“What about the guys who were picked up driving the Saturn?”
“UDAs again. The guy driving it was an illegal with no license and no insurance. He may have known the vehicle was stolen, but I doubt it. Lots of fingerprints, but so far, Casey Ledford’s found nothing useful.”
“Tell you what, Frank,” she said. “Let’s beef up patrols in the northern sector of the county and along our portion of I-10. Since the feds have brought all those extra Border Patrol agents, we’ll let theist take up some of our slack for a change. God knows we’ve been doing plenty of their work.”
Moments later, Frank was giving Joanna computer-generated driving directions that would take her from the Conquistador Hotel in Peoria to Southeast Encanto Drive near downtown Phoenix. By the time she finished up with her phone call, Butch was coming back across the driveway carrying a pair of room keys, one of which he handed to her.
“We’re in room twelve fourteen,” he said. Looking at her closely, he frowned. “You’re upset. What’s wrong?”
“The autopsy’s in on the Apache Pass victim,” Joanna said. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Does that mean you want to head home and go to work on it?” Butch asked. “If that’s the case, I can rent a car to do what I need to do here.”
“No,” Joanna assured him. “As they told us in one of the sessions up in Page, we sheriffs need to learn to delegate. From what Frank and Ernie have both told me, I think they have things under control. Besides, I have a part of the job that needs doing right here in Phoenix, remember?”
Up in the room, Joanna changed into a skirt, blouse, and lightweight microfiber jacket. At home in Bisbee and in order to save wear and tear on her own newly recreated wardrobe, she had often taken to wearing a uniform to work. For the Sheriffs’ Association Conference, she had brought along mostly business attire, and for next-of-kin notifications, that was the kind of clothing she preferred. Out of respect for the victim, she always felt she needed to show up for those heart-rending occasions wearing her Sunday best—along with her small-of-back holster.
“Be careful,” Butch told her, giving her a good-bye hug. “And, case you’re interested, I think changing clothes was the right thing to do.”
Even though the car had been parked in the shade, the Crown Victoria felt like an oven. The route Frank had outlined took her down the Black Canyon Freeway as far as the exit at Thomas. On Thomas she drove east past Encanto Municipal Golf Course to Seventh Avenue. There she turned south. Southeast Encanto Drive wasn’t a through street, but as soon as Joanna turned of Seventh onto Monte Vista, she knew she was in one of the old-money neighborhoods in Phoenix. The houses were set back from the street on generously sized lots. Around the homes were the kinds of manicured lawns and tall, stately trees that thrived in the desert only with careful attention from a professional gardener and plenty of irrigation-style watering.
The address turned out to be an ivy-covered two-story red brick house with peaked-roof architecture that revealed its pre World War II origins. Joanna pulled into the driveway and parked the Crown Victoria behind a bright-red Toyota 4-Runner. Turning off the ignition and dropping the car keys into the pocket of her blazer, Joanna felt the same kind of misgiving she always experienced when faced with having to deliver the kind of awful news no family ever wants to hear.
Just do it, Joanna, she told herself firmly. It’s your job.
Letting herself out of the car, she walked up the well-groomed sidewalk. Here in the center of Phoenix, surrounded by grass and shaded by trees, it didn’t seem nearly as hot as it had on the shiny new blacktop that graced the driveway at the Conquistador Hotel. Reaching for the doorbell, Joanna was startled to see that the door was slightly ajar. A steady stream of air-conditioned air spilled from inside out. She hesitated, with her finger reaching toward the bell. Then, changing her mind, she pushed the door open a few inches.
“Hello?” she called. “Anybody home?”
There was no answer, but deep within the house she heard the sound of murmuring voices. “Hello,” she called again. “May I come in?”
Again no one answered, but Joanna let herself in anyway. Inside, the house was cool. Drawn curtains made it almost gloomy. The furniture was old and threadbare, but comfortably so—as though whoever lived there preferred the familiarity of top-of-the-line pieces from a bygone era to newer and sleeker steel-and-glass replacements. The voices seemed to emanate from the back of the house. Following them, Joanna made her way through an elegantly furnished dining room. Only when she reached a swinging door that evidently opened into the kitchen did she finally realize that the voices came from a radio program. On the other side of the door a loud boisterous talk-show host was discussing whether or not it might be possible for this year’s Phoenix Cardinals to have a winning season.
Joanna eased open the swinging door. On the far side of the kitchen, a woman sat at a cloth-covered kitchen table, her head cradled in her arms. The woman was so still that for a moment Joanna thought she might be dead. On the table beside her, arranged in a careful row, were three separate items: a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label, a completely empty tumbler-sized crystal glass, and a handgun—a small but potentially lethal Saturday-night special.
Holding her breath, Joanna waited until a slight movement told her the woman was alive. The droning voices of the talk-show host and his call-in guests had drowned out the sound of Joanna’s own entrance. Standing there, Joanna battled a storm of indecision. If she spoke again, this near at hand, what were the chances that the startled woman would react by reaching for her gun? Wakened out of a sound sleep and probably drunk besides, she might shoot first and ask questions later. It was then, with her heart in her throat, that Joanna Brady came face-to-face with the realization that she had come on this supposed mission of mercy without one of the Kevlar vests she insisted her officers wear whenever they were on duty.
Joanna hesitated, but not for long. Still using the noisy radio program for cover, she tiptoed across the room and retrieved the handgun. She slipped it into the pocket of her blazer along with her keys and phone. As she did so, the woman issued a small snort that sent Joanna skittering back across the room and safely out of reach. Only when she had regained the relative safety of the door way did she turn around. The woman had merely changed her position slightly, but she was still asleep. Joanna allowed herself a single gasp of relief. At least the still-sleeping woman was no longer armed.
Once Joanna had regained control of her jangled nerves, she tried speaking again. “Hello,” she said, in a more conversational voice. “Are you all right?”
This time the woman stirred. She sat up and stared uncomprehendingly around the room. Once her bleary eyes settled on Joanna, the woman groped for her missing gun. The fact that it was no longer there made tingles of needles and pins explode in Joanna’s hands.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County. Who are you?”
“Maggie,” the woman said flatly. “Maggie MacFerson.”
“Do you live here?” Joanna asked.
Maggie MacFerson glared belligerently at Joanna from across the room, but before she answered, she reached for the bottle and poured a slug of Scotch into the glass. “Used to,” Maggie said after downing a mouthful of it. “Live here, that is. Don’t anymore.”
“Who does?”
“My sister and that worthless shit of a husband of hers. He’s the one I’m waiting for—that no-account bastard. One way or another he’s going to tell me what he’s done with Connie’s money.”