“One and the same.”
“Damn!”
“And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Joanna continued, “if we don’t find out that Mr. Stephan J. Marcovich wasn’t part of the governor’s circle of acquaintances as well.”
Adam York sighed. “We already know he is. A major contributor besides. That’s why we’re trying to keep this thing quiet. What’s his connection to the O’Briens?”
“Marcovich’s cousin is a man named Alf Hastings, who hap pens to work for David O’Brien. You remember Alf Listings, don’t you?”
“Remind me.”
“He used to be a deputy sheriff over in Yuma County. He got drummed out of the corps on a charge of police brutality. Now this same Alf Hastings is David O’Brien’s chief of opera Lions. Translation: junkyard dog/bodyguard. According to Hastings’s wife, Maggie, Alf’s cousin-Stevie, as she called him-arranged for the job when Alf couldn’t get work any where else. The dead girl’s Hispanic boyfriend went out to the O’Brien place hoping to catch sight of his missing girlfriend. Instead, Alf Hastings beat him up. We’re investigating it as an assault case, but he could develop into a suspect in our homicide and into a possibility for your smuggling case as well.”
“Have you talked to this All guy?”
“Not yet. He’s not at work today,” Joanna told hint. “According to his boss, he won’t be at work tomorrow, either. And nobody-his wife included-seems to know where he is. But let me tell you something about the O’Brien place, Adam. It’s called Green Brush Ranch, and it’s situated smack on top of the Mexican border. In fact, the property line runs along the border for miles, from Naco west all the way to the San Pedro River. Over the past couple years, under the guise of reestablishing the grassland, the owner has turned the whole place into an armed camp, complete with razor wire all the way around the perimeter and with ATV-mounted guards and guard dogs patrolling the property line.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “In other words, what you’re telling me is that no law enforcement folks have been allowed inside.”
“That’s right.”
“Which would make for an ideal smuggling operation.”
“Right again.” Joanna agreed.
Ever since she had read the words on Stephan Marcovich’s business card, the same ugly theory had been germinating inside Joanna’s head. Now that she had confirmation from Adam York that Marcovich was indeed the air-conditioning contractor in question, she was almost sure of it. The seed of the idea was there, but she had yet to voice it aloud. She felt self-conscious at the idea of laying it out in front of Adam York. Would the DEA agent find it as chillingly believable as she did, or would he simply toss it aside?
“Let me run this past you, Adam. If either David O’Brien and/or his wife is involved in this smuggling deal, what do you think the chances are that one of them had something to do with their daughter’s death?”
“What makes you think that?” Adam responded at once.
Relieved that he didn’t laugh outright at her theory, Joanna continued. “I had a chance to look through the girl’s diary,” she said. “Through one of them, anyway. Brianna O’Brien was one of those faithful diarists. She’s been keeping a journal for several years now. The last entry stuck with me. ‘My mother is a liar,’ it said. My guess is that both her parents are liars, not just her mother.
“When Ernie and I were out at the house earlier today, I saw the father writing what looked like a suicide note. The mother is pissed as hell-at the father. Not only that, she said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. She said her husband has never lived with the consequences of his actions. The way she said it set off all my alarms.”
Again the telephone line went quiet. Joanna suffered through the silence, expecting the DEA agent to tell her she had a far too vivid imagination.
“The liar comment is the very last entry in the journal?” Adam asked at last. “The final one the girl made before she died?”
“No. It was the last entry in the next-to-last volume. It was written months ago. The problem is, the volume Brianna O’Brien has been writing in since then-the one that might contain any telling details-is missing. It isn’t in her room. It wasn’t at the crime scene, either.”
“As in maybe somebody got rid of it,” Adam York muttered.
“The same thought that occurred to me,” Joanna said.
“Unfortunately,” Adam continued, “this Freon thing is a multimillion-dollar business. If our suspicions are correct, Stevie Marcovich, otherwise known as Marco, runs an operation that will be right up there with the six-million-dollar bust we made in Florida a year ago. If the O’Briens are involved and their own daughter was expendable, I’d say Sam Nettleton up in Benson i5 in way over his head. So is Jim Hobbs, for that matter.”
“What do we do about it?” Joanna asked.
“For one thing,” Adam said, “I’m canceling the sting operation as of right now. How soon can your detectives be in Benson?”
Joanna glanced at her watch. One forty-five. “Ernie Carpenter is probably still up the canyon at the coroner’s office. With luck I can possibly have him there by two-thirty. The same thing goes for Jaime Carbajal. Why? What do you have in mind?”
“I think somebody should go see Sam Nettleton and lay the cards on the table. We’ll let him know his ass is on the line. Maybe we can scare him into springing with what he knows.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we’re no worse off than we were before.”
“Except you may have blown your chance to nail Marcovich,” Joanna said.
“Right,” Adam returned. “But considering there are innocent lives at stake, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m on my way to Benson, too, but I’m coming from Casa Grande. I don’t know if I’ll make it there before all hell breaks loose.”
“Do me a favor,” Joanna said.
“What’s that.”
“Tell your people that Nettleton comes here first for questioning.”
“Joanna-”
She cut off his objection. “You owe me, Adam. This is my turf. As far as I’m concerned, my homicide takes precedence over your sting.”
“Okay,” Adam York agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll let them know.”
The moment Joanna was off the telephone with Adam York, she called Dispatch and told the operator who answered to locate both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter and send them off to meet up with the DEA task force in Benson. Once that was done, there wasn’t much more for Joanna to do except sit and wait. She was tempted to go racing off to Benson right along with everyone else. After a moment’s consideration, though, she decided against it. That wasn’t her job. It was why she had detectives. Besides, Cochise County or not, the Benson operation was the DEA’s deal. Adam York would he in charge of that one-of his officers and Joanna’s as well.
Sit and stay, she told herself firmly. No need for a second commander in the field. All that would do would be to gum up the works. She stopped long enough to eye the ever-growing mounds of paper that littered her desk.
Especially, she added, when I’ve got more than enough to do right here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
During Joanna’s term as sheriff, paperwork had become the bane of her existence. No matter how often she did it-no matter how hard she tried to keep up-it continued to roll across her desk in a perpetual stream. It struck her that it was just like trying to keep up with housework at home, where there was always another pile of dirty laundry to wash or another load of dishes to do. It was a drudgery aspect of police work that somehow never quite made it into the phony TV world of quirky cops and equally fantastic crooks duking it out in exotic high-speed car chases.