Partner In Crime

One

AS SHERIFF JOANNA BRADY DROVE through the last thicket of mesquite, the house at High Lonesome Ranch lay dark and still under a rising moon. Usually her daughter Jenny’s two dogs – Sadie, a bluetick hound, and Tigger, a half golden retriever/half pit-bull mutt – would have bounded through the undergrowth to meet her. This time, Joanna surmised, they had chosen to accompany Butch on his appointment with the contractor at the site of the new house they were planning to build a mile or so away.

Butch had bugged out of St. Dominick’s immediately after the service, while he and Joanna waited for the sanctuary to empty. “I’ll stay if you want,” he had whispered. “But I really need to go.”

“Right,” she had told him. “You do what you have to. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stop by the house and do the chores first,” he said. “Don’t worry about that.”

Joanna had simply nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

By then Yolanda Ortiz Cañedo’s grieving husband, her two young sons, her parents, brothers, and sister were walking out of the church through two lines of saluting officers made up of both police and fire department personnel. Joanna could barely stand to watch. It was all too familiar, too close to her own experience. As her green eyes filled with tears, Joanna glanced away, only to catch sight of the prisoners. That forlorn group – eleven county prisoners, freshly barbered and dressed in civilian clothes – stood in respectful silence under the watchful eyes of two jail guards and Ted Chapman, the executive director of the Cochise County Jail Ministry.

Ted had come to Joanna’s office the day after the young jail matron had died of cervical cancer at a hospice facility in Tucson. “Some of the inmates would like to go to the services,” Chapman had said. “Yolanda Cañedo did a lot of good around here. She really cared about the guys she worked with, and it showed. She helped me get the jail literacy program going, and she came in during off-hours to give individual help to prisoners who were going after GEDs. Some of the people she helped – inmates who have already been released – will be there on their own, but the ones who are still in lockup wanted me to ask if they could go, too. The newer prisoners, the ones who came in after Yolanda got sick, aren’t included, of course. They have no idea who she was or what she did.”

“What about security?” Sheriff Brady had asked. “Who’s going to stand guard?”

“I already have two volunteers who will come in on their day off,” Chapman answered. “You have my word of honor, along with that of the prisoners, that there won’t be any trouble.”

Joanna thought about how good some of the jail inmates’ words of honor might be. But then she also had to consider the notebook full of greetings – handmade by jail inmates – that Reverend Chapman had brought to Yolanda and her family as the young woman had lain gravely ill in the Intensive Care Unit at University Medical Center in Tucson. Sheriff Brady had been touched by the heartfelt sincerity in all those clumsily pasted-together cards. Several of them had been made by men able to sign their own names at the bottom of a greeting card for the very first time. Other cards had names printed by someone else under scrawled Xs. Their good wishes had seemed genuine enough back then. Now, so did the Reverend Chapman’s somewhat unorthodox request.

“How many inmates are we talking about?” Joanna had asked.

“Fourteen.”

“Any of them high-risk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Give me the list,” Joanna had conceded at last. “I’m not making any promises, but I’ll run the proposition by the jail commander and see what he has to say.”

In the end, eleven of the proposed inmates had been allowed to attend the service. In his eulogy, Father Morris had spoken of Yolanda Cañedo as a remarkable young woman. Certainly the presence of that solemn collection of inmates bore witness to that. And, as far as Joanna could tell, the prisoners’ behavior had been nothing short of exemplary.

They stood now in a single straight row. With feet splayed apart and hands clasped behind their backs, they might have been a troop of soldiers standing at ease. Seeing them there, dignified and silent in the warm afternoon sun, Joanna was glad she had vetoed the jail commander’s suggestion that they attend the funeral wearing handcuffs and shackles.

Chief Deputy Frank Montoya came up behind her then. “Hey, boss,” he whispered in her ear. “They’re putting the casket into the hearse. Since we’re supposed to be directly behind the family cars, we’d better mount up.”

Nodding, Joanna left the inmates to the care of the two guards and Ted Chapman and walked back toward Frank’s waiting Crown Victoria. Even in heels, the five-foot-four sheriff felt dwarfed as she made her way through the crush of uniformed officers. A light breeze riffled her short red hair.

“Looks like the members of Reverend Chapman’s flock are behaving themselves,” her chief deputy observed, as he started the Civvie’s engine.

“So far so good,” Joanna agreed.

“But they’re not coming to the cemetery?”

Joanna shook her head. “No. Having them at the church is one thing, but going to the cemetery is something else. If there’s any confusion, I was afraid one or more of them might slip away.”

“You’ve got that right,” Frank agreed. “We don’t need to give your friend Ken Junior anything else to piss and moan about.”

“Since when does he need a reason?” Joanna returned.

Ken Junior, otherwise known as Deputy Kenneth Galloway, was Sheriff Brady’s current problem child. He was the nephew and namesake of another Deputy Galloway, one who had been part of a network of corrupt police officers in the administration that had immediately preceded Joanna’s. The elder Galloway had died as a result of wounds received during an armed confrontation with Joanna Brady. Although Joanna had been cleared of any wrongdoing in that incident, the dead man’s relatives continued to hold her responsible for Galloway ’s death.

Although the younger man was the deceased deputy’s nephew rather than his son, around the department, he was referred to as Ken Junior. Fresh out of the Arizona Police Academy at the time of his uncle’s death, the younger Galloway had been far too new and inexperienced to have taken an active part in the police corruption that had marred Sheriff Walter V. McFadden’s administration. For that reason, Ken Junior had been allowed to stay on as a Cochise County deputy sheriff. Never a great supporter of Joanna’s, he had quickly gravitated to union activism and had recently been elected president of Local 83 of the National Federation of Deputy Sheriffs.

In recent months Joanna had clashed with Ken Junior twice regarding Yolanda Cañedo’s illness. The first confrontation had occurred when Joanna suggested that members of the union ought to do at least as much for the Cañedo family as the jail inmates had. The second had happened only a few days earlier, as the Cañedo family had struggled to make arrangements for Yolanda’s funeral.

Deputy Galloway had balked at Joanna’s insistence on giving Yolanda the honor of an official Fallen Officer funeral. Ken Junior had taken the position that, as a mere jail matron, Yolanda Cañedo didn’t qualify as a real Fallen Officer. Joanna had gone to the mat with him on that score. Only over his vociferous objections had two lines of smartly saluting officers greeted Yolanda’s grieving family as they exited St. Dominick’s Church after the funeral.

Led by two Arizona Department of Public Safety motorcycle officers, the hearse pulled away from the curb. One by one the other members of the funeral cortege formed up behind them for the slow, winding trip down Tombstone Canyon to Bisbee’s Evergreen Cemetery two miles away. The ceremony in the cemetery was the part of the service Joanna had steeled herself for. She dreaded the symbolic Last Call and the moment when she would be required to take a carefully folded American flag and deliver it into Leon Cañedo’s hands.

She remembered too clearly another bright fall afternoon, not so different from this one, when Walter V. McFadden had placed a similarly folded flag in Joanna’s trembling hands at the close of Andy’s graveside services.

During the ride down the canyon and around Lavender Pit, Joanna was glad her daughter, Jenny, wouldn’t be at the cemetery. Once again she had reason to be thankful for her former mother-in-law’s kindness and wisdom. Eva Lou Brady had called High Lonesome Ranch early that morning.

“Let Jenny come stay with Jim Bob and me tonight,” Eva Lou had urged. “After what happened to Andy, Yolanda’s funeral is going to be difficult enough for you. It’ll be even harder on Jen. I’ll have Jim Bob pick her up after school so she’s here with us before the service gets started. That way she won’t have to see the hearse and the cars pulling into the cemetery. We’ll take her out for pizza and try to keep her occupied.”

Lowell School, where Jenny attended seventh grade, was situated directly across the street from Evergreen Cemetery. Not only that, Joanna had been dismayed the day before when she drove by the cemetery and noticed that the plot Leon Cañedo had chosen was fully visible from some of Jenny’s classroom windows.

Bearing all that in mind, Joanna had readily agreed to her former mother-in-law’s suggestion. Now, driving into her own front yard and seeing the darkened house, Joanna was even more grateful. This was a night when she needed a buffer between home and work. The killer combination of funeral, wailing bagpipes, graveside service, and church-sponsored reception afterward had stretched Sheriff Joanna Brady’s considerable resources to the breaking point. Had Butch or Jenny asked about Yolanda Cañedo’s funeral, Joanna would likely have dissolved in tears.

The motion-activated light above the garage flashed on, illuminating Joanna’s way from the car to the house. The afternoon had been warm, but as soon as the sun went down, there was a hint of fall in the air. Once inside, Joanna hurried to the bedroom, where she stripped off her clothing and weapons. She locked away her two Glocks and pulled on a thick terry-cloth robe. Headed for the kitchen, she was stopped halfway there by a ringing phone.

“How did it go?” the Reverend Marianne Maculyea asked. “And how are you doing?”

Joanna’s friendship with Marianne dated from when the two of them had been preadolescent students at the same school Jenny now attended. Married and the mother of two, Marianne was also pastor at Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church, where Joanna and Butch were members. She was the only person to whom Joanna had confided her concerns about attending and participating in Yolanda Cañedo’s funeral service.

“I’m all right,” Joanna replied grimly. “But it was tough.”

“You don’t sound all right,” Marianne observed.

“No, I suppose not,” Joanna said. “The Last Call was bad, but when I had to give Leon the flag, I really choked up. If I could have come home right then, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. Instead, I had to go back up to the church and stay through the whole reception. That almost killed me, Mari. Yolanda’s sons, Manny and Frankie, were there in their white shirts and blue slacks and little bow ties. They’re such cute kids, but they’re so lost and hurt right now, I could hardly stand to look at them, to say nothing of speak to them. What do you say to kids like that? What can you say?”

“You say what’s in your heart,” Marianne Maculyea replied. “I’m sure seeing them bothered you that much more because it made you think about what it was like for Jenny during Andy’s funeral.”

Marianne Maculyea’s on-the-money comment left Joanna with nothing to say. After a moment of silence, Marianne added, “Speaking of Jenny, how is she?”

“Fine, I’m sure,” Joanna replied. “She’s with Grandma and Grandpa Brady. Eva Lou called this morning and invited her to spend the night. They’re going out for pizza. I wish Eva Lou had asked me to join them. For two cents I would have ditched the reception and eaten pizza instead.”

“You had to go to the reception, Joanna,” Marianne reminded her. “It’s your job.”

“I know,” Joanna said hollowly. “But I sure didn’t like it.”

There was another pause. In the background on Marianne’s end of the phone, Joanna heard a murmur of voices. “I’d better run,” she said. “Jeff needs help with baths. I just wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Joanna said with more conviction than she felt, because she wasn’t fine at all. And what was bothering her most was something she wasn’t ready to discuss with anyone – including Marianne Maculyea. Or with Butch Dixon, either, for that matter.

Putting down the phone, Joanna wandered into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. The ladies’ auxiliary of St. Dominick’s had put on an amazing spread, but Joanna had eaten none of it. And now none of Butch’s carefully maintained leftovers looked remotely appetizing, either. Giving up, she pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge and then rummaged in the pantry for a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. Armed with cereal, a bowl, and a spoon, she settled into the breakfast nook. After a few bites she lost interest in the cereal and found herself staring, unseeing, at the game CD taped to the outside of the box.

“Damn Ken Galloway anyway!” she muttered.

He was the main reason she had been heartsick at the funeral reception. Joanna was sure it was due to arm-twisting on his part that so few deputies from her department had been in attendance. In addition to Frank Montoya, only one other deputy – a relatively new hire named Debra Howell – had defied peer pressure and come to the reception.

Not that the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t been represented. All jail personnel who weren’t on duty had turned up, including the two guards who had escorted the inmates to the funeral earlier. And there had been plenty of representation by support staff – the clerks and secretaries who worked in the offices, crime lab, and evidence room. Casey Ledford, Joanna’s fingerprint technician, had been there, along with all but one of the emergency dispatch operators. And there were plenty of officers from other jurisdictions who had shown up out of courtesy. As a group, however, the deputies from Cochise County were notable in their absence.

Only half of Joanna’s detective division had shown up, but that was understandable. Jaime Carbajal’s eleven-year-old son, Pepe, played on the same Little League team as Yolanda Cañedo’s older son, Frankie. So Jaime and his wife, Delcia, had both been there. Detective Ernie Carpenter’s absence had nothing to do with Ken Galloway’s political machinations; he was on vacation. Ernie had reluctantly agreed to take his wife, Rose, on a weeklong trip to Branson, Missouri, in celebration of their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

So Ken Galloway hadn’t managed to keep everyone away. Still, at a time when Joanna needed the entire department to pull in the same direction, she was upset that the head of the deputies’ union local seemed determined to drive wedges among members of her department. She worried that eventually those small wedges might splinter her employees into warring factions.

The phone rang. As Joanna picked up the extension on the kitchen counter, she caught sight of the Cochise County Dispatch number on the caller ID. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “What’s up?”

“A 911 call came in a little while ago from down in Naco,” Dispatch operator Tica Romero reported. “When the EMTs arrived, they found a nonresponsive African-American female. They transported her to the hospital and did their best to revive her, but she was DOA.”

Joanna Brady felt the familiar clutch in her gut. Something bad had happened in her jurisdiction. It was time to go to work. “Any sign of foul play?” she asked.

“No. The general assumption is natural causes. The victim had evidently been terribly ill. There was no sign of forced entry – until the EMTs had to break in to get to her, that is. The place was locked up tight, and the screeching security alarm almost drove the medics nuts while they were working on her.”

“They closed everything back up once they left?” Joanna asked.

“The night-watch commander is sending a deputy out to make sure that’s taken care of.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the body?”

“The woman’s young,” Tica Romero replied. “Somewhere in her thirties. The hospital has asked Doc Winfield to take charge of the body and do an autopsy, just to make sure that whatever she had isn’t transmittable. Since the ME’s been called out on the case, he’ll handle next-of-kin notification.”

Joanna allowed her body to relax. Dr. George Winfield, Cochise County ’s medical examiner, was married to Joanna’s mother, Eleanor. Unfortunately, George would have more on his hands than simply unmasking the cause of death, communicable or not, and locating next of kin. He’d also have to explain to his demanding wife why he was going back to work at eleven o’clock on a weekday evening.

“Better him than me,” Joanna murmured.

“Have to go,” Tica said urgently. “Another call’s coming in.”

Joanna took the phone back over to the table with her. By then, her once-crispy Cheerios had turned soggy. She went out to the laundry room and dumped the remainder, dividing it evenly between the two dog bowls. She was straightening up from doing that when Butch’s Outback pulled into the yard. She waited on the porch, watching as he opened the luggage-gate door, letting Sadie and Tigger bound out onto the ground. Together the dogs raced to the water dish and eagerly lapped up what sounded like a gallon of water each.

“You’re spoiling them,” she said, kissing Butch hello. “Sadie and Tigger are ranch dogs, remember? They’re supposed to run, not ride.”

“They ran from here over to Clayton’s place,” Butch said.

That was how they still, months after his death, referred to the ranch Joanna’s octogenarian handyman, Clayton Rhodes, had left them in his will.

“When it was time to come home,” Butch continued, “Tigger was the only one hot to trot. Sadie wasn’t interested. Once I let her into the car and Tigger figured out she was riding, he wanted a ride, too.”

“Sibling rivalry,” Joanna said with a smile. “But like I said, you’re spoiling them. Did you eat anything?”

“I had a sandwich when I got home from the funeral. What about you?”

“I just fixed myself a bowl of cereal.”

“Not very substantial,” Butch observed.

“It was all I wanted.”

He studied her face closely. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Joanna shrugged. “Going to law enforcement funerals isn’t exactly my favorite afternoon pastime.”

Butch opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Do you want anything?”

“Nothing,” Joanna said. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I just got off the phone with Dispatch,” she replied. “The EMTs hauled a DOA up to Copper Queen Hospital from Naco a little while ago.”

“Does that mean you have to go back out?”

Joanna shook her head. “No. Tica Romero said it looks like natural causes. The woman was evidently terribly sick. She’s George’s problem now, not mine.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Butch muttered.

“What’s going on with the house? Have you been working with Quentin all this time?”

Quentin Branch was the contractor Joanna and Butch had hired to build their new rammed-earth home.

“No,” Butch said. “The meeting didn’t last that long, but there were things I needed to do. Puttering, mostly. Making myself useful.”

While Joanna was having trouble at work with Ken Galloway, Butch Dixon was dealing with his own identity crisis. He had yet to adjust to his relatively new role as stay-at-home spouse. He had completed writing his first mystery novel, but now, while he lived through the interminable months of waiting to see if a literary agency would agree to handle his work, Butch had tackled the job of overseeing construction on the house.

Quentin Branch would be in charge of the major aspects of the job. Butch was doing some of the hand excavation and finish carpentry. It was a way of passing time and keeping his hand in. Joanna had seen Butch’s previous remodeling projects. She had no doubt as to his ability, and his do-it-yourself skill would wring more than full value out of their home-building dollars. Her only qualm had to do with how long the process would take.

Butch finished his beer, and they went to bed. Within minutes, Butch was snoring softly on his side of the bed while Joanna lay awake and wrestled with the Devil in the guise of Ken Galloway. She was sorry now that she hadn’t answered truthfully when Butch had asked what was bothering her. He might have had some useful suggestions about dealing with the recalcitrant president of Local 83. Still, Ken Junior was Joanna’s problem and nobody else’s. If she hauled him on the carpet again and made an issue of the deputies’ collective snub of the funeral reception, it would probably do more harm than good. For all concerned. It certainly wouldn’t make things any easier for Leon Cañedo, and it wouldn’t improve intradepartmental relations, either.

The last time Joanna looked at the clock, it was nearly two in the morning. A ringing telephone jarred her awake at ten past seven. Butch was already long gone from his side of the bed when Joanna opened her eyes and groped for the bedside phone.

“Hope I didn’t waken you,” George Winfield said.

“That’s all right,” Joanna mumbled sleepily. “It’s time for me to be up anyway. What’s going on?”

“It’s about that DOA from last night,” the medical examiner said.

Joanna forced herself to sit up. “What about her?” she asked.

“The name’s Rochelle Baxter,” George returned. “Her driver’s license says she’s thirty-five. My preliminary examination says she was in good health.”

“What did she die of?”

“I don’t know. I thought you might want to have a detective on hand when I do the autopsy, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case she was poisoned.”

Joanna was wide awake now. “You think she was murdered?”

“I didn’t say that. But for an apparently healthy woman to become as violently ill as she was, I’m thinking she may have ingested something.”

“What about the water?” Joanna asked. “Could contaminated water have made her that sick?”

For years the local water system had been under investigation by the Arizona Department of Ecology due to sewage from across the line in Old Mexico that had been allowed to seep into the water table and possibly contaminate the wells that provided water for the entire Bisbee area. Lack of money, combined with lack of enthusiasm, had resulted in nothing much being done.

“It could be, but I doubt it,” George replied.

“What are you saying – it’s a homicide?”

“At this time I won’t say anything more than it’s a suspicious death,” George said. “But if you’re not treating the victim’s place as a crime scene, Joanna, you probably should.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll get right on it. When are you planning to do the autopsy?”

“As soon as you can have one of your detectives up at my office. I’m here now. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“Ernie’s on vacation, so it’ll have to be Jaime,” Joanna said. “I’ll get ahold of him at home and give him a heads-up. Thanks for the call, George.”

“Just doing my job.”

Butch appeared at the bedroom door carrying a mug of coffee. “What’s up?”

“The DOA from last night just turned into what George is calling ‘a suspicious death.’ In case it turns out to be a homicide, I’ve got to get Jaime to witness the autopsy. The victim’s home down in Naco needs to be designated as a crime scene and then investigated.”

Butch glanced at the clock, which now showed twenty past seven, and shook his head ruefully. “Sounds like a full day to me. Joey, don’t you sometimes wish you had a regular nine-to-five job?” he asked, handing Joanna her coffee.

She shook her head.

“Okay, then. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, whether you need it or not.”

Chief Deputy Frank Montoya usually arrived at the department by seven in order to get incident reports lined up for the morning briefing at eight-thirty. Joanna dialed his direct number and was relieved to hear his cheerful “Good morning.”

“You know about the DOA from Naco?” she asked.

“I was just reading the report,” Frank replied. “The EMTs made it sound like natural causes.”

“Doc Winfield doesn’t think so,” Joanna replied. “We need Casey and Dave down there right away.” Dave Hollicker, having just completed a strenuous course of training, had moved out of patrol into the newly created position of crime scene investigator.

“I’ll get right on it,” Frank told her.

“Anything earth-shattering for the morning briefing?”

“Nothing.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “In that case, we’ll put it off until afternoon. You hold down the fort there. When I leave the house, I’ll go straight to the crime scene.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said.

Once showered and dressed, Joanna hurried into the kitchen, where eggs and bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice were already on the table. Butch stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast with the smooth economy of a well-practiced cook.

“Jenny called while you were showering,” he said. Joanna reached for the phone. “Don’t bother trying to reach her,” Butch told her. “Jenny said Jim Bob was taking her to school early. Something about play practice. There are two rehearsals today, both before school and again this evening.”

“She’s all right then?” Joanna asked.

Butch shrugged. “She sounded okay to me.”

He brought a plate of toast over to the table and set it down. “I suppose this means we won’t be having lunch at Daisy’s,” he added.

“Why not?”

“Come on, Joanna,” Butch said, rubbing his clean-shaven head with one hand. Joanna recognized the gesture for what it was – unspoken exasperation. “You know as well as I do. If there’s a murder investigation under way, you won’t pause long enough to breathe, let alone eat.”

Butch’s complaint sounded familiar – like something Eleanor Lathrop might have said to Joanna’s father when D.H. Lathrop was sheriff of Cochise County.

“We don’t know for sure it’s a homicide,” Joanna countered. “Right this minute, I don’t see any reason to call off lunch.”

“When you call to cancel later,” Butch said, “I won’t forget to say ‘I told you so.’ ”

DR. GEORGE WINFIELD DIDN’T LIKE making next-of-kin notifications over the phone, but hours of fruitless searching for Rochelle Baxter’s relatives had left him little choice. DMV records had yielded a bogus address with a working phone number.

“Washington State Attorney General’s Office,” a businesslike voice responded.

Hearing that, Doc Winfield was convinced the phone number was wrong as well. “I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter,” he said.

There was a long pause. “One moment, please,” the woman said. “Let me connect you with Mr. Todd’s office.”

“Did you say Mr. Todd?” Doc managed before she cut him off.

“Yes.” She was gone before he could ask anything more. After an interminable wait, a man’s voice came on the line. “O.H. Todd,” he said brusquely. “To whom am I speaking?”

“My name’s Winfield. Dr. George Winfield. There’s probably been a mistake. I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter, but they connected me to you instead.”

“Baxter!” O.H. Todd exclaimed. “What do you want with him?”

“You know him then?” George asked hopefully.

“Why do you need him?” Todd demanded. “Who are you again?”

“Dr. George Winfield,” he explained patiently. “I’m the medical examiner in Cochise County, Arizona. I’m calling about Mr. Baxter’s daughter, Rochelle. If you could simply tell me how to reach him-”

“Something’s the matter with her?” the man interrupted. “Why? What’s happened?”

George Winfield sighed. This was all wrong. “I’m sorry to have to deliver the news in this fashion,” he said finally. “Over the phone, I mean. But Ms. Baxter is dead. She died last night.”

For a long moment, all George heard was stark silence. Just as the ME was beginning to think he’d been disconnected, O.H. Todd breathed a single word.

“Damn!” he muttered, sounding for all the world like he meant it.