Her green-eyed gaze drilled into him. “Actually, Mr. York, I’ve been a little too busy lately with what you might call life-and-death matters to give a tinker’s damn about my checking account balance, so the answer is no. I have no idea.”

Adam York reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Allow me to enlighten you. Here’s your balance as of ten o’clock this morning.”

He held up the paper. She didn’t even glance at it much less take it, but he could tell from the sudden jutting of her chin that he had finally landed a solid blow.

“How did you get that?” she demanded.

Again he smiled. “It’s all perfectly legal. You can check with the branch manager down there in Bisbee. When federal officers show up at a bank’s head office with court orders in hand, bankers usually jump to give us whatever we need.”

“Then suppose you tell me what my balance is.^”

“Five thousand eight hundred seventy one dollars and five cents. That’s after the checks for the ring and the flowers both cleared.” He gave her another of his overly tolerant smiles. He thought he detected the smallest twitch in the corner of her left eye, but afterward he couldn’t be sure.

“Are you in the habit of keeping that kind of money in your checking account, Joanna?” he continued smoothly. “That seems like a sizeable amount for a struggling young couple like you and your husband.”

She stiffened at that remark, but she didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she leaned forward in her chair and stared back at him with those disconcerting green eyes.

“Mr. York,” she said at last, her voice drop-ping almost to a whisper. “My father was a police officer once, and my husband still is. I am a person who has always been in favor of law and order, one who has utmost respect for officers of the law, but I will tell you here and now that if you are any indication of the kind of people currently serving in the capacity of federal police officers, then this country of ours is in big trouble.”

With that she pulled a ten dollar bill from her purse, slapped it on the table, and pushed hack her chair. This wasn’t exactly the kind of reaction Adam York had expected, and it caught him by surprise. He got up and trailed after her, catching her by the elbow as she stepped up into the dining room’s doorway.

“Look,” he said, “if you’re going back to the hospital, I could just as well give you a ride.”

She wrested her arm away from him. “I don’t ride in cars with strangers,” she responded frostily. “It’s a very dangerous practice.”

She strode away from him, but then, sensing that he was still staring after her, she stopped, turned, and came back.

“By the way,” she said, “if you or any more of your so-called agents show up in the ICU waiting room this afternoon, I promise you, I’ll throw the sons of bitches out. And if you think that’s an empty threat, you might check with Sheriff Walter McFadden.”

“Oh, Miss,” the busboy called to her from across the dining room. “You forgot your bag.

He came over to her, lugging the heavy shopping bag with its bulky load of boots and jacket. She took it, murmured a quick thank you, then turned on her heel and marched away.

“She’s a cool one, all right,” York muttered to himself without realizing the busboy was still listening. He, too, was watching Joanna Brady make her way through the long, narrow lobby.

“She’s beautiful,” the busboy breathed fervently. “Who is she? Someone on TV?”

“Not yet,” Adam York replied grimly. “But keep watching the news. She may turn up there real soon.”

Joanna kept her shoulders back and her head high as she walked away from him. She felt betrayed and wounded by the system. How dare they go nosing around Bisbee, asking Hiram Young questions about the ring? How dare they contact the bank about their balance? People couldn’t really believe that Andrew Brady was involved in drug trafficking. That wasn’t possible!

The walk back to the hospital was only a matter of blocks, but it seemed like miles. The too-large shoes slapped clumsily on the sidewalk, and it was all Joanna could do to put one foot in front of the other. Mid-afternoon sun burned down unmercifully through her double layer of clothing. The twine on the heavy shopping bag cut at her fingers, and she felt sweaty and dirty. More than that, Adam York had left her feeling helpless and violated.

Why had he treated her that way, she wondered miserably. As a police officer’s wife, Joanna knew that in the aftermath of an attempted murder, family members would be expected to provide answers to painfully uncomfortable questions. She knew those questions would be coming soon enough from whatever investigators Dick Voland had assigned to Andy’s case. That was no surprise. And in the light of the television news broad-cast, questions from the DEA as well as the Mexican federales were also to be expected.

But this hadn’t been the kind of kid-gloves type interview to which she should have been entitled. Even if they suspected Andy of wrongdoing, Adam York hadn’t acted at all as though Joanna were an innocent bystander. His whole demeanor and attitude told her that she, too, was under suspicion. For what, she wondered. For taking the ring? For accepting a present that might very well be the last thing her husband ever gave her?

She shifted the heavy bag from one hand to the other. As she did so, the sun caught the sparkling diamond in a flash of light. So where had the ring come from, she asked herself for the first time. Andy Brady didn’t have that kind of money stowed away, certainly not money hidden from her. And as for the extra almost six thousand dollars in their checking account? That had to be a simple bookkeeping error. It might take Sandy Henning a day or two to figure out where it came from, but eventually the money would be credited to the proper account, and the Brady account balance would tumble back down to its usual level of nearly crashing and burning.

Joanna had retraced her steps back up Elm to Campbell which she crossed at the light. As she started up the sidewalk along the hospital driveway, she thought she caught sight of her mother’s purple dress in the shadow of the portico. Sure enough, as she got closer, she saw Eleanor pacing back and forth in the small patch of shade.

The moment Eleanor saw her daughter, she motioned to her frantically and then came rushing down the sidewalk to meet her. As her mother approached, Joanna was surprised to see that her mother’s mascara was smudged. Obviously she had been crying.

“What’s the matter, Mother,” Joanna asked. “He’s gone.”

“Who, Andy? Where’d he go? Did they move him somewhere else?”

Eleanor Lathrop was puffing and out of breath. “You don’t understand, Joanna,” she said. “Andy’s dead.”

Joanna stopped short, thunderstruck. “He’s dead? No. When did it happen? How?”

Eleanor shook her head. “After you left, my good friend Margaret Turnbull stopped by. She and I were sitting there watching “The Young and the Restless” when some kind of alarm went off and people started running around and yelling ‘code red’ over the loud-speaker, whatever that means. Pretty soon some doctor comes out and says to me that it’s all over, that Andy’s dead.”

Joanna dropped the bag, pushed past her mother, and raced into the building. She sprinted through the lobby and shoved her way inside an elevator just as the doors were closing. She stood there shaking her head, not believing it had happened. It couldn’t be true.

Andy couldn’t be gone, not without her being there to say good-bye.

On the ICU floor she slammed open the door to the waiting room. A little knot of people stood near the painting on the far side of the room. They turned to look at her when the door opened. Ken Galloway separated himself from the group and started toward her, but she dodged around him and darted into Andy’s room. The machines were eerily quiet. The bed was empty. He really was gone.