She was still pale and shaken when she made her way into the kitchen. “How long is this going to last?” Butch asked as he handed her a mug of tea.
Joanna shrugged. “Last time I was fine for the first month, sick as a dog for the second, and fine again after that-except for drinking or smelling coffee.” That was when she noticed that the coffeepot next to the sink was empty. “No coffee for you this morning, either?”
He held up a stainless-steel covered mug. “Iced,” he 179
answered. “Made from yesterday’s coffee. I thought if you didn’t have to smell me making it, maybe you wouldn’t get sick. Obviously that didn’t work.”
“It was nice of you to try,” she said, smiling wanly.
“Maybe I should start marking off days on the calendar,” Butch said. ‘And how long do you go on eating mostly peanut butter? It’s not what I call a balanced diet.”
“No,” Joanna agreed, “but I’m sure I won’t starve.”
“Lucky chewed up another one of Jenny’s boots yesterday,” Butch mentioned in passing.
“Not one of the new ones!”
“Yes, one of the new ones. And the right one, just like the other pair. If he’d chewed up the left-hand one, she’d still have two boots to work with even if they weren’t a pair. I tried to explain to her that, with a puppy in the house, she can’t leave anything lying around untended. I don’t think she got the message.”
“Will she this time?” Joanna asked.
Butch shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Especially if this pair of boots comes out of her own pocket.” He came over and settled onto the stool next to Joanna’s. “By the way,” he said, “your mother called late last night.”
“What about?”
“I’m not sure. She said she was looking for George and wondered if you were home.”
“That wasn’t it,” Joanna said. “I’m guessing she really wanted to find out if her calling out the big gun had any effect on me.”
“What big gun?” Butch asked.
Joanna told Butch about Bob Brundage’s call. Butch listened to the story in thoughtful silence and shook his head when she finished. “Eleanor just doesn’t get it,” he said.
“Get what?”
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“The idea that you’re all grown up and able to make your own decisions.”
“You’re right,” Joanna said. “And I doubt she ever will.”
An hour later, when Joanna drove into the Justice Center parking lot, she noticed an Arizona DPS van that was parked in front of the gate to the razor-wire-surrounded impound lot where the wrecked remains of the Suburban had been hauled and deposited for inspection. It had been decided the night before that this would be a joint-operation investigation, and Joanna was glad to see someone from the Department of Public Safety was already on the job. So was Dave Hollicker.
“Finding anything important?” Joanna asked as she joined the two clipboard-carrying officers who were conferring earnestly just to the left of the Suburban’s smashed driver’s-side fender.
“This is Sheriff Brady,” Dave said, seeing her for the first time. ‘And this is Sergeant Steve Little of the DPS.”
“Glad to meet you, Sheriff Brady,” Sergeant Little said. “The biggest question in my mind is why this old crate was still on the road in the first place. No way it should have been doing ninety miles an hour. The brakes are shot. The shock absorbers are rusted out, and, with as many people as he had in there, the vehicle was grossly overloaded.”
“Who’s it registered to?” Joanna asked.
‘A guy in Tucson who says he sold it last week to a Hispanic guy who paid him a thousand bucks in cash and said he needed it for his landscaping business. He used it for landscaping, all right. Turned it into a bulldozer.”
“Do we have any idea who ‘he’ is?” Joanna asked.
Dave Hollicker shook his head. “No idea. The driver was carrying a fake ID and a fake driver’s license. He won’t answer
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any questions, but he’s asking for a court-appointed lawyer. Says he wants to be deported back to Mexico.”
Joanna thought for a moment of the dead and bloodied baby she had cradled in her arms. “That driver’s not going home anytime soon,” she declared determinedly. “Not if I can help it.”
Leaving the impound lot in her Ciwie, Joanna was surprised at the number of vehicles pulling into the Justice Center parking lot. On Saturdays, when court wasn’t in session, the public parking area at the front of the complex was usually deserted. Last in the line of arriving vehicles was a battered Camry. A magnetic sign bearing the Bisbee Bee’s distinctive logo was plastered on the driver’s door.
As passengers began spilling out onto the hot pavement, Joanna assumed they had nothing to do with her and headed for her reserved and shaded parking place behind the building.
Inside her office, she used her phone to call Lupe Alvarez at the reception desk in the public office.
“What’s going on out front, Lupe?” Joanna asked. “Did someone schedule some kind of tour or activity that I don’t know about?”
“Beats me,” Lupe replied. “From here all I can see is a bunch of people milling around in the parking lot, lots of them waving signs. It must be some kind of demonstration.”
“What do the signs say?” Joanna asked.
“One of them said A-W-E,” Lupe returned. ‘Any idea what that means?”
‘AWE? Not the slightest,” Joanna answered. “What about the people? Do any of them look familiar?”
“No, but most of their backs are to me right now. They seem to be posing for photos in front of the door. Right, I just saw a flash, so someone did take a picture.”
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“Why don’t you give Chief Deputy Montoya a call,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe he knows something about this.”
“Right away, Sheriff Brady.”
Joanna put down her phone. While she waited for Lupe to call back, she turned on her computer to check her e-mail inbox. She had twenty-seven new messages, most of them offering her ways to earn money by working at home, or quick fixes for the latest computer virus. One by one she deleted those without even opening them. She was down to the last eleven seemingly real messages when her phone rang again.
“Chief Deputy Montoya is on his way in,” Lupe reported. “It’ll take him about twenty minutes to get here. He’s scheduled a ten o’clock press briefing, so maybe some of the vehicles are reporters coming for that, but he doesn’t have a clue about a demonstration.”
“Great,” Joanna said. “Well, then, since he’s not here and I am, I’d better go out and see what’s happening.”
Since it was Saturday and Joanna had planned on spending the entire day in the office, she had come to work wearing jeans and a wrinkled but comfy linen blazer. If a newspaper photographer was outside snapping pictures, it was likely that a less-than-wonderful photo of Sheriff Brady would end up appearing in print.
Eleanor Lathrop was nowhere around, but Joanna had a fair idea of how their next conversation would go. “How could you possibly go to work dressed like that,” her mother would ask, “looking like something the cat dragged in? What about that nice uniform you wore in the Fourth of July parade?”
Walking toward the door, Joanna smiled grimly to herself, imagining the reaction if she came right out and told Eleanor
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that the uniform was out of commission due to an encounter with puppy pee. An answer like that wouldn’t be well received.
Opening the front door, Joanna stepped out onto the shaded veranda where a shorts-clad blonde with short-cropped hair was speaking earnestly to Kevin Dawson. Kevin, the Bisbee Bee’s ace reporter and photographer, was also, by some strange coincidence, the son of the newspaper’s publisher and editor in chief.