“What about Reba Singleton’s accusations as well as Dick Voland’s so-called investigation? How do you want those handled-containment?”
“Trying to squelch them isn’t going to work, Frank,” Joanna answered. “You and I both know that Dick and Marliss Shackleford are an item. She’s not going to miss out on a chance to show me in a bad light, especially if she can do it with the help of insider information. She told me yesterday in church that she’s going to be writing Clayton’s obituary.”
“Great,” Frank said. “That should give her ample opportunity for a little gratuitous editorializing.”
Just then Kristin Marsten’s voice came over the intercom. “Sheriff Brady?”
“What is it?”
“I know you don’t like to be interrupted during the briefing, but Casey Ledford is on line one. I told her you were busy, but she said this is important. She says she needs to talk to you right away.”
“Thanks, Kristin. I’ll take the call.”
A year and a half earlier, a windfall of unexpected money had become available for Joanna’s department to create its own Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Casting about for someone to get the system up and running, Joanna had stumbled on Casey, a young college dropout and a single mother supporting her four-month-old baby by waiting tables at the Copper Queen Hotel.
With a tiny baby to support, no college degree, and no law-enforcement training, Casey’s application might well have gone nowhere. The good news was that her unfinished degree was in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the University of Arizona. She was a capable artist who was also savvy with computers. Joanna reasoned that she’d be able to use her artistic skills for the manual augmentation of prints necessary to make the AFIS scans work. What ultimately carried the day, however, was the fact that Casey Ledford was the only candidate who had applied for the job. In the intervening months, she had become a valued member of Joanna’s team. If anyone remembered that the AFIS tech had no Police Science degree, it no longer mattered enough for people to mention it.
Joanna punched down the lit and flashing button that indicated line one. “Good morning, Casey. What’s up?”
“Dick Voland is here and he-”
“He’s asking for a copy of my fingerprints,” Joanna supplied.
“That’s right, and I told him-”
“I want you to give them to him,” Joanna interrupted. “I also want you to give him whatever additional assistance he may deem necessary. If that includes going out to Clayton Rhodes’ place and lifting prints, I want you to do that as well. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but-”
“No buts, Casey. This is important. Mr. Voland is to have your full cooperation. Is that clear?”
“Yes. I’ll get right on it.”
“Wait, Casey. Before you go, I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you had a chance to lift any prints off the water jugs Jaime Carbajal brought in from the Cochise Stronghold crime scene on Friday?”
“I tried,” Casey replied. “But there weren’t any.”
“Not one? That’s odd.”
“Yes, I thought so, too. I’ve looked at several sets of those water jugs over the months I’ve been here,” Casey said. “I’ve never seen one with no prints on it before. Since when did UDAs start either wearing gloves or wiping their jugs clean?”
“They don’t as far as I know,” Joanna said.
“Right,” Casey said. “It’s something that doesn’t fit. One of the jugs still had some water in it. I’ve taken that down to the lab and asked Ernesto to check on it and see if he can tell where it came from.”
“Probably from a well in Old Mexico or from somebody’s stock tank somewhere between Pearce and the border.”
“But how many towns in Mexico chlorinate and fluoridate their water?” Casey asked back.
“Not many,” Joanna said. And then, seeing where Casey’s line of thought was leading, she added, “Same goes for ranchers and stock tanks between here and the border. Is it possible to get a match on where the water came from?”
“Maybe,” Casey said. “Ernesto’s making some follow-up phone calls on that right now.”
“Good work, Casey. Have him call me with his results. In the meantime, give Dick Voland whatever assistance he needs.”
“Will do,” Casey replied.
Sitting on the far side of Joanna’s desk, Frank Montoya had followed enough of the conversation to know what was going on. “That Casey Ledford has a good head on her shoulders,” he said. “It’s a shame we have to keep her locked up in the print lab.”
“Casey likes the print lab,” Joanna reminded him. “She’s good at what she does, and as long as she’s not afraid to think outside the box from time to time, we have the benefit of her smarts in more than one direction.”
“Sheriff Brady?” Once again Kristin’s disembodied voice came over the intercom. “Is Chief Deputy Montoya still in there?”
“Yes.”
“Would you tell him that Marliss Shackleford is out in the public lobby waiting to speak to him?”
Frank stood up. “Time to go earn my keep,” he said. “Why do you suppose she wants to talk to me?”
“The last I heard, you were still our Media Relations officer,” Joanna said.
“Media Relations!” Frank snorted, heading for the door. “For this I ought to qualify for hazardous-duty pay.”
CHAPTER 12
The bell on Joanna’s private phone line jangled before the door finished closing behind Frank Montoya. Hoping the caller was Butch and wanting to compose herself and not sound too eager, she let the phone ring twice more before she answered. “Hello.”
“So how is my partner in crime this morning?” George Winfield asked. “According to Reba Singleton, you and I are schemers of the first water-conflict of interest, collusion. The woman seems to have a whole laundry list of grievances. Is there anything you and I aren’t guilty of?”
“How’s it going, George?” Joanna said, swallowing her disappointment.
She felt more than a little guilty about talking to him. Despite his having left two separate messages on Saturday, all of Sunday had passed without Joanna actually speaking to the medical examiner. She had attempted to call him-once each at home and at the office-but when he hadn’t answered after several rings, she hadn’t left messages and she hadn’t attempted to reach him again, either. She might have tried harder, if she had known exactly what to say.
Sheriff Joanna Brady cringed at the idea that the mere existence of a relationship between the two of them had caused the medical examiner’s professional integrity to be called into question. It made her feel responsible and more than a little embarrassed. She was also cautious. Eleanor Lathrop hadn’t mentioned a word about the situation to Joanna during their ride out to the High Lonesome after the Sunday-afternoon wedding shower. Joanna had taken her mother’s lack of comment to mean that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield was still in the dark about Reba Singleton’s allegations. And, since George hadn’t had nerve enough to broach such a touchy subject with his wife, Joanna thought it wise to follow suit. Still, given the seriousness of the situation, she hardly expected George to be joking around about it.
“Does Mother know what Reba Singleton is up to?” Joanna asked.
“Not exactly,” George admitted. “At least not yet. I didn’t want to discuss it with her and get her all wound up until you and I had a chance to talk. However, I just left Madame Singleton in the courthouse lobby in what can best be described as a state of high dudgeon. The way the grapevine works around here, it’s probably only a matter of hours before Ellie hears about it and the you-know-what hits the fan. What’s this about the FBI’s being expected to ride to Reba’s rescue at any moment?”