“And where is he… What’s his name again?”
“He calls himself Junior. No last name. If he knows what it is, so far he hasn’t mentioned it.”
“And where exactly is he staying? Deputy Montoya didn’t say, but I take it you have him in custody of some sort?”
“He’s not a criminal, Marliss,” Joanna said with as much forbearance as she could muster. “He’s developmentally disabled. So he’s not in custody of any kind. He’s staying with a friend of mine-with Butch Dixon, over in Saginaw. Of course, that is not for publication.”
“Of course not,” Marliss agreed. With a pen poised above her notebook, the columnist frowned in concentration. “But is it safe to have him loose in a neighborhood like that? Lowell School can’t be more than a few blocks away. What if he was left unsupervised and ended up doing harm to one of the children? Would you ever be able to forgive yourself?”
Joanna’s heart hardened even as her resolve melted away. Frank seemed to think that a drippy human-interest story from Marliss Shackleford was Junior’s ticket home. As far as Joanna was concerned, dealing with the columnist made the price of that ticket far too high.
Pointing at her watch, Joanna stood up. “I’m sorry, Marliss. I can see this was a bad idea. It isn’t going to work. I have another appointment. I have to get going.”
“But wait,” Marliss objected in dismay. “You can’t just throw me out with nothing. I was led to believe that I’d have an exclusive from you on this. I’m sure that’s what Chief Deputy Montoya said.”
“Chief Deputy Montoya was mistaken, Marliss. The interview with me is over. Good morning.”
“But-”
“No buts. Good-bye, Marliss. But let me warn you, if you go anywhere near Butch Dixon’s house, you’ll have me to deal with.”
Marliss Shackleford’s dismay turned to anger. “Wait just a minute, Sheriff Brady. Are you threatening a member of the Fourth Estate? This is a free country, you know. We have a Constitution that guarantees freedom of the press. You can’t get away with telling me what I can and can’t do.”
“Maybe not,” Joanna agreed. “But in addition to freedom of the press, this country also makes allowances for private property. If you go where you’re not welcome-and I can pretty well promise that you won’t be welcome at Butch Dixon’s house-then you can count on being arrested for trespassing.”
“See there!” Marliss shrilled. “Another threat.”
“No, it’s not,” Joanna said. “Not as long as you stay where you belong.”
Slamming her notebook back into her purse, Marliss Shackleford rose from her chair and swept regally from Joanna’s office. As soon as she was gone, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed Butch’s number.
“How are things?” she asked.
Butch sighed. “If I’d known how much trouble it was going to cause, I would never have given you back your badge last night. Junior wants it-and he wants it bad. He’s been searching all over the house for it, ever since he woke up.”
“I’ll find him another one,” Joanna promised. “I’ll come by later and drop one off. Right now, I’m calling to give you a storm warning.”
“A storm? Are you kidding? I’m looking out the kitchen window right now. It’s clear as a bell outside.”
“Not that kind of storm,” Joanna told him. “Remember Marliss Shackleford?”
“The Bisbee Bee’s intrepid columnist?”
“None other,” Joanna said grimly.
“What about her?”
“Frank Montoya suggested Marliss write a human-interest story about Junior in hopes that, if it was distributed widely enough, it might lead us to Junior’s family.”
“I suppose it could work,” Butch said.
“It could but it won’t,” Joanna replied. “She came in to interview me about him and I ended up throwing her out of my office. In Marliss Shackleford’s book, developmentally disabled and pedophile/pervert are all one and the same. She’s afraid you’ll turn Junior loose and he’ll go attack some little kid from Lowell School.”
“Arc you kidding? I don’t believe Junior would hurt a fly, not on purpose.”
“You know that,” Joanna said. “And I know that, but try convincing Marliss.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Butch asked.
“Fill the moat and raise the drawbridge. If she comes by the house and tries talking to Junior, don’t let her near him. Period.”
“With pleasure,” Butch said. “I can hardly wait to see her try.”
Reassured that Marliss wouldn’t be hassling Junior, Joanna spent the next half hour concentrating on the correspondence. Then, when she had worked her way through the worst of it, she dropped a completed stack off on Kristin’s desk for filing, duplicating, typing envelopes, and mailing.
“I’ll be out of the office for the next little bit,” she told Kristin. “Probably until late afternoon. I’m heading out to Sierra Vista to check on things.”
“Will you be seeing Deputy Gregovich?” Kristin asked. “Probably,” Joanna said. “Why?”
Kristin sighed. “He’s so cute,” she said dreamily.
Cute? That was hardly the term Joanna herself would have used to describe Deputy Gregovich. He was tall, gangly, and moved with the loose-jointed jerkiness of a drunken marionette. There was nothing about the man that was remotely cute.
Frowning, Joanna studied her secretary. At twenty-four, Kristin Marsten was probably six or seven years younger than Deputy Gregovich. She was a good-looking, leggy, natural blonde who favored skirts with hemlines several inches above the knee. Although Kristin had never lived anywhere but in Bisbee proper, she was forever putting on airs of being worldly and sophisticated. Terry Gregovich came across as something of a small-town hick, even though he had done two separate tours with the Marine Corps, including time overseas and in the Gulf War, where he had served as an MP.
Had Joanna been picking out likely romantic pairings in her department, Kristin Marsten and Terry Gregovich would never have made the list. Furthermore, on a morning already overloaded with complications, the idea of a blossoming romance between Joanna’s newest deputy and her secretary was almost more than she could handle. It wasn’t just the idea of having two of her subordinates get involved that caused Joanna difficulty. There was always the distinct possibility that later they might become uninvolved, which could prove even worse.
“For a rookie,” Joanna said, choosing her words carefully, “I think Deputy Gregovich is a pretty capable officer.”
She made the comment in hopes of stressing the law enforcement nature of Terry Gregovich’s job. She also wanted to make Kristin aware that, as sheriff, Joanna would have more than a casual interest in that kind of entanglement. Those subtleties, however, sailed over Kristin’s smooth blond tresses without making any noticeable impact.
“And don’t you just love the way Terry and Spike get along?” Kristin continued adoringly. “I mean-you know-it’s like they really like each other.”
Joanna knew all too well that the relationship between Deputy Gregovich and his dog represented hours, days, and weeks of grueling training as well as the expenditure of a big chunk of that year’s officer-education budget. Joanna couldn’t step back and see Terry Gregovich and Spike as a man and his dog. For her they were a K-nine unit-an important investment in her department’s future.
While Kristin continued to gush, Joanna felt suddenly old and wise and very, very official. “‘Terry and Spike are both still quite new at their respective jobs,” she said finally. “We have to do our best to make sure nothing happens to disturb their concentration.”
Kristin stopped short. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t have anything to do with him?” she asked.