“But toxicology tests take time—weeks, even,” Joanna objected.
“Sorry,” George said. “You’ll just have to live with it. In the meantime, on the chance that there may be some additional microscopic paint flecks, I’ve preserved all of Dora’s clothing. I sent them back to your department with Jaime Carbajal so your AFIS tech—what’s her name again?”
“Casey Ledford.”
“Right. So Casey can take a look at them. Whoever killed Dora obviously doesn’t know much about forensic science, so I’m guessing he or she wouldn’t have been all that sharp about not leaving fingerprints behind, either.”
“Thanks, George,” she told hint. “I think.”
“And you’ll be sure to give your mother a call tomorrow?”
“I promise.”
“Who was that on the phone?” Butch asked once Joanna walked into the bedroom. He was already in bed. Manuscript pages were stacked on top of the sheet while he alternately read and scribbled penciled notes in the margins.
“It was George,” Joanna answered dully. “Calling to give me the news that Dora Matthews was dead before the car hit her. Somebody suffocated her, most likely after drugging her first, and then tried to fake a hit-and-run. George also said that she was three months pregnant when she died.”
“Yikes,” Butch said. “Do you think Jenny knows who the father is?”
The question startled Joanna. “I doubt it,” she said.
“He’s probably some little smart-mouthed twerp From school,” Butch theorized.
That was another disturbing thought, that someone in Jenny’s sixth-grade class at Bisbee’s Lowell School—some boy who might very well be sitting next to Jenny in math or science—might also be the father of Dora Matthews’s unborn child.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” Joanna said.
“You’d better,” Butch returned grimly. “We’d all better think about it. If there’s some little shit in the sixth grade who can’t keep his pants zipped, somebody at the school had better wise up and do something about it—before an irate father does it for them.”
As upset as she was, Joanna couldn’t help smiling. “You sound like an irate father yourself,” she said.
“I am,” Butch returned.
Joanna went into the bathroom. When she emerged, the manuscript and pencil were both gone. It was only then, as she crossed the room to turn out the light, that she noticed the baseball bat leaning against the wall between Butch’s nightstand and the head of the bed.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“It’s a baseball bat.”
“I can see that. What’s it doing here?”
Butch shrugged. “I ran a bar, remember? Some people believe in Glocks. I believe in baseball bats, and, believe me, I know how to use them. If somebody turns up here looking for Jenny, I’ll be ready.”
“You’d go after someone with a baseball bat?” Joanna asked. “Wouldn’t you?”
Shaking her head, Joanna switched off the light and climbed into bed beside him. He threw one arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. Joanna lay snuggled next to him, grateful to feel his solid bulk against her, for the sturdiness of his chest against her back, and for the strength in the arm that encircled her.
“Who’s Richard Bernard?” she asked a little later.
“Who?” Butch asked, and Joanna felt guilty when she realized he already must have dozed off.
“Richard Bernard. He called Saturday morning, but he didn’t leave a message. I saw his name on caller ID and figured he was someone you knew.”
“I have no idea,” Butch told Tier. “Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I,” Joanna said.
“Eva Lou and Jim Bob were here then. Maybe he’s a friend of theirs.”
“Could be,” Joanna said.
Within minutes, Butch was snoring lightly. Tired as she was, Joanna lay awake for what seemed like hours. She tossed from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position and hoping to quiet the paralyzing fear in her mind, the suspicion that a crazed killer was lurking somewhere outside in the dark, hiding and waiting and looking for an opportunity to make Jennifer Ann Brady his next victim.
Operating on a minimum of sleep, it was an edgy Joanna Brady who took her daughter to the Cochise County Justice Center at eight o’clock the next morning. They entered the department using the keypad-operated private entrance that led directly from the parking lot into Joanna’s office.
After having been gone for several days, Joanna knew she’d have mountains of paperwork to attend to. A day like this wasn’t the best time to bring her daughter to work, or to have to deal with the added complication of being present during the course of Jenny’s homicide investigation interview.
“Should I go get you a cup of coffee?” Jenny asked as Joanna dropped her purse onto her desk and eyed the stacks of correspondence awaiting her there.
Jenny had been so quiet on the ride in from High Lonesome Ranch that Joanna’s spirits rose at this hint of normalcy. “Sure,” Joanna said. “That would be great.”
Jenny darted out of the room while Joanna settled in behind her desk. Before she could reach for the first stack of correspondence, the door opened and Kristin Gregovich came into the office. The blond, blue-eyed Kristin greeted her returning boss with a cheerful smile.
“Welcome back,” she said. “Did you have a good trip?”
Kristin was newly married to Joanna’s K-nine officer, Terry Gregovich. She was also pregnant and due to deliver their first baby—a boy—in November. She had survived the first few months of fierce morning sickness and now was far enough along in her pregnancy that she no longer had to keep soda crackers and a glass of Sprite on her desk at all times. She glowed with a happiness and sense of well-being that Joanna usually found endearing. This morning, though, knowing what had happened to Dora Matthews and her unborn baby, Joanna felt a clutch in her gut at the sight of Kristin’s new but still relatively unnecessary maternity smock.
“It was fine,” Joanna told her. “Right up until people down here started dying left and right.”
“How did the poker game go?” Kristin asked.
“I won,” Joanna answered.
“Enough so Sheriff Forsythe noticed, I hope,” Kristin said.
That late-night poker game seemed aeons ago rather than mere days. “He noticed, all right,” Joanna said. “Now bring me up-to-date. Is there anything in particular I need to know before I go into the morning briefing?”
Over the next few minutes Joanna listened while Kristin gave her a rundown of the phone calls that had come in during the past several days. At eight-thirty, leaving Jenny in her office and deeply engrossed in the latest Harry Potter book, Joanna hurried into the conference roost. Drank Montoya was already there. So were Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal.
Joanna nodded in their direction. “I brought Jenny along,” she told them. “I’ll be sitting in on the interview.”
Both detectives nodded in unison. “Sure thing, Boss,” Ernie said. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
There was a knock on the door and Casey Ledford, the finger print technician, poked her head inside. “You wanted to see me?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” Frank said hurriedly. “I asked Casey to stop by. She has some information that I think will be of interest to everybody concerned. We’ll take care of that before we start on routine matters. “
Joanna nodded. “All right,” she said. “Go ahead, Casey. You’re on.”
Slipping into a chair, Casey Ledford smoothed her very short skirt and then placed a file folder in her lap. “As you know, I went up to Tucson yesterday to examine Connie Haskell’s vehicle, the blood-stained Lincoln Town Car that was left in the parking lot It Tucson International. The thing that surprised me was the minimal amount of blood showing on the outside of the car—not enough that an ordinary passerby was likely to notice it. Most of the blood was inside the trunk. And there’s a big difference between the two—between the blood on the Town Car’s exterior and that inside the trunk.”