"No," she said. "It turns out I'm not all right. But I have to go in all the same. We've got a whole lot of cleaning up to do around the department this weekend. It'll probably take most of the day."
"Dinner, then?"
"I think so," she said, "but call me later, just to be sure."
During the morning briefing, Joanna learned from Dick Voland that more than thirty thousand dollars in cash had been found packed into the back of Ryan Merritt's truck. "Since we didn't find any guns other than his father's deer rifle and the one fifty-caliber in his truck, I think it's safe to assume that he unloaded most of the weapons from Clyde Philips' shop. We don't know where yet, but I've got ATF chasing after them. The agent in charge wanted to know how come we hadn't clued his office in earlier."
"You mean you hadn't?" Joanna asked.
Voland looked at her sheepishly and shook his head. "I told him I put on too much Vitalis and it must have slipped my mind."
In spite of herself, Joanna smiled. "How'd that go over?" Voland grinned back at her. "Not too well," he said. "But what could the guy say?"
"Not much." Joanna turned to the others. "Now, have we had any luck sorting out the connections between Frankie, Clyde, and Ryan?"
Ernie nodded. "As a matter of fact, we have," he said. "The evidence techs were going over Frankie Ramos' VW bus here in the impound lot when they found an unfinished letter addressed to his folks. Here's a Xerox copy."
Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm sory for all the trubble I caused. Clyde was nice to me but he was getting sicker and sicker. I tried to take him to the doctor but he wuldn't go. Ryan said we should take the stuff from the shop and cell it. He said he had frends from Florens who wuld buy guns and stuff, but Clyde hurd and was mad as hell. Ryan hit him and put him to bed I thought he was dead but he wasn't. When Ryan saw he was still breathing he wanted me to hit him to, but I culdn't. I put a bag over his head. Mom, pleese ask God to forgiv me.
I'm scarred of Ryan. He sez he's comming tonite to giv me the mony. But I don't want it. What shud I do? I can't tell what
The letter ended in mid-sentence. "That's all there is?" Joanna said.
Ernie nodded. "That's it."
"Has Ruben Ramos seen this yet?" she asked.
"No," Ernie answered. "Not yet."
"You'll take it to him?"
"Right away. As soon as wt. finish up here."
"And stay with Ruben after he finishes reading it," Joanna added. "He may need, someone to talk to."
Later, when the briefing had finished with the one set of cases and moved on to more routine matters, Frank Montoya brought up the issue of Eddy Sandoval's dismissal. Firing a deputy put a real crimp in Dick Voland's Patrol Division. It also meant that Frank's carefully contrived work roster for the following month would have to be redone. Neither of the two chief deputies was happy about that, but neither of them faulted Joanna for her decision.
Hours afterward, Joanna had just put down her phone for what seemed like the tenth time and was reaching for her office bottle of aspirin when the private line rang.
"Joanna," Eleanor Lathrop Winfield said the moment her daughter answered, "you'll never guess what happened!"
"What?"
"We're here in Seattle getting ready to catch our plane back to Phoenix when there you are!"
"Mother," Joanna said, "I haven't been anywhere near there. Believe me, I've been stuck right here in the office all day long."
"Not in person, silly," Eleanor said. "Your picture. It's right here on the front page of the Seattle Times, along with a big article that was continued two pages later. What in the world have you been up to while we've been gone? I've read the article and so has George. We can hardly believe it. And the article calls you a hero. Whatever happened to the word 'heroine'? I think it's ever so much nicer. 'Hero' makes you sound so… well… masculine. In my day, a woman who wrote books called herself an authoress, not an author. That sounded much more ladylike, too, if you ask me."
Joanna sighed. "I didn't write the article, Mother. As a matter of fact, who did?'
"Someone from the Bisbee Bee," Eleanor answered. "The article and picture both must have been picked up by the wire services."
"Marliss Shackleford didn't write it, I hope."
"Heavens, no. She's nothing but a columnist. No, I think it was probably Kevin Dawson, the son of the publisher. Anyway, I have to go now. They're calling our plane. We won't be in until late tonight. Will I see you tomorrow?"
"I doubt it, Mother," Joanna said. "I'll need to spend time with Jeff and Marianne tomorrow before Jenny and the Gs get home. The funeral's Monday."
"Funeral!" Eleanor exclaimed. "What funeral?"
"Esther's," Joanna said wearily.
"Esther? You mean Jeff and Marianne's little girl?"
"Yes. She died yesterday afternoon at University Medical Center in Tucson. She had surgery and then she caught pneumonia."
Eleanor was outraged. "Joanna Brady!" she exclaimed. "Why on earth didn't you call and let me know?"
"It turns out I was a little busy." And then Joanna almost did it again. She was on the verge of apologizing when she caught herself and realized that she didn't have to. There was nothing to apologize for. "Besides, Mother," she added, "you were on a ship, so you weren't exactly available. Remember?"
"Oh," Eleanor Lathrop Winfield said. "I guess that's right."
An hour later, Joanna picked up the phone, called the Copper Queen, and asked to be put through to Butch Dixon's room.
He came on the line and greeted her. "Does this mean you've surfaced?"
"For the moment. Do you have any plans for the evening?" "Hopes, yes," Butch said. "Plans, no."
"How'd you like to come on out to the house? We'll cook dinner together. And bring your jammies," she added with a nervous laugh.
"Wait a minute, does that mean dinner might turn into another sleepover?"
"It might," she conceded. "Jenny comes home tomorrow afternoon. That's when I turn back into a pumpkin."
"When should I show up?" Butch asked.
"Make it an hour," Joanna said. "I still have to go to the store and buy groceries."
"Make it half an hour," he countered. "I'll go buy the groceries."
Butch was as good as his word. He showed up with his Outback loaded with groceries five minutes after Joanna had walked into the house and kicked off her shoes. They had an early dinner, listened to Patsy Cline, and were in bed but not exactly sleeping when the phone rang at a quarter past ten.
Joanna groaned first, but she answered.
"Sheriff Brady?" Tica Romero said. "I'm sorry to bother you at home, but we have a problem here."
"What kind of problem?"
"There's a convoy of eighteen-wheelers parked in front of the department. We've got a man and woman screaming something about unlawful imprisonment, and then there's a whole bunch of pissed-off truckers who claim the woman-who happens to be married to one of them-is the naked hitchhiker who's been running the honey-pot deal out on I-10. What should we do?"
"Call Dick Voland," Joanna said. "Tell him I'm under the weather. He'll have to handle it."
Butch grinned as Joanna set down the phone and switched off the light. "Under the weather?" he teased. "Well," she said, "maybe I meant under the covers."
EPILOGUE
The Monday after Ryan Merritt's death was hot and muggy. It was like the aftermath of any other natural disaster. The end of Cochise County's spree killer brought with it a flurry of funerals.
Early that morning, Clyde Philips was laid to rest in the Pomerene Cemetery after a moving service conducted by Belle's pastor at the First Pentecostal Church of Pomerene. And up the road at the Triple C, after a service in the Benson L.D.S. church, Jake Hosfield was laid to rest in the family plot. Alton had wanted to bury Ryan Merritt-a boy the tabloids were already labeling the "Cascabel Kid"-in the family plot as well, but his wife wouldn't hear of it. After a brief but heated battle Alton had acceded to her wishes.