’t going to want to screw that up.”

Joanna and Frank left the jail complex and headed back across the parking lot. “Mind if I ask you a question?” Joanna said.

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever heard of someone named Ada Lovelace?” Joanna asked.

“You mean that smart lady who’s the mother of all computers?” Frank returned. “Sure, I know about her. Why?”

“Never mind,” Joanna said irritably, chagrined that her male staff knew far more about this female computer pioneer than she did. “Forget it,” she told Frank. “I’m going home for lunch. Hopefully I’ll be back before it’s time to move the prisoners outside. Tell the Double C’s that I still want to touch base with them later on this afternoon. Before five o’clock today, I want to know exactly where we stand on the Mossman case.”

“Will do,” Frank said, “but I need to warn you. Word is out about all those dead dogs. I’m afraid we’re going to take a hit on that subject once it’s in the papers.”

“What else is new?” Joanna asked.

Back in her office, Joanna found her devoted but as-yet-81

unnamed dog waiting just inside the door. The animal sprang to her feet and greeted Joanna as though the two of them were old friends. Looking at the dog, Joanna shook her head. “Maybe I’d better call Butch and give him a heads-up about you, old girl.”

She picked up her phone and dialed High Lonesome Ranch. “Would you happen to have a couple peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches lying around if I were in a mood to come home for lunch?” she asked when Butch answered.

“If you’ll give me ten minutes, I can probably do better than that.”

“Good. I’ll be there. How’s Lucky doing?” Joanna asked.

“Fine. At least I guess he’s fine. I’ve hardly seen him. He’s been with Jenny all morning. They’re evidently bonding. The good news is that so far Tigger hasn’t bitten the little guy’s head off.”

“I had to go by Animal Control this morning …” she began.

Somehow Butch Dixon knew instinctively where she was going. “No,” he said at once.

“You didn’t. Not another one.”

“I had to,” Joanna said. “She’s such a sweet little thing. And her time was almost up. By tomorrow morning, if no one took her, they’d have put her down. Wait till you see her.”

“Well, all right then,” Butch said. “I suppose that makes us even.”

“Even?” Joanna asked. “What do you mean?”

“I invited your mother and George over for dinner tonight. I thought it would be better if the two of us were together when we drop the big news that we’re pregnant.”

Joanna thought about that for a few seconds. “Right,” she agreed at last. “I guess that does make us even.”

An hour later she was back from lunch with the dog once more stowed under her desk when Kristin came to tell her the

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extra deputies had been deployed in and around the jail complex. Unbidden, the dog emerged from her cave and greeted Kristin with effusive tail-wagging.

“I thought you were going to leave her at home this afternoon.”

“So did I,” Joanna said ruefully. “But as soon as she saw Butch, she started jumping and bucking so hard, I could barely hold on to her leash. With him there, I would have had to bodily drag her into the house, so I ended up leaving her in the garage all through lunch. Jeannine Phillips warned me that the dog doesn’t like men, but this is more than not liking. You should have seen her, Kristin. The poor thing was scared to death.”

“What are you going to do?” Kristin asked. “Take her back to the pound?”

“I offered to, but Butch said no. He says he’ll figure out a way around her, but he thought it would be better for everybody concerned if I brought her back to work this afternoon. So I did. Obviously the dog is fine with you, Kristin, but you should probably let Frank, Jaime, and Ernie know she’s here so they don’t barge in unexpectedly.”

“I’ll tell them,” Kristin said. “By the way, Tom Hadlock said to tell you that the guy from Anchor called. They’ve hired Sammy Cotton’s crew to come work on the air-conditioning.

They’ll be here by three this afternoon.”

“Good enough,” Joanna said. “Sounds like a win-win situation to me.”

She hurried outside. She and Chief Deputy Montoya watched as the prisoners were allowed out of their cells and into the sun-drenched, razor-wire-surrounded rec yard, which, at this time of day, was at least partially shaded from direct sunlight by the jail itself. The inmates, apparently grateful to be allowed out 82

of their oven like cells, helped themselves to paper cups of ice water and then moved in an orderly fashion into the long narrow sliver of shade beside the building or sat on the covered concrete picnic tables that lined the yard.

“The prisoners will be fine,” Joanna said. “They have some shade. It’s the detention officers and extra deputies I feel sorry for. None of them have any shade at all.

Let’s make sure they have plenty of water, too. I’d hate to protect the prisoners and lose one of our deputies to heatstroke.”

“I’ll have Tom Hadlock take care of it right away.”

It wasn’t long before the blazing sun drove Joanna herself back into the relative cool of her office. With the dog curled contentedly at her feet, Joanna spent the next two hours dealing with routine paperwork. At three-thirty, her phone rang.

“Detectives Carbajal and Carpenter are here,” Kristin announced. “I told them you’d see them in the conference room.”

“Right. By the way, any sign of the air-conditioning crew?”

“They’ve been here for almost an hour now,” Kristin said.

“Great,” Joanna replied. “Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel.”

Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal were already in the conference room. Frank Montoya arrived at the same time Joanna did. “Okay, guys,” Joanna said. “What do we have so far?”

“Doc Winfield says Carol Mossman was struck by two bullets—one in the gut and one in the shoulder. The wound to the midsection was the one that actually killed her.

She bled to death,” Ernie Carpenter added. “No surprises there. All the shots, including the ones that missed the victim, were fired into the back door of her mobile home.

The door was locked at the

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time from the inside, with her and all of her dogs … all but one of her dogs,”

he corrected, “inside the house with her.”

“Why were they inside?”

“That I can’t say. There were food bowls everywhere. The victim may have brought them into the house to feed them, but there was no food in any of the dishes. Either the dogs ate it or she hadn’t finished feeding them before the killer arrived. We don’t believe her assailant ever gained access to the house. After being shot, Carol Mossman managed to drag herself as far as the living room. We think she was trying to reach the phone, but she passed out and died a few feet shy of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “I thought someone told me last night the electricity was turned off at the Mossman place. Now you’re saying the phone was still working.

How’s that possible?”

Beetling his thick eyebrows into a frown, Ernie nodded. “It’s one of those old-fashioned Princess phones. Hard-wired. Unlike the new cordless phones everyone has these days, the old ones worked even with the power off. Not that it did Carol Mossman any good.”

“Time of death?”

“She was shot at seven twenty-eight yesterday morning,” Ernie said, consulting his notes. “Doc Winfield says she died some time after that, maybe as much as two or three hours.”

“Seven twenty-eight?” Joanna asked. “How were you able to pinpoint the time of the attack?”

“There was evidently a clock hanging on the wall behind her. When she went down, she took the wall with her and knocked out the clock’s battery.”

“Did you pick up any pertinent information from Carol 84

Mossman’s neighbors?” Joanna asked, turning her attention to Jaime Carbajal.

“I talked to a Rhonda Wellington. She has a place off the Charleston Road about half a mile away. She’s evidently the neighbor who called Animal Control two weeks ago to report that Carol Mossman’s dogs were running loose. Believe me, there’s no love lost there.”

“Is Wellington a possible suspect?” Joanna queried.

“I doubt it,” Jaime answered. “She says she was scared to death of Carol Mossman’s dogs and wouldn’t go anywhere near them. She said she reported them when they showed up loose on her property and chased her horses. She claims that a couple of times she had to run into her house to get away from the dogs. I doubt she would have gone over there on her own.”

“Maybe she would have if she’d been armed,” Joanna suggested.

Jaime shook his head. “I’m telling you, she was scared of the dogs, and with that many of them, one gun wouldn’t have done much good. Rhonda did claim to have heard what sounded like shots. She said she was outside hanging laundry on her clothesline when she heard a whole series of pops. With the Fourth of July coming up, she decided it was kids setting off firecrackers and didn’t give it another thought. It corroborates the time, though.”

“In other words,” Joanna said, “Rhonda Wellington is a busybody who made a police report about loose dogs and ignored a flurry of gunshots.”

“Exactly,” Jaime agreed. “I checked with the other neighbors. So far, no one else saw or heard anything. When I finished that, I went out to Sierra Vista and talked to Alberto Sotomeyer, who

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owns the Shell station where Carol Mossman worked. He says she worked a double shift two days ago—her regular shift, which was four to midnight, and then she worked graveyard as well, from midnight to eight. Sotomeyer said she had some kind of important appointment yesterday and needed to have the whole day off.”

“Yesterday was the deadline for having her dogs vaccinated and licensed,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe she took off work so she could have that done.”

Jaime jotted himself a note. “I’ll check around with the local vets and see if she had an appointment,” he said.

“Has either one of you talked to Edith Mossman yet?” Joanna asked.

Both detectives shook their heads. “Not enough time,” Ernie said. “We’ll try to get to her first thing in the morning. How come?”

“I was just thinking about something she told me last night,” Joanna said. “She claims to have no idea where her son is.”

“Carol’s father?” Ernie asked.

“Right. I believe his name is Edward.”

“That’s what you put on the information you gave us earlier. You also mentioned that Edith and the son are estranged.”

Joanna nodded. “Her words, which she didn’t bother to mince, were something to the effect that if he were to turn up dead, she’d be ready and willing to take a leak on his grave. What I find interesting, however, is that it doesn’t sound as though she’s estranged from any of her granddaughters—from her son’s children. Maybe we should find out what that’s all about.”

The phone rang. Frank Montoya reached around to answer it. “Conference room,” he said. A moment later he passed it over

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to Joanna. “It’s Tom Hadlock,” he said. “Needs to speak to you right away.”

“What’s up?” Joanna asked.

“The air-conditioning guys expect to have us up and running in another hour, but once they turn the switch back on, it’s going to take time to cool the place off again—a couple of hours at least. Ruby’s “wondering if she should make sandwiches so the inmates can eat out in the yard.”

Ruby Starr, a former restaurateur and chef, had been in the Cochise County Jail on a domestic-disturbance charge some three years earlier when the jail’s previous cook had absconded with that year’s supply of holiday turkeys. Ruby had been drafted directly out of her jail cell and into the kitchen. While still officially listed as one of the jail’s inmates, she had set about whipping the nearly derelict kitchen into shape.

Under her supervision, sanitation had improved immeasurably, as had the quality of the food. Upon her release, she had stayed on as chief cook, now as a paid employee.

“Good thinking,” Joanna said. “Tell her to make enough sandwiches for the guards and the extra deputies as well. In the meantime, Frank, liberate some money from petty cash and go get a load of chilled watermelons from Safeway. Everyone seems to be behaving themselves. Why not reward them? And, since we seem to be having a jailwide picnic anyway, it might just as well include some genuine picnic fare.”

Frank gave Joanna a questioning look, complete with a single raised eyebrow that meant he didn’t necessarily agree. “Okay, boss,” he said. “If that’s what you want, I’ll get right on it.”

Half an hour later, Joanna was back in her office. Watching the clock edge toward five, she realized the day had slipped away without her ever calling her best friend, Marianne Maculyea, to

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deliver the earth-shattering news that Joanna was pregnant. She reached for the phone but then put it down again without dialing.

Butch is right. Better not tell anyone else until after we tell Mother.

“Come on, whoever you are,” she said to the dog. “It’s time to go home and face the music.”

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Leaving Chief Deputy Montoya to oversee the outdoor jail operation, Joanna took her family’s latest canine member and headed home right at 5 p.m. It surprised her a little to realize what she was doing. In those first frantic months after being elected sheriff, she had hardly slept whenever her department had been sucked into a homicide investigation. Wanting to be more than a figurehead sheriff, she had thrown herself into each and every case. No one had placed greater demands on Joanna Brady than she herself had.

That was still true now, she realized. She had personally been to the scene of Carol Mossman’s murder, but it pleased her to realize that she no longer had to be there in person in order to keep her finger on the pulse of every aspect of the investigation.

Gradually she was learning to delegate. She was also learning to separate her personal life from her work life. In that regard, she had her stepfather, George Winfield, to serve as an example.

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As Cochise County Medical Examiner, George dealt with many of the same cases Joanna did and more besides, doing doctor-and relative-requested autopsies for deaths where the victims had not died as a result of foul play. But when George Winfield wasn’t actively at work, he lavished his wife—Joanna’s mother, the demanding Eleanor-with devoted attention. He did his work at work and he left it there. Just because he had to deal with dead bodies during the day didn’t mean he couldn’t go to a classical music concert in Tucson that evening. Not only go-but go and enjoy as well.

For years Joanna hadn’t left her office without a briefcase full of homework, but soon after their wedding Butch had raised an objection.

“Look,” he had said, “you work long hours, and I don’t mind that. And I don’t mind that you get called out evenings and on weekends. But when you’re home, you should be home. When it comes to getting your attention, Jenny and I shouldn’t always have to be last in line.”

And then George Winfield himself had pushed her over the edge. He and Joanna had been doing dishes after Easter Sunday dinner when he brought it up.

“You work too hard,” he said.

Joanna had paused, dish towel and glass in hand. “Who put you up to saying that?”

she asked. “Butch or Eleanor?”

“Neither,” he had said. “I came up with the idea on my own.”

“How come?” she asked.

“When I was a young doctor in private practice, I was ambitious as hell and wanted to be the very best there was. I wanted to make plenty of money so I could support Annie and Abigail in style. But then, once I lost them both, I found out the money didn’t mean a thing, Joanna. Not a damn thing! Life doesn’t 100

always give people second chances, but it seems to me you have one. And now you have to make some decisions. You can spend all your time at work, but who’s going to benefit from that? Once you’ve missed out on time spent with your family, you don’t get it back—not ever. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. I’m glad to have my work right now. It’s rewarding and I’m good at it. But I’m also glad to have your mother. I have no intention of neglecting Ellie the way I did Annie when I was so busy chasing after the almighty dollar.”

Joanna had thought about George’s comments all Easter Sunday night. What he had said wasn’t exactly what a visiting out-of-town detective, J. P. Beaumont, had told her during their brief encounter last fall, when he had advised her to pay attention to what was important, but the advice was close enough. And close enough to hit home, as well.

Joanna had already lost Andy. Nothing could mend the quarrels they’d had when she and Andy had fought over things too unimportant to remember. Nothing could bring back the years when they had both been working so hard at their two separate jobs that, other than sleeping together in the same bed, their paths had barely crossed on a daily basis. Joanna could see now that too much of her precious time with Andy had been frittered away on things that meant nothing. Now, like George with her mother, she had a second chance-with Butch and Jenny. And soon there would be another little someone to take into consideration.

So Joanna had been working on it. Daily she made a conscious effort to leave her work at work—to put it behind her when she drove out of the Justice Center parking lot. Of course, with the campaign heating up, that wasn’t always possible, but when she did come home from her latest rubber-chicken

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banquet, she didn’t duck into her home office and open a brimming briefcase. And she didn’t turn on her home computer, either.

Now the five-mile drive from work to home served as a very real decompression chamber.

Once again it worked its magic as she let go of her worries about the prisoners eating their picnic dinner in the rec yard and concerns about solving this latest homicide.

As she turned up the newly bladed drive and saw their rammed-earth house nestled in among the brilliant greens of Clayton Rhodes’s towering cottonwood trees, Joanna felt truly at home.

Tigger came dashing down the road to greet her. Lucky trailed fifty feet behind Tigger, running as fast as his short legs would travel. Seeing the other dogs outside the car, the new dog went nuts. She jumped excitedly between the front and back seats.

The sharp yipping sounds she made were loud enough to make Joanna’s ears hurt.

She stopped the Civvie outside the garage door and removed Blue Eyes’s leash. “Okay, girl,” she said. “Let’s see how you do with your new pals. If they’re loose, you should be, too. That way everybody will have a fighting chance.”

She got out and opened the rear door. The Australian shepherd piled out. After a few stiff-legged, growl-punctuated

moments of sniffing, the two big dogs raced off in a huge circle, with the puppy once again eagerly chugging along behind.

“I see you’ve already made the necessary introductions,” Butch observed, coming out through the garage door. “Obviously she likes Tigger a whole lot more than she does me.”

“She’ll learn,” Joanna said with a laugh. “After all, you talked your way around me, didn’t you? What’s for dinner?”

“Steak,” Butch said. “Baked potatoes, homemade bread straight out of the bread machine, salad, and homemade ice

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cream for dessert. Considering the news we’re about to drop, I figured it was time to kill the fatted calf. No doubt your mother’s going to be fit to be tied, but don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, Joey. My mother most likely will react the same way.”

“Where’s Jenny?” Joanna asked.

“Where do you think?” Butch returned, nodding in the direction of the corral, where a cloud of dust showed that Jenny and Kiddo were once again racing around a set of barrels. Closer at hand, the dogs were still chasing one another in ever-widening circles. “Should we bring them inside?” Butch added. “What if the new dog decides she doesn’t like it here and takes off?”

“I think she’ll be all right,” Joanna said. “We’ll put out food and water. What time are George and Eleanor due?”

“Seven.”

“It’s too hot to stand out here talking,” Joanna said. “I’m going inside to change.”

Inside, the rammed-earth home with its thick walls, high ceilings, and state-of-the-art air-conditioning was pleasantly cool. Joanna hurried down the long bedroom-wing corridor, shedding her uniform as she went. After a quick shower she returned to the kitchen, where the tantalizing smell of baking bread wafted from Butch’s well-used bread machine.

Butch was working at the center island, tearing and spinning lettuce for salad.

“How’d it go today?” he asked.

“Not much progress on the Mossman homicide,” she told him, snagging a baby carrot off the granite-tiled countertop and munching away. “Had to empty the jail this afternoon because the AC went out. I ended up raising hell with the AC contractor to get him to have it fixed today.”

“You emptied the jail?” Butch asked. “What did you do with all the prisoners?”

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“Right about now they’re all out in the rec yard having a picnic. The AC’s back on, but it’s still too hot to put the prisoners back in their cells.”

“Isn’t that dangerous, having all of them out at once?” Butch asked.

“They’re mostly misdemeanors,” Joanna responded. “Besides, we brought in extra personnel to help out. It’s fine. Now what can I do to help?”

“Sit,” Butch said. “Take a load off. Have you told Marianne and Jeff the news?”

After years of being childless, Joanna’s friend, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea, and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had finally adopted twin babies from China, Ruth and Esther. Months after losing Esther to a fatal heart condition, they had been surprised and delighted to learn that Marianne was pregnant. That baby, a boy named Jeffrey Andrew, was a fifteen-month-old red-haired handful, while Jeffy’s big sister, Ruth, would head for kindergarten in the fall.

“Not yet,” Joanna admitted. “I haven’t told anyone, not even Eva Lou and Jim Bob.”

Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady, Joanna’s former in-laws, were still very much a part of her and Jenny’s lives and of Butch’s, too. “I decided that the best way to keep peace in the family was to tell Mother first, although I did mention it to Frank.”

“What did he have to say on the subject?”

“I told him about our idea of giving Marliss an exclusive. He didn’t like it much.”

“Maybe we should listen to him,” Butch said. “After all, he’s in charge of media relations.”

“But it’s our baby,” Joanna objected. “And we’re doing this our way.”

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Butch chuckled. “Our way or the highway.”

Which sounded fine, right up until dessert was served, which is when Joanna finally screwed up her courage enough to drop the bomb.

“You’re not!” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield exclaimed at once, pushing aside her untouched dish of homemade ice cream.

Joanna nodded. “I am,” she said.

“What are you going to do, then, drop out of the race? Resign?”

“Neither one,” Joanna answered. “I’m going to run for reelection and hopefully win.”

Eleanor immediately appealed to Butch. “Surely you’re not going to let her do this.”

“Let?” Butch asked mildly. “This isn’t up to me, Eleanor. It’s up to Joanna.”

“George,” Eleanor said. “You tell them. It’s just not possible to be a new mother and sheriff all at the same time.”

“Why not?” George asked, carefully spooning his ice cream.

“Yes,” Jenny agreed. “Why not?”

“Who’s going to look after the baby?” Eleanor demanded.

“I am,” Butch said.

“Have you ever taken care of a baby before?”

“Never,” Butch said. “But that’s the way it usually is with first-time parents-on-the-job training. I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”

“He cooks a mean steak,” George Winfield offered. Eleanor answered her husband’s comment with a scathing look.

“Jeff Daniels takes care of Jeffy and Ruth,” Jenny said. “Don’t you think he does a good job?”

“That’s different,” Eleanor scoffed. “Marianne is a minister. She isn’t out being shot at and beaten up by all kinds of riffraff.”

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“I’m not either,” Joanna said quietly.

That was one of the many differences between Joanna and her mother. When Eleanor was upset, her volume went up. Joanna’s went down.

“Oh?” returned Eleanor sharply. “I suppose that scar on your face is some kind of birth defect?”

Joanna felt her face flush, knowing when she did so that the long scar on her cheek, a souvenir from an encounter with an enraged suspect’s diamond ring, would stand out that much more clearly.

“With all these working mothers, it’s no wonder we’re having such problems with juvenile delinquents.”

Joanna knew that the statistics on the incidence of juvenile delinquency were down, not up, but now was no time to insert actual facts into Eleanor’s diatribe.

“What would have become of you if I’d been gallivanting off to a job every day from the moment you were born?” Eleanor demanded.

Before Joanna could reply, Jenny beat her to it. “What about me?” she asked. “Mom’s been working the whole time I’ve been around. I’ve turned out all right, haven’t I?”

The phone rang just then. Glad for any excuse to escape the escalating dining room battle, Joanna hurried to answer it.

“Sheriff Brady?” an agitated Tom Hadlock said.

“Yes,” Joanna replied. “What’s up?”

“We’ve lost one,” Hadlock replied.

“One what?”

‘A prisoner. Richard Osmond.”

Joanna was stunned. “What do you mean, you lost him? Did he go over the fence, or what?”

“No,” Hadlock said. “He’s dead. We did a roll call once we 97

had everyone back inside, and Osmond was missing. We found him outside, lying on one of the picnic table benches. He was hidden in a shadow. Nobody knew he was there.”

“Somebody knew,” Joanna said grimly. “They just aren’t telling. I’m on my way.”

“Tica Romero’s trying to get hold of Doc Winfield,” Hadlock continued.

“Tell her not to bother. He’s here with me. I’ll bring him along when I come. She’s calling out one of the Double C’s?”

“That’s right,” Hadlock answered. “I believe she said Ernie’s on call. I’m really sorry about this, Sheriff Brady. We had guards and deputies all over that yard the whole time the prisoners were out there. I can’t imagine how something like this could have happened.”

“Was he stabbed, beaten up, what?” Joanna demanded.

“There are no apparent wounds, no sign of foul play” Hadlock said. “He’s just lying there on his back, peaceful as can be, like he fell asleep. We didn’t move him, though, so there could be something on his back that isn’t showing.”

“We’ll find out when we get there,” Joanna said. “Is the jail under lockdown?”

“Yes, it is,” Hadlock replied. “It’s a shame to have to do that. I mean, other than this, no other unfortunate incidents at all.”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Hadlock,” Joanna said tersely, “finding a dead prisoner is unfortunate enough for me.”

Joanna put down the phone and returned to the dining room. The people gathered around the table were quiet. They all looked at her expectantly. “I guess you heard, then,”

she said. “There’s a problem at the jail. We have to go, George. You can ride with me.”

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Nodding, the ME wiped his face with his napkin, folded it, and then pushed his chair back. “Do you want me to drive you home first, Ellie?”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself,” Eleanor returned.

George paused long enough to give her a peck on the cheek. “All right, then,” he said. “See you at home.”

Butch, in the meantime, gave Joanna a raised-eyebrow look that said volumes about his being left alone to deal with Eleanor. All Joanna could do was give him a shrugged apology.

When she opened the door that led to her garage, the three dogs were all inside.

Tigger greeted George happily. Lucky went up and dribbled a stream of pee on George’s highly polished loafer while the Australian shepherd skittered away. When Joanna opened the outside door, she disappeared into the night.

“Where did all these dogs come from?” George asked. “Isn’t that little one the pup you were carrying around last night at the Mossman crime scene?”

“That’s right,” Joanna said. “And I adopted the spooky Australian shepherd from the pound this morning.”

“It’s a good thing Ellie didn’t see the new dogs earlier when we drove up,” George said. “It would have been that much more grist for her mill.”

“Will be,” Joanna corrected.

They got into the Crown Victoria and started down the road. Worried that the dogs might try to follow her out to the highway, Joanna kept a close eye on the rearview mirror. She turned onto Highway 80 without seeing any sign of pursuit.

“Where did this happen?” George Winfield was asking. “In one of the cells?”

“No. Out in the rec yard. The air-conditioning broke down 98

earlier this afternoon. I had all the inmates moved out into the yard while they were working on it. I didn’t want anyone dying of heatstroke.”

“You had all the prisoners in the yard at once?” George asked.

“We had extra personnel on duty. I didn’t think anything would happen.”

“But it has,” George said.

“And it’s not going to look very good, is it,” Joanna replied. “It seems like it’s one thing after another. First all those dogs died, and now this.”

“You’ll probably take more flak because of the dogs,” George predicted.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Joanna said. They were nearing the turnoff to the Justice Center. “Do you want to stop here first, or should I take you by the house so you can pick up your van?”

“I’d better have the van,” he said. “We’re going to need to get that body out of there.” He was quiet for a minute. “There’s something else,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Remember when we were working the Constance Haskell murder a few months back? Remember how Maggie MacFerson tried to make a big deal out of the fact that you and I were related?”

Maggie MacFerson, the murder victim’s sister, happened to be the Maggie MacFerson, a well-known investigative reporter for the major Phoenix daily, The Arizona Reporter.

She had been more than happy to imply that Sheriff Joanna Brady’s stepdaughter relationship with the Cochise County Medical Examiner had somehow caused irregularities in the handling of and investigation into Constance Haskell’s murder.

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“Of course I remember,” Joanna returned. “But there was nothing to it.”

“You know there wasn’t anything to it, and so do I,” George Winfield said. “But this is different. Here we have an inmate who died while being incarcerated in your jail facility, Joanna. And he died in a situation that, however well-intentioned, wasn’t business as usual.”

“While they were out in the yard at my direction,” Joanna muttered grimly.

“Considering all the possible ramifications, not the least of which is liability, we’re going to have to be very careful.”

“You mean there could be possible conflict-of-interest problems if you investigate Richard Osmond’s death?”

“Precisely. This is a situation where neither one of us can afford the smallest margin for error.”

“Are you saying you want to call in another ME?”

“I think it’s wise, don’t you?”

Joanna sighed and picked up her microphone. “Tica,” she said when the dispatcher answered. “I need you to contact the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Tell them what we’ve got down here, and see if we can borrow an ME. We’ll pay, of course.

Nobody expects them to work for free.”

She put down the mike and turned back to George. “You know they’re going to charge us an arm and a leg.”

“No matter what they charge,” George Winfield said, “it’ll be cheap at twice the price.”

Joanna dropped George next to his Dodge Caravan and then drove back to the Justice Center alone. Tom Hadlock intercepted her in the parking lot.

“The guys are pissed about the lockdown,” he said. “They all say they didn’t do a thing.”

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“Right,” Joanna said. “Everybody’s as innocent as the day they were born. That’s why they’re all in the slammer. Now, what’s the story on Osmond? Who is he? What did he do?”

“He was serving ninety days for drunk and disorderly. He should have been in longer.

He was up on a domestic-violence beef, but his lawyer plea-bargained it down to D

and D.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-six.”

“How long’s he been in?”

“Forty-five days.”

“Did he cause any trouble?” Joanna asked.

“Not that I know of,” Hadlock answered. “At least nothing that got written up. No difficulties with his cell mates, no calls to the infirmary, nothing.”

“Who are his cell mates?”

“Brad Calhoun, a DUI from Willcox, and John Braxton, another D and D from Sierra Vista.”

“Any reports on either of them?” Joanna asked.

Hadlock shook his head. “Braxton’s only been here a couple of days, and Calhoun hasn’t been any trouble either. That’s why I try to put the drunks together. When they’re not drunk, they mostly don’t cause much trouble.” Hadlock paused. “You want to go see him?”

“Not yet,” Joanna said. “Doc Winfield and Detective Carpenter are both on their way.

We should probably wait until they get here. Who found the body?”

“Lloyd did,” Hadlock replied, referring to Lloyd Roily, the assistant jail commander.

“When we turned up one prisoner short, I sent him back out looking.”

“Did he move anything?” Joanna asked.

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Hadlock shook his head. “Lloyd checked for a pulse and then called me. I called the EMT’s, but he was gone.”

George Winfield’s Dodge Caravan pulled into the parking lot, followed immediately by Dave Carpenter’s Econoline van.

“Good news,” George said, hurrying toward them. “I just heard from Pima County. They’re sending Fran Daly. She’s leaving Tucson right now and will be here as soon as she can. That way she can take charge of the body to begin with rather than our having to do transfers back and forth.”

Joanna had worked with Fran Daly on several other cases. Fran was a no-nonsense type who was an expert at dating long-dead corpses through the succession of bug and larvae found on the rotting flesh. Other than that, she was a fairly nice person.

“We could have done worse,” Joanna said.

“That’s what I thought,” George Winfield agreed.

With Tom Hadlock in the lead, they made their way through the remotely controlled locks of the jail complex and out into the razor-wire-lined rec yard, which was lit up as brightly as the Warren Ballpark playing fields. Richard Osmond’s body lay on the bench of a concrete picnic table. His hands were folded across his chest. Joanna was forced to agree that the dead man did indeed appear to be sleeping.

George cocked his head to one side and studied the body. “I’m guessing it’s either an OD or natural causes. Anybody want to place bets?”

“Leave me out of it,” Ernie Carpenter grumbled. “You always win.”

Joanna turned to the jail commander. “Does his rap sheet show any drug convictions?”

“Not that I noticed,” Hadlock replied.

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“Does he have a wife?” Joanna asked.

“Live-in girlfriend,” Dave Hadlock said. “Her name’s Maria Gomez. We’re trying to track down an address for her. Their apartment in Bisbee was in Osmond’s name. Once he ended up in jail, Maria and the kid moved out. They may be staying with her parents, who live in Douglas.”

“They have a child?” Joanna asked.

Tom Hadlock nodded. ‘A boy. He’s four or five.”

“You’ll let us know as soon as you have the address?”

“Right,” Tom said.

Dave Hollicker showed up then, camera in hand, and was directed to the picnic table bench. As the CSI began snapping crime scene photos, Ernie Carpenter shook his head.

“How many people were out here this afternoon?” he asked.

“Counting prisoners, detention officers, kitchen trustees, and deputies, right around a hundred.”

“We’re not likely to find much as far as physical evidence is concerned, mostly because we’re going to find too much,” Ernie said. “Our best bet will be to talk to the people who were there—guards and prisoners both. Maybe, while we’re waiting for Fran Daly to show up, we could start interviewing some of those folks, beginning with Osmond’s cell mates.”

Joanna nodded. “Sounds good,” she said as the hulking Ernie strode away.

“As for me,” George Winfield said when he and Joanna were left alone, “since I’m taking a pass on this case, I believe I’ll go on home. I’ll have a word with your mother-or, rather, I’ll let her have a word with me on the other major topic of the evening.” He gave Joanna an understanding smile. “But again,” he added, “congratulations.

Ellie’s comments notwithstanding, you and Butch and the baby will be just fine.”

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By the time Joanna had walked back across the parking lot and let herself into the Justice Center conference room, Frank Montoya had shown up as well.

“This isn’t good,” he said. “I’ve already had two calls—one from The Bee and another from The Tribune out in Sierra Vista. The reporters heard about it before I did.

How’s that possible?”

“It’s all politics,” Joanna said. “And in politics, anything goes. What did you tell them?”

“That I’d check things out and let them know.”

Briefly Joanna brought him up to speed. By the time she finished, Tom Hadlock was leading a handcuffed man down the hall toward the interview room, where Ernie Carpenter was already waiting. Joanna and Frank followed them into the room. “This is Brad Calhoun,” Tom said, shoving the man into a chair. “He’s one of Richard Osmond’s roomies.”

“Look,” Calhoun said, “I have no idea what happened to Richard, but whatever it was, I had nothing to do with it. I swear to God.”

“Go ahead and remove the cuffs,” Joanna told Tom Hadlock. “We’re just talking here.

I’m Sheriff Brady, Mr. Calhoun. This is Chief Deputy Montoya, and this is Homicide Detective Ernie Carpenter.”

Calhoun was holding out his hands so Tom Hadlock could unlock the cuffs. When he heard Ernie’s name and title, his jaw dropped. He waited until Tom Hadlock had taken the cuffs and left the room.

“Did you say homicide?” Calhoun asked. “You mean somebody’s dead? I thought Richard just took off somehow. That he’d figured out a way to go over the fence—that he’d waited until everybody else went back inside and then away he went, know what I mean?”

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“Mr. Osmond didn’t go over the fence,” Ernie told him somberly. “He’s dead, and we’re wondering what, if anything, you might know about that.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Calhoun asked.

“You tell us,” Ernie returned. “When’s the last time you talked to Mr. Osmond?”

“Right after dinner,” Calhoun answered hurriedly. “Right after we finished up the watermelon.”

“What was said?”

“Richard said he was tired, that he thought he’d take a nap. Didn’t surprise me none.

We were all wore out. The heat really takes it out of you. The AC in the jail went out last night, you see, and it was too hot to sleep-for me, anyway. It was just plain miserable.”

“So you didn’t think it was odd when Richard Osmond said he needed a nap.”

“Naw. It was so ungodly hot that we were all beat. I was a little surprised, though, when he nailed that whole bench for himself. I didn’t see him again after that, and I didn’t think about it either-not until John and me got back to the cell and Richard wasn’t there. We figured out he was missing about the same time the guards did, and then all hell broke loose. They figured he’d escaped somehow, and they put the whole place on lockdown.”

“Did Mr. Osmond do drugs?” Ernie asked.

Calhoun grinned. “Around our cell, alcohol is the drug of choice, ma’am. I’d have to say Richard had been … well … maybe not sober, but dry at least, ever since they locked him up. Same goes for me and John Braxton, too.”

“You don’t think it’s possible Osmond might have gotten himself some contraband drugs?”

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“Not that I know of,” Calhoun said, “but we weren’t like, you know, best buddies.

He wouldn’t have told me if he had.”

There was a knock on the door. Tom Hadlock pushed his head inside the room. “I’ve got the girlfriend’s parents’ address down in Douglas—Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Gomez.

Should somebody from the jail handle this?”

“No, Tom,” Joanna said. “We will.” She looked at Frank Montoya, who nodded, stood up, and headed for the door.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Joanna stayed in the interview room for the remainder of Calhoun’s interview and for John Braxton’s as well. Fran Daly arrived in less than an hour and a half after being summoned. Once Dr. Daly went out to the rec yard to take charge of the body, Joanna headed home. Butch was in bed, reading, when Joanna walked into the bedroom.

“Where’s everybody?” Joanna asked.

“Tigger and Lucky are in Jenny’s room.”

“You didn’t leave the puppy loose, did you?” Joanna asked.

“Do I look that stupid? Of course he’s not loose. Jenny and I rigged up a temporary crate to use until we can get a real one.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the other one?”

“Lady’s over there,” Butch said, nodding toward Joanna’s side of the bed. “See for yourself.”

The Australian shepherd lay curled into a tight ball on the rug between the bed and the wall. She looked up as Joanna came around the side of the bed. Her tail thumped tentatively on the floor, but she made no effort to raise her chin off her paws.

“Did you say Lady?” Joanna asked.

“Yup,” Butch replied. “Jenny picked it. She said she was dainty and ladylike, so that’s what she’s going to be called—Lady.”

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Joanna went over and patted the top of Lady’s head. “How did you get her to come in here?” Joanna asked.

“Don’t ask me. Jenny’s the one who finally persuaded her to come into the house.

She found your side of the bed all on her own.”

“Smart dog,” Joanna observed.

“Opinionated,” Butch corrected. “She’s fine as long as I don’t get anywhere near your side of the bed.”

Joanna undressed and then crawled into bed herself, sidestepping the dog as she did so. “You owe me,” he said.

“With Mother, you mean?” Joanna asked.

“I’ll say.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“I calmed her down eventually, but it took all of my considerable skill and charm.”

“I can make it up to you,” she offered, snuggling closer.

“Good,” Butch said. “I thought you’d know how. What’s the word on murder and mayhem?”

Right that minute, Joanna Brady didn’t want to think about Richard Osmond and how he had died. “Do you mind if we talk about this in the morning?” she asked.

“No problem,” Butch replied. “No problem at all.”

Fran Daly and George Winfield stood with their heads close together, leaning over something just out of Joanna’s line of vision. “The needle went in right here! Fran was saying. “Just at the base of the skull. He never felt a thing. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”

Joanna held back, not wanting to see what they were looking at. The air around her was thick with nauseating odors. She could barely breathe, and yet she felt compelled to move forward, to make her way around to where she could see the naked figure lying there exposed beneath the harsh, bright lights. She expected to find the naked dead man lying exposed on Doc Winfield’s autopsy slab to be Richard Osmond. Instead, it was Butch Dixon.

She awakened from the nightmare and scrambled out of bed. In her race for the bathroom, she stepped on Lady and almost fell in a tangle of legs and dog. Heaving, she made it to

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the bathroom in time, but only just barely. Seconds later, Butch was there as well, standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I should do?”

Joanna was embarrassed to be found kneeling in front of the toilet and puking. “Go away,” she mumbled impatiently through chattering teeth. “Go away and leave me alone.”

He did. Finally, having survived that first powerful fit of nausea, Joanna showered, then pulled on a robe. Lady, waiting just outside the bathroom door, got up and followed Joanna through the house, trailing behind her like a four-footed shadow. The overhead skylights in the hallway shed a hazy gray glow as Joanna and the dog made their way to the kitchen. Butch was already there. The clock on the microwave read five-thirty as she hitched herself up onto one of the barstools positioned along one side of the island.

Butch looked up at her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded. “Coffee’s almost done,” he added. “Do you want some?”

Just the smell of Butch’s freshly brewed coffee made Joanna’s queasy stomach turn flip-flops. She shook her head. “I think I’ll have tea,” she said.

“Tea?” Butch objected. “You don’t even like tea.”

“I do when I’m pregnant,” she told him. “The same thing happened when I was pregnant with Jenny. I couldn’t drink coffee the whole time.”

Obligingly Butch filled the teakettle and put it on a burner. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said. “What do you eat for breakfast when you’re pregnant?”

“No juice,” Joanna said quickly. “English muffins with peanut butter and nothing else usually works.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

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Joanna huddled miserably in her robe while Butch bustled capably around the kitchen.

Usually Joanna’s nightmares dissipated a few minutes after she awoke. This time the disquieting image of Butch laid out in the harsh lights of the ME’s examining room stuck with her and wouldn’t go away.

“Joanna?” Butch asked. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?”

“I asked what you’re up to today.”

“We’ll have to deal with what happened to Richard Osmond at the jail yesterday,”

she told him. “But I’m also hoping we’ll make some progress on the Mossman case.”

“Sounds busy,” Butch said. “Will you be having lunch with Marianne?”

Friends since junior high, Joanna and the Reverend Marianne Maculyea tried to have lunch together at least once a week. On the surface, they were just two old friends enjoying each other’s company. But there was more to their weekly get-togethers than that. As two women working in nontraditional jobs and living in nontraditional families, each served as the other’s primary support system. Other than Marianne, there weren’t all that many women clerics working in Bisbee, or in Cochise County, either. And, as far as Joanna knew, there were no other female sheriffs anywhere.

“We probably will meet up,” Joanna said dubiously. “But the way I feel right now, I’m not so sure about eating lunch.”

“Isn’t there something you can take for morning sickness?” Butch asked, putting a plate containing two peanut-butter-spread English muffins on the counter in front of her.

Joanna shook her head. “Too many antinausea drugs have the potential of causing birth defects.”

“So we just have to wait it out?” Butch returned.

Joanna nodded. “Grin and bear it,” she said.

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While Joanna nibbled tentatively at her English muffins, Butch went into the laundry room and began distributing dog food. At the first clatter of dog dishes, Tigger came racing from the far end of the house, followed by the puppy. Butch put the food in the garage and then opened the door, but only Tigger and Lucky went out. Butch had to leave the door open and then come all the way back into the kitchen before Lady sidled into the laundry room and then on into the garage.

“I’d like to beat the crap out of the guy who hurt that dog,” Butch said after she left. “I don’t think she actually hates men. She’s just scared to death of us—probably with good reason.”

Jenny came into the kitchen about then, rubbing her eyes and frowning. “What’s happening?”

she asked. “Why’s everyone up so early?”

“It’s due to your mother’s delicate condition,” Butch said with a chuckle. “I have a feeling we’re all going to be early birds for the next little while.”

It was one of the few times ever that Sheriff Brady beat Frank Montoya into the office.

When he came to see her a little later, he carried his usual cup of coffee. Again, the very smell of it made Joanna turn green.

If I’d only waited long enough to smell the coffee this morning, Joanna thought miserably, we wouldn’t have had to waste any money on the pregnancy test. Do you suppose that’s what Dear Abby meant when she said, “Wake up and smell the coffee”?

“Is something the matter?” Frank asked. “You don’t look very well.”

“I’m all right,” she said. “It’s nothing that having a baby won’t fix.”

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“Oh, that,” Frank said. “I see.” But, since he was a confirmed bachelor, Joanna wasn’t convinced he did.

“What’s on the agenda today?” she asked. “Did you have any luck tracking down Maria Gomez?”

Frank nodded. “Yes, unfortunately. It wasn’t pretty.”

“She was upset?”

“I’ll say, and who could blame her? The thing is, she wanted to know what we’d done to Richard. I told her we hadn’t done a thing, but she didn’t believe it. Her father was there, and he wasn’t much help, either. You do know who the father is, don’t you?” Frank asked. “Gabriel Gomez?”

“I heard the name last night,” Joanna said. “It sounded familiar, but at the time I couldn’t place it. Who is he?”

“Gabriel Gomez is an attorney in Douglas. Specializes in immigration law. By the time I left their house last night, he was threatening to sue the department for wrongful death on his daughter’s behalf.”

“How can they do that?” Joanna asked. “We still don’t have any idea of who or what killed Richard Osmond.”

“You know that, and I know that, boss, but Papa Gomez is an attorney. You don’t really expect him to wait around for the dust to settle, do you? His strategy is to sue first and ask questions later.”

“Great,” Joanna said. “That’s just what I need to hear first thing in the morning.”

The door to Joanna’s office shot open and Joanna’s secretary bounded into the room, brandishing a copy of The Bisbee Bee over her head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Were you planning on keeping it a secret?”

“Keeping what a secret?” Joanna asked.

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“That you’re expecting. It says so right here. In Marliss Shackleford’s column.”

Kristin held out the paper, and Joanna snatched it out of her hand. The Bee was already opened to Marliss’s column, “Bisbee Buzzings.” For Frank Montoya’s benefit, Joanna read the item aloud.

An unnamed source close to Cochise County Sheriff Joanna Brady tells us that the sheriff and her husband, Butch Dixon, could be in a family way. There’s no telling how the potential patter of little feet will affect Sheriff Brady’s current bid for reelection against former Cochise county deputy sheriff, Kenneth Galloway.

Motherhood, apple pie, and baby showers could get in the way of politics as usual, but at this point Sheriff Brady evidently has no intention of dropping out of the race.

That was all there was to the item, but by the time Joanna finished reading the two paragraphs, her voice was choked with fury. So much for her plan of giving Marliss Shackleford the kind of well-aimed, exclusive piece that might have allowed Joanna to control both timing and content. Here it was, set loose into the world in a way that was bound to do as much damage as possible. The general public would probably assume, just as Kristin Gregovich had, that Joanna had intended to keep her condition secret up to election day or even longer.

Livid, Joanna turned her ire on Frank. “You didn’t give her this, did you?” she demanded.

“No, ma’am,” Frank said. “Absolutely not. I didn’t breathe a word of it.”

“I didn’t think so. Unnamed source, my ass. It has to be my 113

mother, then. Eleanor’s the only other person Butch and I have told. Too bad for me, she and Marliss have always been the best of pals.”

With words of congratulation dying on her lips, Kristin retreated from Joanna’s office.

Frank Montoya followed, closing the door behind him as he went. The door was barely shut by the time Joanna had the telephone receiver in hand and was dialing George and Eleanor Winfield’s number.

“Mother?” Joanna said stiffly as soon as Eleanor answered the phone.

“My goodness, you’re certainly up and about early this morning,” Eleanor responded brightly.

“I’m calling about the piece in the paper,” Joanna said, struggling to keep her voice level.

“What piece is that?” Eleanor asked. “I brought the paper in from the porch, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I usually save that for after George goes to work.”

“You know what piece I mean,” Joanna retorted. “It’s the part of Marliss Shackleford’s column that talks about my being pregnant. How could you do that to me, Mother? How could you?”

“Do what?”

Eleanor’s tone of affronted innocence made Joanna that much angrier. “Come on, Mother.

Don’t play games. How could you go behind my back and talk to Marliss that way? Other than Jenny, you and George were the first people Butch and I told. Did it ever occur to you that maybe we’d like the opportunity of sharing the news with a few other people in person before you hauled off and put it in the paper for everyone to read over their morning coffee?”

“Before I put it in the paper?” Eleanor repeated.

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“Yes. It’s this morning’s lead item in Marliss Shackleford’s column.”

“So you think that as soon as I got home from your house last night, I called Marliss and told her about this?” Eleanor demanded. “You think the idea of my daughter being pregnant and running for office at the same time is something I’d be in a hurry to brag about?”

“Are you saying you didn’t tell her?” Joanna asked.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” Eleanor declared heatedly.

“Who did, then?”

“How should I know?” Eleanor returned. “All I can say is, Marliss didn’t get it from me. It hurts me to hear you’d even think such a thing.”

“You and Marliss have always been good friends,” Joanna pointed out.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to go to her to air our family’s dirty laundry.”

That brought Joanna up short. “It’s not dirty,” she said finally. “Remember, Mother?

I’m a married woman. My husband and I are expecting a baby together.”

“Then what are you so upset about?” Eleanor shot back. “Why are you calling me and giving me such a load of grief over it? Now, if you don’t mind, I believe I’ll get back to my breakfast. Goodbye.”

With that, Eleanor hung up, leaving Joanna sputtering into thin air. Moments later, Joanna slammed her own phone back into its cradle. That was the thing that made Eleanor Lathrop Winfield so damned exasperating. No matter what happened, Joanna was always in the wrong.

Still seething, Joanna picked up the paper and turned it back to the front page.

There she found a long article on the

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Carol Mossman murder, and a short piece about an unidentified inmate of the Cochise County Jail who had been found dead in the recreation yard. The paper had been printed late enough the previous night for the item about Joanna’s pregnancy to make it into Marliss Shackleford’s column. Wouldn’t it also have been late enough to mention the jail fatality by name as well?

Maybe Mother didn’t leak the story to Marliss after all, Joanna thought. But if not Eleanor, who?

Joanna was still staring unseeing at the newspaper when there was a discreet tap on her door. She looked up to see Kristin peeking warily into the room.

“It’s all right,” Joanna said. “It’s safe to come in. I’ve stopped throwing things now.”

Kristin came forward apologetically. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff Brady,” she began. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joanna said. “I was surprised, is all. I didn’t expect the news to show up in the paper quite this soon. It’s like somebody having to read about the death of a family member before we have a chance to do a next-of-kin notification.

There are a few other people I would have preferred hearing the news from me in person rather than having them read about it in the paper.”

“Believe me,” Kristin said, “I understand about that, but you are happy about this, aren’t you, Sheriff Brady? Not about it being in the newspaper, but about the baby, I mean?”

“Of course I’m happy,” Joanna answered. “It’s a surprise, but Butch and I are both delighted. The lesson here is, no matter what the clever ads say on television, the Pill’s not one hundred percent foolproof, especially if you happen to skip one at just the wrong time.”

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Which is probably exactly what happened, Joanna thought, although she didn’t say it aloud.

“Oh,” Kristin said. “That’s okay then. It’s just that you were so upset …”

“I’m still upset,” Joanna corrected. “Marliss could have had the common decency to check out the story with me before she put the piece in the paper. And if Madame Bisbee Bee should happen to show her face around here anytime today, you might advise her to steer clear of me. If she gets too close, I might be tempted to pull out a handful of her peroxided locks. As long as I can’t see her, I’ll be fine.”

Joanna paused and, for the first time, noticed that Kristin was carrying several handwritten messages. “So what’s up?” Joanna added.

Kristin nodded self-consciously. “Detective Carpenter says he’s going to Tucson for the Osmond autopsy. He’ll be gone most of the morning. Also, Edith Mossman is coming here for an interview with Detective Carbajal. Ernie says Jaime will probably need someone to sit in on that with him.”

‘All right,” Joanna said. “If Frank Montoya can’t do it, I will. Anything else?”

“There were two other calls that came in while you were on the phone. One was from Reverend Maculyea and the other from Eva Lou Brady. I told them you’d call them back.”

Damn Marliss Shackleford anyway! Joanna thought savagely. She said, “I will call them back, Kristin, so when you go back out, please shut the door.”

For the next half hour, Joanna made a series of calls. Conversations that should have been happy ones announcing her pregnancy ended up being chores instead. Joanna spent most of the time on the phone apologizing to one person after another, 116

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including her best friend, Marianne Maculyea, and her former mother-in-law, Eva Lou Brady, both of whom had already read Marliss’s column. By the time Joanna’s chief deputy returned for the morning briefing, Joanna welcomed the interruption.

“We’ll have to make this quick,” Frank told her. “I’ve got a news conference scheduled in a little while. It’s primarily to go over the Richard Osmond situation, but if they ask, what do you want me to say about you?”