Marliss didn’t answer right away. In the long silence that followed Marliss Shackleford’s snide but unfinished question, Joanna finally figured out what the reporter was after, what she was implying but didn’t have nerve enough to say outright.
Of course, the lesbian issue. Since Leann Jessup was a lesbian and since she and Joanna were friends, did that mean Joanna was a lesbian, too?
Knowing an angry denial would only add fuel to the gossip-mill fire, Joanna struggled momentarily to find a suitable response. She was saved by a timely knock on the door.
“Look, Marliss, someone’s here. I’ve got to go.”
Joanna hung up the phone and hurried to the door, where she checked the peephole. Bob Brundage, suitcase in hand, stood outside her door.
“I came by to tell you good-bye in private,” he said, when she opened the door and let him in. “Good-bye and thanks. I couldn’t very well do that with Eleanor hanging on our every word.”
“Thanks?” Joanna repeated. “For what?”
He shrugged. “I can see now that showing up like this was very selfish of me. I was only interested in what I wanted, and I didn’t give a whole lot of thought as to how my arrival would impact one else—you in particular.”
After all those years of being an only child, I confess finding out about you was a bit of a shock,” Joanna admitted. “But it’s all right. I don’t mind, not really. Was Eleanor what you expected?”
Bob shook his head. “Over the years, I had conjured up a very romantic image of the young woman who gave me away—a cross between Cinderella and Snow White. In a way, I’m sorry to give her up. It’s a little like finding out the truth about Santa Claus.”
“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.
“I mean the woman I spent a lifetime imagining is very different from the reality. I’d say Eleanor Lathrop was a lot easier to live with as a figment of my imagination than she is as a real live woman who can’t seem to resist telling you what to do.”
“Oh, that,” Joanna laughed. “You noticed?”
He nodded. “How could I help but?”
“She’s done it for years,” Joanna said. “I’m used to a certain amount of nagging.”
Bob Brundage grinned with that impish smile that made him look for all the world like a much younger Big Hank Lathrop. “So am I,” Bob said, “but I usually get it from higher-ups and then only at work. You get it all the time. You’re very patient with her,” he added. “That’s why I wanted to thank you—for handling my share of Eleanor Lathrop’s nagging all these years—mine and yours as well.”
“You’re welcome,” Joanna said.
This time Bob Brundage was the one who held out his hand. “See you again,” he said.
“When?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. The next time I’m out this way on business, I suppose,” he said a little wistfully.
“You and your wife could come for Christmas if you wanted to,” Joanna offered. “It’ll be our first Christmas without Andy, so I can’t make any guarantees of what it’ll be like, but I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ve been told I cook a mean turkey.”
Bob looked both hopeful and dubious. “You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?”
“No,” Joanna said. “I wouldn’t mind. Besides, we could pull a fast one on Eleanor and not tell you were coming until you showed up. She loves to pull surprises on everyone else, but she hates it when someone puts one over on her.”
“That’s worth some thought then, isn’t it?” Bob’s eyes twinkled. “Marcie and I will talk it over and let you know, but right now I’d better go. Eleanor’s waiting downstairs to take me to the plane.”
Joanna escorted him as far as the door and then watched as he walked down the hall. “Hey, Bob,” she called to him, when he reached the elevator lobby.
He turned and looked back. “What?”
“For a brother,” she said, “you’re not too bad.”
He grinned and waved and disappeared into the elevator. Joanna turned back into the room. Making her way back to the desk, she expected it would be difficult to return to her train of thought after all the interruptions. Instead, the moment she picked up the paper, she was back inside the case though she had never left it.
Marliss had called in the midst of the words serial killer. Coming back to her notes, Joanna knew she was right. It wasn’t a matter of guessing. She knew. Proving it was something else.
Joanna still wanted to reach Carol, but it was too soon to try again, so she picked up the paper and resumed studying it once more. Assuming her theory was correct—assuming there was only one killer in all this—where was the connection? How did all those people tie together? What was the common link?
Joanna started a new list in the upper-left-hand corner of the paper: “Cops (2).” Divorced? First she wrote down: “3.” Then, reconsidering what Lorelie Jessup had said about Leann’s breakup with her long-term friend, Joanna Xed out the three and wrote in: “4 of 4.”
What else? Joanna stared at the paper for a long time without being able to think of anything more to add. Finally, it hit her: The Roundhouse Bar and Grill. According to Butch Dixon, Serena, Jorge, and Dave Thompson had all been in the Roundhouse the night Serena died. And Joanna herself had taken Leann there. That meant only two people on the list, Rhonda and Dean Norton, hadn’t been there, although they might have.
Dean Norton had been a professor at the ASU West campus, which was just a few miles away on Thunderbird. Maybe he and Rhonda had turned up in the Roundhouse on occasion, along with everybody else. After a moment, Joanna realized that there was one way to find out for sure.
Ejecting Lorelie’s tape from the VCR, Joanna dropped it into her purse. She made it as far as the door before she stopped short. She wasn’t on duty, but she was working.
One of the lessons Dave Thompson had harped on over and over again in those first few days of instruction was the importance of officer safety. It would have been easy to dismiss the advice of a likely Peeping Tom who was also suspected of attacking Leann Jessup. But now Joanna was living with the growing suspicion that somehow Dave Thompson was also a victim. If that turned out to be the case, maybe his advice merited some attention.
Putting down the purse and unbuttoning her shirt, she slipped the Kevlar vest on over her bra. She had ordered her own custom-made set of soft body armor, but until it arrived, she was stuck wearing Andy’s ill-fitting and uncomfortable castoff vest. By the time she put on a jacket that was roomy enough to cover both the vest and her shoulder-holstered Colt, she felt like a hulking uniformed football player. In comparison, Carol Strong’s small-of-back holster had disappeared completely, even on her thin, slender frame.
Joanna stopped by the pool long enough to tell Jim Bob and Jenny she was going out for a while; then she drove straight to the Roundhouse. As expected, Butch Dixon was on duty. He brought her drink without any of his accustomed camaraderie. Only when he set it in front of her did she realize she had screwed up.
If the Roundhouse was a common denominator, that meant so was Butch Dixon. What if he .. .
Joanna took a sip of her drink. “This tastes more like diet Coke than Diet Pepsi.”
He grinned and nodded. “Good taste buds. Got some in special, just for you. Ask for it by name. Joanna Brady Private Reserve Diet Coke. If I’m not here, tell Phil it’s in the fridge next to my A and W of beer.”
It was hard to persist in believing that someone that thoughtful would also be a serial killer. Joanna raised her glass in salute. “Thanks,” she said.
“You bet,” he said. But then the grin disappeared and Butch shook his head. “I just can’t seem to get Dave Thompson out of my head today. He came in here all the time, you know.”
Joanna studied Butch’s face. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” she said. “Not until last night. Remember the first time I came in here asking about the night Serena Grijalva died? Why didn’t you tell me then that Dave Thompson was a regular?”