Partner In Crime

Three

DAVE HOLLICKER CAME OUTSIDE and heaved yet another set of plastic bags into his waiting van. “How much longer do you think you’re going to be?” Joanna asked. “Probably several more hours,” he said.

Joanna nodded. “All right, then. I’ll leave you and Casey to it. In the meantime, I’m going back to the department to try to herd my day into some kind of order.”

As she drove toward the Justice Center, Joanna recalled the last time she had seen Bobo Jenkins. It had been several months earlier, on the occasion of Angie Kellogg’s marriage to Dennis Hacker. The wedding ceremony had taken place in the parsonage of Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church, with the Reverend Marianne Maculyea presiding. Bobo Jenkins, Angie’s employer at the Blue Moon Saloon and Lounge, had given away the bride.

Recalling the event, Joanna remembered that Bobo Jenkins had seemed buoyantly happy as he told Butch about his plan to sell the Blue Moon to Angie and Dennis. He said he was looking forward to his second early retirement.”

Rochelle hadn’t been in evidence at the wedding, but Joanna wondered if Bobo Jenkins’s happiness then had had less to do with early retirement than with the appearance of a new woman in his life. Now, though, whatever future the two of them might have planned together had evaporated. Rochelle Baxter was dead.

Halfway back to the department, Joanna changed her mind about going there. Bobo Jenkins was a man Joanna knew and liked. He needed to be informed about Rochelle’s death in person rather than through one of Bisbee’s notoriously swift gossip mills. Plus, if Joanna went to see him right then, she wouldn’t have time to think about it for too long, while her own sense of dread kept building. She hated doing next-of-kin notifications – hated having to tell some poor unsuspecting person that a loved one was suddenly and unexpectedly dead.

Picking up her radio, she called in and asked for Bobo Jenkins’s address. She learned that he lived on Youngblood Hill in Old Bisbee, only a matter of blocks from his former business, the Blue Moon. Joanna drove directly there and parked in the designated area at the top of the hill. She then hiked down the steep incline to the arched and gated entrance that led back up a steep flight of stairs to a house perched far above the street. It was no accident that people who lived on some of Old Bisbee’s higher elevations were regular winners in the annual Fourth of July race up “B” Hill.

Thirty-two steps later found her standing, out of breath, on the wooden porch of a fully renovated 1880s-vintage miner’s cabin overlooking Brewery Gulch. The clapboard siding, front door, and porch railings were all newly painted. The broad planks of flooring showed evidence of having been recently replaced. The period piece of etched glass in the front door had been carefully relined with new putty, and the glass itself sparkled in the morning sun. Sighing with reluctance, Joanna placed her finger on the old-fashioned doorbell and listened while it buzzed inside the tiny house.

When Bobo Jenkins came to the door, he wore shorts, a sweat-soaked T-shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes. A limp towel was thrown around the back of his neck. “Hi, there, Joanna,” he said. “I was out back working out. Care to come in?”

Joanna made her way into a brightly painted living room. Hardwood flooring glistened underfoot while huge pieces of leather furniture dominated the space. Looking at the furniture, Joanna shuddered at the idea of dragging those large pieces up from the street.

“Nice place,” she said. “But how on earth did you get this furniture up here?”

“I didn’t beam it up, if that’s what you mean.” He grinned. “It helps if you lift weights. It’s also a good idea to have a bunch of weight-lifting friends. Have a seat.”

Joanna eased herself down onto the soft gray leather couch. She would have preferred keeping up the pretense of polite conversation. Her stomach clenched at the idea of doing what she had come to do. Once she unleashed her bad news, this comfortable, peaceful room would never again be quite so peaceful. Some of her disquiet must have communicated itself. When she turned back to Bobo Jenkins, his easygoing smile had disappeared.

“What’s going on?” he asked, perching on the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” she began. “I understand you’re good friends with a woman named Rochelle Baxter. Is that true?”

“With Shelley? Of course it’s true. And I hope we’re a little more than friends,” he added. A concerned frown crossed his face. “Why are you asking me about her? Has something happened?”

Joanna took a deep breath. There was no easy way. “She’s dead, Bobo,” Joanna said.

The big man’s mahogany-colored skin faded to gray. “No!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”

Joanna shook her head. “I’m sorry, Bobo,” she said, “but it’s true. Rochelle Baxter was taken ill and called 911 around ten o’clock last night. She collapsed while talking to the emergency operator. When the EMTs reached her, she was unresponsive. Rochelle was DOA on arrival at Copper Queen Hospital.”

Bobo buried his face in the towel. “Shelley, dead?” he murmured. “I can’t believe it. She was fine when I left her – perfectly fine. What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Joanna replied. “At least, not yet. From what we can tell, she became desperately ill. By the time help reached her, it was already too late.”

Joanna paused, allowing Bobo to internalize the awful information. Finally she asked, “Did Rochelle have any known medical condition that might explain this sudden attack?”

His face contorted by anguish, Bobo shook his head wordlessly.

“You said she was fine when you left her,” Joanna continued. “Does that mean you saw her last night?”

Bobo nodded.

“What time?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he answered. “Fairly early. It couldn’t have been much later than seven or so. I was back here by seven-thirty.”

“What was the purpose of your visit?”

Bobo sighed. “Shelley and I were supposed to have dinner last night, but she stood me up. Not stood up, exactly. She just called and canceled. I went to see her anyway – to ask her about it and find out what was going on.”

“You say she canceled. What time was that?” Joanna asked.

“What time did she call?”

Joanna nodded.

“Sometime in the afternoon. I don’t remember exactly when. I erased the message after I listened to it.”

“And why did she?” Joanna asked. “Cancel, I mean. Was something wrong?”

“You mean was she sick?” Bobo asked.

Joanna nodded.

“Sick, but not physically,” he said ruefully. “Sick of me is more like it. Still, when I showed up at her place in Naco, she invited me in and offered me a drink. We talked for a little while. She tried to give me the brush-off. Told me she needed time for herself – time by herself. I was afraid she was going to break up with me right then and there, but I talked her out of it. The last thing before I left, she agreed to have dinner with me tonight after the gallery opening.”

“You parted on good terms?”

“Of course.” Bobo Jenkins frowned. “Wait a minute. What about that opening? Somebody needs to call Dee Canfield right away and tell her what’s happened.”

“She already knows,” Joanna said. “She came by the studio down in Naco while I was still there.”

“She’s going to cancel, right?”

“I don’t think so. She said she intended to go through with the opening after all. The only difference is she plans to raise the prices.”

“Raise the prices? What do you mean?”

Joanna nodded. “ Dee told me that Shelley’s death automatically makes the pieces more valuable.”

Bobo Jenkins stood up abruptly. “What is she, some kind of vulture? What the hell is Dee Canfield thinking? You’ll have to excuse me, Joanna. There’s something I have to do.”

He went to the door and held it open, motioning Joanna through it.

“What’s the hurry?” Joanna asked, allowing herself to be escorted back outside. “Where are you going?”

“To Castle Rock Gallery,” he told her determinedly. “I’m going to go have a heart-to-heart chat with Deidre Canfield.”

“Wait, Bobo,” Joanna began. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

He ignored her. Without bothering to lock the door, he pulled it shut behind them and loped off down the steep flight of stairs that led to the street. Standing alone on the small porch, Joanna watched him take the steps two and three at a time. When he reached the bottom, Joanna expected him to turn right and head back up the hill to retrieve his waiting El Camino. Instead, he turned left and barreled down Youngblood Hill toward Brewery Gulch on foot.

Stunned, Joanna stared after Bobo Jenkins’s retreating figure. She had known him for years, but she had never seen him angry before. Now that she had, she worried about the damage those powerfully muscled arms and fists might inflict once he caught up with Deidre Canfield.

Sheriff Joanna Brady had just brought Bobo Jenkins an entire lifetime’s worth of unwelcome news. As sheriff she was charged with protecting the citizens of Cochise County. Instead, by telling Bobo about Dee Canfield’s plans, Joanna had inadvertently incited him – possibly to the point of violence.

Not good, Joanna told herself grimly as she, too, started down the stairs. Not good at all!

Bobo Jenkins was completely out of sight by the time Joanna reached the arched gate at the bottom of the stairs. She jogged back uphill to her Crown Victoria, then threw herself inside. Panting with exertion, Joanna punched up her radio.

“Sheriff Brady here,” she gasped when she heard the voice of Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher. “I’m on my way to Castle Rock Gallery. Please advise Bisbee PD that I may need backup.”

“What’s the problem, Sheriff?” Larry asked. “You sound like you’ve been running for miles.”

“Not miles, just up and down Youngblood Hill,” she told him. “I just finished telling Bobo Jenkins that Rochelle Baxter is dead. He’s upset with a woman named Deidre Canfield and is on his way to her place of business, Castle Rock Gallery on Main Street in Old Bisbee. Bobo said he was going to talk to her, but he was really off the charts when he left here. I’d say he’s more likely to punch somebody’s lights out. I’m headed there, too.”

By then the Civvie was on the move. Joanna turned on her lights and siren as she careened down Youngblood Hill into the upper reaches of Brewery Gulch. Bobo Jenkins was moving fast. By racing down stairways and cutting through back alleys, it was likely he would reach the Castle Rock Gallery on foot well before Joanna could drive there.

Deidre Canfield’s place of business consisted of a series of small, formerly ramshackle buildings that looked invitingly renovated when Joanna drove up. As soon as she opened her car door, she heard a chorus of raised voices coming from inside.

As she pushed open the door to the gallery, a tiny bell tinkled overhead, but neither Dee Canfield nor Bobo Jenkins noticed. Across the room they stood locked in a fierce, nose-to-nose confrontation.

“You’ve got no right barging in here and telling me what I can and can’t do,” Dee shouted shrilly. “This is my gallery. The contract is between Rochelle Baxter and me. It has nothing to do with you, Bobo Jenkins. The terms of that contract allow me to set, raise, or lower prices as I see fit.”

Bobo’s powerful fists were clenched at his sides. Beads of sweat glistened on his face as he struggled to keep his anger under control. “That was before she died,” he said pointedly.

“Yes,” Dee returned. “And that’s why I’m raising the prices. In the world of art, those pieces are all more valuable.”

“Not more valuable,” Bobo countered softly. “They’re priceless. What about Shelley’s family?”

“Who else do you think I’m doing it for?” Dee demanded. “If the pieces sell for more money, the family receives more. It’s as simple as that.”

Bobo stepped closer to Dee. It was a threatening gesture. She blinked, but stood her ground.

“You think that’s what Shelley’s family is going to want – money?” he demanded, his face bare inches from hers. He waved an arm, motioning at the vividly colored paintings that lined the white-stuccoed walls. “Who the hell do you think those people are, Deidre Canfield? You know as well as I that they must be Shelley’s family. Having those pictures is going to be far more important to them than any amount of money. Cancel the show, Dee.”

“No. Absolutely not!”

“Then I’ll cancel it for you.”

A man Joanna hadn’t seen before emerged from a backroom, carrying a hammer. “You’d better leave now, Bobo,” the newcomer said, tapping the head of the hammer in the palm of his other hand.

“And you’d better stay out of this, Warren,” Jenkins growled, his eyes swiveling in Warren Gibson’s direction. “This is between Dee and me.”

“You’d all better cool it,” Joanna ordered, physically inserting herself between Dee Canfield and Bobo. “Now. Before things get out of hand.” She turned toward the man with the hammer. “As for you, put that thing down. On the desk. Now.”

After a momentary hesitation, Warren complied. Meanwhile, Bobo Jenkins ignored Joanna’s presence entirely. “Give me my picture, Dee,” he said, speaking over Joanna’s head. “You can go on with the damned show if you want, but it won’t be with my picture in it.”

“All right,” Dee said. “Go get it, Warren. Whatever it takes to get him out of here.”

Again, Gibson hesitated. “Go,” she urged again. Finally, shaking his head, Warren shambled out of the room.

“Look,” Joanna said reasonably. “You’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. No one here is thinking clearly.”

“Those pictures shouldn’t be sold,” Bobo Jenkins insisted. “Or, if they are, it should only be done once Shelley’s family members have given permission.”

For the first time Joanna took a moment to look around the room. Her eyes fell on a picture of a boy and a dog sitting on a front porch. The heat of a summer’s day shimmered around them, but the two figures in the foreground rested companionably in cool, deep shade. The boy and the dog had been lovingly rendered by someone who knew them well; by someone who cared about who they were. Even without looking at any of the other pictures, Joanna knew instinctively that Dee Canfield was right – that the portraits were those of Rochelle Baxter’s loved ones. She was equally sure that Bobo was correct as well. The people painted there would want the pictures to treasure far more than any amount of money.

“Shelley’s family!” Dee Canfield spat back at him. “What family? Did you ever meet any of them?”

Bobo shook his head.

“If Shelley’s work was so damned important to that so-called family of hers,” Dee continued, “don’t you suppose one or two of them would have been included in the invitations for tonight’s opening party? I asked Shelley specifically if there was anyone she wanted me to invite. She said there wasn’t anyone at all.”

“Now that Rochelle is dead, her family is bound to turn up,” Bobo said.

“Fair enough,” Dee replied. “When they do, I’ll have a nice fat check waiting for them, and they’ll be more than happy to take the money and run.”

Warren Gibson appeared in the doorway carrying an almost life-size portrait of Bobo Jenkins. Bobo swallowed hard when he saw it, then he stepped forward and snatched it out of Warren’s grasp. He walked back over to Dee and stood there, holding the painting with both hands.

“Do you know what you are?” he demanded. “You’re a money-grubbing bitch who doesn’t know a damned thing about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.

Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”

Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”

The doorbell tinkled again. A young uniformed police officer wearing a City of Bisbee badge with a tag that said “Officer Jesus Romero” ventured cautiously into the room.

“Everything all right, Sheriff Brady?” Romero asked. “I was told there might be some kind of problem.”

Joanna felt embarrassed. The lights, siren, and call for backup had all proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s under control.”

The officer grinned at her. “I’d rather have it be nothing than something any day of the week. Glad to be of service.”

With that he left. As the doorbell chimed again, Joanna turned back to Dee Canfield, who looked pale and drawn. There was little resemblance between the woman seated at the desk and the angry hoyden who had raised such hell down in Naco a scant hour earlier.

“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.

“I’m fine,” Dee returned, though she didn’t sound it. “I’ve sunk everything I have into getting this gallery up and running. It’s fine for Bobo Jenkins to be all sentimental and altruistic with my money. It’s no concern of his. He’s got his military retirement and now he’s sold his business and has payments coming from that on a regular basis as well. But what the hell does he think I’m going to use to pay my bills? My good looks? This show is important to me, Sheriff Brady, damned important! It’s a chance to make some real money for a change. I’m not going to hand over the paintings for free just because he said so!”

“What about the prices?” Warren said, reappearing behind her. “I started changing them. Want me to keep on?”

“Absolutely.”

Joanna sighed. Obviously Bobo Jenkins’s visit hadn’t altered Dee Canfield’s intentions, but at least Joanna had been there to prevent any physical violence.

“All right, then,” she said. “Mind if I take a look around before I go?”

“Go ahead,” Dee said. “Help yourself.”

Joanna spent the next few minutes wandering through the gallery. The lovingly rendered subjects – a young girl shooting baskets, an old man sharpening his knife, a minister leaning down to speak to a young parishioner – were most likely the same living and breathing people who, by now, would be reeling from the terrible news that Rochelle Baxter was dead. Joanna noticed that the paintings in the first two rooms were priced from $850 to $1,000. In the room where Warren was hard at work, they were triple that. Bobo’s accusation of her being “money-grubbing” wasn’t wrong.

Shaking her head, Joanna returned to the front desk, where Dee Canfield was on the phone. Without saying a word, Joanna let herself out the door. She and her Civvie caught up with Bobo Jenkins halfway through town.

“Hey, Bobo,” she called. “That looks heavy. Care for a lift?”

He glared at her briefly, then shrugged his broad shoulders and headed for the car. Between them, they carefully loaded the painting into the Civvie’s backseat, then he climbed in the front next to her.

“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly. “Appreciate it.”

He sat in brooding silence until they started up O.K. Street. “Dee’s still going through with it, isn’t she – the opening and raising the prices?”

“Yes,” Joanna replied.

Bobo slumped deeper into the seat. “Damn!” he said. “What about Shelley’s family? Have you found them yet?”

“Not so far. We’re working on it.”

“Once Dee sells the paintings, Shelley’s family will never be able to afford to buy them back.”

“Probably not,” Joanna agreed. “But you tried, Bobo. You did your best.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough.”

Joanna stopped the car halfway down Youngblood Hill, right in front of the gate and the steep stairway that led to Bobo’s house. For the better part of a minute he made no move to exit the car. The depth of his misery was palpable, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.

“I’m sorry about all this, Bobo,” she said at last. “I can see Shelley meant a lot to you.”

He chewed his lip, nodding but saying nothing.

“And I’m sorry to burden you further,” she added. “But we’re going to need your cooperation.”

“What kind?”

“We’ll want you to stop by the department and give us a set of prints. Detective Carbajal is tied up right now. As soon as he’s free, he’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

“You need my fingerprints? Why? I thought you said Shelley was sick.”

“She was sick,” Joanna agreed. “But the medical examiner has labeled her death as suspicious.”

“You’re saying someone killed her?” Bobo asked incredulously. “Who would have done such a thing? And why?”

“I can’t answer those questions, either,” Joanna said. “Not yet. We’re working on it, but it’s very early in the process. Investigations take time.”

“But you want my prints. Am I a suspect?”

“Not at all. Yours will be elimination prints. We print everyone who was known to have been at the crime scene prior to the event. That way we can sort prints that belong from those that don’t. From what you’ve told me, you may have been the last person to see Shelley alive.”

Bobo Jenkins nodded morosely. “I see,” he said. “Do I need to do that right away – the fingerprinting?”

“As soon as possible,” Joanna told him. “Time is always important, but you’ll need to call the department before you come by and make sure Casey Ledford is there. She’s our latent fingerprint tech. The last I heard, she was still at the crime scene. And Detective Carbajal is busy at the moment, too. I’m sure he’ll contact you once he’s free.”

“Crime scene.” Bobo repeated the words and then took a deep breath. “Detectives. I can’t believe all this is happening. I can’t believe Shelley was murdered.”

“Bobo, we don’t know that for sure, either,” Joanna reminded him patiently. “At this time, her death is regarded as suspicious. For all I know, it could have been a suicide.”

“No,” Bobo Jenkins declared. “Absolutely not! Whatever killed Shelley, it sure as hell wasn’t suicide!”

With that, he opened the car door, got out, and slammed it shut again. Joanna unlocked the back door. Then she exited the car, too, and helped him retrieve his painting.

“It’s a very good likeness,” she said, once he was holding it upright so she could see it clearly. “Your Shelley must have been a very talented woman, and very special, too.”

As Bobo Jenkins looked down at the painting, his eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away with one end of the grubby towel that still dangled, unheeded, around his neck.

“Thank you for telling me about this, Joanna,” he said quietly. “For coming in person, I mean,” he added. “You’re the boss. It would have been easy to send someone else instead of doing it yourself.”

Joanna nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said.

“And thanks for following me down to the gallery, too,” he continued. “I was so pissed off when I went down there that I might have done something stupid. I could have hurt somebody.”

Joanna looked up at him and smiled reassuringly. “No, Bobo,” she said. “I don’t think you would have. But for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re right about the paintings. There’s no question – they shouldn’t be sold. They should all go to Shelley’s family. Deidre Canfield is dead wrong on this one.”

“Thanks for that, too,” he said.

Carefully holding the painting in front of him, he angled his way through the gate and started up the stairs. Behind Joanna a horn honked impatiently. She jumped back into the Civvie and hurriedly moved it out of the way of the vehicle she’d been blocking.

It was a tough way to start the day, considering she still hadn’t had her morning briefing or a second cup of coffee.

STANDING IN THE WARM LATE-MORNING SUN with the heavy pay phone receiver held to one ear, the man waited impatiently for his call to be put through. The receptionist had accepted the charges, so it wasn’t a matter of money. Still, he didn’t have all day.

Finally someone picked up at the other end. “Good,” he said when he heard the voice. “It’s you. You’ll be happy to know it’s done. She’s dead. All you have to do now is send money.”