“This is human-interest stuff. I think it’s the kind of story Marliss Shackleford could really sink her teeth into.”
“Not Marliss!” Joanna objected, setting her law. “After all, she’s not even a reporter anymore. She’s a columnist.”
“Yes, but I bet she’d jump on this one, especially if it gives her a crack at national exposure.”
Of all the people involved in the local news media, Marliss was Joanna’s hands-down least favorite. However, if this really was the only way to help Junior get back home, Joanna knew she’d have to do it.
“All right,” she agreed. “When you finish up with the Oak Vista Estates press conference, see if Marliss will play ball. Speaking of Oak Vista, what do you plan to tell the press?”
During the meeting Frank had continually thumbed through the sheaf of incident reports. “My usual media soft shoe, I suppose.” He grinned. “What do you think they’ll want to know?”
“Whether or not the county is under attack by a bunch of outside environmentalists who are going to try to bring the current building boom to a screeching halt. They’re going to want to know the same things we do-where the protesters come from, what they’re doing here, and who’s behind them. Tell the reporters that when we have some answers, so will they.”
Recovered from Joanna’s reprimand, Voland took them through the other routine reports from the day before. Afterward, he pushed his chair back and heaved himself out of it. “I have real work to do,” he announced. Even so, he paused at the door long enough to glower at Joanna one last time.
“I still think you’d better provide full documentation concerning anything and everything to do with your friend Junior since you took charge of him,” he said. “That’s the only way to go on a deal it that, otherwise you can pretty mulch count on the incident coming back and biting us in the butt.”
“Dick,” Joanna assured him. “I’ll take care of it.” Mumbling under his breath, Voland left Joanna’s office and slammed the door behind him. “He is right about that, you know,” Frank said.
“About Junior?” Joanna asked.
“About the full documentation bit. Are you sure the person Junior’s staying with is absolutely trustworthy?”
“I can tell you this,” Joanna said. “Junior’s a hell of a lot better off with somebody like Butch Dixon than he would be in a cell out back in the jail which, at the time, was my only other option.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Frank agreed.
They both fell silent. There wasn’t much more to add. “So what are you going to do now?” Joanna asked finally. “Handle the press conference here and then head back to Tombstone?”
Frank nodded. “That’s right. Back to my home away from home. What about you?”
“I plan to take a crack at the correspondence. When I finish up with that, I’m going to head out to Sierra Vista to talk with Alice Rogers’ attorney.”
“While you’re out that way,” Frank suggested, “you might consider stopping by to see Mark Childers.”
Frank Montoya may have been a latecomer to the Oak Vista crisis, but already he had some helpful suggestions for handling the situation.
“How come?” Joanna asked.
“You do know who his girlfriend is, don’t you?”
“No, who?”
“Karen Brainard.”
Joanna was stunned. “As in Karen Brainard, member of the Cochise County Board of Supervisors?” she asked.
“None other. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard rumors here and there that Childers backed her to the hilt, that he even helped bankroll her campaign.”
“And now, miraculously, he’s gotten permission from the board of supervisors for a controversial construction project lots of other people around here hate.”
“Have you looked it over?” Frank asked.
Joanna shook her head. “I haven’t had time.”
“Maybe the tree-huggers are up at arms for a good reason. I’ve never been much of an environmentalist myself, but I hate to see another section of the Huachucas get chewed up by uncontrolled development.”
“Your opinion and mine notwithstanding,” Joanna said, “if the supervisors have already given Childers the go-ahead, what’s the point of my going to see him?”
“If he’s somebody who can make or break a member of the board of supervisors, he could also make or break a sheriff-if he sets his mind to it, that is.”
Joanna thought about that for a moment. “So you’re advising me to do a little political fence-mending.”
Frank nodded. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises.”
After Frank left, Joanna sat alone in her office staring at the pile of mail on her desk. From the moment she had been sworn into office, there seemed to have been an unending avalanche of the stuff. It drifted in mountainous heaps from Kristin’s desk to hers and back again. Joanna took the topmost sheet off the stack. Then, for the next five minutes, lost in thought, she stared uncomprehendingly at the piece of paper in her hand without the words ever sorting themselves into meaningful sentences.
What if what Frank had said was true? What if there was a far too cozy relationship between Karen Brainard and Mark Childers? She thought about what Dick Voland had said concerning the previous day’s board of supervisors meeting. She couldn’t help wondering if, besides chewing up a pristine desert landscape, Childers and his lady accomplice weren’t also destroying someone else’s life and career in the process.
“Kristin,” Joanna said, picking up her phone. “Get Lewis Flores on the phone for me, would you? He’s the head of Planning and Zoning. No, I don’t know his number.”
She put down the phone and then waited for it to ring again, which it did-a minute or so later.
“I talked to Linda, the secretary at Planning and Zoning,” Kristin said. “She told me Mr. Flores is out sick today.”
I’ll just bet he is, Joanna thought grimly. If I were in his shoes, I probably would be, too.
CHAPTER NINE
After doing what she could about reaching Lewis Flores, Joanna returned to the correspondence. She was making good progress when, after a light tap on the door, Marliss Shackleford let herself into Joanna’s office. Marliss was a stout woman in her mid-forties with a mop of frosted hair that looked as though it had been permed with the help of a jolt of electricity.
“This is a first,” the columnist said, casting an appraising glance around the room. “I’ve never been admitted to the inner sanctum before.” She stopped in front of Joanna’s oversized desk and ran a scarlet-enameled fingernail across the smooth grain of the polished cherry. “Very nice,” she added.
“Thanks,” Joanna said brusquely. “It’s a hand-me-down. This desk used to belong to Walter McFadden. So did the rest of the furniture.”
“But not that adorable picture of Jenny, I’ll bet.”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “Not that. Come on, Marliss. Let’s get down to business. I’m sure Frank already briefed you on the situation. What more can I tell you?”
“My, my. No time for polite chitchat around here. Just wham-barn, thank you, ma’am.”
Joanna’s jaws clenched. “I’m busy, Marliss,” she said evenly. “If that’s how you want to put it, yes.”
“I’m looking for a personal angle,” Marliss said. She sat down in one of the captain’s chairs, dug around in her purse, and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “Frank tells me this young man…”
“He isn’t young,” Joanna corrected. “His name is Junior, and he’s somewhere in his mid-forties to mid-fifties.”
“Junior was left-well, abandoned, if you will-at the Holy Trinity Arts and Crafts Fair over in Saint David. That ended on Sunday. Why are we just now hearing about it for the first time?”
“Because my department wasn’t notified about the situation until late yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “That’s when Father Mulligan first contacted us.”