by J. A. Jance
“How come?” she asked.
“When I was a young doctor in private practice, I was ambitious as hell and wanted to be the very best there was. I wanted to make plenty of money so I could support Annie and Abigail in style. But then, once I lost them both, I found out the money didn’t mean a thing, Joanna. Not a damn thing! Life doesn’t 100
always give people second chances, but it seems to me you have one. And now you have to make some decisions. You can spend all your time at work, but who’s going to benefit from that? Once you’ve missed out on time spent with your family, you don’t get it back—not ever. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. I’m glad to have my work right now. It’s rewarding and I’m good at it. But I’m also glad to have your mother. I have no intention of neglecting Ellie the way I did Annie when I was so busy chasing after the almighty dollar.”
Joanna had thought about George’s comments all Easter Sunday night. What he had said wasn’t exactly what a visiting out-of-town detective, J. P. Beaumont, had told her during their brief encounter last fall, when he had advised her to pay attention to what was important, but the advice was close enough. And close enough to hit home, as well.
Joanna had already lost Andy. Nothing could mend the quarrels they’d had when she and Andy had fought over things too unimportant to remember. Nothing could bring back the years when they had both been working so hard at their two separate jobs that, other than sleeping together in the same bed, their paths had barely crossed on a daily basis. Joanna could see now that too much of her precious time with Andy had been frittered away on things that meant nothing. Now, like George with her mother, she had a second chance-with Butch and Jenny. And soon there would be another little someone to take into consideration.
So Joanna had been working on it. Daily she made a conscious effort to leave her work at work—to put it behind her when she drove out of the Justice Center parking lot. Of course, with the campaign heating up, that wasn’t always possible, but when she did come home from her latest rubber-chicken
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banquet, she didn’t duck into her home office and open a brimming briefcase. And she didn’t turn on her home computer, either.
Now the five-mile drive from work to home served as a very real decompression chamber.
Once again it worked its magic as she let go of her worries about the prisoners eating their picnic dinner in the rec yard and concerns about solving this latest homicide.
As she turned up the newly bladed drive and saw their rammed-earth house nestled in among the brilliant greens of Clayton Rhodes’s towering cottonwood trees, Joanna felt truly at home.
Tigger came dashing down the road to greet her. Lucky trailed fifty feet behind Tigger, running as fast as his short legs would travel. Seeing the other dogs outside the car, the new dog went nuts. She jumped excitedly between the front and back seats.
The sharp yipping sounds she made were loud enough to make Joanna’s ears hurt.
She stopped the Civvie outside the garage door and removed Blue Eyes’s leash. “Okay, girl,” she said. “Let’s see how you do with your new pals. If they’re loose, you should be, too. That way everybody will have a fighting chance.”
She got out and opened the rear door. The Australian shepherd piled out. After a few stiff-legged, growl-punctuated
moments of sniffing, the two big dogs raced off in a huge circle, with the puppy once again eagerly chugging along behind.
“I see you’ve already made the necessary introductions,” Butch observed, coming out through the garage door. “Obviously she likes Tigger a whole lot more than she does me.”
“She’ll learn,” Joanna said with a laugh. “After all, you talked your way around me, didn’t you? What’s for dinner?”
“Steak,” Butch said. “Baked potatoes, homemade bread straight out of the bread machine, salad, and homemade ice
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cream for dessert. Considering the news we’re about to drop, I figured it was time to kill the fatted calf. No doubt your mother’s going to be fit to be tied, but don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, Joey. My mother most likely will react the same way.”
“Where’s Jenny?” Joanna asked.
“Where do you think?” Butch returned, nodding in the direction of the corral, where a cloud of dust showed that Jenny and Kiddo were once again racing around a set of barrels. Closer at hand, the dogs were still chasing one another in ever-widening circles. “Should we bring them inside?” Butch added. “What if the new dog decides she doesn’t like it here and takes off?”
“I think she’ll be all right,” Joanna said. “We’ll put out food and water. What time are George and Eleanor due?”
“Seven.”
“It’s too hot to stand out here talking,” Joanna said. “I’m going inside to change.”
Inside, the rammed-earth home with its thick walls, high ceilings, and state-of-the-art air-conditioning was pleasantly cool. Joanna hurried down the long bedroom-wing corridor, shedding her uniform as she went. After a quick shower she returned to the kitchen, where the tantalizing smell of baking bread wafted from Butch’s well-used bread machine.
Butch was working at the center island, tearing and spinning lettuce for salad.
“How’d it go today?” he asked.
“Not much progress on the Mossman homicide,” she told him, snagging a baby carrot off the granite-tiled countertop and munching away. “Had to empty the jail this afternoon because the AC went out. I ended up raising hell with the AC contractor to get him to have it fixed today.”
“You emptied the jail?” Butch asked. “What did you do with all the prisoners?”
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“Right about now they’re all out in the rec yard having a picnic. The AC’s back on, but it’s still too hot to put the prisoners back in their cells.”
“Isn’t that dangerous, having all of them out at once?” Butch asked.
“They’re mostly misdemeanors,” Joanna responded. “Besides, we brought in extra personnel to help out. It’s fine. Now what can I do to help?”
“Sit,” Butch said. “Take a load off. Have you told Marianne and Jeff the news?”
After years of being childless, Joanna’s friend, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea, and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had finally adopted twin babies from China, Ruth and Esther. Months after losing Esther to a fatal heart condition, they had been surprised and delighted to learn that Marianne was pregnant. That baby, a boy named Jeffrey Andrew, was a fifteen-month-old red-haired handful, while Jeffy’s big sister, Ruth, would head for kindergarten in the fall.
“Not yet,” Joanna admitted. “I haven’t told anyone, not even Eva Lou and Jim Bob.”
Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady, Joanna’s former in-laws, were still very much a part of her and Jenny’s lives and of Butch’s, too. “I decided that the best way to keep peace in the family was to tell Mother first, although I did mention it to Frank.”
“What did he have to say on the subject?”
“I told him about our idea of giving Marliss an exclusive. He didn’t like it much.”
“Maybe we should listen to him,” Butch said. “After all, he’s in charge of media relations.”
“But it’s our baby,” Joanna objected. “And we’re doing this our way.”
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Butch chuckled. “Our way or the highway.”
Which sounded fine, right up until dessert was served, which is when Joanna finally screwed up her courage enough to drop the bomb.
“You’re not!” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield exclaimed at once, pushing aside her untouched dish of homemade ice cream.
Joanna nodded. “I am,” she said.
“What are you going to do, then, drop out of the race? Resign?”
“Neither one,” Joanna answered. “I’m going to run for reelection and hopefully win.”
Eleanor immediately appealed to Butch. “Surely you’re not going to let her do this.”
“Let?” Butch asked mildly. “This isn’t up to me, Eleanor. I
t’s up to Joanna.”
“George,” Eleanor said. “You tell them. It’s just not possible to be a new mother and sheriff all at the same time.”
“Why not?” George asked, carefully spooning his ice cream.
“Yes,” Jenny agreed. “Why not?”
“Who’s going to look after the baby?” Eleanor demanded.
“I am,” Butch said.
“Have you ever taken care of a baby before?”
“Never,” Butch said. “But that’s the way it usually is with first-time parents-on-the-job training. I’m pretty sure I can handle it.”
“He cooks a mean steak,” George Winfield offered. Eleanor answered her husband’s comment with a scathing look.
“Jeff Daniels takes care of Jeffy and Ruth,” Jenny said. “Don’t you think he does a good job?”
“That’s different,” Eleanor scoffed. “Marianne is a minister. She isn’t out being shot at and beaten up by all kinds of riffraff.”
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“I’m not either,” Joanna said quietly.
That was one of the many differences between Joanna and her mother. When Eleanor was upset, her volume went up. Joanna’s went down.
“Oh?” returned Eleanor sharply. “I suppose that scar on your face is some kind of birth defect?”
Joanna felt her face flush, knowing when she did so that the long scar on her cheek, a souvenir from an encounter with an enraged suspect’s diamond ring, would stand out that much more clearly.
“With all these working mothers, it’s no wonder we’re having such problems with juvenile delinquents.”
Joanna knew that the statistics on the incidence of juvenile delinquency were down, not up, but now was no time to insert actual facts into Eleanor’s diatribe.
“What would have become of you if I’d been gallivanting off to a job every day from the moment you were born?” Eleanor demanded.
Before Joanna could reply, Jenny beat her to it. “What about me?” she asked. “Mom’s been working the whole time I’ve been around. I’ve turned out all right, haven’t I?”
The phone rang just then. Glad for any excuse to escape the escalating dining room battle, Joanna hurried to answer it.
“Sheriff Brady?” an agitated Tom Hadlock said.
“Yes,” Joanna replied. “What’s up?”
“We’ve lost one,” Hadlock replied.
“One what?”
‘A prisoner. Richard Osmond.”
Joanna was stunned. “What do you mean, you lost him? Did he go over the fence, or what?”
“No,” Hadlock said. “He’s dead. We did a roll call once we 97
had everyone back inside, and Osmond was missing. We found him outside, lying on one of the picnic table benches. He was hidden in a shadow. Nobody knew he was there.”
“Somebody knew,” Joanna said grimly. “They just aren’t telling. I’m on my way.”
“Tica Romero’s trying to get hold of Doc Winfield,” Hadlock continued.
“Tell her not to bother. He’s here with me. I’ll bring him along when I come. She’s calling out one of the Double C’s?”
“That’s right,” Hadlock answered. “I believe she said Ernie’s on call. I’m really sorry about this, Sheriff Brady. We had guards and deputies all over that yard the whole time the prisoners were out there. I can’t imagine how something like this could have happened.”
“Was he stabbed, beaten up, what?” Joanna demanded.
“There are no apparent wounds, no sign of foul play” Hadlock said. “He’s just lying there on his back, peaceful as can be, like he fell asleep. We didn’t move him, though, so there could be something on his back that isn’t showing.”
“We’ll find out when we get there,” Joanna said. “Is the jail under lockdown?”
“Yes, it is,” Hadlock replied. “It’s a shame to have to do that. I mean, other than this, no other unfortunate incidents at all.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Hadlock,” Joanna said tersely, “finding a dead prisoner is unfortunate enough for me.”
Joanna put down the phone and returned to the dining room. The people gathered around the table were quiet. They all looked at her expectantly. “I guess you heard, then,”
she said. “There’s a problem at the jail. We have to go, George. You can ride with me.”
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EXIT WOUNDS
Nodding, the ME wiped his face with his napkin, folded it, and then pushed his chair back. “Do you want me to drive you home first, Ellie?”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself,” Eleanor returned.
George paused long enough to give her a peck on the cheek. “All right, then,” he said. “See you at home.”
Butch, in the meantime, gave Joanna a raised-eyebrow look that said volumes about his being left alone to deal with Eleanor. All Joanna could do was give him a shrugged apology.
When she opened the door that led to her garage, the three dogs were all inside.
Tigger greeted George happily. Lucky went up and dribbled a stream of pee on George’s highly polished loafer while the Australian shepherd skittered away. When Joanna opened the outside door, she disappeared into the night.
“Where did all these dogs come from?” George asked. “Isn’t that little one the pup you were carrying around last night at the Mossman crime scene?”
“That’s right,” Joanna said. “And I adopted the spooky Australian shepherd from the pound this morning.”
“It’s a good thing Ellie didn’t see the new dogs earlier when we drove up,” George said. “It would have been that much more grist for her mill.”
“Will be,” Joanna corrected.
They got into the Crown Victoria and started down the road. Worried that the dogs might try to follow her out to the highway, Joanna kept a close eye on the rearview mirror. She turned onto Highway 80 without seeing any sign of pursuit.
“Where did this happen?” George Winfield was asking. “In one of the cells?”
“No. Out in the rec yard. The air-conditioning broke down 98
earlier this afternoon. I had all the inmates moved out into the yard while they were working on it. I didn’t want anyone dying of heatstroke.”
“You had all the prisoners in the yard at once?” George asked.
“We had extra personnel on duty. I didn’t think anything would happen.”
“But it has,” George said.
“And it’s not going to look very good, is it,” Joanna replied. “It seems like it’s one thing after another. First all those dogs died, and now this.”
“You’ll probably take more flak because of the dogs,” George predicted.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Joanna said. They were nearing the turnoff to the Justice Center. “Do you want to stop here first, or should I take you by the house so you can pick up your van?”
“I’d better have the van,” he said. “We’re going to need to get that body out of there.” He was quiet for a minute. “There’s something else,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Remember when we were working the Constance Haskell murder a few months back? Remember how Maggie MacFerson tried to make a big deal out of the fact that you and I were related?”
Maggie MacFerson, the murder victim’s sister, happened to be the Maggie MacFerson, a well-known investigative reporter for the major Phoenix daily, The Arizona Reporter.
She had been more than happy to imply that Sheriff Joanna Brady’s stepdaughter relationship with the Cochise County Medical Examiner had somehow caused irregularities in the handling of and investigation into Constance Haskell’s murder.
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“Of course I remember,” Joanna returned. “But there was nothing to it.”
“You know there wasn’t anything to it, and so do I,” George Winfield said. “But this is different. Here we have an inmate who died while being incarcerated in your jail facility, Joanna. And he died in a situation that, however well-intenti
oned, wasn’t business as usual.”
“While they were out in the yard at my direction,” Joanna muttered grimly.
“Considering all the possible ramifications, not the least of which is liability, we’re going to have to be very careful.”
“You mean there could be possible conflict-of-interest problems if you investigate Richard Osmond’s death?”
“Precisely. This is a situation where neither one of us can afford the smallest margin for error.”
“Are you saying you want to call in another ME?”
“I think it’s wise, don’t you?”
Joanna sighed and picked up her microphone. “Tica,” she said when the dispatcher answered. “I need you to contact the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Tell them what we’ve got down here, and see if we can borrow an ME. We’ll pay, of course.
Nobody expects them to work for free.”
She put down the mike and turned back to George. “You know they’re going to charge us an arm and a leg.”
“No matter what they charge,” George Winfield said, “it’ll be cheap at twice the price.”
Joanna dropped George next to his Dodge Caravan and then drove back to the Justice Center alone. Tom Hadlock intercepted her in the parking lot.
“The guys are pissed about the lockdown,” he said. “They all say they didn’t do a thing.”
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“Right,” Joanna said. “Everybody’s as innocent as the day they were born. That’s why they’re all in the slammer. Now, what’s the story on Osmond? Who is he? What did he do?”
“He was serving ninety days for drunk and disorderly. He should have been in longer.
He was up on a domestic-violence beef, but his lawyer plea-bargained it down to D
and D.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-six.”
“How long’s he been in?”
“Forty-five days.”
“Did he cause any trouble?” Joanna asked.
“Not that I know of,” Hadlock answered. “At least nothing that got written up. No difficulties with his cell mates, no calls to the infirmary, nothing.”
“Who are his cell mates?”
“Brad Calhoun, a DUI from Willcox, and John Braxton, another D and D from Sierra Vista.”
