Exit Wounds

“That, too,” Frank agreed. “If that’s all, I’ll get on the horn 235

and see who I should call in the morning when offices open up. It’ll be easier if I know where to start.”

Jenny popped her head out the door. “Mom, can’t we go home soon?”

“In a while,” Joanna replied. “But first I want to help Grandma Brady with the dishes.

What’s the hurry?”

Joanna made a face. “It’s boring here,” she said. “Besides, Cassie and I want to go riding.”

At thirteen, Jenny was taller than her mother, although her fast-growing string-bean limbs had yet to fill out. It seemed only days ago when nothing had made Jenny happier than spending a long summer afternoon in the company of her paternal grandparents.

Those days were gone.

Joanna glanced at the sky, where the threatening clouds had grown even darker while she had been on the phone.

“You can’t go riding, Jenny. It’s going to rain.”

Jenny sighed, made another face, and flounced back into the house. When Joanna returned to the kitchen, she discovered that Butch had beaten her to the punch as far as doing dishes was concerned. The dishwasher was loaded and he was cleaning the last of the pots and pans by hand.

“Looks like I dodged KP,” she said.

‘Again,” Butch said.

They went home shortly after that. Jenny, still in a huff, closeted herself in her room. Butch and Joanna spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in relative quiet.

They were halfway through 60 Minutes when the phone rang.

“Here we go again,” Butch said as he rose to answer it. “I knew this was too good to last. Oh, there, George,” he said into the phone. “No, hang on. She’s right here.”

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“What’s going on?” Joanna said to Doc Winfield.

“We’ve got a problem with Ed Mossman.”

“Ed Mossman?” Joanna said. “Carol’s father? I thought he was in Mexico. As far as I know, he hasn’t even been notified.”

“He’s been notified, all right,” George Winfield observed. ‘And he’s on the warpath.”

“What about?”

‘According to the grandmother, she was Carol’s next of kin. At her direction, I had made arrangements for the body to be released to Higgins Funeral Chapel in the morning.

Edith wants Carol to be buried here in Bisbee. Ed Mossman claims he’s making arrangements to ship the body back down to Mexico. Not only that, when he called here to the house, he was rude to your mother and downright abusive to me. He even threatened his own mother.”

“He threatened Edith?”

“That’s right. He said she’s already caused enough trouble between him and his daughters and he’s not going to stand for her keeping him away from Carol now that she’s dead.

He wants her buried next to her mother in the family plot in Obregon.”

“Wanting to bury his daughter next to her mother is fine,” Joanna said. “Threatening Edith Mossman isn’t. What did you tell him?”

“To come by the office tomorrow morning. He said he’d be there at nine.”

“I will be, too,” Joanna said.

“There is one other thing,” George Winfield added.

“What’s that?”

“Speaking of next of kin, has anyone done anything to locate Carol Mossman’s child?”

“What child?” Joanna asked.

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“I take it you haven’t read my autopsy report?”

“I’ve been a little pressed for time,” Joanna returned. “What child?”

“Carol Mossman bore at least one child,” George said. “It was delivered by C-section.

She also had a complete hysterectomy. From the scarring, I’d say both the C-section and hysterectomy were done at the same time by a surgeon who wasn’t exactly the head of his class.”

“It was bad?”

“Let’s just say it was unskilled,” George said. ‘And as bad as the hysterectomy was, it’s likely that the child didn’t survive, but we should clarify the situation just to be on the safe side. If you want me to, I can call Edith Mossman and ask her.”

“No,” Joanna said. “She’s been through enough. I’ll ask Eddie Mossman about it myself in the morning.”

She put down the phone. Butch had muted the television set. Andy Rooney’s mouth was moving, but no words could be heard.

“A looming funeral battle?” Butch asked.

Joanna nodded.

Butch shook his head. “I hate it when that happens. Funeral fights are the worst.

My grandparents both wanted to be buried in Sun City. Gramps hated Chicago. He told me once that the last thing he wanted was to spend eternity buried under drifts of Chicago snow and ice. He asked me, over and over, to make sure that didn’t happen, and I promised him I would.

“He and Grandma died within weeks of each other. The minute Gramps was gone, my mother and aunts and uncles came riding into town on their broomsticks. They had Grandma’s casket dug up and then they shipped both Grandma and Grandpa back home to bury them.

It’s years later, Joey, and I’m

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still pissed about it. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t gone back home to visit.

I’d as soon punch my aunts’ and uncles’ lights out as look at them.”

“I never knew any of that,” Joanna said quietly.

“No,” Butch agreed. “I don’t suppose you did. I’m still ashamed of myself for letting him down-for not putting up more of a fight. But I was only the grandson. No one was interested in listening to me.”

Joanna reached over and put a comforting hand on Butch’s leg. “I’m sure you did the best you could,” she said quietly.

“Right,” he said bitterly. “Sure I did, but it wasn’t good enough.”

With 60 Minutes over, Joanna went into the den, turned on her computer, and wrote up a report on everything she had learned during her trip to Lordsburg. When she finished, she emailed it to Frank Montoya at the office. That way, even if she didn’t go in right away in the morning, the report would be there.

“Reports come first,” D. . Lathrop used to say. “If you’re not doing the paper, you’re not doing the job.”

Twenty-four hours late, Dad, she said to herself. But the paper’s there.

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Good as her word, Joanna was at the Cochise County Medical Examiner’s office by eight forty-five the next morning. Busy on the phone, Nell Long, the ME’s receptionist, waved Joanna toward George Winfield’s open office door.

‘Any sign of Mr. Mossman?” Joanna asked, peering around the doorjamb into her stepfather’s office.

“Not so far,” George replied. “But I have an idea he’ll be here shortly. Have a chair.

How are you feeling?”

“I’m still a puking mess every morning,” Joanna returned. “I’m hoping that’ll settle down in a few weeks. At least that’s how it worked when I was pregnant with Jenny.”

“I never had a chance to say anything about the other night-with Ellie, I mean,”

George Winfield said. “I thought she was way out of line, and I told her so. In other words, if it’s any consolation, Joanna, I think she’s as provoked with me right now as she is with you.”

A. Jance

“The old misery-loves-company routine,” Joanna said with a hollow laugh. It was easier to make light of Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s rantings and ravings when she was well out of earshot.

“Something like that,” George agreed.

“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ve known Mother a lot longer than you have, George.

She’ll get over it eventually.” Joanna made the statement with more conviction than she felt. There were some things Eleanor Lathrop never got over.

“What about you?” George asked.

“I’m going to go ahead and do what I do,” Joanna told him. “Eleanor will have to like it or lump it.”

“Good girl,” George said. “Way to go!”

The telephone rang. Nell answered it. A moment later, her voice sounded on George’s intercom. “Edith Mossman is on the line.”

“Great,” George said. “Just what I need. I love being caught in the cross fire between battling relatives.” He picked up his phone. “Good morning, Mrs. Mossman. What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. A frown appeared on George Winfield’s brow. The longer Edith Mossman talked, the deeper grew the lines on George’s forehead.

“Yes, that’s true. He is coming in this morning. I’m expecting him in the next few minutes. And no, I’m not sure who notified him. Someone from the sheriff’s department, I should imagine.”

Another pause. “No, I’m really not involved in all that. I release the body to the mortuary. After that, it’s up to the family to handle things from there.”

There was another long silence on the medical examiner’s part. Joanna couldn’t make out any of the words, but the angry

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buzz of Edith Mossman’s shrill voice hummed through the telephone receiver and out into the room.

“Really, Mrs. Mossman, that’s not up to me. You’ll need to discuss it with Norm Higgins and with your son. I’m sure if you’ll just sit down and talk, you and he will be able to sort all this out-“

Suddenly, a dial tone replaced the sound of Edith Mossman’s voice.

“She hung up on me,” George said, staring first at the phone and then at Joanna.

“I don’t think she liked what you had to say.”

“No kidding! But it’s true. My job is to release the body to the mortuary. It’s up to the family to figure out who takes charge from there.”

“Mr. Mossman to see you,” Nell Long announced over the intercom.

“Saved by the bell,” George Winfield said, raising an eyebrow as he rose to greet the newcomer Nell Long showed into his office.

Somehow Joanna had expected there to be more to Eddie Mossman than what she saw.

He was a pint-size bantam rooster of man, only an inch or two taller than Joanna’s five feet four. Wiry and tanned, he had a bottle-brush mustache and piercing blue eyes. For some reason, he seemed familiar, even though Joanna doubted she had ever seen him before.

“Dr. Winfield?” Mossman asked.

George nodded. “That would be me,” he said. ‘And this,” he added, indicating Jo anna, “is Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

Edward Mossman wasn’t interested in pleasantries. ‘As I told you on the phone, I’m here for Carol’s body.”

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‘And as I told you on the phone, it hasn’t been released yet,” George returned evenly.

“I haven’t yet prepared the death certificate. When it’s finished, I’ll be releasing the body to Norm Higgins at Higgins Mortuary and Funeral Chapel. I believe your mother has already discussed arrangements with them. If you want to change those, you’ll have to discuss it with them and her.”

“I’ve already been to see Norm Higgins. Tried to, anyway. Since Mother has already made a deposit on those ‘arrangements,’ as you call them, no one at the Higgins outfit will give me the time of day. I want the body to go to someone else. I’ve contacted a mortuary over in Nogales that’s accustomed to transporting bodies in and out of Mexico. I want you to release Carol’s body to them.”

“I’m sure Norm Higgins could assist you with that as well,” George Winfield replied.

“In the meantime, I think it would be more to the point if you and your mother met and sorted this whole thing out before you involve some other mortuary in an already complicated situation. Your mother-“

“My mother’s an interfering old lady,” Ed Mossman said. “She has no right to usurp my authority like this. After all, I am Carol’s father. Doesn’t that give me some right to decide about things like this? And who the hell are you to say that I don’t?

If I have to go back there, find Carol,_and carry her out of here myself, my daughter’s body is coming back to Mexico with me. Understand?”

With that and still bristling with anger, Ed Mossman slammed his doubled-up fist on the top of George’s desk. The Tiffany crystal clock Eleanor had given her new husband as a wedding present skittered toward the edge of the desk. George caught it in time and returned it to its original place.

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Thinking things had gone far enough, Joanna stepped into the fray. “Excuse me, Mr.

Mossman,” she put in. “If you’ll allow me-“

“Allow you what? I believe I was speaking with Dr. Winfield here,” Mossman growled at her. “I don’t remember anyone asking for your opinion.”

“No one asked because they don’t have to. I get to give my opinion, because it happens that my department is investigating your daughter’s murder,” Joanna returned evenly.

“Like it or not, that means you’ll be speaking to me and to my investigators. In the meantime, Mr. Mossman, I would advise you to have a seat and adopt a less threatening demeanor. If not, I’ll be forced to call for backup and throw you in jail for disturbing the peace. Is that clear?”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Ed Mossman sneered, but he did settle himself into a chair.

“Good,” Joanna said. She reached into her purse, removed her cell phone, and used her one-touch dialing system to reach Dispatch. “Are either Detective Carbajal or Ernie Carpenter in yet?” she asked.

“Jaime’s here at the office,” Larry Kendrick said. “As I understand it, Ernie’s on his way.”

“I want them both here at Doc Winfield’s office as soon as possible,” Joanna said.

“There’s someone here who needs to give them a next-of-kin interview.”

She paused. If they were going to interview Ed Mossman, the two detectives needed to know that Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega had been prepared to pay good money for whatever Carol Mossman had to say. Jaime and Ernie also needed to know that the two murdered reporters had been on the trail of Ed Mossman and his fellow Brethren.

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“Try to turn Ernie around and have Jaime check in with Chief Deputy Montoya before he comes here,” Joanna told Larry. “I faxed my report from Saturday to Frank last night. I want the Double Cs, both Ernie and Jaime, to know about it before they do the next-of-kin interview.”

“Who’s that?” Ed Mossman asked once Joanna ended the call. “Who are the two guys you just asked to come here?”

“Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal are my homicide detectives,” Joanna replied.

“Why do they need to interview me?” Mossman demanded. “I wasn’t anywhere around when Carol was murdered.”

“Did I say you were a suspect?” Joanna asked.

“No, but-“

“In homicide investigations we routinely question everyone connected to the victim.

Since that person is already dead, we talk to friends and relatives in order to gain a better idea of who all might be involved. You are Carol’s next of kin, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mossman answered. “I already told you. Of course I am.”

“So my detectives need to interview you.”

“But it’s just routine then, right?” Mossman asked warily.

‘Absolutely. They’re just minutes away, so it won’t take long for them to get here.

In the meantime, would you mind telling me how you heard about Carol’s death? I know one of my deputies contacted the police in Obregon, and they agreed to do the notification, but-“

“My daughter called me,” Mossman interrupted.

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?” Mossman said. “The point is, one of them 244

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did. And, once I knew Carol was dead, I came here to do something about it.”

Joanna Brady had spent only a few minutes with Eddie Mossman, but already she had some idea of why the man’s own mother held him in such contempt. He was pushy and obnoxious, but there was something else about him, something about his carriage and attitude that she didn’t like. And now, as he disregarded her question, little warning bells jangled alarmingly in her head. Suddenly it seemed vitally important for her to learn exactly where Ed Mossman had been when he first learned of Carol’s murder, but Joanna didn’t want to give that away. Instead, she smiled what she hoped to be her most convincingly sincere smile.

“Of course it doesn’t matter, Mr. Mossman,” she assured him. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

Across the desk from her, George Winfield’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Obviously he recognized the lie for what it was. Joanna was grateful, however, that the ME

managed to keep his mouth shut about it.

“Is there anyone else you’d like us to notify?” Joanna continued disarmingly. “Besides your daughters and your mother, that is. Any spouses, former spouses, or boyfriends?”

“I don’t know of anyone else,” Mossman grumbled. “Notifying my mother first was bad enough.”

“Actually, your mother found out about Carol’s death all on her own,” Joanna told him. “She came to your daughter’s place shortly after Carol’s body had been discovered by one of my officers. Carol was evidently in dire financial straits, and your mother was coming to offer help. You wouldn’t know anything about your daughter’s financial situation, would you?”

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“I don’t know anything. Carol and I stopped speaking years ago,” Ed Mossman said.

“It happened about the same time my mother encouraged Carol and two of my other daughters to run away.”

“So your mother and you aren’t on what you’d call the best of terms.”

“I believe I did mention that.”

“And you were estranged from Carol, too?”

Mossman glowered at her. “Carol was always headstrong and irresponsible, even when she was little. And the fact that my mother was always -willing to step in and bail her out didn’t help matters any. If she had run away all on her own, I probably wouldn’t have worried. She was twenty by then-a grownup. But she took off with her two younger sisters in tow. I do blame my mother for that. If she hadn’t stepped in to help them back then, none of this would have happened.”

“So you’re saying your mother is ultimately responsible for Carol’s death?”

‘Absolutely,” Ed Mossman said with a decisive nod. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Joanna’s phone, still in her hand, let out a sharp little crow. Looking at the readout, Joanna saw her mother’s number. For once Joanna Brady was thrilled at the idea of an Eleanor Lathrop interruption. It gave her a much-needed reason to escape the confines of George Winfield’s office.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, heading for the door, “I need to take this call.”

The phone rang twice more before Joanna made it through the outside door and answered.

“Oh, there you are,” Eleanor said. “I was about to leave a message.”

“I had to come outside to answer.”

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“Well,” Eleanor huffed, “if it’s inconvenient for you to talk to me right now, I can always call back later.”

“No, please. It’s fine. I can talk for a few minutes. What is it?”

“George thinks I was out of line,” Eleanor began uncertainly. “He thinks I owe you and”-she paused-“Butch an apology.” As long as Eleanor had known her son-in-law, she had made clear her preference for his given name, Frederick. Even now the word Butch seemed to stick in her throat.

“You don’t have to apologize, Mom,” Joanna said. “We just have different ideas about how the world works, that’s all.”

“It was unfair of me to enlist your brother’s help. It’s just that I so wanted you to listen to reason, which I’m sure you won’t.”

Since that was true, Joanna said nothing.

“George tells me that it’s a whole new century with different rules and roles for everyone, but I can’t see a grandchild of mine being raised by a …”

“By a what, Mom?” Joanna asked.

“By a novelist, I guess,” Eleanor said lamely. ‘And a male novelist at that. It strikes me as wrong, somehow-unseemly.”

What about Jenny? Joanna wanted to ask. Butch is doing a fine job of raising her, isn’t he? But just then Ernie Carpenter, driving his own Mercury Sable, pulled into the parking lot. Hoping to head off the arriving detective was the real reason Joanna had rushed outside to take her phone call.

“Mom,” Joanna said. “Sorry to interrupt, but something’s come up. I’ve got to go.”

“See there?” Eleanor said. “Even when I’m calling to apologize, you can’t spare me even a moment of attention. You don’t have the time-you don’t take the time-to listen.

It’s hopeless.”

“Mom, I really do have to go. I’ll call you later.”

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She hung up just as Ernie walked over to her. “What’s up, boss?” he asked.

“Did you have a chance to go over my report?”

“Jaime just called and gave me a rundown,” Ernie replied. “You picked up a lot of information. You think the guy in the ME’s office, the father, is a suspect?”

“I’m not sure,” Joanna replied. “He could be.”

“Do we need to Mirandize him?”

Joanna shook her head. “Not right now. He’s not an actual suspect at this point.

When you and Jaime talk to him, keep your questions to next-of-kin issues for right now. Pick up as much information and as many details as you can that we might be able to use later to trip him up in case he does turn into a suspect.”

“Like what?” Ernie asked.

“I think we can get away with asking him about when and how he learned of his daughter’s death. Ask him that, but don’t ask him where he was at the time she was murdered.

We also need to figure out a way to keep him around long enough for us to decide if he is a suspect. Once he goes zipping back home to Mexico, we’ll never see him again.”

“What’s the deal here?” Ernie asked. “Mossman’s not really a suspect, but he may turn into one, so you want us to keep him here. Do we have any solid evidence that makes him a likely suspect in any of these murders?’

Joanna shook her head. “I’m not necessarily convinced that he actully killed any of the women, but I have a feeling he has something to do with it.”

Ernie shook his head. “Great,” he grumbled. “Another one of your feelings. Those don’t exactly count as probable cause.”

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“Exactly,” Joanna agreed. “That’s why you’re doing a next-of-kin interview and nothing else.”

Just then a green-and-white cab pulled into the parking lot and stopped in the handicapped parking area in front of the door. While Joanna watched in amazement, the back door opened and Edith Mossman clambered out and then hobbled forward on her walker.

“You wait right here,” she ordered the cabbie. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Joanna hurried up to her. “Mrs. Mossman,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see that son of mine,” Edith Mossman wheezed. “I’m not armed, so I can’t shoot him, but if I can get close enough to hit him with my walker, I’ll beat him to a bloody pulp.”

“Please,” Joanna said, “you can’t do that. If you struck him, my officers would have to arrest you for assault.”

“If that’s what it takes to keep him from taking Carol’s body back to Mexico, so be it. Lock me up if you have to, but hitting him will be worth it,” Edith Mossman declared grimly. “Beating the crap out of him won’t change a thing, but it’ll make me feel a lot better.”

“Really, Mrs. Mossman,” Joanna said. “I can’t allow you inside if you’re planning a physical assault, but if you simply want to talk to your son-“

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“But telling him how you feel might do you as much or more good than hitting him.”

Joanna took Edith by the arm. “Come on,” she added. “I’ll take you to where he is.”

With Ernie trailing behind, Edith allowed herself to be led 250

first into the building and then on into George Winfield’s office. As soon as Ed Mossman glimpsed his mother’s face, he was outraged.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he demanded. “Get her out of here.”

“Don’t talk about me as though I’m deaf or dumb, Eddie,” Edith ordered. “I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself. I came here to tell you that you’re scum. That if I ever had a son, I don’t any longer.”

“The feeling’s mutual there, I’m sure,” Ed Mossman fired back at her. “You don’t have a son and I don’t have a mother. That makes us even.”

‘And if you even attempt to take Carol back to Mexico with you, I swear, I’ll . .

.”

“You’ll what?” Mossman demanded. “You’ll disown me? You already did that. So what?”

“I’ll take you to court, Eddie,” Edith vowed. “I’ll fight you down to my dying breath and down to my last penny. I may not have a lot of money, but I’ll bet I have more than you do.”

As she spoke, slamming her walker on the floor with every step, Edith had moved across the room toward her son. She stopped when their faces were bare inches apart. Worried that Edith might still make good on her threat, Joanna moved closer as well, just in case she needed to separate them.

For almost a minute, Edith Mossman stared at her son, saying nothing. When she did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper.

“I’m so grateful your father didn’t live long enough to see what a monster you’ve become, Edward Mossman. What you did to those girls is utterly unthinkable!”

With that, Edith turned on her heel and banged her way back out of the room. In the long silence that followed Edith’s exit,

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Joanna once again heard Jeannine Phillips’s voice, telling her about animal hoarders-about who they were, where they came from, and why.

“I’m one, too,” Jeannine had said.

Jeannine Phillips had been a victim of child abuse. In a flash of clarity illuminated by Edith Mossman’s righteous anger, Joanna realized that the woman’s murdered granddaughter had also been victimized. As had her sisters. By their own father.

George Winfield’s office was suddenly too small. The walls closed in on Joanna until she could barely breathe. “I’d better go check on Mrs. Mossman,” she managed.

Out in the parking lot, the cabbie was already helping Edith into the backseat. “Please, Mrs. Mossman,” Joanna said, “I need to talk to you. Let the cab go. I’ll give you a ride back home when we finish.”

Edith looked briefly at Joanna. “All right,” she said, then reached for her purse and wallet. She gave a handful of bills to the driver. “Thank you for getting me here in such a hurry young man,” she said. ‘And thank you for waiting. I really appreciate it.”

The cabdriver counted through the money and then beamed back at Edith. Clearly she had given him a sizable tip. “Anytime, ma’am. You call the dispatcher and ask for me personally. I’ll be glad to take care of you.”

It took several minutes to help Edith Mossman into the car. Once she was settled, Joanna went back into the building. By then Jaime Carbajal had arrived on the scene.

Joanna brought him up to speed. “You two handle Eddie,” Joanna told him. “In the meantime, I’m giving Mrs. Mossman a ride back to Sierra Vista.”

Once in the driver’s seat of the Crown Victoria, Joanna 252

glanced in Edith Mossman’s direction. She sat slumped in the passenger’s seat, staring stonily ahead at nothing in particular.

‘Are you all right?” Joanna asked.

“I’m a failure,” Edith said quietly.

‘A failure?”

‘At motherhood. If I’d done a better job, Eddie wouldn’t have turned out the way he did.”

“If your son turned out to be a child molester, it’s not your fault. It’s his.”

Edith turned sharply and stared at Joanna. “I never said that,” she said.

“No, you didn’t,” Joanna agreed. “You didn’t have to, but it is true, isn’t it?”

Edith shut her eyes. Two fat tears dribbled slowly down her bony cheeks. Finally she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered brokenly. “Yes, it is.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“It’s too late. It’s over and done with.”

“It’s not over,” Joanna said quietly.

“What do you mean?” Edith asked.

“Two other women were murdered last week over near Rodeo, New Mexico,” Joanna said.

“Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega were independent television journalists doing a story on a group called The Brethren.”

Joanna let the last word fall into the conversation like a pebble into a deep well.

It took a long time for her to hear the answering splash.

“The same group Eddie’s involved with,” Edith Mossman breathed at last.

Joanna nodded. “Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega left California with a check for five thousand dollars from their

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production company, Fandango Productions, made out to Carol Mossman. They were going to pay her to tell her story, Edith. Somebody murdered them and your granddaughter, too, in order to keep Carol from going public.”

‘And you think my son did that?”

“It’s possible.”

“If he did,” Edith said fiercely “then you have to lock him up and throw away the key.”

“You’ll help us then?”

‘Absolutely. Just tell me what to do.”

“You’ll need to talk to my detectives again.”

Edith nodded. ‘All right,” she said.

“Why didn’t you mention any of this to them the other day when you talked to them the first time?”

Edith shrugged. “I guess I didn’t think it was important. And Carol never wanted to talk about it. At least she never did before. I thought I was respecting her wishes.

But now … Of course I’ll talk to them, but there’s something else I need to do first.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to talk to a lawyer. I want someone to go to court for me to keep Eddie from taking Carol’s body away.”

“You don’t have an attorney of your own?” Joanna asked.

“I used to,” Edith said. “Augie Deming, out in Sierra Vista. He’s the one who did Grady’s and my wills, but that was years ago. Augie died a few years after Grady did. I haven’t used an attorney since.”

While they talked, Joanna had started the car and driven down Tombstone Canyon as far as the downtown area. Now she pulled into a parking place. “Tell you what,” she said. “Burton Kimball’s office is just over there.” She pointed toward the 254

entrance to a long redbrick building. “Burton’s an attorney. He’s also a friend of mine. He’s done some work for me over the years. I’m not sure what, if any, grounds he could use to keep your son from taking charge of Carol’s body but if it can be done, he’s the one to do it.”

“Do I need to have an appointment in order to see him?” Edith asked.

“Just a minute,” Joanna said. “I’ll find out.”

Joanna used her cell phone to make sure Burton Kimball was available, then she escorted Edith as far as the office door. “You go inside and talk to him,” Joanna told Edith.

“I’ll be waiting here when you’re done.”

As soon as Edith disappeared inside, Joanna hurried back to the Civvie, and called Frank Montoya.

“I guess the morning briefing’s been canceled due to lack of interest,” he said derisively.

“Not lack of interest,” Joanna corrected. “Lack of personnel.” As quickly as possible, she explained everything that she had learned so far that morning.

‘As long as Ernie and Jaime are meeting with Eddie Mossman,” Joanna finished, “he’s not going anywhere. And I’m relatively certain that he’ll stick around town long enough to try to wrest Carol Mossman’s body out of Edith’s grasp. But we have to move fast. If he once figures out he’s becoming an actual suspect, I’m afraid he’ll disappear back into Mexico.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Frank asked.

“First, I want you to call down to the police department in Obregon and find out whether or not they made a next-of-kin notification. I also want to know when and how Eddie Mossman traveled from there to here.”

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“Got it,” Frank said. “If he was involved in his daughter’s death, he wouldn’t need to be notified.”

“Exactly. I also want you to get on the phone to Fandango Productions.”

“Right. The television production company Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega worked with.

I saw that in your report.”

“Talk to Candace Leigh, the CFO. Have her send you to whoever you need to talk to.

Find out if they have any details on Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega’s activities once they left there for Arizona. Diego Ortega said something about their being the target of one or more death threats. He even read me one that was purportedly from Ed Mossman. But it could have been sent by someone else. We need to know everything about that threat and any others that might have been received. If any police reports were made in regard to the threats, I want copies of those. And if Pam and Carmen sent any e-mails that contain notes or information, I’d like to have access to those as well. Somewhere along the way, they crossed paths with Carol Mossman’s killer.

I want to know where and when that was.”

“Anything else?” Frank asked.

“Yes. Hidalgo County’s medical examiner is doing the two autopsies today. Call over there and let them know that I need preliminary results as soon as possible.”

“How come?” Frank asked. “They were shot, weren’t they? What’s an autopsy going to tell us that we don’t already know?”

“I want them to pinpoint the time of death as closely as possible. I want to know if they were murdered before or after Carol Mossman died.”

“So you’re thinking Ed Mossman murdered the two women in New Mexico and his own daughter as well?”

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“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“What if he skips out and goes back to Mexico before we pull together enough pieces to have probable cause?”

Joanna was quiet for several moments as a tiny chip of an idea began to take shape in her head. ‘At this point, we don’t know for sure that Ed Mossman is a suspect.

But I do know he’s been threatened. In fact, his own mother was all set to assault the man this morning.”

“So?”

“We tell him that, because we believe his life may be in danger, we’re putting him under a police guard. Have one of the deputies on hand when Jaime and Ernie finish their next-of-kin interview. Tell him that because we’ve been notified of what we believe to be a credible threat to his life, we’re offering him protection. Tell him if we didn’t do that, there’s a possibility we’d be held liable in case anything happened to him.”

“That’s stretching it a little, isn’t it?” Frank Montoya asked.

“Whatever works,” Joanna returned.

“Okay,” Frank said. “So I have my marching orders. Anything else?”

“That’s all I can think of at the moment. No, wait. Any luck with Phelps Dodge on the General Office employees?”

“Not yet. What do you think I am, some kind of miracle worker?”

“Pretty much,” she told him.

Frank Montoya wasn’t amused. “So while I’m busy making my next set of phone calls, what are you up to?” he asked.

“I’m going to be picking Edith Mossman’s brain,” Joanna said. “Trying to get the goods on her son.”

“Nice,” Frank said. “Call me a wimp if you want to, but I’ll stick to making phone calls. Getting a nice little old lady to turn

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state’s evidence against her own son sounds a little underhanded to me.”

“Maybe,” Joanna agreed. “But if Eddie Mossman is the kind of creep he seems to be, I’m in favor of doing whatever it takes to get him off the streets.”

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When Edith Mossman emerged from Burton Kimball’s office, Joanna hurried forward.

She helped the older woman into the car and stowed her walker in the backseat. Once Joanna’s seat belt was fastened, she glanced at Edith. The older woman sat motionless.

Her head was thrown back against the headrest; both eyes were closed. ‘Are you all right?” Joanna asked. “Tired,” Edith returned. “I’m very tired.” “Have you had anything to eat?”

Edith shook her head. “Knowing that Eddie was coming here to make trouble upset me so much that I couldn’t eat a thing.”

“Let’s go have some lunch then,” Joanna offered. “You’ll feel better after you have some food.”

“I don’t think so,” Edith said hopelessly. “I don’t think any 260

thing is going to make me feel better ever again, but I suppose I do need to keep up my strength.”

“Did Burton think he could help you?”

“Mr. Kimball wasn’t sure,” Edith replied. “He said we could probably slow things down some, but he didn’t know if we can stop Eddie from taking Carol’s body away altogether. He said that if Carol were a minor or incapacitated in some way and I had been appointed her guardian, then it was more likely he could fix this. Or if I had some kind of written document, like a will or something, specifying her wishes, then that would work, too. As it is, Eddie, as her father, is officially considered to be her next of kin.”

“Your son can’t take Carol’s body anywhere if he isn’t going there himself.”

Suddenly, despite her lack of food, Edith Mossman straightened in her seat and came to full attention. “What are you saying?” she asked sharply.

“If someone were to file criminal charges against your son, if he ended up going to jail or prison rather than returning to Mexico, he wouldn’t be able to take his daughter’s body anywhere. It’s my understanding that when it comes to shipping caskets containing human remains across the international border into Mexico, it’s customary to have a relative of the deceased ride along to accompany the body.”

“You’re saying, if Eddie doesn’t go back to Mexico, then Carol’s body doesn’t go either?”

Joanna nodded. “It’s not one hundred percent, but it might work.”

“Tell me what I need to do,” Edith said.

“First you’re going to have some lunch. Then we’ll talk.”

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J. A. Jance

Joanna pulled into the last open parking place at Daisy’s Cafe. Junior Dowdle, Daisy’s adopted developrnentally disabled son, met them at the door with a wide smile and a pair of menus. “Booth or table?” he asked.

“Booth, please, Junior,” Joanna told him.

Junior led them to an empty booth and deposited their menus on the table. As he waddled purposefully away, Edith Mossman eyed him suspiciously. “Why would a restaurant hire someone like that?” she asked.

“It’s his mother’s restaurant,” Joanna explained. “A few years ago, Junior’s guardian abandoned him over in St. David. Moe and Daisy Maxwell took him in. First they were just his foster parents. After the death of Junior’s biological mother, Moe and Daisy officially adopted him. They also taught him how to work here.”

“Oh,” Edith said, relenting. “I suppose that’s all right then.”

When Daisy appeared, pad in hand, Joanna ordered a roast beef sandwich while Edith settled on a cheese enchilada. As soon as Daisy walked away from their booth, Edith turned her full attention on Joanna.

“Now what can I do to help?” she asked.

Joanna herself had been mulling that very question. “Did any of your granddaughters’

abuse occur while they were still in the States?” she asked.

Edith shook her head. “I don’t think so. According to Carol, it started happening after they moved to Mexico. Cynthia, my daughter-in-law, was terribly ill ever before she became pregnant with Kelly. She never should have gotten pregnant that last time, but Eddie insisted. That’s one thing The Brethren do believe in-that they should go forth and multiply. Eddie believed in multiplying in a big way. And so, when Cynthia was too sick to …”

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Edith paused, searching for the proper word. “… to accommodate his needs any longer, he came to Carol looking for … sexual gratification!

For several seconds, while Edith Mossman struggled to regain her composure, Joanna had to battle her own sense of outrage. A terrible revulsion assaulted her-a sickness that had nothing to do with current physical reality.

How could someone do that to his own child? a shaken Joanna wondered. How could he?

“Carol told me Eddie came to her bed late one night a few months after Cynthia became ill,” Edith Mossman continued at last. “With Cynthia confined to her sickbed in the room next door, he woke Carol up and forced himself on her. He told her that since Cynthia could no longer perform her wifely duties, they were now Carol’s responsibility.

He said that her mother needed Carol to take her place. He claimed that was what Cynthia wanted!”

Edith paused again while her eyes brimmed with tears. “So, of course Carol complied.

What choice did she have?”

In her years as sheriff, Joanna Brady had encountered more than her share of ugly situations. A year earlier she had struggled to come to terms with the murder of a pregnant and unwed teenager. Dora Matthews had been a sexually precocious classmate of Jenny’s, and it had been tough on Joanna to realize that children Jenny’s age were already sexually active. But the tale Edith Mossman had just related was far more appalling.

When Joanna tried to speak, the question she was asking stalled in her throat. “How old was Carol at the time?” she managed finally.

“She’d just turned ten,” Edith answered.

Months earlier, when thirteen-year-old Jennifer Ann Brady 262

had crossed the critical line of demarcation that separates girlhood from womanhood, Joanna had responded to the situation by taking her daughter out to dinner alone so they could have a private woman-to-woman discussion of the intricacies of human sexuality. To Joanna’s dismay, Jenny had wasted no time in derailing her mother’s best intentions.

“Come on, Mom,” Jenny had told her with a dismissive shrug. “I already know all that stuff. They teach us about it at school.”

Being told about the birds and the bees by your mother or by a respected teacher at school was one thing. To be routinely raped by your own father from age ten on was something else.

“How long did the incest continue?” Joanna asked.

“Until Carol was fourteen,” Edith answered. ‘As soon as she had her first period, she got pregnant. When it came time to deliver, she was too small and the baby was too big. The doctor did a cesarean, but it was too late to save the baby. He died.

Later on the doctor told Carol that her female organs had been damaged and that she’d never be able to have children.”

Joanna thought about what George Winfield had told her about his autopsy findings.

“They’d been damaged all right,” Joanna put in. “Dr. Winfield, the medical examiner, told me that he thought a complete hysterectomy was performed on Carol right along with the cesarean.”

‘A hysterectomy?” Edith Mossman gasped. “Carol never mentioned that.”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Joanna suggested.

“They did that to her at age fourteen? That’s criminal.”

“Yes,” Joanna said quietly. “I couldn’t agree more, but go on. What happened then?”

“Carol said Eddie left her alone after that. She always 262

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thought it was because the scar made her too ugly-because the other girls were prettier than she was. I think it’s because my son is a pervert, Sheriff Brady. Fifteen was too old for him. He went right on down the line-from Carol to Andrea, and from Andrea to Stella.”

‘And Kelly?”

“I suppose he abused her, too. I don’t know for sure because I’ve never talked to her about it.”

‘And she’s still there,” Joanna said. “In Mexico.”

Edith nodded. “I believe Eddie married her off to one of his middle-aged Brethren buddies. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen at the time.”

“I know you told me the other day, but I don’t remember. How old was Carol when she finally ran away?”

“Twenty.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“You mean, after ten years of living in hell, what finally provoked her to leave?”

Joanna nodded. “Something like that.”

“She heard her father making arrangements to marry her off. To someone up in northern Arizona.”

“In one of the bigamist communities on the Arizona Strip?”

It was Edith Mossman’s turn to nod. “Somewhere up there,” she agreed. “I don’t know exactly, but that’s the thing. People like my son treat their wives and children-especially their daughters-like chattel. They make all the decisions and no one else is allowed any input. They marry them off to men twice and three times their age, and the girls have no say whatsoever.”

“You said wives?” Joanna interjected. “As in plural?”

Again, Edith nodded.

“And your son has more than one?”

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“He had three the last I heard, but that was a long time ago. He could have more by now. The last one I knew about was thirty years younger than he is.”

“The same age as Kelly?” Joanna asked.

“Younger,” Edith answered. ‘And that’s what he was going to do to Carol-marry her off to an old buzzard in his sixties who already had four or five wives and a whole raft of children. Eddie told the guy Carol was good at looking after other people’s kids. Somehow Carol overheard the conversation. She must have been eavesdropping.

That’s when she wrote and asked for my help. Not just for herself, but for her sisters, too. She was afraid her father would send her away and the three younger girls would be left completely unprotected-as much as she could protect them, that is.”

“So you made arrangements for the girls to come live with you.”

“That’s right. I managed to wire money to her. She bought train tickets and away they came with nothing but the clothes they were wearing.”

“But Kelly wouldn’t leave,” Joanna added.

Edith nodded. “Kelly was the baby and she truly was spoiled. She refused to come along, and it broke Carol’s heart. I don’t believe she ever forgave herself for going off and leaving Kelly there alone.”

Daisy delivered their plates of food. “Sorry it took so long,” she said. “The kitchen was a little backed up.”

In fact, Joanna and Edith had been so deep in conversation that they hadn’t noticed the passage of time. And, considering the subject under discussion, the arriving food no longer seemed nearly as appetizing as it had appeared on the menu.

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“Tell me about those other two dead women,” Edith said at last “You say they were going to interview Carol and put it on television?”

“That’s what we believe,” Joanna returned. “One of my investigators is checking on that right now.”

‘And they were going to pay her for doing this interview, whatever it was?”

Joanna nodded. “That’s right. They had brought along a check for five thousand dollars.”

“Carol must have known that payday was coming,” Edith mused. “That’s why she no longer needed my help.”

Joanna nodded again. “But I don’t think the interview ever took place, or, if it did, the money never changed hands. Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega left California with a company check payable to Carol Mossman in their possession, but no such check has been found-not at your granddaughter’s mobile home and not at the crime scene in New Mexico, either.”

“But who were they?” Edith asked. “What did they want with Carol?”

“Before they came here, they had been in northern Arizona looking into The Brethren,”

Joanna said.

“Oh,” Edith Mossman said.

“Diego Ortega, Carmen’s brother, said something about a group called God’s Angels.

Have you ever heard of them?”

“Oh, yes,” Edith said. “Of course, I know about them. They’re wonderful.”

“What do they do?”

“They’re a support group, sort of like the old Underground Railroad. When women run away from those situations …”

“From their bigamist husbands,” Joanna supplied.

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“… they leave with nothing. They have no money, no job skills, nowhere to go. They’ve left everything familiar behind-their families, their homes, and often their own children.”

“Their religion?” Joanna asked.

“That, too,” Edith agreed. “And they need a lot of help as they start over. For one thing, they’ve led terribly sheltered and mostly isolated lives, so they don’t know much about the outside world. That’s where God’s Angels come in. They have programs for fleeing wives and for fleeing children, too. I believe that’s the one Andrea is most involved with-the one for children.”

“Your granddaughter is part of this group?”

‘Andrea has always been the smart one in the family. She has a full-time job and goes to school part-time. But on the side, she volunteers as a God’s Angels sponsor.

That means she counsels individual women and whatever children they may have brought with them when they ran away. She tries to help the women gain a toehold on life away from their former lifestyle. Otherwise they’re in danger of going back.”

“They’re like refugees,” Joanna observed.

“Pretty much,” Edith agreed.

There was a short pause in the conversation during which both women concentrated on their food. Joanna moved her sandwich around on the plate rather than eating much of it.

“If Andrea is part of that group,” Joanna began, “what about Stella?”

“Oh, no. Not Stella. She found herself a husband-a very nice husband, by the way.

She’s always been the strong one. She’s not big on support groups, either. Once she made up her mind to, she put all that other business behind her. I think Andrea tried 267

to get her to help out with some of the God’s Angels programs, but Stella wasn’t interested. She said she was over it, and she wanted to stay that way.”

Joanna decided to switch subjects. “What did your son do for Phelps Dodge when he worked there?” she asked.

“Drove a truck,” Edith answered at once. “Those big dump trucks they used to haul waste from the pit out to the tailings dump.”

“He never worked in the General Office?”

“Oh, no. Are you kidding? Eddie Mossman never had an office job in his life. He didn’t have the education for a desk job, to say nothing of the mindset.”

“What about your daughter-in-law?”

“Cynthia? The poor girl was a mousy little thing who never worked outside the home.

If she had-if she’d had a job and money of her own-maybe she could have left Eddie just like some of those other women are doing, but back then, there wouldn’t have been anyone like God’s Angels to help her. As far as Cynthia was concerned, Eddie was the head of the family, and his word was law. She did as she was told. If I’d had any idea about what was really going on, I would have tried to do something, but I didn’t know. Not at the time. Not until it was too late to do any good. But why are you asking about Eddie’s job? What does his job with PD have to do with any of this?”

Joanna wasn’t prepared to reveal details about the unusual weapon information that had telegraphed the connection between Carol Mossman’s death and the murders in New Mexico.

“Just wondering,” she said. A moment later she added, “When did you first hear that your son was in town?”

“Yesterday,” Edith said. “Yesterday afternoon. He phoned 268

and ordered me to call the mortuary and tell them that Carol’s body should be released to him rather than to me. I told him to go fly a kite, that I’d already made the arrangements. He said I couldn’t do that, that she was his daughter and he’d have the final say. I told him to go ahead and try.”

“Did he happen to mention how he found out about Carol’s murder?”

“No.”

“Or when he came to town?”

“No. He didn’t tell me that, either. You have to understand, Sheriff Brady, it wasn’t a pleasant phone call. He was yelling at me the whole time, and I was yelling right back.”

It was time for Joanna to ask the critical question straight out. “Mrs. Mossman,”

Joanna said, “do you think it’s possible that your son murdered his own daughter?”

“You mean, do I think Eddie killed Carol?” Edith shook her head. “No, I doubt that’s possible, but I almost wish he had. At least that way, I’d have the satisfaction of seeing him shipped off to prison for the rest of his life, the way he deserves.

You see, Sheriff Brady, I wrestled with that same question myself all last night.

If Eddie was the one who murdered Carol, why on earth would he come back here to try and claim her body? Why not just go straight back to Mexico and stay there? Nobody’s going to bother going all the way down to Obregon to bring him back. Eddie’s stupid, but surely he’s not that stupid. Besides, what would be his motive to kill her?”

“Maybe he didn’t want Carol to go public with her story,” Joanna suggested.

“Why would he object to that?” Edith asked. “Eddie’s proud of the way he lives. He doesn’t think he has anything to be ashamed of. As far as he’s concerned, he’s right and everybody

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else is wrong. And since the people he hangs around with all hold the same beliefs, why would he care?”

“Maybe some of them care,” Joanna said. “There are other Brethren, aren’t there?

Maybe some of the ones who live in this country aren’t interested in being quite so blatant about it. Maybe one of them wanted to keep the interview from taking place.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Edith said, pushing her plate away.

“Wasn’t the enchilada any good?” Daisy asked when she came to pick up their dirty dishes. “I’d be glad to get you something else.”

Edith shook her head. “The food was fine,” she said. “For some reason, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

Daisy looked at Joanna’s plate. “You, too?” she asked.

“Me, too,” Joanna said.

She paid for their virtually uneaten lunches and was helping Edith Mossman into the Civvie when her cell phone rang. Joanna answered the call while stowing Edith’s walker in the backseat. “Just a minute, Jaime,” she told Detective Carbajal. “Let me start the engine. As hot as it is, I can’t leave Edith Mossman sitting there with no air-conditioning.”

“Okay, boss,” Jaime said when she returned to the phone. “Here’s the deal. We’ve turned Mr. Mossman over to Deputy Howell. She’ll keep an eye on him. He wasn’t thrilled about having a bodyguard hanging around, but when we told him his life had been threatened, he warmed up to the idea. Just exactly how serious is this threat?”

Joanna glanced at Edith Mossman sitting quietly in the front seat of the idling Civvie.

She probably wasn’t particularly dangerous at that point.

“Let’s just say I consider it serious,” she said. “And credible. Tell Debbie not to let him out of her sight.”

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“Good enough.”

“Did you learn anything useful?” Joanna asked.

“Other than Eddie Mossman’s a total creep? He came up from Mexico because his daughter’s about to become engaged to some guy from up near Kingman.”

“But I thought Kelly Mossman was already married,” Joanna objected.

“Kelly?” Jaime said. “I don’t know anything about Kelly. I’m sure Mossman said his daughter’s name was Cecilia.”

Joanna’s stomach tightened. Knowing that Eddie Mossman had yet another at-risk daughter made what little roast beef Joanna had managed to swallow threaten to stage a rebellion.

“Did you find out how he learned about Carol’s death?” she asked.

“Sure did. He said that another daughter, Stella, called to let him know.”

“Called how?”

“On his cell phone,” Jaime answered.

“Did you get the number?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Tell Frank I want incoming and outgoing call records for that phone.”

“But the phone is from Mexico.”

“That’s all right. All that means is that Frank Montoya will have to work a little harder than he usually does to retrieve the information. He may have to pay a little mordida to get it. What are you doing next?”

“Heading into the office to get organized and to see what Frank may have for us.”

“Good enough. Tell him I’m taking Mrs. Mossman back to 272

Sierra Vista. We’ll have to have our morning briefing when I get back.”

Joanna stowed her phone and clambered into the driver’s seat, grateful to be out of the heat and the rising humidity.

“Anything important?” Edith asked.

“No,” Joanna said. “Just touching base with some of my people.”

They drove through town in relative silence. It was only when they emerged from the other side of Mule Mountain Tunnel that Joanna resumed her questioning. “You’ve told me about Carol,” she said. “And a little about Andrea, but you’ve barely mentioned Stella.”

“I don’t like her much,” Edith said abruptly. “Of all the girls, she’s the one who’s most like her father. I was surprised that she offered to come get me the other day and bring me to town when your detectives needed to talk to me. She doesn’t usually come across all sweetness and light.”

“Considering her history, I’d be surprised if she did,” Joanna said.

“Yes,” Edith agreed. “That’s why, with Stella-with all the girls, really-I’ve always been willing to let things slide.”

“So what’s her story?” Joanna asked.

“She came along with Carol, but once she got here, she wouldn’t do a thing I told her. She was just as wild as she could be, but she grew out of it. She married herself a nice young man, and she seems to be doing all right now.”

“I met her son,” Joanna said.

Edith shot Joanna a questioning glance.

“He’s nice, too,” Joanna said.

“Yes.” Edith Mossman sighed. “I suppose he is.”

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‘And who’s Cecilia?” Joanna asked.

“Cecilia who?” Edith asked.

Right that moment, Joanna wasn’t prepared to tell Edith Mossman that she had yet another granddaughter, a possible half sister of Carol, Stella, Andrea, and Kelly, who was now also in jeopardy.

“Never mind,” Joanna said at last. “I’m probably mistaken.”

After that, Edith Mossman settled back in her seat. Seconds later she was snoring softly. In the relative silence that followed, Joanna thought about Carol Mossman and her three victimized sisters. It was one thing for a ten-year-old child to take over the household responsibilities-the care and feeding-of three younger siblings, but for Carol to be unable to protect any of them, herself included, from their own father … That was, as Edith Mossman had said, unthinkable! No wonder that, as an adult, Carol had turned to animals for comfort and companionship. Compared to what the human race had dished out to her, dogs must have seemed amazingly uncomplicated.

Joanna’s phone crowed. She reached for it quickly afraid the sound might disturb Edith, but the snores continued unabated.

“Yes,” Joanna said quietly.

“Where are you right now?” Frank Montoya asked.

“On my way to Sierra Vista to take Edith Mossman back to her place. Why?”

“And that’s at the Ferndale Retirement Center?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve hit the jackpot then,” he said. “So far, nobody at PD up in Phoenix has been able to come up with a list of General Office employees, but according to the guy I talked to, we’ve got something just as good. Does the name Bob Mahilich ring a bell?”

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“Sure,” Joanna said. “He’s the Bisbee boy who made good and went on to become some bigwig for Phelps Dodge up in Phoenix.”

“That’s right,” Frank Montoya agreed. “Went to college on a full-ride PD scholarship and went to work for them as soon as he graduated from the Colorado School of Mines.

Now he’s their VP for Operations.”

“What about him?” Joanna asked.

“When the person I was talking to found out what I wanted, she referred me to Bob, since she knew he was from Bisbee originally. I figured it was going to be another dead end, but I called him anyway and got lucky. His grandmother, Irma Mahilich, worked in the General Office here in Bisbee from the time she graduated from high school until she retired in 1975. According to Bob, Irma’s memory isn’t so sharp when it comes to telling you what she had for breakfast, but as far as what she did during her working years, she’s an encyclopedia.”

“He thinks she’d remember who worked in the General Office way back then?”

“Right, since she hired most of them. And you’ll never guess where she lives.”

“Where?”

“At the Ferndale Retirement Center. For all I know, she may live right next door to Edith Mossman.”

“You want me to talk to her?” Joanna asked.

“Either that or I can send Jaime and Ernie.”

“No. They have enough to do. When it comes to dealing with LOLs, I’m every bit as good as they are.”

“That’s what I thought,” Frank agreed.

Joanna glanced at Edith Mossman, who hadn’t stirred. “Any other news?”

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“Yes. Ernie’s been in touch with Fandango Productions. They’re checking with their attorney to see whether or not they can give us access to the two victims’ company e-mail files. Otherwise, we’ll have to go through the pain of sending someone over there and serving them with a warrant.”

“Let me know what happens on that score.”

Joanna’s phone buzzed in her ear. “I’ve got another call, Frank. I have to go.”

“Joey?” Butch Dixon asked. “Where are you?”

“On my way to Sierra Vista. I’m just crossing the San Pedro. What’s up?”

“You’ll never guess who just called.”

Joanna was too tired to want to play games. “Who?” she asked.

“Drew,” Butch replied excitedly.

Drew Mabrey was the literary agent who, for the last year, had been trying to sell Butch’s first manuscript, Serve and Protect. In the intervening months, Butch had worked on the second book in the series, and he had also done a good deal of physical labor on their new house. But as time had passed with no word of acceptance on the manuscript, Butch had become more and more discouraged.

“And?”

“Remember that editor, the one who had expressed interest in the book and then ended up turning it down? Something to do with Marketing not liking it?”

“Yes. Didn’t she move to another publishing house or something?” Joanna asked.

“That’s right,” Butch said. ‘And this morning she called Drew to see if Serve and Protect is still available. Drew is pretty sure she’s going to make an offer after all.”

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“Butch, that’s wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed. “When will you know?”

“Probably sometime later this week.”

Edith stirred. “What’s wonderful?” she asked.

“I have to go, Butch,” Joanna said. “Congratulations. We’ll talk more later. That was my husband calling,” Joanna explained to Edith, once she was off the phone “He just had some very good news. He’s written a book, and someone may be interested in buying it.”

“I’m glad,” Edith said. “It’s nice to hear that someone has good news.”

Looking at Edith Mossman’s weary, grief-ravaged face, Joanna was immediately awash in guilt and resolve as well. Carol Mossman had been murdered, taking with her huge chunks of her grandmother’s heart.

We’ll find out who did it, Joanna vowed silently. I promise you that.

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Twenty minutes later, having escorted Edith Mossman to her Ferndale Retirement Center apartment, Joanna presented herself at the reception desk in the lobby. “Can you tell me the room number for Irma Mahilich?” she asked.

“One forty-one,” the receptionist answered without looking up. “But Irma’s not in her room. She’s over there, working a jigsaw puzzle.”

Joanna glanced around the lobby. The attractively furnished and brightly carpeted room resembled an upscale hotel lobby rather than what Joanna would have expected in an assisted-living facility. Several seating areas were ranged around the reception desk. A large-screen television blared unwatched in one of them. Two women, both in wheelchairs, sat reading newspapers in another. In a third-one lined with book-laden shelves-a solitary woman sat hunched over the bare outline of a round jigsaw puzzle so large that, once completed, it would

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cover much of the massive table. It wasn’t until Joanna approached the table that she realized the woman was studying the pieces with absolute intensity and with the aid of a handheld magnifying glass.

“Mrs. Mahilich?” Joanna asked.

Irma Mahilich’s shoulders were stooped. Thinning white hair stood on end in a flyaway drift. She wore dentures, but the lower plate was missing. The bottom left-hand portion of her mouth turned down, betraying the lingering effects of a stroke.

“Yes,” Irma said, lowering the magnifying glass. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sheriff Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

“That’s right. I remember now. Aren’t you D. . Lathrop’s little girl?” Irma asked, peering up at her visitor.

Surprised, Joanna answered, “Yes. He was my father.”

“I’m the one who hired him to work for the company, you know, back when I was running the PD employment office. When he showed up there, your father had never done a lick of work in a mine. Everybody else said he wouldn’t last, but I had a good feeling about him. And he stuck in there-right up until he decided to go into law enforcement.

When he ran for office, I was proud to vote for him. Did that every time he ran.

D. . Lathrop was a nice young man. It’s a shame he got killed the way he did. Now, what do you want?”

Joanna was taken aback, both by Irma Mahilich’s abrupt manner as well as by her unexpectedly detailed memories of D. . Lathrop.

“I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions,” Irma continued. “They send that social worker around from time to time to bother me. She’s so young she looks like she should still be in high school. She asks me things like who’s the president of the

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United States and other such nonsense. I don’t know who the president is because I don’t care anymore. Those politicians are all just alike anyway. But it’s like she’s trying to find out how much I know about what’s going on around me. If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t need to be in a place like this, now would I?”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose you would.”

“So what do you want?” Irma demanded again. “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, girl.

And while you’re at it, have a seat. I don’t like it when people hover over me.”

Joanna sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table with a clear view of the lid to the two-thousand-piece puzzle that featured a stained-glass window in brilliant primary colors-jewel-tone blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Just looking at the tiny, intricate pieces was enough to give Joanna a headache. The round-edged border was all in place but not much else.

“We’re working on a case,” Joanna said quietly. ‘A homicide case. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What homicide?” Irma asked. “Somebody here?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s a relief then. So who died?”

“Three women, actually. A woman was murdered over by the San Pedro last week. Two additional victims were found in New Mexico the next day.”

With her hand trembling, Irma picked up a piece of the puzzle and put it unerringly in the proper spot, sighing with satisfaction as it slipped neatly into place.

“That lets me out then,” she said as she resumed studying the other loose pieces.

“I’ve been shut up in here for years, so I can’t possibly be a suspect.”

“No,” Joanna agreed, “you’re not a suspect, but we thought 279

you might be able to help us find the killer. Your grandson thought the same thing.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Bob.”

“You mean Bob Junior,” Irma said, nodding. “That boy’s always giving me far more credit than I’m due.” With that, Irma put down her magnifying glass and stared at Joanna. “Now tell me, how could I be of help?” she asked.

“All three women were murdered with the same weapon,” Joanna answered. “They were shot with ammunition that dated from 1917. We have reason to believe that the ammunition, and maybe even the weapon, may have come from a cache of weapons that was once stored in the safe in the General Office.”

“Oh, those,” Irma breathed. “The ones from the Deportation. I remember telling Mr.

Frayn, my boss, at the time they opened that safe-I remember saying, ‘We need to get rid of those things, Mr. Frayn. Burn them if need be. They were bad news when they were used in 1917, and they’re bad news now.’ But Mr. Frayn-Otto Frayn, his name was-wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll just hand them out to whoever wants them,’ he said, and that’s what he did. Passed them along to the people who worked there.”

“Which is why I’m here talking to you, Mrs. Mahilich,” Joanna said. “We need to know who all was working there with you at the time.”

“You should contact the company for that,” Irma said, picking the magnifying glass back up and resuming her careful examination of the puzzle, pieces.

“We already tried that,” Joanna explained. “At the moment they’re unable to locate any official records that date from as long ago as 1975, but your grandson suggested we talk to you. He said you’d probably remember who “worked there. Maybe 280

you can’t remember all of them, but if you could put us in touch with one or two, perhaps those people can lead us to others.”

“I don’t suppose this can wait until after I finish the puzzle, can it?” Irma asked.

“No,” Joanna said, glancing at the empty expanse of open puzzle. “I’m afraid we need what information you can offer a little sooner than that.”

“Oh, all right,” Irma said impatiently. “You might want to go over to the desk and get me some pieces of paper and a pencil. Meet me at that table over there.” She pointed to a table in the still empty TV alcove. “That way we won’t disturb any of the puzzle pieces.”

While Joanna hustled off to the receptionist’s desk, Irma produced a folded walker from under her chair. She was just tottering up to the second table when Joanna returned.

Joanna reached to help Irma onto a chair, but Irma pushed her hand away.

“Leave me alone and turn off that TV set,” she snapped. “With all that noise, I can barely hear myself think.”

Chastened, Joanna located the remote and turned off the television. Then she took a seat at the table and pushed paper and pencil in front of Irma. When she was seated, Irma once again stowed her walker, picked up the pencil and began to draw, frowning and biting her lower lip in total concentration. Joanna watched while Irma drew a series of shaky rectangles on the first sheet of paper. Then she began to label each of them.

“This is the way the desks were arranged when you first came into the building,”

she explained. “It’s easier for me to remember where people were located than it is for me to remember their names. Nona Cooper sat here, for instance,” Irma said, pointing at one of the first rectangles she had drawn. “And the door was right next to her, so you had to come in past

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her desk. She always had a picture of her little boy on her desk. I believe his name was Randolph, but she called him Randy, and he was cute as a button. He died, though.

Got drafted into the army right out of high school and died in Vietnam in 1967. Poor Nona. She never got over it. She died in ‘76, just a year or so after she got laid off. Committed suicide. Can’t say I blame her.”

Joanna had her notebook out by then. Sorry she hadn’t brought spare tapes and grateful to be proficient in shorthand, she made swift notes of everything Irma said.

“Would Nona Cooper have been given one of the weapons from the safe?” Joanna asked.

Irma shook her head. “Certainly not,” she huffed. “Randy was killed by sniper fire.

Nona wouldn’t have had a gun in her house on a bet.”

Joanna and Irma worked that way for the better part of an hour, with Irma drawing and labeling individual desks in the various rooms, all the while delivering thumbnail sketches of each desk’s respective occupant. Irma had begun drawing the fourth and final room when Joanna’s cell phone rang.

“What an annoying sound,” Irma grumbled upon hearing the distinctive rooster crow.

“You should get yourself a phone with a nicer ring than that.”

Answering quickly, Joanna got up and moved out of earshot. “What’s up?” she asked her chief deputy.

“Fandango’s lawyer told them to go the search warrant route. Jaime’s on his way to pick up a warrant right now, then he’ll head for the airport in Tucson. He should be able to catch a flight out to L.A. this evening, but he’ll have to stay over until tomorrow morning to execute the warrant.”

“This sounds expensive,” Joanna said. “Isn’t there any other way to do it?”

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“Not really,” Frank said. “For one thing, Carmen Ortega had downloaded some of what she had filmed into an attachment and emailed it to Fandango. We don’t have the equipment it would take to download it. For another, Fandango has a networked computer system for keeping track of calendars and expenses. Again, you have to use their equipment to access it. Not only that, if any of the threats are there, we want them to be admissible in court.”

“Okay, okay,” Joanna agreed. “I get it.”

“Dr. Lawrence, the ME from Hidalgo County, is faxing over his preliminary report, but Ernie’s been on the phone with him. Detective Carpenter is right here in my office.

Do you want to talk to him?”

“Sure,” Joanna said. “Put him on.” She waited while Frank handed the phone over to Ernie. “So what does Dr. Lawrence have to say for himself?” she asked.

“It’s all pretty interesting,” Ernie answered. “Insect larval evidence would indicate that the two New Mexico victims died a week ago tomorrow.”

Joanna didn’t like to think about how succeeding generations of teeming maggots could be used to estimate the shelf life of corpses that had been left outside to rot in the elements, but she appreciated the fact that the process worked with uncanny accuracy.

‘A week ago?” she asked. “On Tuesday, you mean?”

“That’s right,” Ernie replied. “The same day as Carol Mossman’s murder. What’s even more interesting is this: Both victims were evidently fully clothed when they were shot. The doc found microscopic fabric fibers in the entrance wounds on both victims.”

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“You’re saying they were stripped of their clothing after they were killed?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, ma’am, and, considering the extent of the entrance and exit wounds, whoever did that job must have had an ironclad stomach,” Ernie told her. “First they were moved-carried, most likely, rather than dragged-from where they were killed to where they were found. Then they were stripped and finally tied up.”

“How weird,” Joanna said.

“You’ve got that right,” Ernie agreed. “But Doc Lawrence says that the rope-burn chafing on both victims’ ankles and wrists is definitely indicative of postmortem injury rather than pre.”

‘And if they were carried as opposed to dragged …” Joanna began.

“Then the killer is one strong dude who wants us to think we’re dealing with a sexual predator when we’re really not.”

Joanna thought about this last piece of information. “So we’re not out of line in thinking they were murdered because they were interfering where they weren’t wanted.”

“Which takes us right back to The Brethren,” Ernie agreed.

“I want you to get on the horn to the Mojave County Sheriff’s Department,” Joanna said after a moment’s consideration. “Talk directly to Sheriff Blake if you can.

Let him know what we’re up against, and see if he’ll have his people send us everything they have on The Brethren.”

“I doubt they’ll have much,” Ernie said.

“Maybe you’re right, but we want whatever they do have,” Joanna told him.

When she finished with the phone call, she turned back to the table where she had left Irma Mahilich, only to find it empty.

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Irma had returned to the puzzle table and her magnifying glass, having left behind a set of four completed office drawings. The last one contained seven or eight desks, but without Irma’s commentary, the names meant little.

Joanna approached the puzzle table, carrying the drawings. “Oh, there you are,” Irma Mahilich said. “I’m glad you’re finally off the phone.”

“Could you tell me a little about the people on the last drawing?” Joanna asked.

“No,” Irma said. “I can’t, not today, anyway. Thinking about all those people’s names and what they did has worn me out completely. I need to go take a nap, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you goodbye. Now if you’ll be good enough to tell the receptionist that I’m ready to go back to my room, she’ll call for one of the aides to come get me.”

“I can help you,” Joanna said. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that,” Irma said. “I’m a little slow and I can walk just fine, but I can’t always remember what room I’m in. My neighbors get cranky when I go up and down the halls trying my key in all the doors until I find my own place. Short-term memory loss, they call it. Drives me batty sometimes.”

Joanna looked down at the sheets of paper in her hand and at all the desk-placement arrangements and at the coworkers’ names Irma Mahilich had summoned from that long-ago time. The old woman had been able to recall all kinds of pertinent details concerning her work life and her office mates from thirty and forty years ago, but in the present she was unable to remember the number of her own room.

“It’s room one forty-one,” Joanna said. “And I don’t mind taking you there.”

“Oh, no,” Irma said. “You go on about your business. I’m fine.”

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Joanna nodded, and let Irma do it her way. “Thank you so much for all your help,”

Joanna said. “But is there a time when I could come back and talk to you again?”

‘Anytime,” Irma said. “I’m always here. You’ll probably have to remind me of what this is all about, because I won’t remember from one day to the next. And bring those pieces of paper along with you. It helps me to have something to look at, something physical. As Hercule Poirot might say, that helps get the little gray cells up and working.”

Joanna went to the receptionist’s desk and then waited while a young Hispanic aide in a flowered smock stopped by the puzzle table to accompany Irma Mahilich back to her apartment. Watching their slow progress across the lobby and down a long corridor, Joanna Brady had a sudden awful glimpse of her own future. She could only imagine the vital businesslike young woman Irma Mahilich had been when she held court inside the PD General Office years ago, first as a clerk in the employment office and finally as private secretary to Otto Frayn, the local branch’s general manager.

Was Joanna doomed to have something similar happen to her? Would she one day come to a point when she’d be able to recall details of long-ago murder investigations from her days as sheriff and the names of all the investigators who had worked them while not being able to find her own way home? She hated to think about what a long, slow, debilitating decline like that would mean not only for her and for Butch, but also for her children -for Jenny and for the unborn child she carried in her womb.

And as she made her way to the Ciwie she had left parked outside, for the first time it occurred to her that, tragic as her father’s sudden death may have been, perhaps D. . Lathrop had

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been lucky to go the way he did. Seeing Irma Mahilich made Joanna think that there were far worse alternatives.

It was a subdued and thoughtful Sheriff Brady who drove into the Justice Center parking lot forty minutes later. She stepped into the lobby outside her office long enough to let Kristin know she had arrived, then she returned to her desk and started sifting through stacks of loosely organized papers.

She had barely made a dent in the first pile when there was a tap on the door. She looked up to see the hulking figure of Detective Ernie Carpenter filling her doorway.

The grim set of his mouth told her something was wrong.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Just had a call from University Medical Center,” he said, shaking his head. “Maria Elena Maldonado didn’t make it.”

“The little boy’s mother?”

Ernie nodded. “She died a little over an hour ago. They just now got around to letting us know.”

“Where’s Jaime?” Joanna asked.

“On his way to Tucson to catch his plane,” Ernie replied. “Why?”

Without answering, Joanna picked up her phone and dialed Frank Montoya’s extension.

“Meet Ernie and me over at the jail interview room ASAP,” Joanna told her chief deputy after passing along Ernie’s news. “The three of us are going to have a little chat with our friendly neighborhood SUV driver. You might want to bring along your tape recorder and a fresh tape.”

“Wait a minute,” Ernie said as he followed Joanna down the corridor. “If we’re going to ask him questions, shouldn’t we call his attorney?”

“Who said anything about questions?” Joanna returned.

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“We’re going to give that son of a bitch a message. He’s still jailed as John Doe, isn’t he?”

Ernie gave her a somber, questioning look before nodding. “That’s right, boss. We ran his prints through APIS and came up empty.”

Once at the jail, Joanna detoured long enough to stop by the booking desk before she met up with Frank and Ernie inside the jail’s stark interview room. Joanna took Frank’s proffered recorder and handed it over to Detective Carpenter.

“I’ll talk,” Joanna said. “Frank will translate. Ernie, you listen.”

They were standing, ranged silently around the perimeter of the interview room, when the shackled prisoner, walking with the aid of crutches and with his left foot in a cast, was led inside a few minutes later. The tape recorder, already running, sat on a table in front of Ernie Carpenter.

“Are you interested in having your attorney here?” Joanna asked as soon as the man was seated.

Frank translated the question, and the man shook his head. “I just want to go home,”

he said in Spanish. “Back to Mexico.”

Joanna walked over to the table, stopping only when her face was no more than a foot away from the prisoner’s. “Do you know another of your passengers has died?” Joanna asked as her emerald eyes, blazing with fury, bored into his. “The mother of the little boy you murdered,” she continued. “Now she is dead as well.”

“Not murder,” the man objected, again with Frank translating. ‘An accident. It was only an accident.”

“The deaths occurred in the course of your committing a crime,” Joanna returned.

“Smuggling illegal aliens into this country is a crime-a felony. I’m sure your attorney explained to you

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that when death occurs in the course of committing a felony, that results in an automatic charge of murder.”

“No,” the man said. “It was not my fault. The car was old-“

“Do you believe in heaven and hell?” Joanna asked, interrupting Frank’s translation.

Frank paused before passing along her question, as though he couldn’t quite believe that was what she meant for him to say.

“Go on,” Joanna urged impatiently. ‘Ask him.”

With a reluctant shake of his head, Frank did as he’d been told. Once he heard the question, the prisoner shot Joanna a quizzical look and then shrugged his shoulders dismissively as though the question didn’t merit an answer.

“You’re here as John Doe,” Joanna continued. “You may think that because we don’t know your real name, you can’t be charged with a crime. And the truth of the matter is, because of jurisdictional considerations, we may not be able to hold you here much longer. Federal law may take precedence and you may very well end up being deported.”

The prisoner smiled knowingly and began to nod as Frank neared the end of that translation.

That was how the system usually worked. It was what the driver had expected to happen.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Joanna said. “The one about heaven and hell. Do you believe or not, yes or no?”

“No,” he said.

“But that’s a lie, isn’t it?” Joanna said, pulling a slip of paper out of her pocket.

“I stopped by the property room,” she said. “This is an inventory of your personal possessions, the ones that were taken away from you when you were booked into my jail. The second item here is listed as a crucifix. People who don’t believe in God or in heaven or hell don’t usually wear crucifixes.”

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The prisoner stared at the silently whirring pins in the tape recorder and said nothing.

“So even though I don’t know your real name, God does,” Joanna continued. “You can call what happened an accident if you want, but God knows better. He knows that the blood of all those people-including the blood of that little boy, Eduardo, and his mother, Maria Elena-is on your head and your hands.”

Joanna paused after that and waited for a response that didn’t materialize. “It may be true that you don’t believe in God or in heaven or hell, but you might want to reconsider,” she added several long moments later. “Because when you are deported, I’m going to let it be known among some of our friends in the federales that the reason we let you go is that you told us everything we needed to know about the people behind this coyote syndicate. We’ll say you told us who they are and that we’re just waiting for one of them to cross the border so we can arrest them and put them on trial.”

The prisoner shifted in his seat. For the first time in several minutes, his eyes met Joanna’s. “No,” he objected. “You must not do this. It is a lie. I’ve said nothing to you about them. Nothing.”

“We know that, you know that, and even God knows that,” Joanna agreed with a slight smile. “Unfortunately, the people you work for will not know that. Call Border Patrol,”

Joanna added briskly to Frank. “Tell them to come get Mr. Doe and take him back to Mexico. It’s too much trouble to keep him in my jail any longer.”

The prisoner, who up to now had required a translator, suddenly burst into perfect English. “No, senora,” he begged. “Please. You don’t understand. If they think I have told you anything, they will kill me.”

Joanna shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “That’s your problem and God’s, Mr. Doe, not mine.”

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“But what if I do tell you what you want to know?” he asked. “Then will you let me stay?”

“I can’t say because it’s not up to me,” Joanna replied. “I suggest you call your lawyer and talk to him. Have him see what kind of deal he can negotiate. Your attorney may be able to help you. I can’t.”

Turning her back on the prisoner, Joanna walked as far as the door and knocked on it to summon the guard. “We’re leaving now,” she announced as the guard unlocked and opened the door. “If the prisoner wishes to speak to his attorney, let him use the phone.”

“Wait,” the prisoner called after her. “Senora, wait, please. My name is Ramon-Ramon Alvarez Sandoval. I will tell you whatever it is you want to know, but you must understand that the men I work for are evil. If they find out what I have done, they will kill me, and my family, too.”

Joanna stared hard at the prisoner. She wanted to spit in his face and grind it into the ground. Here was a man whose wanton disregard for others had left a total of seven people dead. And yet he was, as she had told Jaime Carbajal earlier, very small potatoes. Drivers were entirely expendable-to both sides. What she really wanted was a list of the names of the people running the syndicate-the ones giving the orders and collecting their blood money while giving not the slightest consideration to the lives that might be lost in the process.

“You’re right,” Rarnon added softly a moment later. “I do believe in God, and you do, too.”

Slowly Joanna moved away from the door and returned to the table. Not taking her eyes off Ramon, she sat down across from him. “I am only a sheriff,” she said quietly.

“I’m not with INS or the FBI. I’m not a prosecutor. I can’t make plea bargains, 290

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and I can promise nothing, but if you help us put the animals you work for out of business-if you will tell us what you know and agree to testify if they can be brought to trial-I will do what I can to help you. Do you understand?”

Ramon nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Joanna looked at Frank Montoya. “Talk to the prosecutor’s office,” she said. “Check with Arlee Jones and see who all needs to be here to witness Mr. Sandoval’s statement-in addition to Mr. Sandoval himself and his attorney, that is. Then set it up for tomorrow if at all possible!

“But, Sheriff Brady,” Frank began. “There are all kinds of jurisdictional complications here.”

“You’re good at sorting out complications, Chief Deputy Montoya. You always have been. Does this meet with your approval, Mr. Sandoval?”

“Yes,” Ramon said softly.

“Then you’d better talk with your attorney and clear it with him. If he advises you not to go through with this, or if you change your mind, you’re to notify Mr. Montoya here at once. Do you understand?”

“You have given me your word, and I have given mine,” Ramon Sandoval said. “I will not change my mind.”

As Joanna left the jail to walk back to her office, she was not surprised to notice that the sky had darkened overhead. A stiff, cooling breeze took the edge off the July heat and kicked up puffs of dust devils that danced and jigged across the parking lot. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Joanna couldn’t tell if the sudden lift in her spirits came from the possibility of breaking up a major illegal-alien-smuggling syndicate or from the desert dweller’s hard-wired joy at the prospect of coming rain.

Fifteen minutes later Joanna was back at her desk when Ernie 292

Carpenter once again appeared in her doorway. “How the hell did you pull that one off?” he demanded morosely. “Here we busted our butts to get all those UDA interviews, and you never even bothered to mention them.”

“Didn’t have to,” Joanna said. ‘All I had to do was let him know God was on our side.

Once Sandoval understood that, he knuckled right under.”

“Whatever gave you the idea that God was on our side?” Ernie asked.

Sheriff Brady looked at her detective and grinned. “She told me so Herself,” Joanna said.

“Right,” Ernie Carpenter returned, shaking his head. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I!” He was still shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he turned to walk away.

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You’re looking chipper,” Frank Montoya said the next morning as he entered Joanna’s office for the daily briefing, which would include the previous day’s skipped briefing as well.

It helped that Joanna had gotten a decent night’s sleep for a change. She had come home to find Butch and Jenny both excited about the prospect of a publisher’s making him an offer on Serve and Protect. That good news, combined with a nice dinner and a rainstorm pounding down on the roof, had made for a restful night’s sleep. And once again this morning’s nausea hadn’t been quite as rough as that on previous days.

“I’m feeling half-human for a change,” Joanna replied with a smile. “Which reminds me, I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at two for my first prenatal checkup.

You’ll be here, won’t you?”

“Sure will,” Frank said. “But I’ll be busy. One o’clock is when 294

the Sandoval meeting is scheduled to take place. That’s the soonest I could gather everyone together.”

“Where will you hold it?” Joanna asked.

“The conference room here,” Frank answered. “There are too many people coming for them to all fit in the interview room at the jail.”

“Have you talked to Sandoval’s attorney?”

“Twice,” Frank said. “Her name’s Amy Templeton. I suggested she have Sandoval show up dressed the same way he would if he was going to court rather than in his jail jumpsuit. I also suggested that they ditch the translation pretense. Sandoval’s English is fine, and dealing with a translator may wind up pissing off some of the people he needs to have in his corner. That’s what I told her, but I probably didn’t need to. She says her firm is already working on the details of a deal for Sandoval. She expects to have it pulled together in time for this afternoon’s meeting.”

“What firm?” Joanna asked.

“Gabriel Gomez, down in Douglas.”

“The immigration attorney?” Joanna asked. “You mean Richard Osmond’s girlfriend’s daddy?”

Frank nodded.

“The one who’s going to take us to court for Osmond’s wrongful death?”

“One and the same,” Frank replied. “But I think Gomez has changed his mind on that score. With an autopsy diagnosis of metastasized pancreatic cancer, it would be pretty hard to make a wrongful-death charge stick.”

Joanna allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “When’s Osmond’s funeral?” she asked.

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“Yesterday,” Frank said.

“I suppose the department should have sent flowers.”

“We did,” Frank told her.

Joanna looked at her chief deputy in absolute gratitude. “I’m not sure how I’d ever get along without you, Frank.”

“Good.” Frank grinned. “It’s nice to be indispensable. Let’s keep it that way. Now how about getting down to business?”

Most of the items up for discussion were strictly routine, including the usual fender-benders and DUIs. The fierce storm that had marched through Cochise County the night before had caused numerous power outages. Running water on the road between Double Adobe and Elfrida had once again stranded several motorists who had required rescue for both themselves and their vehicles. A divorcing couple from Sun Sites had gotten into a domestic-violence beef over who would have custody of their Old English sheepdog, Casey. The husband and wife were now both cooling their heels in the Cochise County Jail, while the dog had been taken into custody by Animal Control. In Bisbee Junction, a rancher’s herd of cattle had gotten loose and had damaged gardens and fruit trees on three separate properties.

Only at the end of the session did Joanna pass along the information she had gleaned from her long discussion with Edith Mossman.

“Jeez!” Frank exclaimed when he heard about Eddie Mossman’s long history of abusing his daughters. “And now there’s another daughter involved?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d as soon shoot the bastard and put him out of his misery.”

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“I’d rather find a way to lock him up for good,” Joanna replied. “And with any kind of luck, we will. Did Ernie come up with any information on The Brethren from Sheriff Drake?”

“Not so far,” Frank said. ‘I’ll let you know if and when he does.”

Finally she handed over copies of Irma Mahilich’s pencil drawings. “What are these?”

Frank asked as he stared down at the rectangles with their spidery handwritten labels.

“They’re road maps of the Phelps Dodge General Office in Bisbee circa 1975,” Joanna told him. “Compliments of Irma Mahilich. She verified that the Deportation weapons were handed out to whatever employees were interested in taking them home. I’ve got shorthand information on all of the people listed, except for the ones on this last page-the one that’s marked page four. I’ll transcribe my notes, so whoever goes looking for these folks to interview them will have at least that much information at their disposal.”

“I recognize some of the names,” Frank said, examining the sheet. “Some of them still live around here. Others”-he shrugged-“I’ve never heard of.”

Joanna nodded. “That’s why I think we should hand this job off to Ernie. As far as Bisbee’s concerned, he’s an old-timer, and these people will talk to him. As soon as I finish with the notes, I’ll get them to him. And later on today, if I can, I’ll talk to Irma again and find out about the people on page four. How are you doing on the phone records?” she added. “I still want to know when Eddie Mossman first heard about Carol’s death.”

“It’s not easy getting phone records from Mexico,” Frank replied. “But we know Mossman said his daughter Stella is the one who told him. So I’ve fallen back on my old pal at the phone

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company, and I’m requesting information on Stella Adams’s phones as well.”

Once Frank left her office, Joanna quickly transcribed her notes, keying them into her computer. When she had printed copies in hand, she asked Kristin to deliver a set to Ernie Carpenter. Then she began wading her way through the paperwork jungle.

She was deep into it when Jaime Carbajal called from California.

“We’ve hit pay dirt here,” he said.

“How so?” Joanna asked. “Tell me.”

“I got a look at the download of one of Carmen Ortega’s film segments. It’s dynamite.

It shows a wedding ceremony between a horny old coot named Harold Lassiter and a twelve-year-old girl.”

Joanna felt a clutch in her gut. “Cecilia Mossman?” she asked.

“You’ve got it,” Jaime returned. “Mossman married his daughter off to a guy who has to be sixty if he’s a day. Lassiter’s other four wives were all there at the ceremony with him, waiting to welcome poor little Cecilia into the family while Eddie Mossman himself was proud to give the so-called bride away. It was enough to make me want to puke. Cecilia’s there swimming in a wedding dress that must be five sizes too big for her. The poor kid looks like she’s scared to death.”

“Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega filmed the whole wedding?” Joanna demanded. “How the hell did they pull that one off?”

“I don’t know how they did it, but they did. It’s pretty damning stuff. If nothing else, we should be able to nail Mossman on transporting a minor across state lines for immoral purpose. It may be an international border, but it’s still, by God, a state line. Is Deputy Howell still keeping an eye on Mossman?”

“As far as I know. I haven’t pulled her off him, and I don’t think Frank has, either.”

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“Well, good, let’s keep him under observation long enough to arrest him.”

“I still can’t believe they got it on film,” Joanna murmured.

“They must have had a contact inside the Lassiter family compound. They used a hidden, stationary camera,” Jaime told her. “It’s not great-quality film, but believe me, it’s plenty good enough.”

‘And if someone found out about the filming later on, after the wedding, that would explain Eddie Mossman’s death threat, because taking the film public would blow the cover off The Brethren’s dirty little secrets. So is there any sign of that death threat in either Pam Davis’s or Carmen Ortega’s work e-mail accounts?”

“No. The Fandango Productions Web site has a link to their corporate generic e-mail account. They say that the receptionist checks that one and personally forwards mail to the proper department managers. That’s where the threat showed up.”

“So,” Joanna said thoughtfully, “whoever sent them knew the victims’ names and where they worked, but didn’t take the time to figure out their personal e-mail addresses.”

“Right,” Jaime agreed. “It came through an ISP located in Mexico and from Ed Mossman’s account, but that doesn’t mean he was actually in Mexico when he sent it or even that it was sent by him personally.” Jaime paused and then added after a moment, “Considering The Brethren’s subsistence-style living conditions, it’s amazing to think that they’re even into computers and digital cameras.”

Unlike her detective, Joanna found the technical end of things far less compelling than the people connections. “What I want to know is who put Davis and Ortega on the trail of all

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this?” Joanna asked. “Somebody must have clued them in about Cecilia’s upcoming wedding and put them in touch with Carol Mossman.”

“I believe I may have found an answer for that,” Jaime Carbajal replied. “Remember Eddie Mossman’s other daughter?”

“Andrea?” Joanna asked.

“That’s the one. I found her name and address in Pam Davis’s e-mail address book.

Pam Davis evidently handled most of the business e-mail. I’ve glanced through Carmen’s email correspondence and it’s mostly personal-familyand-friends kind of stuff. Pam Davis, on the other hand, routinely deleted her e-mails as soon as she read them, as though she was concerned someone might go looking through her correspondence and find out something she didn’t want them to find. I’m checking into whether or not any of those deleted messages can still be retrieved through Fandango’s ISP. In the meantime, if I were a betting man, I’d say Andrea Mossman is our missing link here.”

“So would I,” Joanna agreed, “especially in view of what Edith Mossman told me about her yesterday.” She went on to relate what she knew about Andrea Mossman’s work with the support organization known as God’s Angels. There was a long pause after Joanna finished her recitation.

“Three people are dead already,” Jaime said finally. “What are the chances that Andrea Mossman is on the list of people to be taken out?”

“That thought occurred to me, too,” Joanna said. “I’ll talk it over with Frank and decide what we should do.”

“There’s one more thing,” Jaime added. “I got a look at Pam Davis’s appointment calendar for the first of July. She and Car

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men were scheduled to meet Carol Mossman at her mobile home at eleven that morning.

When he did the autopsy, Doc Winfield estimated Carol’s time of death as between eight and nine. I’m thinking that whoever killed Carol knew the reporters were coming and waited around to nail them as well.”

“Sounds plausible,” Joanna said. “But how did the killer know what was up? If The Brethren had a team of highly technical hackers, it’s possible someone there might have accessed Pam’s e-mail account or checked her calendar.”

“If you’d seen the insides of that one house on the Lassiter compound,” Jaime said, “you’d know that a compound-based hacker is highly unlikely.”

“Then the simplest option is that someone who knew what was going on told someone else. And the person who has the most connections going in every direction would be Andrea Mossman. If she’s been helping women and children once they escape the cult, she’s the one most likely to still have connections inside it.”

“I’m not going to be able to leave here much before late this afternoon,” Jaime said.

“Maybe Ernie could run up to Tucson and have a talk with Andrea Mossman.”

Ernie’s already booked, Joanna thought. But I’m not. “I’ll see what I can do,” Joanna said.

The moment she put down the phone, she punched the intercom button. “Kristin,” she said, “I’m going to have to go up to Tucson for a little while. Please call Dr. Lee’s office and see if he can reschedule my appointment for some time later this week-Thursday or Friday, maybe.”

“What about Rotary?”

“Rotary?” Joanna asked.

“Yes. The San Pedro Valley Rotary Club luncheon. It’s today 301

at noon out at the Rob Roy Country Club. You and Ken Junior are both scheduled to speak.”

“Ken’s on his own then,” Joanna said. “Work comes before politicking, and this is work. Please call them and explain.”

“When will you be back?” Kristin asked.

“I’m not sure,” Joanna said. “I’ll let you know.”

It was a two-hour, one-hundred-mile drive from the Justice Center to Tucson, and the long period of relative quiet gave Joanna time to think about what she would say once she located Andrea Mossman. Is it best to show up with no advance warning?

Joanna wondered. Or, since I’m accosting her at work, should I call to let her know that I’m on my way?”

Eventually, she opted for the latter choice and used her cell phone’s direct-connect feature to reach the Chemistry Department at the University of Arizona.

“Andrea Mossman,” Joanna said.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Mossman isn’t in today.” The female voice on the telephone sounded young, probably a student putting herself through school on a work/study program.

“I believe there’s been a death in her family.”

“I know,” Joanna responded, thinking quickly. “I’m with Grant Road Flowers. I have a bouquet for her. I was directed to bring it to her at work, but if you happened to have her home address available …”

“Of course,” the young woman on the telephone said, falling for what Joanna considered to be a lame ploy. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll be glad to get that for you.”

Half an hour later, Joanna pulled up in front of a small redbrick house on South Fourth Avenue in an old barrio neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. The tiny house, with its steeply pitched roof and old-fashioned front porch, looked as 302

though it might once have served as a mom-and-pop grocery store. A sign in faded Chinese characters still lingered over the front door, which was inset into the right front corner of the building. Inside, the shades on all windows were pulled all the way down to the wooden sills. Parked in a space just to the left of the door was a bright green late-model VW Beetle.

With no sign of movement coming from inside the house, Joanna took the time to pull in behind the Bug and run the plates. The results were back within moments, confirming that Andrea Mossman was the VW’s registered owner.

Her sense of apprehension growing, Joanna turned off the Ciwie’s engine and stepped out of her air-conditioned vehicle into Tucson’s midday midsummer heat. The one-hundred plus-degree temperature pounded into her head. Sunlight glared off the sidewalk with blinding intensity while, from somewhere nearby, the too-sweet smell of freshly baked bread filled Joanna’s nostrils. Usually the scent of bread baking would be a welcome one, but not today. That odor, combined with the almost unbearable heat, teamed up to leave Joanna feeling more than slightly woozy.

There was no bell, so Joanna knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again, hard enough to hurt her knuckles. Finally, just when she was considering whether or not she should call Tucson PD and ask for help, there was the smallest motion on the corner of a pull-down shade in one of the front windows.

“Who is it?” a female voice asked. “Go away. I don’t want any.”

“It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna replied. “From Cochise County. I need to talk to you about your sister’s death.”

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“Show me your badge,” Andrea Mossman replied. “Drop it through the mail slot.”

Grateful to hear that Andrea Mossman was exercising some caution, Joanna did as she was told. Moments later, after a series of locks had been unlatched, the door opened and she was allowed inside.

Compared to the humble exterior the building showed to the world, Andrea Mossman’s home wasn’t at all what Joanna had expected. The tiny living room was a full thirty degrees cooler than the outside temperature, a feat performed by new and highly efficient air-conditioning equipment. The rooms Joanna could see had been fully remodeled and painted in bright colors paired with an assortment of mismatched but highly whimsical furniture. A hardwood floor, broken by thick rugs, gleamed underfoot. And, although shades remained drawn, the recessed lighting and well-placed lamps made the small room seem both bright and cozy, which was more than could be said for Andrea Mossman.

Joanna had never seen Carol Mossman in the flesh, but the resemblance between Andrea and her younger sister, Stella Adams, was downright spooky. Both had the same mousy light brown hair that must have come from their mother, Cynthia. Both had the same haunted-looking eyes, although Andrea wore glasses and Stella didn’t. Andrea wore a faded cotton robe and carried a box of tissues. She looked as though she’d been crying.

“I had no idea Pam and Carmen were dead,” she said, half sobbing. “Not until a few minutes ago, when Grandma called to tell me. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Joanna said gently, “but it is true, Ms. Mossman.”

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Andrea Mossman sank into an overstuffed easy chair covered in a fabric with a pattern of bright-pink peony blossoms and yellow butterflies. “I was about to get dressed and come to Bisbee to talk to you,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“May I sit down?” Joanna asked.

Andrea nodded woodenly and motioned Joanna onto a small bright yellow leather couch.

On her way out of the office, Sheriff Brady had paused long enough to collect a pocket-size tape recorder. She pulled it out of her purse and set it on a nearby end table. Then she took out her cell phone and switched it off.

“Do you mind if I record this conversation?” she asked.

“No,” Andrea said. “Go ahead.”

Joanna switched on the recorder. After identifying herself and giving the time and date, she introduced Andrea Mossman. “And you know why I’m here?” she asked.

“Of course I do,” Andrea replied. She stopped long enough to force down a sob. “It’s because all of this is my fault.”

“Your fault?” Joanna asked. “Why is that?”

“Because I’m the one who heard what Pam and Carmen were looking for,” Andrea said in a rush. “One of my clients-one of the former Brethren women whose children I helped counsel and who ended up living in L.A.-somehow learned that Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega were looking for a way to do a story-an insider’s story-on The Brethren and what goes on with them.” Andrea paused and looked closely at Joanna’s face. “You do know what goes on, don’t you?”

Joanna nodded. “I have a pretty good idea,” she said grimly. “Your grandmother told me some of it, but I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

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Andrea Mossman’s face darkened. “Among The Brethren, women are nothing, and girls are less than that. They’re pieces of property, to be traded back and forth. And abused. For some of the girls, it’s the first thing they remember. For others, it’s the first thing they forget.

“Pam had heard about me through that former client. She contacted me and asked if I would help her put together a story on The Brethren. That same client has a son named Josiah who still lives in the family compound up in northern Arizona-out on what they call the Arizona Strip. He helped his mother get out, and he’s functioned as a spy for us ever since. Among The Brethren, boys are given far more freedom to come and go than women and girls are-it’s a lot like the Taliban that way. Josiah has been able to smuggle messages in and out for us. It was through him that I found out about …”

“Cecilia’s wedding?” Joanna suggested quietly.

Andrea glanced quickly at Joanna’s face, then she nodded. “You know about that, too-about my father’s other family?”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t have told you Josiah’s name,” Andrea said. “If anyone finds out he helped us …”

“He’d be in danger, too?” Joanna asked.

“What do you think?” Andrea broke off. After a minute or so, she went on. “If it hadn’t been for Josiah, I wouldn’t have known what was going on. I didn’t think I could stop it, but Pam and Carmen convinced me that if they could film the wedding itself and make it public, maybe there would be enough publicity so we could bring Cecilia out of there and try to give her some kind of normal life. They said they needed enough damning evidence to blow The Brethren sky-high-something 306

so compelling that even the mainstream media would be forced to pick it up.”

“So you made arrangements for Josiah to help Pam and Carmen film the wedding.”

Andrea nodded.

‘And how did you contact them?” Joanna asked.

“Once or twice I emailed them, but usually I used a phone card and pay phones. I didn’t want to have anything traceable back to me.”

“One of my detectives found your e-mail address in Pam Davis’s e-mail address book,”

Joanna said.

Andrea’s face darkened. “I warned Pam about how dangerous these people can be,” she said softly. “But I don’t think she believed me.”

“Tell me about Carol,” Joanna urged. “I’m assuming you’re the one who put Pam and Carmen in touch with her.”

Andrea nodded again. “Everything I have-everything I own-this house, my education, my car, my independence-I owe to Carol. She’s the one who saved us-Stella and me.

She really did bring us out of the wilderness. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d probably have been sold off into indentured servitude in some family compound the same way Cecilia has been. But Carol called Grandma and made arrangements for train tickets.

Then she hustled us onto the train. She tried her best to get Kelly to come with us, but she wouldn’t. That was awful for Carol. Kelly simply refused to go. If Carol had tried to take her by force, none of the rest of us would have gotten away. So the three of us left and Kelly stayed, God help her. She’s twenty-five now. It breaks my heart to think of the kind of hell her life must be. It broke Carol’s heart, too.”

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“So Carol saved you,” Joanna breathed.

Andrea Mossman nodded as tears began to course down her cheeks. She dabbed at them fitfully with a tissue. “She saved us, but she couldn’t save herself. Maybe it’s because Stella and I were younger than Carol was. Somehow we were able to find our sea legs and go on. Once I got into school, I was so hungry to be educated, nothing could stop me. And Stella found Denny, but Carol never found anybody or anything.”

“Except her dogs,” Joanna offered.

“Yes,” Andrea agreed. “Her dogs. They were always hungry and needy and mostly discarded purebreds, but she loved them to distraction. She always thought she could take one more, and then one more and one more after that, until it would get to be too much and the whole house of cards would come tumbling down. That’s when Grandma would step into the breach again and fix whatever needed fixing.”

“What about Pam and Carmen?” Joanna urged.

“When I found out they were willing to pay for some interviews with some of the women who had escaped The Brethren, I thought, why not put them in touch with Carol? Here was a woman-a potentially wonderful, capable woman-whose whole life had been torn apart by what my father and The Brethren did to her. It’s one thing to show a little girl being married off to an ugly old man. That’s bad enough. But when I told Pam and Carmen about Carol, they were interested in doing a story about the long-term ill effects of what The Brethren do. They wanted to interview both Stella and Carol.

I told them talking to Stella was a bad idea. I knew she wouldn’t be interested, but Carol was in a bind for money.”

“How did you know she needed money?”

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“Carol always needed money,” Andrea replied. “This time she had gone so far as to ask me to help, and I didn’t,” Andrea said hopelessly, tears welling up again. “I had some money set aside for a vacation next year, after I finally get my Ph.D. I wasn’t willing to spend it on vaccinating that latest batch of stray dogs. And so I turned her down, but I put Pam and Carmen in touch with Carol instead. Call it guilt on my part, because it’s true, but it was also a way for Carol to have the money she needed without my having to come up with it and without Grandma’s having to do it, either. I thought I was helping, I really did.”

Andrea paused and stared off into the middle distance. “What happened then?” Joanna urged.

Andrea swallowed hard. “Carol died. I didn’t know exactly when Pam and Carmen were supposed to see her, so I fooled myself into thinking that Carol’s death was just a random act of violence, that it had nothing at all to do with The Brethren, or with Pam and Carmen, either. And I believed that, right up until this morning, when I talked to Grandma. Then I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That my father killed them, and Carol, too,” Andrea said quietly. ‘And now he wants to take Carol’s body back to Mexico with him. It’s like he’s not willing to let any of us escape, not even in death. I’m afraid he’ll come looking for me next, Sheriff Brady, and if he does-if he even so much as comes near me-I swear to God, I’ll kill him myself.”

Somehow Joanna understood this was no idle threat. “I wouldn’t advise that, Ms. Mossman,”

she said. “We currently have your father under surveillance based on the fact that he’s been the object of a previous death threat-one from your grandmother,” she added with a slight smile. “And now one from

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you. I’m confident that we’re going to find a way to charge him with something. That way he’ll end up in jail rather than going back to Mexico, with or without Carol’s remains. In the meantime, however, I believe it’s possible that you yourself are in danger. Do you have anywhere you can go? Is there anyplace you can stay?”

“The people I work with have safe houses,” Andrea said quietly.

“Go to one of them,” Joanna urged. “Just for the time being. Give us a chance to find out exactly what happened to Carol and to Pam and Carmen. It’s early in the investigations. We’re in the process of sorting out the forensics and gathering evidence.

Once we make our case, that will be plenty of time for you to come out of hiding.”

Andrea nodded. “You’re right,” she said. ‘And I will. But you should probably talk to Stella, too. If I’m in danger, so is she.” She paused. “But there is one thing,”

she added.

“What’s that?” Joanna asked.

“If you can, don’t mention to her that I’m the one who put Pam and Carmen in touch with Carol. Stella’s done a better job than any of us at putting the past behind her and getting on with her life.”

Joanna nodded. She switched off the tape recorder and then stood to go. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a business card. “Call me tomorrow and let me know you’re okay and where you are so I can be in touch with you if I need to.”

“I will,” Andrea said. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”

Outside, early-afternoon Tucson temperatures scorched sidewalks, softened pavements, and made the door handle and steering wheel of the Civvie too hot to touch, but Joanna barely noticed. Her whole being simmered with contempt for a wormy 310

little weasel named Eddie Mossman-a man whose betrayal of his daughters went against everything Joanna herself believed in and held dear.

“We’ll get you, you lousy bastard,” she vowed aloud once she eased herself down on the skin-searing seat. “One way or another, we’re taking you down.”

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On the hundred-mile drive back to Bisbee, a bank of beautifully mountainous thunderclouds, fat with the promise of still more much-needed rain, piled up over the mountainous silhouettes of the Chiricahuas and Dragoons. After only two days of summer monsoons, the shoulders of the highway were already tinged with green, as dormant seeds of grass and weeds sprang to life.

Ordinarily, Joanna Brady would have reveled in this summer miracle, but today she was as blind to the desert’s annual transformation as, earlier, she had been unaware of Tucson’s heat. With her mind focused totally on the job, her initially angry resolve to deal with Eddie Mossman gradually evolved into questions of strategy.

What was her duty here? What was her responsibility as sheriff, and what was required of her as a human being? Although as yet there was no physical evidence to support such a theory, Andrea Mossman -was clearly operating under the 312

assumption that her father, Ed Mossman, had murdered his own daughter, Carol, and that he posed a danger to his other surviving children as well.

Andrea had asked Joanna to warn Stella. What kind of connection existed between Stella and her father? Were the two of them on better terms than he had been with Carol and Andrea? Ed Mossman claimed Stella was the one who had notified him of Carol’s death. Stella might have placed calls from someplace other than her own home, but Joanna had little reason to doubt that Stella Adams’s telephone records, once found, would back up that claim. Unless, of course, Ed Mossman had already been only too well aware of his daughter’s murder.

How do you go about delivering this kind of news? Joanna asked herself. It was hard enough to tell someone that their loved one was somehow unexpectedly dead. What could she say-what should she say-to Stella Adams? And how could she go about warning Stella without necessarily revealing that Ed Mossman was coming into view as a prime suspect in three separate homicides?

The safety of Stella Adams and her family was important, but so was Joanna’s responsibility-her duty-to bring a killer to justice. Her investigators were counting on Sheriff Brady to conduct herself in a fashion that didn’t interfere with the successful resolution of the case. So were the voters of Cochise County. Now was no time for her to go Lone Rangering into a situation that might very well blow up in her face.

Joanna glanced at the clock on the dash. Two o’clock. That meant that both Frank Montoya and Ernie Carpenter might still be up to their eyeballs in the Ramon Sandoval meeting. This was no time to interrupt them, either.

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She radioed into Dispatch. “See if you can hook me up with Deputy Howell,” Joanna told Tica Romero. “I want to know how she’s doing with keeping an eye on Ed Mossman.”

When her phone rang a few minutes later, she thought it might be Debbie Howell getting back to her. Instead it was Butch. “Where are you?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

“Coming back from Tucson.”

“You missed your appointment with Dr. Lee.” It was a statement rather than a question.

An accusation, really.

“Yes,” Joanna admitted. “I did. I had to cancel it. Something came up-something important.”

“This baby’s important, too,” Butch said. “Dr. Lee’s office just called to verify that the appointment has been reset for tomorrow morning at ten. I told his receptionist that you’d be there on time if I have to bring you in myself.”

“I’ll be there,” Joanna said. There was a long pause. “Any word from Drew Mabrey?”

Joanna added, more to fill up the uneasy silence than anything else.

“Nothing,” Butch said. “But I’ve got better things to do than just hang out by the telephone waiting for it to ring.”

That was when Joanna figured out that the annoyance in Butch’s voice had far more to do with his case of nerves about what was going on with the manuscript than it did with his being upset about her missing a doctor’s appointment. During the long months when Drew Mabrey had reported one rejection after another, Butch had resigned himself to the idea that the manuscript might never be sold. Now, with a glimmer of hope, the anxiety was excruciating.

“Will you be home for dinner?” he asked.

“Yes,” Joanna replied, without mentioning the fact that she 314

had missed lunch altogether. “I’ll be home as close to six as I can make it.”

Tica radioed back only seconds after Joanna finished the call with Butch. “Deputy Howell says to tell you Mr. Mossman has been holed up in his room out at San Jose Lodge all afternoon. She says she’s been keeping an eye on him, and he isn’t going anywhere without her.”

“Great,” Joanna said. “Tell her to keep up the good work.”

By then the towering clouds had mounded ever higher in the sky. When she came through St. David, a black curtain of rain had settled over the Dragoons, completely obliterating the mountain range from view. By the time Joanna started through Tombstone sixteen miles later, rain was pelting so hard against the windshield that the wipers barely made a dent in the water. Even at the posted limit of twenty-five miles per hour, she could hardly see to drive. At least an inch of water covered the roadway, and every passing vehicle raised a blinding spray in its wake.

Then, as suddenly as Joanna had driven into the cloudburst, she emerged on the far side of it into blazingly bright sunlight that turned the pavement surface a shimmering silver. Switching off the air-conditioning, she opened the windows and left them open. In the aftermath of the storm, outside temperatures had dropped a good twenty degrees. The distinctively refreshing smell of summer rain on sun-warmed creosote bushes washed through the Civvie. It wasn’t enough to dispel all her concerns about the impending visit with Stella Adams, but it helped.

When Joanna reached the Divide outside Bisbee, the storm clouds had been replaced by bright blue, rain-washed skies. The pavement on the road was still slightly wet, while hundreds of tiny waterfalls cascaded down the rocky cliffs of the Mule Mountains.

On both sides of the Divide, washes ran bank to bank with 315

muddy, swiftly moving water. As a lifelong resident of southern Arizona, Joanna knew how treacherous those fast-moving floods of water could be. Every year someone, usually a hapless visitor from out of state, would drown after being surprised by floodwaters from a downpour that had happened miles away.

Ignoring the turnoff to the Justice Center, Joanna drove straight to Stella and Denny Adams’s home on Arizona Street, just across from Warren Ballpark. There were no cars parked in the driveway or on the street in front of the low-slung iron fence, but Joanna parked along a concrete-lined drainage ditch. It, too, was running with several inches of swiftly moving water. Then she walked across a narrow footbridge, through a gate, and up onto the front porch, where she rang the doorbell.

Inside she heard the muffled sound of a television set tuned to something that sounded like MTV Moments after the doorbell rang, the TV set was silenced. A few seconds after that, the door opened and there stood Nathan Adams. The sight of him was enough to take Joanna’s breath away. When she had first seen Eddie Mossman, she remembered that he had looked familiar somehow, even though she was certain she had never seen the man before. Now she knew why. Nathan Adams looked just like Eddie Mossman-just like his grandfather.

Or was it also, Joanna wondered for the first time, just like his father? No one had said as much. No one had admitted that, at the time Carol Mossman had fled Mexico with her two younger sisters, Stella might have been pregnant with her own father’s child. And the simple fact that no one had mentioned it made Joanna wonder that much more whether it was true.

“Yeah?” Nathan said. “Whaddya want?”

“Is your mother home?” Joanna managed. “There’s something I need to talk to her about.”

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“She’s not here.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

Nathan Adams shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “Could be an hour or two, maybe longer.”

“What about your dad?” Joanna asked hopefully.

“He stays at an apartment up in Tucson during the week,” Nathan explained. “He’s usually only home on weekends.”

“Oh,” Joanna said. “I’ll be going then.”

“Want me to have her call you when she gets in?”

“No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. I’ll talk with her tomorrow.”

As Joanna walked back across the wide porch, the door slammed behind her. A moment later, the atonal thumping of MTV returned. Joanna retreated to the Ciwie and then sat there for several long minutes without turning the key in the ignition.

Is that the truth? she wondered. Is Nathan the product of an incestuous relationship between Stella and her father:1 And if so, does he have any idea about the truth of the situation?

Joanna remembered Nathan as he had appeared when she had first laid eyes on him that day in the lobby of the Justice Center. He had struck her as a surly, smart-alecky teenager-typical, in other words. She had thought him spoiled, doted on, and more than a little obnoxious, but normal-utterly normal. But could you be a normal teenager if you knew that kind of awful truth about your parentage?

Kids exist in a herd mentality. They want to fit in-want to be just like everyone else. That’s why they wear the same kinds of clothes, watch the same television programs, listen to the same music. But could you fit in if you knew that you existed because your mother had been impregnated by her own father?

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It came to Joanna then in a flash of insight. “He doesn’t know!” she almost shouted, pounding the steering wheel with her fist. “Nathan Adams has no idea!”

Joanna’s hands trembled as she turned the ignition key and put the Crown Victoria in gear. Meanwhile the gears in Joanna’s head were meshing as well. And if Nathan doesn’t know, that’s because Stella’s been keeping it a secret. And if Carol was going public, the secret was about to come out.

There it was laid out before her so clearly that Joanna wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. Andrea was convinced that her father was Carol’s murderer, but this made far more sense. Here was motive-a protective mother’s motive-understandable, utterly implacable, and absolutely deadly.

Joanna headed straight for the department. Without being aware of her speed, she found herself doing seventy down the Warren Cutoff. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to pull her foot off the gas pedal and drive sensibly. She parked the Civvie behind her office and darted inside. As soon as she put her purse down, she hurried over to the door.

Kristin looked up from her desk, surprised to see her,. “What are you doing here?”

she said. “I thought you’d go straight home from Tucson.”

“Something came up. Where’s Frank?”

“Still in the conference room with Ernie and those other guys,” Kristin answered.

“They must be having a great time in there. A few of them have come out for pee stops, but they’re obviously still going strong.” She gave Joanna a close look. “You seem upset,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Joanna said, “nothing’s wrong. But let me know as soon as Frank comes out.

Tell him I need to see him. What about Jaime Carbajal? Has anyone heard from him?”

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“Not as far as I know.”

Joanna returned to her office and tried calling Jaime’s cell phone. It rang several times, and she hung up without leaving a message. Frustrated, she stared at the mounds of untouched paperwork covering almost every square inch of her desk. Finally her eye settled on the last of Irma Mahilich’s General Office drawings-the one marked page 4. The paper sat directly in front of her just where she’d left it. Something drew Joanna’s eyes to the far-right corner of the paper where, although she hadn’t noticed it before, a single name stood out: Adams-Anna Wakefield Adams.

Staring at the words written in Irma Mahilich’s spidery script, a string of names tumbled through Joanna’s mind: Stella Adams. Denny Adams. Anna Wakefield Adams. Joanna had known of Denny Adams. He had been younger than Joanna by several years, so they hadn’t been in school together, but she knew the name. Now she wondered if Anna Adams and Denny were related. She looked up the number in the telephone directory and called the Ferndale Retirement Center.

“Irma Mahilich,” she said to the person who answered.

“I’ll ring her room for you.”

“No,” Joanna said. “Don’t do that. Let me speak to the receptionist. The one at the front desk.” ,

A moment later another voice came on the line. “May I help you?”

“This is Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said quickly. “I’m trying to reach Irma Mahilich.

Is there a chance she’s sitting out in the lobby working on a jigsaw puzzle?”

“Yes,” the receptionist said. “She’s right there. If this is important, I could have her come take the call here at the desk.”

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Joanna let her breath out. “Yes, it is important,” she said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

After an interminable wait, Irma’s voice rang over the phone. “I’m here,” she said irritably. “Who is this? What do you want?”

“It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said.

“I can’t hear a thing. Wait while I fix my hearing aid. Now, who are you again?”

“I’m Joanna Brady. You know, D. . Lathrop’s little girl.”

“Oh, yes. I remember you. You came to my house selling Girl Scout cookies that one year. I think I even bought some from you. Thin Mints, I believe. Those were always my favorites. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering about someone who used to work with you,” Joanna said slowly. “Someone who worked with you in the General Office.” Joanna picked up the drawing and studied it. “Her name was Anna Adams, and she worked upstairs. Her desk was just to the right of the stairs-between them and your office.”

“Oh, yes, Anna,” Irma said. “I remember her. Her husband ran off with another woman and left her to bring up her son on her own. Dennis, I believe his name was. Fortunately, she had her parents to fall back on, so she had a place to live and someone to help her look after the baby when she had to go to work. Once PD shut down, I don’t have any idea what became of her. She probably transferred up to Silver City or over to Playas. Unlike the rest of us, Anna was way too young to retire.”

‘And when Mr. Frayn was passing out those guns,” Joanna asked softly, “do you happen to remember whether or not Anna Adams took one?”

“Took one!” Irma practically whooped. “Are you kidding?

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When they handed out guns, that girl was first in line. She said she wanted one of her own. She said if that worthless husband of hers ever came nosing around again, she was going to plug him full of holes.”

Irma paused. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “Who did you say you were again?”

“Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “Thank you so much for your help.”

She put down the phone and sat there thinking about how a gun that had once been used by company-hired vigilantes to march union protesters to the Warren Ballpark had now, more than eighty years later, come home to roost in a house directly across the street from that very same ballpark.

The phone rang. When Joanna answered, Deputy Debbie Howell was on the line and fighting mad. “Some son of a bitch messed with my vehicle, Sheriff Brady,” Debbie Howell stormed.

“Mossman came out of his room, got in his car, and drove away. I had gone into the restaurant long enough to use the facilities. When I came out, he was getting into his car and leaving, so I hustled after him. He drove out to the highway and turned left like he was headed back into town. My Blazer started fine, but two miles down the road, just short of the junction with Highway 92, it conked out on me. It acts like it’s out of gas, but I just filled it. I think maybe somebody put sugar in the gas tank.”

“What kind of vehicle is he driving?” Joanna asked.

“A Hertz rental,” Debbie replied. “A late-model white Ford Taurus. I passed the vehicle description and license info along to Dispatch so people can be on the lookout for it. I’m sorry I dropped the ball on this one, Sheriff Brady. I really thought I had it under control.”

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“How long ago did you lose sight of him?”

“Only about ten minutes.”

“He can’t have gotten too far then,” Joanna said. “I’m sure we’ll find him. What about you?”

“Motor Pool is sending a tow truck to bring me back to the department.”

“See you here,” Joanna said.

As she put down the phone, Frank Montoya sauntered into her office. Grinning, he held both thumbs up in the air. “I think you scored a bull’s-eye, boss,” he said.

“How’s that?”

“Senor Sandoval knows more than anyone thought possible, and he’s naming names that the feds want to hear-people on both sides of the border. The FBI is taking him into custody, so he’ll be out of our bailiwick and into theirs. We’re also handing over the interviews you had us do.”

“Great,” Joanna said.

Frank homed in on her lack of enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know where to start,” she responded. “But maybe you should get Ernie in here before I do.”

Frank and Ernie listened in almost total silence. When Joanna finished, Ernie nodded.

“You could be right about all this,” he observed. “It’s not like it used to be in the old days. Now, having an out-of-wedlock child is no big deal, but this is incest.

And if all of this is a result of Stella Adams trying to conceal the boy’s real parentage, it might not be over yet. Who else would know?”

“The grandmother, Edith Mossman,” Joanna replied. “Ed Mossman himself, and the sister, Andrea.”

“You said Andrea was going into hiding.”

“Most likely she’s hiding from the wrong person,” Joanna 322

answered. “But, yes, I think she’s out of harm’s way for the moment.”

“Should we send an officer to look after Edith?” Frank asked.

Joanna nodded. “Absolutely,” she said. “The same goes for Ed, once we locate him again. What about the phone situation, Frank? Any luck there?”

“Not really,” Frank replied. “It’s a case of having too much information rather than too little. It turns out there are several phone calls going back and forth from Stella’s home number to her father, both in the days and weeks preceding the three murders and in the days afterward. So there’s no way we can point to a single individual call and say this one is significant. Mossman said Stella called and told him about Carol’s death sometime on Wednesday. He claims he doesn’t remember the exact time.

Unfortunately, there are several different calls during which that communication might have taken place.”

Ernie’s fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on the surface of Joanna’s desk. “We’ve got plenty of suspicion, but zero probable cause,” he said. “So far there’s nothing that would merit getting a search warrant, so how about this? What if I track Denny Adams down in Tucson and find out if Stella could possibly be in possession of one of those old Deportation Colt forty-fives? If he works for FedEx, they’ll have a local phone number and address for him.”

“Good thinking,” Joanna said.

‘Anything else?”

“That’s fine for a start.”

“I’ll get on it then,” Ernie said, lumbering toward the door. “One other thing. Do we know when Jaime will be back?”

“Not so far. I’ve tried calling him, but I can’t get through to him.”

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“Too bad. If we knew when he was coming in, we could have him go talk to Adams,”

Ernie said. ‘As it is, I guess I’ll do it.”

“You could always do a phoner,” Frank suggested.

Ernie shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Phones work fine for some people, but I’d rather be eyeball-to-eyeball and belly-to-belly. I get a better feel for things that way, and better information, too.”

Ernie went out and closed the door behind him. “I should have known,” Frank said with a laugh. “I knew Ernie disapproved of computers, but this is the first I realized telephones are also suspect.”

Joanna laughed. “Give the man a break, Frank. Ernie Carpenter’s just an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

Frank left, too, and since there was no other excuse to avoid the paperwork on her desk, Joanna knuckled under and went to work. A whole hour had passed before her phone rang again. This time it was her private line.

“I thought you said you were going to call me back,” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield huffed.

“That was days ago now.”

Joanna’s first instinct was always to grab hold of the guilt her mother was so willing to pass out, but for a change she caught herself. “It was only yesterday,” Joanna said. “And I’ve been incredibly busy.”

“If you’re this busy now, how will you ever manage with a baby thrown into the bargain?”

“Mother,” Joanna said quietly, “Butch and I are going to have this baby. And, if the voters are willing, I’m going to go right on being sheriff.”

“In other words, like it or lump it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Joanna countered. Although it’s exactly what I meant, she realized.

“I suppose that is what I mean. I want

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you to be happy about this with us. I want you to be involved, and George, too. But, Mom, you’re going to have to get used to the idea that I’m a grownup. This is my life, and I’m going to do things my way.”

“That’s almost exactly what George said,” Eleanor replied tearily “George Winfield is a very smart man.”

‘All right,” Eleanor replied. Then she paused, but only for half a beat. “So have you been to see the doctor yet? You shouldn’t let that go too long, you know.”

All her life, Joanna had reacted to her mother’s interference with anger. When her mother pushed, she pushed back. Now, for the first time ever, she burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Eleanor demanded.

“You’re hopeless, Mom. A minute ago you agreed to let me do things my way. Now, less than a minute later, you’re telling me to go see the doctor.”

Eleanor sighed. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”

“And, if it’ll make you feel any better, I am going to the doctor,” Joanna said.

“I have a prenatal appointment with Dr. Lee tomorrow morning at ten.”

“Good. I’m delighted to hear it. Well, I suppose I should let you go. You said you’re busy,” Eleanor replied.

“I am busy,” Joanna agreed. “But there’s one thing more.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you, Mom,” Joanna told her. “I love you very much.” For a moment, there was dead silence on the other end of the phone. “Mom? Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, her voice strangely muffled. “I did hear you. And I think it’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

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Joanna’s desk was relatively clear when she left to go home at five-thirty. At seven, she and Butch were sitting at the kitchen counter with the three dogs flopped on the cool tile floor around them while she related the details of Eleanor’s phone call.

“So she’s not mad anymore?” Butch asked.

“Evidently and I’m not mad, either.”

“Then this is new ground for both of you,” Butch said. “If you weren’t off the sauce for the duration, I’d propose a toast.”

Joanna raised her milk glass and smiled at him. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll drink to that.”

She leaned over to kiss him, only to have Jenny appear in the doorway holding the cordless phone. “It’s for you, Mom,” she said. “Detective Carpenter.”

“What’s up?” Joanna asked.

“Denny Adams and I are on our way back to Bisbee right now. He’s in one car. I’m in another. Turns out his mother gave him an old Colt when he graduated from high school. He says he’s never fired it, but that he keeps it on the top shelf of his closet. He offered to check to make sure it’s still there, so he called home. Stella was out, so Denny asked Nathan to go look in the closet to see if he could find the gun. Naturally it isn’t there, and Nathan has no idea where his mother is. He says she went out today just after noon. She didn’t say where she was going and hasn’t been back since. I clued Denny in on what may be going on. He’s coming down to Bisbee to be with Nathan.”

Joanna took a deep breath. “Did you ask him about…” She looked toward Jenny, who was waiting to retrieve the phone as soon as her mother was finished. “…

about the rest of it?” Joanna finished lamely

“Yes,” Ernie said. “It’s true. All of it. Denny has known the truth all along, but Stella swore him to secrecy. Denny Adams

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came into Nathan’s life when the kid was just three years old. Denny’s the only father the boy has ever known, and he’d like to keep it that way. I told him that was doubtful, but that we’d try. That we’d do our best.” Ernie paused. “That’s the one thing I hate about this job.”

“What’s that?” Joanna asked.

“Making promises I may not be able to keep.”

“So what’s the game plan?”

“We’re going to the house to talk to Nathan and see if he can give us any idea of where his mother might be.”

“Jaime hasn’t shown up yet, has he?”

“No, ma’am, but we’ve heard from him. There was a security breach at LAX. They had to empty two terminals and re-screen all the passengers. He still doesn’t know when he’ll get here.”

“In that case,” Joanna said, “would you like me to meet you there-at Denny and Stella’s house?”

“You bet,” Ernie Carpenter returned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

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By the time Joanna returned to the far end of Arizona Street, it was dark. Due to a Ponytail League softball game, the glowing ballpark lights cast that whole part of town in a strange half-twilight. Cars were parked everywhere, but all the drivers had observed the hand-stenciled No Parking signs that had been placed on both posts of the footbridge leading to Stella and Denny Adams’s front gate.

Other than the hazy glow of a TV set somewhere deep inside the house, there was no sign of life. The driveway was still empty, and Joanna saw no trace of Ernie Carpenter’s Econoline van. She opened the car windows, turned off the engine, and settled in to wait. Across the street, a cheer went up from the crowd, and over the top of the fence Joanna saw someone use a long stick to change one of the numbers on the green and white Scoreboard.

It seemed odd to be sitting there dealing with a possible triple 328

murderer while across the street carefree fans munched popcorn, sipped sodas, and cheered their respective teams. How could both things be happening in such close proximity at the same time? One was so normal and everyday, while the other was so …

Joanna glanced at the clock on the dash. The digital readout said 9:10. Ernie had called from the far side of Tombstone. Joanna had left the house immediately after the call, pausing only long enough to retrieve her weapons and her vest. Even so, Ernie and Denny should be close at hand by now. How many hours ago was it since Joanna had stopped by this house the first time? Then, she had been coming to warn Stella Adams that her father, Ed Mossman, might be dangerous-that he might pose a danger to his surviving children.

In the space of a few hours’ time, that whole situation had changed. Now Stella was the one who seemed to pose the danger and it was her son, Nathan, who would need protection-maybe not from his mother but from the awful truth of his own squalid heritage. Who would break that ugly news to him? Probably Denny Adams-the only father Nathan had ever known.

The radio crackled to life. “Sheriff Brady?”

Joanna picked up the mike and thumbed it. “I’m here, Tica,” she said. “What is it?”

“City of Bisbee has reported finding Ed Mossman’s Taurus.”

“Where?”

“Up at the far end of Tombstone Canyon, where the old road goes up over the Divide.”

‘Any sign of Mossman?” Joanna asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Tica replied. “The officer reported what looked like blood dripping from the trunk. They popped it and found the body of a white male, fifty to sixty years of age, shot in

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the chest at close range. Mossman’s driver’s license was in the guy’s wallet, so we’re assuming that’s who it is. Bisbee PD is wondering if we have anyone who could do a positive ID.”

Stella strikes again, Joanna thought. She started to say, “I suppose I could, but-“

But Tica continued. “They also found two trash bags filled with what appears to be women’s bloodstained clothing.”

“Most likely Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega’s,” Joanna breathed.

“That’s what City of Bisbee is assuming.”

“All right, then,” Joanna said. “I’m waiting for Ernie Carpenter, but as soon as-“

She broke off in mid sentence as a yellow Dodge Ram pickup with a matching yellow camper shell drove slowly past the place where Joanna was parked. The driver peered out at Joanna through a half-open window. If it hadn’t been for the ballpark lights across the street, Joanna never would have been able to make out enough details to recognize Stella Adams’s face.

When Joanna’s eyes met Stella’s, an electric charge of recognition passed between the two women. With a squeal of tires that left a layer of rubber on the pavement, the Dodge sped off, heading south out of town, past what had once been the bus barn and on up the hill. Joanna dropped the mike, turned on the engine, and pulled a U-turn that sent the rear end of the Crown Victoria skidding back and forth across the street.

Only when the in-grille lights were flashing and her siren blaring did Joanna retrieve the mike.

“I’ve spotted suspect Stella Adams,” Joanna reported into the phone. “She’s headed south toward Bisbee Junction in a yellow Dodge Ram pickup with a camper shell. I’m in pursuit, but I’m going to need backup from whoever can get here.”

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Tica said, “Just a minute.”

Driving and unconsciously holding her breath, Joanna felt as though far more than a minute had passed before Tica’s voice returned.

“City of Bisbee has two cars en route. Ernie Carpenter is just coming around the Traffic Circle. Do you have the suspect in view?” Tica asked.

“No, she went up and over the hill while I was turning around. I’m just topping the hill now. No, I still can’t see her. When I saw her last she must have been going close to …”

As the road jogged slightly to the right, Joanna drove into a cloud of dust. When she came out the far side, a pair of glowing headlights slanted up into the air through the dust off to the right of the road.

“Hang on, Tica. I think she rolled it. The pickup is off the road.”

‘Any sign of the driver?”

Joanna peered through the dust. It was clearing enough that she could make out the truck sitting upside down on a berm, its wheels still spinning furiously. Joanna manhandled the Civvie’s spotlight into position and aimed it at the wreckage. The front driver’s door had disappeared completely. The draped remains of a deflated air bag and a seat belt spilled out through the opening and dangled, still swaying, in midair. But there was no sign of life inside the battered cab. Stella had either been thrown free or clambered out once the truck came to rest.

Joanna swung the circle of light back and forth across the ground. She searched with such total concentration that it took her a moment to tune back in to Tica Romero’s voice.

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“Sheriff Brady!” Tica demanded urgently. ‘Are you there? Please respond.”

“I’m here, Tica. I’m okay.”

‘Any sign of the driver?”

“None. That’s what I’m looking for.”

Behind her a series of vehicles alive with lights and sirens came screeching over the crest of the hill and through the still-drifting haze of dust. Two uniformed City of Bisbee patrol officers trotted off and began putting lighted flares down the middle of the road. Seconds later Ernie Carpenter appeared at Joanna’s window.

‘Are you all right?”

Joanna nodded. “I’m fine, but Stella’s gone. She got away.”

Ernie looked back at the debris field. “She can’t be far,” he said. “It’s a helluva wreck. The driver’s door is gone completely. She might have been thrown clear at the same time the door flew off. I’m guessing that when we find the door, we’ll find her, too.”

A second man appeared behind Ernie. Tall and bony, he was in his late twenties and wore an Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap along with a loose-fitting T-shirt. In the eerie glow of headlights and flashers, his face was deadly pale.

“Did you find her, Detective Carpenter?” he asked.

“Not yet, Dennis,” Ernie said kindly. “We’re looking for her.”

As soon as Joanna knew who the man was, she let go of the handle on the spotlight and stepped out of the Crown Victoria. “I’m Sheriff Brady, Mr. Adams,” she told him.

“I was the first person on the scene. And, as Detective Carpenter told you, so far there’s no sign of your wife.”

Denny nodded mutely. Joanna could see that he was trembling as if from the cold and struggling to hold back tears.

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“I can’t believe any of this … It’s all so … so…” His voice faded into a croak that was half sob, half hiccup. Suddenly he blinked and straightened his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly steady.

“Do you want me to try to talk to her?”

Joanna thought about that and then shook her head. “You’d better go back to the house and be with Nathan.”

“When you find her, will you let me know?” Dennis asked.

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Of course we will.”

Adams nodded. “All right then,” he said. With that, he turned and walked away.

Another emergency vehicle showed up, this one an ambulance dispatched by the Bisbee Fire Department. Across the desert, Joanna heard a shout. “Hey,” someone yelled.

“The door is over here.”

Without a word, Ernie Carpenter loped away in that direction. Joanna reached back into the Ciwie and collected the mike. “Tica,” she ordered, “call out the K-9 unit.

Everyone else thinks Stella Adams is lying around here dead someplace, but I’m thinking she did the same thing the Silver Creek driver did and walked away.”

Fortunately, Terry and Kristin Gregovich’s rented house was on Black Knob, the last street on. the southernmost part of town. The K-9 officer and Spike were at the scene in less than ten minutes.

“What’s up, Sheriff Brady?” Terry asked, after leaping out of an idling Blazer he had parked directly behind Joanna’s Crown Victoria.

Joanna pointed toward the wrecked pickup. “The driver’s missing,” Joanna said. “I want you to find her.”

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Terry nodded. “Will do,” he said.

Taking Spike, he walked down the embankment and over to the wrecked vehicle. Joanna was relieved to see that Spike was wearing his new custom-fitted Kevlar bulletproof vest. Joanna watched while Deputy Gregovich reached inside and removed something from the tangled interior. Hurrying behind him, Joanna was astonished to see Terry was holding a single tennis shoe up to the dog’s nostrils.

“Where did that come from?” Joanna asked.

“It was wedged up under the dash. And that’s the good news,” Terry said. “If she took off with either one or both shoes missing, she’s not going to be that hard to track down.” Then, keeping a tight hold on Spike’s leash, he gave the order. “Find it!”

For the next few minutes the dog, with his nose to the ground, went round and round in ever-widening circles. Ernie Carpenter reappeared at Joanna’s side.

“Still no luck,” he said. “We’re looking on the ground, but if she was airborne, it’s possible she could have been tossed up into one of these clumps of mesquite.”

Suddenly Spike stopped circling. He stood stock-still, ears up, tail straight out behind him, sniffing the air. Then he dashed off to the west, with Terry Gregovich galloping along behind him.

“They need backup,” Joanna said.

Ernie nodded and headed for Terry’s Blazer. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

Joanna was barely in the passenger seat when Ernie flung the SUV into gear and they bounced away. Fifty feet from the wreck, Terry Gregovich and Spike paused briefly at a barbed-wire fence posted with an official-looking No Trespassing sign. They delayed

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for only a moment before Spike crouched and slid under it while Terry clambered up and over the top. Spike and Terry were well beyond the fence when Ernie stopped in front of it.

“What’s the word, boss?” he asked. “Do you want to go look for a gate?”

“Are you kidding? Go through the damned thing!” she ordered. “We can always fix the fence later.”

Ernie backed up a few feet. After putting the Blazer in four-wheel drive, he roared forward. For a time the wire seemed to stretch, then it broke, sending fence posts and coils of wire spiraling into the air as the Blazer rushed through.

“Cut the lights,” Joanna ordered when they once again had Terry and the dog in view.

“Now that we’re away from the ballpark, there’s enough moonlight tonight that, once our eyes get accustomed to it, we should be able to see just fine. If we keep our lights on, we’re liable to blind them.”

And let Stella know they’re coming, she thought.

Without a word, Ernie cut the lights. It took only a moment before their eyes adjusted to the dark. Soon, though, the silvery light cast by a wedge of moon was enough to allow them to make out the movements of both the officer and his dog as they traversed a ghostly landscape.

Off to the left lay what looked like a pale layer of white earth. That was a long-abandoned tailings dam-waste left over from the copper-milling process-that covered acres of desert with a relatively flat layer of debris. To the right was the mound of steep hills that formed a backdrop to the neighborhood of Warren. The tops of the hills, tipped with silver, gleamed against the sky with the reflected glow from the ballpark lights where the softball game was still in full swing.

And straight ahead of them, at the base of those hills, 335

crouching in shadow, lay broken hulks of buildings that had once, long ago, been a state-of-the-art ore crusher. Joanna remembered that she and her father had once spent hours exploring the ruin. The machinery and equipment that had been used to grind copper ore to dust had disappeared right along with the men who had once operated it. But Joanna knew that the concrete shells of those long empty buildings would offer shelter for a fleeing Stella Adams-shelter and cover.

“She has to be headed for the old crusher,” Joanna said.

Concentrating on driving, Ernie could only nod in agreement. Joanna reached for the radio mike and barked into it.

“We think Stella Adams is headed for the old crusher on the southwest side of Warren,”

she told Tica. “We need backup officers to come from the west side of town, out past the Juvenile Detention Center, to rendezvous there. The K-9 unit is on the suspect’s trail. Detective Carpenter and I are to the east of the old crusher. I don’t want anybody caught in a cross fire. No weapons are to be fired under any circumstances until we positively locate the suspect and our guys are in the clear. Got that?”

“Got it,” Tica Romero repeated.

“The suspect may be injured, and we believe she may have lost one or more shoes.

But she’s still to be considered armed and dangerous.”

Something cold and wet trickled down Joanna’s neck and into the cleavage of her bra.

The afternoon rainstorm had left the desert surprisingly cool, but the sweat dribbling under Joanna’s clothing had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with fear.

Another fence appeared out of nowhere. Stella Adams wasn’t following a road; neither were Deputy Gregovich and

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Spike. Again, there was no time to go looking for a gate. Once again, Ernie backed off a few feet before gunning the Blazer forward. Around them breaking wires sprang apart with a screeching twang.

“Sounds like God just broke his guitar string,” Joanna said to Ernie. A moment later, although it wasn’t that funny, they were both laughing-laughing and driving and sitting in their own rank, fear-spawned sweat.

That’s when they heard the shot. The single roar of gunfire crackled through the air and echoed off the surrounding hillsides and buildings. Ahead of them, Joanna saw both Terry and Spike dive for cover. At least she hoped they were diving for cover. Hoped that they had fallen of their own volition rather than because Stella Adam’s single, well-aimed shot had found its mark. A moment later Joanna and Ernie, too, were on the ground, scrambling forward.

It probably took them less than a minute to reach the low rise where Terry Gregovich and his dog huddled behind a thick mound of creosote. “Looks like we found her,”

Terry muttered.

“Are you both all right?” Joanna demanded.

“Yes. We’re fine, but this woman is a damned good shot. Watch yourselves.”

“We didn’t see where it came from.” Ernie Carpenter was out of shape and out of breath.

“Did you?”

Terry pointed. “Over there,” he said. “Behind the wall of that first building. What the hell is this place?”

Remembering that the manufacturer called her Kevlar vest “bullet-resistant” rather than “bulletproof,” Joanna managed to utter a one-word answer: “Crusher.” Then she pulled herself

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together. “Okay, guys,” she added. “Spread out. We’ll be better off behind the wall than we are out here in the open. We move forward at the same speed. No one gets too far ahead, and no one drops behind.”

“By the way,” Terry said, “she’s bleeding pretty good.” Joanna looked at the ground in front of her and saw the faint reflection of moonlight off droplets of moisture leading them forward. And Deputy Gregovich was right. It was more than mere droplets.

Weapons drawn, the three officers and the accompanying German shepherd inched forward, crawling on their bellies. They reached the relative shelter of the wall with no additional shots being fired.

“Stella,” Joanna called. “We know you’re in there. We also know you’re hurt. Give yourself up. Throw out your weapon. Let us help you.”

“I don’t want help,” Stella called back.

“Good work, boss,” Ernie muttered. “You’ve made contact and got her talking.”

“Think of your son,” Joanna said. “Think of Nathan. He loves you and needs you.”

“He doesn’t. I’ve wrecked his life. It’s spoiled. Everything I tried to do is gone.

And it’s all Carol’s fault. And Andrea’s. How could they do that-to me and to Nathan?

Why couldn’t they leave well enough alone? And why did Carol have to decide to go and open her big mouth?”

Stella’s voice came from only a few feet away, from the other side of the roofless wall. Joanna thanked God for the thick concrete that separated them.

“Maybe she was tired of keeping secrets, Stella,” Joanna said.

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“Secrets like that get to be too heavy over the years. They drag you down.”

“I was doing fine. So was Nathan, but now …”

“Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega thought you were Carol, didn’t they?” Joanna called softly. “They came to Carol’s place for their appointment that morning, but Carol was already dead, wasn’t she? You pretended to be her.”

For a few moments, Stella Adams was silent. During the silence Joanna was struck by the peculiar intimacy of their conversation. They might have been girls off on a double date, sharing secrets between locked stalls in a ladies’ rest room. “How did you know that?” Stella asked finally.

Because you all breed true, Joanna felt like saying. Because all of Eddie Mossman’s daughters look like twins. And his son looks just like him.

Far ahead, Joanna caught sight of the winking flash of approaching lights. The additional officers she had summoned were coming toward them from the opposite direction. “Tell Tica we’re talking to the suspect. Tell our backup to stay back until I give the word,” Joanna ordered. Moments later Deputy Gregovich was relaying the information through the radio attached to the shoulder of his uniform.

Meanwhile Joanna turned her attention back to the suspect. Nathan was Stella Adams’s Achilles heel, and that was where Joanna focused her efforts.

“Think about Nathan,” she said. “Turn yourself in.”

“That’s what my father said, too,” Stella returned. ” ‘Think about Nathan.’ But I am thinking about him. Everything I did, I did for him. To protect him.”

“Your father wanted you to turn yourself in?”

Stella erupted in a mirthless chuckle. “Right. That’s what he 339

wanted, but I told him, ‘No way!’ I told him he owed me-he owed us all-but he owed Nathan more than anybody. So, at first, when I asked him, he was willing to help.

He agreed to send the e-mail to try to get Pam and Carmen to back off.”

“You knew they were coming?”

“Sure, I did. Because they wanted to talk to me. After they finished talking to Carol, they were going to interview me, too. But the threat didn’t work. They didn’t back off. Pam and Carmen showed up anyway, so I got rid of them, and Carol, too. Dad was headed back to Mexico from Kingman. When I told him what had happened, he offered to move the bodies for me. He said he’d try to make it look like some pervert had done it.”

That should have been easy for Ed Mossman, Joanna thought.

“So he moved them and stripped them and tied them up,” Stella continued.

“You shot them?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In their car. What a mess! I didn’t think I’d ever get all that blood washed off.

It was everywhere.”

“Where’s the car, Stella?” Joanna asked. “The car you shot them in. Where is it?”

“I ran it off the road, somewhere the other side of Animas. Then I hitchhiked back.

I told the guy who gave me a ride that my husband had beaten me up and that I was going back home to my parents. He believed me, too. Nice guy.”

Her voice was softer now, with a funny dreamlike quality that made it sound as though she was struggling to concentrate and stay connected.

“Sounds like she’s fading some,” Ernie whispered. “I think she really is hurt.”

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“Are you all right, Stella?” Joanna asked. ‘Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“We can’t leave you,” Joanna returned. “Throw down your weapon and come out. Let us help you.”

“No. If anyone comes near me, I’ll shoot.”

“Mom?”

The sound of Nathan Adams’s voice coming from twenty-five or thirty yards away sent a surge of fear coursing through Joanna’s body. Hair stood up on the back of her neck. Her hands tingled.

“Where’d he come from?” Joanna demanded. “What’s he doing here, and where the hell is he?”

“Off to our right,” Terry Gregovich returned, pointing. “I saw him a second ago.

Now he’s dropped behind some bushes. He must have followed the railroad bed out of town.”

Joanna couldn’t see Nathan Adams, but she could hear him as he dashed forward once more. He must have run the better part of the mile and a half to two miles from his house to the scene. As he drew closer, Joanna heard him panting with exertion.

“Nathan!” Joanna shouted. “Stop. Go back. It isn’t safe!”

But Nathan Adams paid no attention. “Mom,” he gasped. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

Stella, who must not have heard him the first time he spoke, did this time. “Nathan!”

she exclaimed forcefully. “Get out of here! Go back to the house! This is none of your business.”

“But it is my business,” Nathan argued.

“Terry,” Joanna ordered. “Ernie will cover you while I try to keep her talking. You and Spike go get that kid and do whatever it takes to get him out of here!”

Crouching low to the ground, Terry set off with Spike at his heels.

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“I’m sure you don’t want Nathan to get hurt,” Joanna said. “Throw down your weapon, Stella. Let’s finish this.”

“It is finished,” Stella returned. “It’s over. There isn’t anything more to do.”

“Mom, let me be with you,” Nathan pleaded. “Let me help. Please.”

In the pale moonlight Joanna caught a glimpse of Nathan Adams as he tripped over some obstacle and fell to the ground. He started to rise, then crumpled again as Terry Gregovich and Spike tackled the boy and sent him sprawling. After a fierce but brief scuffle, the clump of milling figures lay still.

“No,” Stella said, oblivious to the fact that her son had just been physically prevented from coming any nearer to her. “I don’t want you here, Nathan. Go away.”

“Mom, please.”

“You’re better off without me. Go!”

“Watch yourself,” Ernie muttered in Joanna’s ear. “Sounds like she’s maybe gonna take herself out.”

Joanna nodded. “I think so, too,” she agreed. “How many people will she try to take with her?”

Suddenly the night was blacker. It took a moment for Joanna to realize that the softball game was over. There was a flicker as if someone had thrown a switch. Then the moonlight gleamed that much brighter. Off to the right she spied movement. As her eyes adjusted to the changed light, she was able to make out three figures-two human and one canine-moving back toward town as Deputy Gregovich and Spike hustled Nathan Adams to safety.

They disappeared from view behind a small rise, leaving the desert in an eerie nighttime silence that was broken only by the muted chatter of distant police radios.

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“Stella?” Joanna asked finally.

“What?”

“Are you okay? We know you’re hurt.”

“I’m all right.”

The woman’s voice was definitely changed now, as though the effort of dealing with her son’s unexpected appearance had weakened her somehow and left her exhausted.

“Four people are dead,” Joanna said quietly. “Isn’t that enough bloodshed?”

“No, it’s not enough-not nearly.”

Joanna Brady thought about the officers ranged around the buildings now, awaiting her order to move forward. They were young men and women-dedicated law enforcement officers-with wives and husbands and children at home. She was one of those, too, with a husband and a teenager at home and with an unborn child sheltered inside her body. Joanna and the people who worked for and with her had everything to lose. On the other hand, Stella Adams, far beyond the possibility of hope, had nothing whatsoever left to lose.

Sheriff Brady turned to Ernie. “We’re going to wait,” she said.

“Wait?” he demanded. “For how long?”

“For as long as it takes.”

The next two hours, waiting for a gunshot that never came, were the longest ones Joanna could remember, including the three hours she had spent in the delivery room when Jenny was born. She crouched next to the wall with Ernie Carpenter beside her.

Sharp rocks poked into her knees. Occasionally some night-walking creature scrambled across her skin. Meanwhile, the unconcerned desert, oblivious to the human drama playing out

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nearby, resumed its natural nighttime rhythms. Meandering coyotes sent their mournful songs skyward. An hour into the process, Joanna was startled by a single long-eared jackrabbit who loped past within a few feet of where she was lying.

But throughout that long, long time, there was no response from Stella Adams-no further word. Joanna called out to the woman again and again without receiving any reply.

Eventually Deputy Gregovich and Spike returned.

“You took Nathan home?” Joanna asked.

Terry nodded. “His dad was pissed. Denny thought the kid was locked in his room.

He had no idea Nathan had let himself out through a window. What’s happening here?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you want me to send Spike in?”

Joanna shook her head. She wasn’t willing to risk Spike’s life either. “Not yet,”

she said. “We’ll wait a while longer.”

Finally, just after midnight, she gave the word, and the K-9 unit moved forward.

As Terry Gregovich and Spike disappeared from view, time slowed to an even more glacial crawl. Barely daring to breathe, Joanna listened to every sound. Finally Terry shouted out the words she had been waiting to hear.

“It’s all clear,” Deputy Gregovich called. “She’s cut her wrists. She’s dead.”

Joanna gave the order to stand down, then she and Ernie Carpenter helped each other to their feet. They limped stiffly around the protecting wall, guided by the glow of Terry’s flashlight. Stella Adams sat slumped against the wall just inside the empty doorway of a crumbling concrete building. She still wore a single tennis shoe on one foot. The other foot had been scraped raw in her desperate flight across the nighttime desert.

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Stella’s hands lay her in her bloodied lap, cradling the Colt .45 and a bloodstained Swiss Army knife. Joanna looked from Stella Adams to Ernie.

“Maybe you’ll be able to keep your promise to Denny Adams after all,” Joanna said softly. “At least Stella had the good sense to spare her son the shame of a trial.”

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Joanna was home by two o’clock in the morning. At three she was still sitting on the couch in the family room with Lady cuddled in her lap, considering the mind-numbing series of tragedies that had befallen the entire Mossman clan. The seeds for that human disaster had been planted by Ed Mossman himself, and Joanna Brady had no sympathy for him. A fatal gunshot wound to the chest was actually far better than he deserved.

But her heart ached for the others-for the unwilling victims of Ed Mossman’s abuse, his own children-from Carol right on down to Nathan and Cecilia. Jaime Carbajal had described the film of Cecilia Mossman’s supposed wedding. Joanna had yet to see it, but she could well imagine the frightened and reluctant child bride forced by her father into a situation she could neither handle nor stop.

“Well, I’ll stop it,” she told Lady aloud. “Tomorrow morning I’m calling Sheriff Drake and telling him to go get her. With any kind of luck, Harold Lassiter will go to jail for child rape. If she’s

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only twelve, that should work. Otherwise, they can nail him for involuntary servitude, if nothing else. Slavery’s illegal in this country, even out on the Arizona Strip.”

Butch, barefoot and clad only in a pair of shorts, came into the family room. “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“The dog,” Joanna said. “I’m telling Lady all about it.”

“It’s late,” Butch said. “Shouldn’t you come to bed?”

“I can’t sleep.”

He settled down on the couch beside her. Lady opened one eye and looked at him, but made no effort to move away. He put one arm around Joanna’s shoulders and the other on Lady’s hip. “Then maybe you’d better tell me about it, too,” he said.

And so she did.

“Will it come out in public?” Butch asked when she finished. “The part about who Nathan’s father really was?”

“Not if I can help it,” Joanna said. “It’ll be tough enough living down the fact that his mother was a murderer who committed suicide. As far as Nathan is concerned, Denny Adams is his only father. They’ll both be better off if we can leave it that way.”

Butch nodded thoughtfully. “What about the other little girl?”

“Cecilia?”

Butch nodded again.

“I’ve been thinking about her. For one thing, we’ve got Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega’s film. I’m hoping that’ll be enough to get the Mojave County sheriff off the dime.

And Andrea Mossman told me she has at least one undercover contact inside the Lassiter compound. One way or another, we’ll get that little girl out of there and pack Harold Lassiter off to the slammer. Cecilia’s only twelve, for God’s sake, Butch. She’s a whole year younger than Jenny.”

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“Supposing you do rescue her from that situation, what will happen to her then?”

Joanna sighed. “I’m not sure. Child Protective Services will have to be called into play. I would imagine her mother is still in Mexico. The problem is, her mother is also hooked in with The Brethren.”

“If you send her back home, she might be going from the frying pan into the fire.”

“Exactly,” Joanna said.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Talk to Andrea Mossman, and to Edith. Cecilia is Edith’s granddaughter. And she’s Andrea’s half sister. They may be able to work with GPS and establish some kind of custody arrangement. That’s probably about the best we can hope for.”

Butch yawned and looked at his watch. “Wrong,” he said. “The best we can hope for is an hour or two of sleep. Come on. We’ve got to go to bed now. You’ve done all you can for one day.”

Joanna persuaded Lady out of her lap, then the two of them followed Butch into the bedroom. Butch was asleep again within minutes. So was Joanna. It seemed like only minutes later when he was shaking her awake. “Rise and shine or rise and barf,” he said. “It’s late. We’re due at Dr. Lee’s office in half an hour.”

Joanna looked at the clock and was astonished to see that it said nine-thirty. “I’m late for work,” she objected.

“No, you’re not. I called Frank and told him you’d be in after your doctor’s appointment.

I know you. If I let you go into the office for even a minute, you’ll forget.”

Joanna would have argued with him about that, but there wasn’t time. She had to race for the bathroom.

An hour later, with the physical part of the prenatal exam 348

behind her, Joanna-now fully dressed-and Butch sat in Dr. Thomas Lee’s office in the clinic portion of the Copper Queen Hospital. Dr. Lee frowned in concentration as he consulted a calendar.

“From the date of your last period, I’d estimate your due date to be March 7. Of course, human pregnancy isn’t an exact science,” he added. “I can tell you the due date but the baby will arrive when it’s ready-before or after, depending. Are you going to want to know in advance whether it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Yes,” Butch said at the same time Joanna was shaking her head no.

Dr. Lee laughed. “Welcome to parenthood,” he said. “This is only the first of many things the two of you will need to discuss and decide on. Let me know next month, when you come in for your next appointment.”

“What about morning sickness?” Butch asked.

“What about it?” Dr. Lee replied.

“Is there something she can take … ?”

“Never mind,” Joanna put in quickly. “It’s not that bad, and it’ll probably go away in a few more weeks. It did last time.”

Dr. Lee nodded. “If you can tough it out without taking medication, it’s usually better for the baby. There can be side effects, you see …”

“I know,” Joanna said. “I’ll be fine.”

For the next several minutes, Dr. Lee went over a list of general dos and don’ts.

Finally he looked at Butch. “This is your first?”

Butch nodded.

“If you plan to be in the delivery room with her, you’ll both need to sign up for a Lamaze class.”

Butch looked at Joanna. “Is that what you want?”

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“Of course it’s what I want, silly. If you think I’m going through that all on my own, you’re nuts.”

“All right, then,” Butch said. “Tell me where and when to sign up and I’m there.”

It was close to noon by the time they finished up with Dr. Lee, so they stopped by Daisy’s for lunch. Wednesday was Cornish pasty day, and Butch and Joanna split one of Daisy’s massive, plate-sized meat pies.

“You’re sure you don’t want to know the sex in advance?” Butch asked.

“I’m sure.”

“But that means we have to come up with two names-one for a boy and one for a girl.”

“That’s right,” Joanna agreed. “So start thinking.”

They had driven into town in separate cars. When lunch was over, Joanna kissed Butch goodbye in the parking lot. While he returned to High Lonesome Ranch, Joanna headed for the department. She felt slightly guilty about showing up late on a day when there was bound to be so much catch-up paperwork to do, but then again, she didn’t feel that guilty.

She was at her desk and surveying the damage when Andrea Mossman called. “I heard about it on the news,” she said. “I just got off the phone with Denny.”

“How’s Nathan?” Joanna asked.

“About how you’d expect. He’s pretty broken up.”

‘And your grandmother?”

“She’s a tough old bird,” Andrea said. “She’s doing remarkably well.”

“I have a note here from my chief deputy,” Joanna said. “Police officers in Obregon have been dispatched to the ranch to notify Kelly and …”

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“… and Dad’s other wives,” Andrea supplied.

“Do you have any idea what kind of arrangements will need to be made as far as your father’s remains are concerned, once the autopsy is done and the body is released?”

“I don’t care what happens to him,” Andrea said. “And I doubt Grandma does, either.

Talk to his other families. If they want him, they can have him-as long as they pay for shipping. I already discussed this with Grandma. She’s not paying a dime, and I’m not either.”

“What about Cecilia?” Joanna asked.

“Grandma and I have an appointment with a GPS caseworker later on this afternoon.

I wanted to talk to them before somebody brings Cecilia out of the Lassiter compound.

Cecilia hasn’t ever met me, and she probably has no idea her grandmother even exists.

But if Grandma and I can help her, we will. I do have some experience with this kind of thing.”

“What about the boy?” Joanna asked.

“What boy?” Andrea returned.

“Josiah. The one in the Lassiter compound who helped Pam Davis and Carmen Ortega film the wedding.”

“We’ll try to get him out at the same time,” Andrea said. “If old man Lassiter figures out who was responsible, he’ll make his life hell.”

As if it wasn’t already, Joanna thought.

After she got off the phone, the day turned into a marathon of paperwork. In addition to the usual day-to-day e-mail and correspondence, there were reports to be read-reports from Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter. And there were case-clearing phone calls and faxes back and forth between the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department and Sheriff Trotter’s office over in Hidalgo

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County. Joanna should have felt triumphant, but she didn’t. Too many people were dead-too many lives ruined. Clearing cases under those circumstances made for hollow victories.

It was almost three o’clock when Kristin came into the office. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady,” she said. “But there are some people here to see you.”

“Who?”

“They wouldn’t give their names.”

They would have if you’d tried a little harder, Joanna thought wearily.

Sighing, she rose and followed Kristin back out into the lobby. Outside her office, she found two Hispanic women-a young one and one much older-seated side by side on the love seat facing Kristin’s desk. They were both dressed in black. The younger woman’s hair was loose. The older one’s hair was in a long gray braid that was wrapped around the top of her head like a silver crown. Over her head and shoulders she wore an old-fashioned mantilla.

The younger woman rose and stepped toward Joanna, holding out her hand. “Sheriff Brady?”

Joanna nodded.

“My name is Gabriella Padilla. This is my mother, Ramona Quiroz. Maria Elena Maldonado, the woman who died after that car wreck the other day, was my cousin, my mother’s sister’s child.”

“Oh, yes,” Joanna said. “Won’t you come in?”

Gabriella went back to her mother and helped the old woman rise to her feet. Her hands and fingers were twisted and gnarled by arthritis. It was painful for her to walk and painful to watch her do it. Gabriella led her into the inner office while 352

Joanna hurriedly pulled out a chair at the conference table, which was far closer to the door than the chairs in front of her desk.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Joanna said when they were seated. She waited while Gabriella translated.

“Gracias,” Mrs. Quiroz returned and then added something more in Spanish.

“She says it is God’s will,” Gabriella explained.

It has nothing at all to do with God’s will! Joanna thought savagely.

“The funeral was this morning,” Gabriella continued. “In Tucson. Maria Elena’s husband, Tomas, is … well … if he tried to take them back home for a funeral, he wouldn’t be able to return.”

“He’s illegal?” Joanna asked.

Gabriella paused and then nodded. “That’s why they were coming-to be with Tomas.

He paid for them to come. But since he can’t go back, Maria Elena and Little Eddie will have to be buried here.”

“I’m sorry,” Joanna said again.

Gabriella’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded. “I’m sorry, too.”

There was a pause. During the period of silence, Joanna was aware of Ramona Quiroz’s steady eyes examining her face with unblinking scrutiny. What is she looking at?

Joanna wondered. Is there something wrong with me-with what I’m wearing, with the way I look?

Finally Gabriella continued. “I apologize for dropping in on you like this, but I work-in the tortilla factory in Barrio Anita,” she said. “They let me have today off for the funeral. After the service, my mother insisted that I bring her here.”

“Why?” Joanna asked.

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“Mother spoke to Maria Elena in the hospital. Tomas was on his way, but Mother was the only one there. Maria Elena told Mother about you-about the red-haired woman who found Eduardo and brought him to the helicopter. You are that woman, aren’t you?”

Joanna felt a lump constrict her throat. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I am.”

“Maria Elena must have known she was dying. She asked Mother to come to you and ask you to please show us that spot. She wanted us to put up a cross for Eduardo-a single cross-but we would like to put up two-one for Eduardo and one for his mother as well.”

Still Ramona Quiroz continued to stare. She said nothing, but when Gabriella stopped speaking, the old woman nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Would you take us there?” Gabriella finished.

“Yes,” Joanna said at once. “Of course. Now?”

“Please. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Joanna stood and went to the door. “I’m going out, Kristin,” she said.

“When will you be back?”

“I have no idea.” Joanna turned back to the two women, where Gabriella was busy translating what had transpired.

“We can take one car or two, whichever you like,” Joanna offered.

“The things we need are already in mine,” Gabriella said. “So it would probably be better if we took that.”

‘All right,” Joanna said. “But if you’d like, you could bring it around here to the back, to my private entrance. That way your mother won’t have nearly so far to walk.”

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Gabriella left to fetch the car. When the door closed behind her, Ramona Quiroz spoke on her own for the first time. “You are very kind,” she said. “Thank you.”

“De nada, “Joanna replied.

“So you went out there with them?” Jenny asked. It was after dinner. Jenny was sprawled on the family room floor next to Tigger. Lucky, worn out with playing, was stretched out on Jenny’s other side. Both dogs were sound asleep. Joanna and Butch were on the couch and Lady, with one watchful eye on Butch, was tucked into a tight curl at Joanna’s feet.

“Yes,” Joanna answered. “The walls of Silver Creek are so steep right there, I didn’t think Mrs. Quiroz could possibly make it down and back up again. But she did. She was very determined. And Gabriella had brought along everything they needed-two matching crosses, flowers, a shovel.”

‘And they put the crosses at the exact spot where you found the little boy?”

Joanna nodded. “Even with the storms we’ve had, I was able to show them where I found him. And that’s where they put both crosses, under a clump of mesquite. If it rains as hard as it did the other night, it could be the crosses will be washed away, but that’s where they wanted them.”

“Why did they do that?” Jenny asked.

“It’s a kind of remembrance,” Joanna said. “And it seemed like a nice thing to do.”

“Is the guy who wrecked the van even going to jail?” Jenny asked.

“I don’t know,” Joanna said. “I doubt it. I think the feds have made some kind of deal with him.”

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“That doesn’t seem fair,” Jenny remarked.

Joanna looked at her daughter. At thirteen, Jenny still saw the world in terms of right or wrong, good or bad, black or white.

“It doesn’t seem fair to me, either,” Butch added.

Joanna sighed. “It’s the best we can do. If we can put the heads of the syndicate out of business and hand some of them jail time, maybe we can keep some other poor families from being slaughtered the same way.”

She stood up then. Her whole body ached. She was still paying the price for the three hours she had spent the night before lying on hard rocky ground. “I’m going to bed,”