“She was a whistle-blower, then.”
“Right,” I answered. “What wasn’t in the papers – what Ross Connors did his best to keep out of the media – was that once the scandal went public, Latisha Wall was subjected to numerous death threats. None of them could be traced back to UPPI Headquarters in Chicago, but that’s where the AG theorized they came from. Latisha Wall thought so, too.”
“So your boss put her in a witness protection program and shipped her here, to Bisbee, under the name of Rochelle Baxter.”
“Right,” I told her.
“And you think someone from UPPI came here to kill her?”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” I said.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Because there’s a civil trial coming up in Olympia in a little more than a month. Based on lack of performance at the Aberdeen facility, Washington State has terminated all contracts with UPPI, and they’re suing for breach of contract. Latisha Wall was scheduled to be the state’s star witness. Without her, UPPI may walk away with a bundle.”
Finished with my recitation, I paused. “So what’s the deal, then?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What have your guys found out?” I asked. “We need to know – the attorney general’s office needs to know – what’s going on.”
“My ‘guys,’ as you call them – my investigations unit,” she corrected stiffly, “which isn’t all male, by the way – has been working the problem. As far as your need to know or your boss’s need to know, Mr. Beaumont, that’s up to me.”
I could see that I had stepped in it big time without really knowing how. Sheriff Brady had been chilly when she had first escorted me into her office. Now she was downright frosty.
“Please, Sheriff Brady, I don’t want you to think I’m taking anything away from your people-”
“Oh?” she said, cutting me off. “Is that so? You could have fooled me. I thought that’s exactly what this is about. What you’ve told me just now is what your office could and should have told me two days ago. Right this moment, Special Investigator Beaumont, I can’t think of a single compelling reason to tell you any of what my people have learned so far. Not until that information is in some kind of reasonable order. Give me a day or two to think it over.”
She smiled coolly, then added, “Actually, two days sounds just about right. Let me know where you’ll be staying. I’ll give you a call, say Monday or Tuesday, and let you know what’s happening. After all, that’s how long it took you to get to us. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m somewhat busy.”
In other words, “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” And I did mind. I minded very much, but there didn’t seem to be much point arguing about it. I heard people’s voices out in the hall. The way her green eyes darted toward the door, I could tell Joanna Brady was far more interested in what was going on outside than she was in talking to me. There are times when pushing works and times when it doesn’t. I had a feeling that Sheriff Joanna Brady would react badly to pushing. I took the hint, stood up, and headed for the door.
“One more thing,” I said. If I wasn’t going to be doing anything for Ross Connors for the next two days besides sitting on my butt, I could just as well be doing something for me.
“What’s that?” Joanna Brady asked.
“How long have you lived in Bisbee?”
“All my life. Why?”
“Did you ever know of someone named Anne Rowland?”
It took a moment for Anne Corley’s maiden name to register in Joanna Brady’s mental database, but it did eventually – with visible consequences. “I didn’t know her personally,” the sheriff said guardedly. “I know of her. Why?”
“She was my wife,” I said. “I was hoping maybe I could meet someone who knew her when she was growing up and maybe talk with them for a little while.”
Joanna Brady blinked. “I can’t think of anyone right off,” she said.
“All right.”
“Where will you be staying?” she asked.
“At a place called the Copper Queen Hotel.”
“Good,” Sheriff Brady said distractedly. “If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”
I reached out, took her hand, and shook it. Her handshake was firm, but that was to be expected. Not only was she the sheriff, she was also a politician. I opened the door and let myself out, leaving Joanna Brady standing in what looked for all the world like stunned silence.
ONCE THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HIM, Joanna went back to her desk and sat down. Of course she remembered Anne Rowland Corley. Who wouldn’t? People in Bisbee thought about Anne Rowland Corley’s guilt or innocence the way lots of people think about O. J. Simpson’s: She was a killer who had gotten away with it.
It had happened only a year or so before Joanna’s father had been elected sheriff. The saga of the Rowland family’s series of tragedies was one that wouldn’t go away. Anita and Roger Rowland had two daughters, Patricia and Anne. The older girl, Patty, was developmentally disabled and died after an accidental fall in their Warren neighborhood home. Shortly after that, Roger Rowland too was dead of a single gunshot wound to the head. Because both deaths had occurred inside the city limits, the cases had been investigated by the Bisbee Police Department. Joanna remembered her father fussing about that.
“Roger Rowland and Chuck Brannigan have been asshole buddies for years,” Joanna remembered D.H. Lathrop complaining. “If Chief of Police Brannigan were actually smart enough to think his way out of a paper bag, he would have recused himself and let someone else take charge of the investigation.”
But Brannigan hadn’t removed himself from either case, and neither had the then Cochise County Coroner, Bill Woodruff, who was another of Roger Rowland’s cronies. Brannigan and Woodruff were two good old boys working together. Their hasty but official determinations of “accident” and “suicide” had stuck despite the fact that, shortly after Roger Rowland’s funeral, his younger daughter, Anne, had claimed she had fired the shot that had killed her father. That claim had never been investigated. Instead, Anne had been packed off to a private mental institution somewhere in Phoenix.
One of the city detectives from that time, a man named Dan Goodson, had left Bisbee PD shortly thereafter to work for Joanna’s father, Sheriff D.H. Lathrop. He had told his new boss that he had quit Bisbee PD partly out of disgust at the way the Rowland cases had been handled.
“Anne Rowland isn’t crazy,” Joanna’s father had reported an outraged Danny Goodson as saying. “Not a bit of it. She’s a killer, and with Chuck Brannigan’s and Bill Woodruff’s help, she’s getting off scot-free.”
Although rumors about Anne Rowland’s guilt continued to swirl around town, the coroner’s rulings had remained unassailable.
Joanna vaguely remembered hearing or reading that Anne Rowland Corley had died a violent death somewhere out of state several years earlier, but she couldn’t recall any details. Now it turned out that this same woman had once been married to Detective J.P. Beaumont?
Lost in thought, Joanna jumped reflexively when the phone on her desk rang.
“Mom?” a tearful Jenny sobbed into the phone.
“Yes. What’s the matter?”
“It’s Sadie,” Jenny wailed. “Something awful’s wrong with her. I just got home from Cassie’s. Her mom dropped me off. Sadie’s lying on the back porch. She won’t get up.”
“Where’s Butch?” Joanna asked.
“At the other house. He left a note that he’d be back by one, but he isn’t. I need someone here now. She’s real sick, Mom. Is she gonna die?”
Joanna closed her eyes and remembered how, the last few days, Sadie hadn’t been quite herself. How she hadn’t wanted to run home to the ranch. How she hadn’t wanted to eat the Cheer- ios or the green chili casserole. No doubt something was wrong with Sadie. Joanna hadn’t paid enough attention to notice.