“I already knew that,” Joanna said. “Lucy told me.”
Frank made a face. “Nothing like spoiling a guy’s fun,” he grumbled.
“What else?” Joanna asked.
“Ernie Carpenter spent all afternoon working with his connections at Fort Huachuca.”
“And?”
“There’s no official record that Sandra Ridder ever worked on post. We have anecdotal evidence that she worked there. That’s what people have told us. If so, however, every single official reference to her has been deleted from the computer records. Right this minute there isn’t even so much as a parking pass with her name on it.”
“That’s crazy,” Joanna said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe not,” Frank replied. “But consider this. The hacker who lifted those encrypted codes was no lightweight. How hard would it be for someone like him to delete a person’s job and personnel records?”
“Not very,” Joanna said after a moment’s thought. “In fact, probably not hard at all.”
“That’s what I thought,” Frank said.
“Sheriff Brady?” Jaime queried.
“Yes.”
“I just heard about what happened at your house,” Jaime Carbajal said. “Is everyone okay?”
Joanna found the switch from case to case-from official to personal-jarring and disconcerting at the same time. “We’re all fine,” Joanna answered after a moment. “Except for the dogs. They’re still at the vet’s. The last I heard, Dr. Ross couldn’t tell if they’re going to make it or not.”
“How bad is the damage to your place? And is Reba Singleton really the one who’s responsible?”
“The damage is pretty bad,” Joanna conceded, flashing back to her last look at her devastated kitchen. “And yes, Reba did do it, but she’s been handled. As of now, I’m convinced she’s no longer a threat to herself or others. Even so, her attorney in California requested that she be checked into a hospital for evaluation. And no, we’re not placing her under arrest at this time. What’s going on with you?”
“I’ve spent the whole afternoon here with Catherine Yates-ever since the funeral. So far, there’s been no sign of trouble. She was overjoyed to hear Lucy has been found, and she’s frantic to see her granddaughter. She’s willing to come see her tonight if that’s possible.”
Gauging her own diminished personal resources, Joanna shook her head. She had been through far too much that day to think through all the ramifications of sending someone back to Holy Trinity to pave the way for a late-night visit from Catherine Yates. And Lucy Ridder had been through too much as well. Right that second, Joanna hoped Lucy was bedded down and sleeping in the peaceful warmth and safety of one of Holy Trinity’s retreat accommodations.
“No,” Joanna said. “Tell her the reunion will have to wait until tomorrow. I interviewed Lucy myself, but only partially. We were interrupted halfway through. I want you and Ernie to have a chance to talk to Lucy in person before anyone else does, although, since she’s a juvenile, we may have to allow the grandmother to be present while we talk to her. What Lucy has to tell us is going to be important, Jaime. She witnessed her mother’s murder, and she may be able to ID the killer.”
“Whoa! You mean she saw it go down?”
“That’s what she said. So in addition to an interview, we’ll need a composite drawing as well. As an eyewitness we have an obligation to keep Lucy safe, which is what she is right now. Tell Catherine Yates if she wants to discuss this with me, she should come to my office first thing tomorrow morning.”
“We’ve been talking all day. She’s been telling me…”
As Jaime began speaking, the Bronco Joanna was riding in emerged from the mesquite grove on High Lonesome Ranch and came to a stop behind the group of vehicles parked bumper to bumper outside Joanna’s fenced yard. If anything, more people were in attendance now than had been earlier, when Frank Montoya and Joanna had set off for Rhodes Ranch.
“Where did all these yahoos come from?” Frank muttered.
“Look, Jaime,” Joanna interrupted. “I can’t talk anymore right now. I can’t even think, and you’ve been on duty far too long as well. Have Tica send someone out to relieve you. I’ll see you at the briefing in the morning. All right?”
“Fine.”
“Good call,” Frank said, as Joanna returned the radio microphone to its holder. “I was afraid you were going to send someone back over to Saint David. We can all do only so much, and that goes for you personally as well. Are you sure you should be at the briefing in the morning? Shouldn’t you take the day off and tend to this mess?”
Joanna was touched by his concern. She shook her head. “Mess or no mess, I’ll be at the office in the morning,” she told him. “I’m still getting married on Saturday afternoon, and I’m still taking Friday and all next week off for my honeymoon. You can bet your butt I’ll be at the briefing tomorrow morning.”
“Suit yourself,” Frank said.
From inside Joanna’s house came periodic flashes of light, indicating one of the crime-scene techs was taking photographs. The burst of adrenaline that had fueled her body and kept Joanna going through the Reba Singleton crisis seemed to dissipate, leaving her drained and exhausted.
“Frank, please go tell whoever’s taking those pictures to stop,” Joanna said wearily. “If we do end up prosecuting this case, the evidence the crime techs have now-fingerprints, photos, and whatever else-will have to do. I want everyone to clear out of here. Now.”
Ahead of the Bronco, illuminated in the headlights, Marliss Shackleford came hotfooting it toward them. Suddenly Joanna was struck by her own vulnerability. It was one thing to be tackled by the press in her role as sheriff. That was an assumed risk-part of the game. It was something else entirely to be targeted because you were the innocent and unwilling victim of someone else’s act of violence.
“That goes double for her,” Joanna added, nodding in the approaching reporter’s direction as Frank exited the vehicle. “I want Marliss Shackleford out of here before now, if that’s possible.”
Frank laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Does that mean you’re not granting interviews?” he added, slipping smoothly from chief deputy into his other departmental function-that of Media Relations officer.
“Right,” Joanna said. “My only comment is no comment, and I’m not setting foot outside this vehicle or rolling down the window until you get rid of her.”
Joanna watched while Frank and Marliss engaged in a long, heated debate. With the windows closed, it was impossible to hear exactly what was being said, but from Marliss’ wild gesticulations it was pretty clear what was going on. Finally, with a departing wordless glare in Joanna’s direction, Marliss stalked away.
Seconds after Frank walked off as well, Butch showed up and opened the car door. Joanna tumbled out of the Bronco and into his arms. She had been tough and strong long enough. Now all she wanted was to be held and comforted and told everything would be all right. Butch Dixon was happy to oblige.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”
“To your house?”
“Where else? I certainly can’t leave you here.”
“Shouldn’t I go inside and get a nightgown for tonight and something to change into tomorrow morning?”
“Sweetie pie,” he said. “The whole time you’ve been gone, I’ve been inside your house and looking over the damage. What you’re wearing is what you’ve got.”
“There’s nothing left?”
“Nothing salvageable. But there is some good news.”
“What’s that?”
“I talked to Dr. Ross a few minutes ago. She says she thinks both dogs are going to pull through. Come on.”
Joanna looked up at Butch through suddenly tear-dimmed eyes. That was just about the time a photographer from The Bisbee Bee caught the two of them in mid-embrace. Joanna started to object, but Butch took her hand.