by J. A. Jance
I started to push her away, but she wouldn’t let go. Then a call came in on her car radio.
“Sheriff Brady?” the dispatcher asked.
With a sigh, Joanna loosened her grip on me and returned to her Crown Vic. “What’s up?” she asked.
“I have Governor Hickman on the phone. Do you want me to patch him through?”
While Joanna talked to the governor, trying to convince him that he needed to negotiate with Mexican authorities for the return of Jack Brampton’s body, I stood beside the car and tried to get a grip. Several cars rolled past, slowing when they saw the Crown Vic with its flashing yellow hazard lights pulled over on the narrow shoulder. To a person, every driver eyed me curiously, probably trying to figure out what kind of miscreant I was. Fortunately, they couldn’t tell by looking.
I remembered all too clearly that it was only due to some Bisbeeite’s nosiness that we had come to focus our investigative efforts on Jack Brampton and his suspicious pay-phone calls. If making a simple phone call had been enough to raise an alarm, what would people think if they had observed my unexpected and entirely unauthorized embrace with the sheriff of Cochise County? I also wondered how long it would take for that juicy tidbit to become public knowledge.
It probably already has, I thought grimly. I didn’t know Marliss Shackleford well, but I guessed that would be just the kind of item she’d love to lay her hands on. Even so, I still wanted to hold Joanna Brady again and feel her surprisingly strong body against mine and her curved cheek grazing my shoulder.
When she finally ended her radio transmission, I climbed back into the car. “What’d the governor have to say?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I was embarrassed and ill at ease. She’d been nothing but kind—offering me comfort and a shoulder to cry on. Obviously, I had taken it the wrong way—read something into it that hadn’t been intended.
“He’ll see what he can do,” Joanna said without meeting my gaze.
“In other words, you’re supposed to take an old cold tater and wait.”
“I guess.” Joanna sighed. “We’d better go,” she said.
“You’ve got that right.”
She shot me a defiant look then. Her green eyes pierced right through me. “I’m not sorry,” she said.
I was astonished. What did that mean? That the flash of desire I had felt flowed in both directions? That right there in broad daylight, Joanna Brady had wanted me as much as I wanted her? Unbelievable!
“I’m not, either,” I agreed, and that was the truth. Sorry didn’t apply. Confused? Yes. Concerned? You bet; that, too.
Joanna was driving again, faster than she should have. I watched the speedometer spike upward—ten miles over the posted limit. Ten, then fifteen, then twenty.
“Maybe we should slow down,” I suggested quietly. She jammed on the brakes hard enough that the seat belt dug into my collarbone. The truth is, I wasn’t talking about the car—and she knew it.
It’s probably a function of age rather than wisdom, but I’ve finally outgrown my need to play chicken the way we used to down along the railroad tracks in Golden Gardens when I was a kid. My need for Joanna Brady was a speeding locomotive. It was time to get the hell off the tracks or pay the price.
Another call came in on the radio. “Sheriff Brady?” I recognized Frank Montoya’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Serenity Granger is here at the department,” Montoya said. “I told her Jack Brampton is dead. I also told her that, although we can’t be absolutely sure at this point, we’re fairly certain he’s the one who murdered her mother. Serenity wants to know if it’s possible for her to have access to Castle Rock Gallery. While she’s here waiting for Doc Winfield to release Deidre Canfield’s body, she wants to clear up some of her mother’s affairs. Latisha Wall’s paintings were on consignment. Serenity wants them crated up in time to ship home with Cornelia Lester. She’s worried about a liability problem if something were to happen to them.
“I told her that the house out in Huachuca Terraces is clearly a crime scene and that’s still off limits, but I agreed to check with you about the gallery.”
“What do you think, Frank?” Joanna asked.
“Those paintings are probably worth some serious money,” he returned. “Sentimental value to the family would make them priceless. If we force Serenity to leave them hanging in the gallery and something does happen to them—if they end up being damaged in a fire or stolen—we could end up being liable, too.”
“You don’t think releasing them will have an adverse effect on the rest of the investigation?”
“I can’t see that it will.”
“All right, then,” Joanna said, making up her mind. “Tell Ms. Granger to go ahead. Someone will have to go to the gallery to let her in, but we should probably have someone on-site while she’s doing the packing just in case something turns up.”
“Okay,” Montoya said. “I’ll handle it.” He paused for a moment. “By the way,” he added, “I heard about Ken Junior. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll try not to.”
I had heard the name Ken Junior mentioned in passing several times. I knew he was a member of Joanna’s department, and I wondered if something had happened to him.
“Ken Junior is one of your deputies, isn’t he?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation into less dangerous territory. “Did he get hurt or something?”
“He’s running for office against me,” Joanna replied. “That reporter you met, Marliss Shackleford, is a great supporter of his.”
I may have had to deal with Maxwell Cole on occasion, but not while I was running for public office. “Not good,” I said.
Joanna put down the microphone and glanced at me. “I suppose you think returning the paintings is a bad idea.”
“No,” I replied. “Not at all. Returning them to their lawful owners is the right thing to do—the sooner the better.”
Another radio call came in. I was grateful for the continuing interference. It was giving me time to pull myself together.
“Sheriff Brady,” the dispatcher said. “Is Mr. Beaumont with you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The tow-truck driver is on the line. He was on his way to pick up Mr. Beaumont’s vehicle, but the car-rental agency needs a form signed before the driver can pick it up and take it back to Tucson. He wants to know where Saguaro should fax the form.”
Joanna had already offered me a lift to Tucson, but if I accepted it, God only knew what would happen. My mother struggled to raise me to be a “good boy,” and good boys don’t do the kinds of things I wanted to do with some other man’s wife.
When Joanna handed me the microphone, I took the easy way out of what could have been a bad situation for all concerned.
“Have Saguaro fax me the form at the Copper Queen Hotel,” I said. “And tell the driver that when he comes to pick up the form, he’ll need to pick me up as well. He can give me a ride back to Tucson right along with the car.”
At that very moment, Joanna’s Crown Vic was pulling into the loading zone in front of the hotel.
“You’re turning down my offer of a ride?” she asked.
I nodded. “I think it’s for the best. Don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip. I wanted that lip about then, wanted to feel it against mine and taste the remains of the lipstick she had bitten off. But her lips were forbidden fruit for me, just as mine were for her.
“Does that mean we’re supposed to pretend that what happened back there didn’t happen?” she demanded huskily. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I made the whole thing up, and it didn’t happen after all.”
“No,” I told her evenly. “It happened, all right—it happened to both of us.”
“What does it mean, then?” She seemed close to tears.
I wavered between what I wanted to do and what I needed to do. Between right and wrong. Good and evil. Between my mother’s long-ago admonitions and the burning present
. I tried to ignore the craving I felt. And the need.
“We’re comrades-in-arms,” I said at last. “We’ve been through a tough three-day war. Being on a battlefield together makes for strong connections. They’re not meaningless, but they don’t necessarily last forever. What happened to us back there isn’t worth risking the family you already have or hurting the people you love. The war is over, Joanna. This old soldier needs to go home now, and so do you.”
I reached out, clasped her hand—the one without the wedding ring—and shook it. “You’re doing a fine job, Sheriff Brady. Best of luck to you. Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I guess.”
I opened the car door and stepped out into brilliant sunlight. I stood on the curb and watched her drive away. She didn’t wave, and she didn’t look back.
TWO HOURS LATER A STILL-SHAKEN Joanna Brady ventured into Castle Rock Gallery, which was bustling with activity. Detective Carbajal had been dispatched to unlock the door and then stand by and observe the proceedings. Bobo Jenkins, however, had drafted Jaime into the work crew. Armed with hammer and nails, the two men worked together, busily fashioning sturdy crates from sheets of plywood and lengths of two-by-fours.
One by one, Serenity Granger and Cornelia Lester removed the framed paintings from the walls, brought them to the construction zone, wrapped the artwork in bubble wrap, and slipped them into newly made crates. As they worked, Cornelia related stories about the people pictured on the various canvases—the absent loved ones whose lives Latisha Wall had so carefully recreated with brush and pigment. Working like that while listening to Cornelia’s stories was a balm that seemed to help all three hurt and bereaved people begin to come to grips with their losses.
Banished to the sidelines and nursing her own hurt, Joanna felt let down and useless. She was relieved when Ernie Carpenter came looking for her.
“Hey, boss,” he said, peering at her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “What’s up?”
“We finally finished scouring the San Pedro for money.”
“How much did you come up with?” she asked.
“Six thousand and some,” he answered.
“There was a lot more than that in Brampton’s backpack,” she told him. “Do you think that’s his pay for making the hit?”
“Seems likely,” Carpenter answered. “The people Jaime and I have talked to who knew Jack Brampton said he was usually dead broke. If it hadn’t been for Dee Canfield putting a roof over his head, the man would have been living on the streets.”
Joanna was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Let’s say he got paid twenty thousand,” she said. “If I’m the guy paying for a hit, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to cough up that kind of money until I was sure the job was done. Latisha Wall died on Wednesday night. Today is only Monday. So who sent Brampton the blood money, and how did it get here?”
“FedEx?” Ernie suggested. “Either that, or UPS.”
But Joanna’s mind was on that pair of pay phones that stood outside the post office—the phones Jack Brampton had used often enough to arouse Harve Dowd’s suspicion.
“The post office has next-day delivery,” she told Ernie. “Do you have any friends who work there?”
“Moe Maxwell retired.”
“Ask him anyway. He may still be able to ask around and find out whether or not any packages came in for Warren Gibson on Friday or Saturday. Tell him it’s an informal inquiry only. If it looks like a yes, we’ll get a warrant.”
An hour later, when Joanna drove into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch, Tigger came racing out to meet her. She felt a tug at her heart to see that Sadie wasn’t with him, but it was reassuring that the younger dog was picking up the pieces and going on. That was what she had to do, too. She had lost something—missed something—even if she wasn’t sure what.
Slanting late-afternoon sunlight glinted off the house’s tin roof. The surrounding trees were only now beginning to change color. Fall was definitely on its way.
Opening the back door, she welcomed the steamy warmth of a kitchen replete with the comforting aroma of baking meat loaf. She found Butch and Jenny in the combination living and dining room. Jenny was sprawled on the floor talking on the telephone while Butch worked at his computer on the dining-room table. Once inside, Tigger raced to Jenny and curled up next to her, letting her use his shoulders as a shaggy, pit-bull/golden retriever pillow.
Joanna started for the bedroom but paused long enough to give Butch a peck on the cheek as she went by.
“How’d it go today?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen or his fingers off the keyboard.
“Okay,” she said. “I think we got him.”
“Great,” he said. “Not bad for a girl.”
She gave his shoulder a friendly whack and then continued into the bedroom, where she removed her uniform and locked away her weapons. When she returned to the living room, Jenny was still on the phone, but Butch’s computer was closed. She saw him moving back and forth in the kitchen, carrying dishes from cupboard to table.
He brightened when she came into the kitchen. “So tell me about your day,” he said, handing her three glasses. “I’ve already heard the condensed version. Now give me the real story.”
Half an hour later, Jenny finally put down the phone and came into the kitchen, “Oh, Mom,” she said, “I almost forgot. Somebody called while I was talking to Cassie. He wanted me to give you a message.”
“Who was it?”
“I can’t remember his name now. Ron something. He said to tell you that you were right and there was something—I don’t remember that word, either—in the sugar.”
“Ron Workman,” Joanna said. “And sodium azide.”
“Right,” Jenny said. “It seemed like a funny kind of message. What does it mean?”
“That we got lucky,” her mother replied. “Very, very lucky.”
LATE THAT NIGHT—LONG AFTER DINNER was over and the dishes had been washed and put away—Joanna lay in bed. She had felt a sudden magnetic attraction to J.P. Beaumont. But lying next to the soothing warmth of Butch Dixon’s sleeping body, Joanna finally began to see that instant of connection for what it was and what it was not.
Butch’s presence in her life had blessed Joanna with a kind of calm stability she had never known before, not even with Andy. He offered her the loving creature comforts of warm meals and clean and folded laundry. He listened to her troubles and talked her through moments of self-doubt. He loved Jenny. He loved High Lonesome Ranch. And he loved Joanna.
With a cringe that made her blush in the dark, Joanna thought about that time, a few months earlier, when she had suspected Butch of having renewed an affair with an old flame. Joanna had been quick to jump in with all kinds of wild accusations. Now she herself had come close to starting something with someone who, just a few days earlier, had been a complete stranger. In both instances, nothing untoward had happened, but in Joanna’s case, it had been close—far too close. If J.P. Beaumont had been any less of a man than what he was . . .
It was time, Joanna decided, to pay attention to the essentials in life—to the things that were worth keeping; worth treasuring. Things people like Bobo Jenkins and Latisha Wall would never have a chance to share.
In the dark, she snuggled closer to Butch. “You awake?” she asked.
“I am now,” he grumbled sleepily. He reached over and pulled her close. “I don’t understand it. How can you get by on so little sleep?”
“I’ve always been that way,” she said. “It drove my mother crazy.”
“I can see why,” he said. “Now what’s happening?”
“Remember what you wanted to do in the family room?”
“I wanted to do it in the family room?” he asked, rolling over onto his back. “When?”
“Not that.” Joanna giggled. “I’m talking about the train track.”
“Oh, right, the train track. You
said you didn’t want it.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” she said, “and I’ve changed my mind. If it’s not too late, we should put the track in after all.”
“I thought you said it was weird and you wanted normal.”
Joanna sighed. “We’re not normal. Why should our family room be any different?”
“Well, then. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I told you. It’s fine.”
“Great, then, we’ll have trains. Oh, by the way. I forgot to tell you. We agreed on Gayle.”
“Gayle what?”
“Gayle Dixon. My pen name. Drew and I finally worked it out today. She’s sending me an agency contract for me to sign and rewrite suggestions. When those are done she wants me to send the manuscript back under the nom de plume of Gayle Dixon.”
“I still think it’s strange that you have to change your name.”
“So do I,” Butch agreed. “But you’ll still love me, won’t you? Even if I turn into someone named Gayle?”
“As long as Gayle keeps the same meat-loaf recipe.”
“The name may change,” Butch said, chuckling. “but the food is bound to remain the same. Now, is that the only reason you woke me up—to talk about model trains?”
“Maybe not the only one,” she told him.
“Show me,” he said.
THE TOW-TRUCK DRIVER was kind enough to drop me off at some anonymously forgettable, cheapo motel close to the airport. The next morning I took the motel shuttle to catch my plane. Surprisingly enough, the early-morning flight to Seattle was almost deserted. The Husky fans had evidently all gone home to Seattle, and I had no idea who had won or lost the game.
I had a whole row of three seats to myself. With no one crowding me and no one to talk to, I had plenty of time to think. With some effort, I managed to keep my mind off both Anne Corley and Joanna Brady.
I had yet to speak to Ross Alan Connors, but that was my first priority. As soon as I landed at Sea-Tac, I rented a car and drove straight down to Olympia. On the way, I called the office and spoke to Barbara Galvin, Unit B’s office manager.
