Joanna looked in on a recovering Debbie Howell on her way to Deputy Long’s room. When she arrived, the composite creation process was already in full swing. As far as she could the whole thing proved to be exceedingly slow, exacting, and eventually disappointing. It had been evening and Deputy had been too far away from the suspect to pick up the kinds of painstaking details necessary to put together a successful composite. When Matt Bly pronounced the picture finished, there wasn’t anything about it that was the least bit familiar. The artist, however, didn’t seem at all discouraged.
“That’s all right,” he said. “By the time I put this together with the witness we’re going to see in Elfrida, it’ll be better. Just you wait and see.”
While Joanna had been watching the artist in action, Ernie had been out in the corridor using a pay phone to track down Larry Matkin’s address. When Joanna came looking for him, the detective was scribbling something in his notebook.
“Got it, Sheriff Brady,” he announced. “Matkin lives in a rented trailer out by Gold Gulch.”
They took the Rifle Range Road to a trailer parked on the first gentle slopes of Gold Hill. “Why would anyone want to live all the way out here?” Joanna asked, looking up at the steep but knobby mound of rock that Bisbee’s school-aged rock climbers knew as Geronimo.
“Beats me,” Ernie Carpenter said with a laugh, “but it looks like you don’t have much room to talk. The High Lonesome isn’t exactly Grand Central Station. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with this. He’s got phone, electricity, and propane. What more could you want?”
The old-fashioned trailer-a moldering relic from the fifties or sixties was parked on a concrete slab. Out behind the trailer was a long empty corral. There were no vehicles parked anywhere in sight, and when they pounded on the door, no one answered. Drawn curtains made seeing inside the place impossible.
Leaving the door, Ernie sauntered over to the edge of the slab and then squatted down to examine the dusty earth. “Looks to me as though this is where he usually parks,” Ernie said. “But I’d say he hasn’t been home today. These tracks from yesterday at least, maybe even earlier.”
“Do you know his boss?” Joanna asked.
“Skip Lowell, the general manager? Sure,” Ernie said, “I know him.”
“Why don’t we go check with him,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe he’ll know if Larry’s been called out of town. While I drive, maybe you can call in and get Skip Lowell’s address.”
“Don’t have to,” Ernie said. “When he and Mindy came bock to town, they moved into his mother’s old place on the Vista. They’re in the process of fixing it up. God knows it needs it. The renters the last owners had in the place really let it go.”
After years of working for Phelps Dodge all over the world, Armand “Skip” Lowell had returned to his hometown as general manager of P.D.’s Bisbee operation. Mindy and Skip Lowell had been in town only a matter of weeks and were a long way into rehabbing the early-twentieth-century brick home that had once been one of Bisbee’s finest.
Joanna and Ernie found Skip on his front porch. Clad in paint-speckled overalls with a matching sweatshirt, he was carefully using a paint-thinner-saturated cloth to remove several layers of black enamel from the leaded glass panels on either side of the front door.
Skip glanced tip at them as they came up the walk. “Howdy, Sheriff Brady, Ernie,” he said. “Would you please tell me why someone would use this crap to paint over every goddamned-excuse the expression-window in the place?” he grumbled.
“As I recall,” Ernie said, “the last tenants who lived here didn’t want any of their neighbors to see the glow of the grow-lights on their marijuana crop.”
“I see,” Skip said. Shaking his head in disgust, he kept right on cleaning. “What can I do for you?”
“What can you tell us about Larry Matkin?” Joanna asked.
Skip looked at her over the top of his drugstore glasses. “What do you want to know about him?”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Probably out at his house,” Skip offered.
Ernie shook his head. “We already checked,” he said. He’s not there. Hasn’t been all night, from the looks of it. Was he going out of town for the weekend, by any chance?”
“Not as far as I know.” Skip put down the paint-blackened cloth and then used a clean towel sticking out of his back pocket to clean his hands. He closed the can of paint thinner. “What’s this all about?” he asked. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that dead veterinarian, does it?”
Joanna felt her whole body go on point. No doubt, Ernie’s did the same. He was the one who fielded the question.
“It could,” he said. “What makes you think it might?”
Skip seemed to consider for a moment before he answered. “When you come to a new post like this, it takes time to get the lay of the land. To figure out what’s going on and who’s responsible for what. All that sort of thing.”
Joanna nodded. Taking over as general manager for the local Phelps Dodge branch didn’t sound all that different than taking over as sheriff.
“The guys in corporate up in Phoenix sent me down here to things moving,” he continued. “As you know, we might we’d be reopening some operations last year, but there have been a few-well, shall we say-unforeseen complications. This has all been very hush-hush, but since the whole story’s due to be released publicly sometime in the next few weeks, I’ll go ahead and tell you now.”
“As you may or may not know, when we decided to return n to Bisbee, we had three separate locations we thought might be viable-one north of Don Luis, one just east of Old Bisbee, and one east of Saginaw. The idea was to take core samples from all three, figure out which one had the most potential, and then get that one on a fast track. That’s what Larry Matkin’s been doing-sampling ore and doing assay reports.
“According to those reports, the site east of Saginaw is far and away the winner. It has a major vein of ore, one that wasn’t viable with the old technology. With electrowinning, the new technology, it is.”
“If you’ve got the technology and you’ve got the ore, what’s the problem?” Ernie asked.
Skip Lowell sighed. “When Lavender Pit was opened back in the fifties, homes that were in the way of that operation-places in Johnson’s Addition, Jiggerville, and Upper Lowell-were loaded up on axles and trucked to company land elsewhere around town.”
Joanna nodded. “Everybody in Bisbee knows about that,” she said.
“What everybody doesn’t know is that, in the process of moving all those houses, the company ran into a problem. When they got to one house, a place that belonged to a guy named Melvin Kitteridge, he refused to budge. And the guy had a point. None of the other houses in Jiggerville had mineral rights. His house did. He finally agreed to move but only if company agreed to give him the mineral rights to whatever other property they moved his house to. And that’s exactly what they did. It was a quiet kind of deal. I don’t think ten people in all knew about it. In fact, the Buckwalters themselves may not have realized…”
“You’re saying the Buckwalters own the mineral rights to property under the clinic?”
“That’s right,” Skip said. “As I said, most of the houses Saginaw are located on land the company already owns. We’ve moved those houses once, and if we have to, we can move them again. The big difficulty is that the main body of ore seems to run directly through the tract we don’t own.”
“In other words,” Joanna said, “when you gave it away forty-odd years ago, you shouldn’t have. Now, in order to make the Saginaw site workable, you have to buy it back.”