He looked at her and smiled. "Glad to be of help," he said, and then he was gone.
Once alone, Joanna headed back toward Bisbee. She tried to switch gears-to make the transition from private to public, from Joanna Brady to Sheriff Brady. But it didn't work very well, at least not at first.
Not wanting to broadcast everything that had gone on over the police band, she used her cell phone to check in with the office. She wasn't surprised to hear that everyone was out. In fact, considering that week's impossible case-load, Joanna would have been disappointed if her officers hadn't been.
"I can have one of them call you as soon as they show up," Kristin Marsten offered.
"No," Joanna said. "Don't bother. I'll be there in person soon enough. One other thing, though. Did Stu Farmer leave an envelope for me? It was supposed to be on your desk when you came in this morning."
"It was there, all right," Kristin answered. "There was a piece of paper inside with Clyde Philips' name on it, and nothing else. It's a rap sheet with nothing on it."
"Nothing? Not even a minor vehicle mishap?"
"Nothing at all. I figured you'd know what it means."
"I'm afraid I do," Joanna said grimly. "It means there's a serious problem in my department, and I'm going to fix it."
When her cell phone rang barely a minute later, Joanna assumed one of her several officers had turned up at the Justice Complex and was returning her call. She was startled to hear a man she didn't know announce himself to be Forrest L. Breen, FBI Agent in Charge, Phoenix.
"Monty Brainard must have called you," she said. "He told me he was going to."
"Yes," Breen replied. "With some wild-assed idea about your department wanting to borrow some weapons. Fifty-calibers, I believe."
"Well, I-"
"I told him I'd get back to you, Sheriff Brady. I can see from the news reports that you and your people have your hands full right now, but you have to understand the agency's position. If you want to call us in officially, that's one thing. I can have people there in jig time. But the other is out of the question. Bisbee and Phoenix may be from the same state, but we're not exactly neighbors. And borrowing a fifty-caliber weapon isn't the same thing as borrowing a lawn mower or a cup of sugar. You do understand what I'm saying, don't you, Ms. Brady?"
Yes, Mr. Breen. I certainly do, you overbearing asshole, Joanna thought. "Of course," she said.
"So," Breen continued quickly, before she had a chance to finish her response, "as I said, if you'd like to call us in, I'll be glad to send in a team, along with someone to take charge of the entire operation and personnel who are actually qualified on the kinds of weapons we're talking about, Otherwise.,."
Like hell you will! "Thanks, but no, thanks," Joanna said curtly. "I don't believe I'm interested." She ended the call then, hanging up on Mr. Overbearing Agent-in-Charge Breen before he could say anything more.
Joanna was still steamed about both Agent Forrest Breen and Deputy Eddy Sandoval when she drove through Benson some twenty minutes later. There, next to the curb outside the Benson Dairy Queen, she caught sight of Eddy's parked cruiser. Speak of the devil! Joanna thought.
Executing a U-turn, she drove back and pulled up beside his vehicle. "Meet me at the Quarter Horse," she told him. "I need to talk to you."
"Sure thing," he said.
Ten minutes later, Joanna had ordered a sandwich and was drinking a cup of coffee when Sandoval came sauntering into the restaurant. At the Triple C crime scene two days earlier, the man hadn't seemed nearly as large as he did now, walking across the tiled restaurant floor to her booth, pushing his paunch ahead of him. "What's up, Sheriff?" he asked, slipping into the bench opposite her.
Joanna had used the intervening minutes to plan her approach. She had decided not to soft-pedal any of it. "You've been with the department for a long time," she said for openers. "I'm assuming you'd like to continue."
A veil of wariness closed down over Deputy Sandoval's eyes. "What's this all about?"
"Frankie Ramos."
Joanna waited, giving the name a chance to settle between them. After it did, she waited some more, not offering any explanation, leaving the officer to wonder and squirm under her withering scrutiny.
"What about him?" Eddy asked finally.
"I understand you and Ruben are old buddies."
Sandoval bristled then. "I don't know what Ruben told you," he began, rising off the bench, "but I-"
"Sit, Eddy," Joanna commanded. "You and I both know what he told me. And you know what you did, so let's not play games."
Reluctantly, he settled back down. "Frankie's dead," he said. "So what do you want? My resignation, is that it?"
"I may want your resignation eventually. But right this minute, what I want is information."
"What kind of information?"
"Did you ever break up any parties at Clyde Philips' house over in Pomerene?" she asked.
Eddy Sandoval's eyes flickered and then slid sideways toward one of the many horse pictures painted on the wall. "A few, I guess," he admitted.
"How many would you say? Two? Five?"
"I don't know. I don't remember exactly."
"And how many of those show up in the official log?"
Sandoval dropped his eyes and stared down at the table-top. His finger traced a chip in the edge of the Formica. "Probably none," he said.
"Why not?"
"Who knows? Maybe I forgot. But I don't have to answer any of this," he added sullenly. "I've got a right to an attorney."
"You do have to answer, Eddy," Joanna said. "You have to because lives are at stake. Now tell me, was there anyone else in Clyde Philips' car the night you failed to arrest Frankie Ramos for that MIP?"
Eddy hung his head. "Yeah," he said at last. "There was one other guy there, a buddy of Frankie's, I guess. Last name of Merritt."
"What about this Merritt kid?" Joanna asked. "Was he of age, or was he o juvenile, too? And if so, did you write him up or not;'„
Eddy continued to stare at the table and said nothing. "That's answer enough, I suppose," Joanna said. "When I looked the other way, Clyde was always good for it," Eddy mumbled.
"Good for what?"
"I don't know, some ammo now and then. A gun, I suppose. Nothing big. Just little stuff."
"And you somehow never wrote up any of those citations."
"Yeah," he said. "I suppose that's it."
"What about Ruben Ramos?" Joanna asked. "Did you make him pay, too?"
Eddy straightened up. "Ruben's a good friend of mine," he said. "We've been buddies a long time. I never charged him nothin'."
"What about the other boy? What was his name again, Merritt?"
Eddy shrugged. "He's over twenty-one, so all he was looking at was an open-container. I went out to see his folks but ended up talking to his stepmother. I could see right away that wasn't going anywhere, so I gave it up."
"Who's his stepmother?"
"Sonja Hosfield," Eddy Sandoval said. "Out at the Triple C. As far as she's concerned, that boy could be drowning, and she wouldn't lift a finger to drag him out. I just let it go."
"Merritt Hosfield?" Joanna was puzzled. "I don't remember Sonja Hosfield mentioning a child by that name."
"Ryan Merritt," Eddy returned. "Lindsey Hosfield was all screwed up when she left Alton. Took back her maiden name when she got a divorce and changed the kids' names, too. Changed them legally. That's the kind of thing women do sometimes when they're really mad."
As the connections came together, Joanna's neck prickled with hair standing up under her collar. Ryan Merritt! She remembered meeting Alton Hosfield's son Ryan two days ago. He had given the impression of being a fine, upstanding, hardworking young man. She remembered the polite way he had doffed his hat upon being introduced to her.
But what if that politeness is all facade? she wondered. What if a cold-blooded killer lurks behind those clear blue eyes?