The photos Joanna had seen of Leslie Tazewell Markham- Bradley Evans’s stealthily captured images or the promotional ones downloaded from the Internet-had not done the woman justice. Leslie was an attractive brunette with lush wavy hair that surrounded a fine-boned face. Her complexion was flawless, and the blue eyes she turned on Joanna were disarmingly direct. Still, there was an air of sadness about her, something that her upscale business attitude and attire didn’t quite conceal.

“Sheriff Brady?” she asked, holding out her hand. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” Joanna said. “Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

Leslie turned back to the receptionist. “Is anyone in the conference room, Fran?”

“No, it’s free,” Fran said, casting a suspicious glance in Joanna’s direction.

Leslie led the way into a small conference room. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”

Joanna reached into her briefcase, pulled out Bradley Evans’s ID photo, and slid it across the table. “Does this man look familiar?”

Leslie picked up the picture, studied it closely, and then handed it back. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Who is he?”

“Maybe he came through your office here looking to buy a house,” Joanna suggested.

“Then he must have spoken to someone besides me,” Leslie replied. “I remember all my clients. I don’t recognize him.”

Listening as Leslie spoke and watching her reactions, Joanna believed she was telling the truth.

“What about these?” Joanna asked. She held the envelope over the table and let the photos spill out.

Leslie studied several of them. When she looked back at Joanna there could be no doubt about her dismay. “Where did you get these?” she demanded. “Who took them? Am I under surveillance for something?”

“These aren’t police photos,” Joanna said. “We believe you were being stalked.”

“Stalked,” Leslie echoed faintly.

“Do you have any idea when they were taken?” Joanna asked.

Leslie studied the photos more closely. “It must have been sometime last week,” she said. “I bought that outfit on my last trip to Tucson two weeks ago. Last week was the first time I wore it to work.”

“Do you know what day that was?” Joanna asked.

“Wednesday or Thursday. I guess it must have been Wednesday, but tell me, who took these pictures?” Leslie demanded. “And how were they taken without my knowledge? Whoever did it must have followed me for hours-from the post office to the mall to the grocery store. This is too creepy.” She paused and then shivered slightly as a look of understanding crossed her face. “Wait a minute. It’s him, isn’t it,” she said. “The guy whose picture you just showed me is the one who was following me around. Who is he? What does he want?”

“His name is Bradley Evans,” Joanna said. “I was hoping you could tell me what he wanted.”

“How can I? I’ve never met the man or even heard his name.”

“Is it possible you might have met him somewhere? Maybe he went by another name.”

“No. I already told you. I’ve never seen him before.”

“And you have no idea why this complete stranger would have wanted to take your photograph?” Joanna asked.

“None whatsoever,” Leslie said defiantly. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you ask him?”

“We can’t because he’s dead,” Joanna answered. “Because somebody murdered him. We found the camera with the photos still in it hidden in his vehicle.”

Leslie Markham’s eyes widened. Then she stood up. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I think I need to go get my husband.”

Chapter 12

Leslie Markham returned to the conference room a few minutes later with her husband on her heels. Rory Markham was tall, tanned, fit, good looking, and noticeably older than his wife. Seeing him, Joanna couldn’t help remembering her conversation with Debbie about how it looked as though Leslie Tazewell had managed to marry up. At first glance that still seemed to be the case.

“So some maniac is going around taking pictures of my wife,” Rory Markham said. “Isn’t that against some law or another? Isn’t it an invasion of privacy?”

“It may be disconcerting,” Joanna said, “but it’s not against the law.”

“Well, it should be,” Rory returned. “And it’s a good thing the son of a bitch is already dead. If he weren’t, I’d track him down myself and tear him a new asshole.”

“Rory!” Leslie admonished. “You shouldn’t talk that way.” He leveled a look in Leslie’s direction, and she subsided into silence. This bullying exchange wasn’t lost on Joanna. Was this man understandably concerned for his wife’s well-being, she wondered, or was there something else at work here? Jealousy, perhaps? That was always a powerful motivator, and Rory didn’t look like the type who would appreciate or tolerate having an interloper poaching on his turf. Not only that, it was clear that underneath Markham’s suave exterior of perfect clothing, perfect hair, and perfect teeth lurked something far rougher. Like the refurbished building that held Rory Markham’s business, the man’s lowbrow Tacos to Go roots lingered despite an extensive makeover.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any idea about how that might have happened, would you?”

Rory drew himself up and glared down at Joanna with total disdain. “Certainly not!” he exclaimed. “Are you accusing me of having something to do with the man’s murder?”

“I’m simply asking questions,” Joanna said. “That’s what we do in the aftermath of a homicide-ask questions, particularly if someone seems to have issues with the victim.”

“Show him the man’s picture,” Leslie urged. “Maybe he’ll recognize him.”

Joanna produced the faxed copy of Bradley’s jail ministry ID photo and handed it to him. Rory looked at it for a moment and then gave it back. “I’ve never seen this jerk before in my life. Who the hell was he?”

“His name was Bradley Evans.”

“What was he, one of those papa-whatevers?”

“Paparazzi?” Joanna supplied.

“Right,” Rory said. “That’s what I meant. One of those… paparazzi. Maybe that’s why he was taking pictures of Leslie. Maybe he worked for one of those scumbag kinds of newspapers. You know what I mean-the ones they sell in grocery stores-the National Enquirer or something like that.”

“Why would they be interested in your wife?” Joanna asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Leslie mused. “With my father up for that federal appointment…”

“Your father?” Joanna repeated. “Who’s he?”

“Justice Lawrence Tazewell. He’s on the Arizona Supreme Court, but now he’s up for a possible federal judgeship.”

For the first time it occurred to Joanna that she had been wrong. Leslie wasn’t the one who had married up. Her husband had. And as far as that went, it meant Leslie was following a longstanding family script-one that remained a lingering part of Cochise County‘s social fabric. Joanna simply hadn’t connected Leslie to that particular family of Tazewells.

Local lore had it that, in the late sixties, while an impoverished law school student at the University of Arizona, Lawrence Tazewell had won the heart of Aileen Houlihan, a fellow student who sprang from some of southeastern Arizona‘s finest pioneer stock. Aileen’s paternal great-grandparents had settled in the northeastern corner of the San Pedro Valley while marauding Apaches, annoyed at being barred from their traditional hunting lands, were still a very real danger. The Triple H Ranch, in the foothills of the Whetstones, had been named for the family patriarch, Henry Hieronymus Houlihan. The Triple H had started out as a cattle ranch, raising Herefords, but now it was primarily known for its prizewinning quarter horses.

“My parents divorced a long time ago,” Leslie continued. “But now that my father’s being considered as a possible nominee for one of the open federal judgeships, everything about his life is back in the news, including my mother and me. This could be related to that.”