In the resulting investigation, the cops had lost their jobs, although none of them actually went to prison. An ensuing flurry of civil lawsuits, shades of California ’s Rodney King, had put a big hole in Yuma County ’s legal contingency fund.
“So you’re our local lady sheriff, are you?” Alf said with what was no doubt calculated to be an engaging grin. “Glad to meet you.”
He held out his hand. Joanna shook it without enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you had moved to Bisbee,” she said.
“I haven’t exactly,” he returned. “Unless the Bisbee City limits come all the way out here. My wife and I live at the hired help’s compound just a ways back up the road here. Mr. O’Brien was good enough to set aside six mobile homes for those of us who work here, except for Mrs. Vorevkin, the housekeeper. She has a room here at the house.”
Hastings ’s pocket radio squawked to life. As the operations manager walked away to answer his summons in private, Joanna turned to Dick.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked.
Voland frowned. “As near as I can tell, he’s probably doing the same thing he was doing before-keeping America safe for Americans, only on a private basis, this time, not a public one.”
“Have we had any complaints?”
“Not so far,” Voland answered. “My guess is he’s been keeping a pretty low profile.”
“Did you tell him we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior around here?”
“The subject didn’t come up,” Voland said.
“Never mind,” Joanna said. “I’ll tell him myself the next time I see him. In the meantime, what’s going on? Any word about the girl?”
At six-four, Chief Deputy Voland towered over Joanna by a whole foot. The top of her head barely grazed the bottom of his chin. For months now, the sheriff had been aware of the possibility that her not-quite-divorced second in command might have a crush on her. Always gruff and blustery in public, his private dealings with Joanna had changed. Too much the professional to say anything directly, his feelings were betrayed by ears that reddened when she spoke to him in private as well as by sudden bouts of his being tongue-tied in her presence.
As a consequence, in her dealings with Dick Voland, Joanna always found herself walking a tightrope. Because he was in charge of the day-to-day functioning of her department, it was essential that she have a good working relationship with the man. On the other hand, she didn’t want to say or do anything that would encourage him or give him the wrong idea.
“Nothing much so far,” he said. “Ernie just got here a little while ago. He’s inside talking to the parents. You can go on in, if you want to.”
“How are the O’Briens holding up?” Joanna asked.
“About how you’d expect,” Voland answered. “The mother is brokenhearted; the father is pissed. If I were Brianna O’Brien’s daddy,” he added, “I would be, too.”
As soon as Joanna rang the bell, the O’Briens’ front door was opened by a round-faced red-haired woman who spoke with what sounded to Joanna like a thick Russian accent. “I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, showing the woman her photo ID and badge. “I’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Of course. This way, please.”
Inside, away from the blazing heat, the interior of the air-conditioned house felt almost chill. As Joanna followed the shuffling, heavyset housekeeper across a smooth saultillo tile Boor, she was struck by the scale of the house. The ceilings were high and broken by walls with clerestory windows that provided light without letting in heat. The housekeeper led the way down a long hallway that was almost twice as wide as those in most private homes. The white walls were adorned with groupings of carefully lit and lavishly framed art. Some of the pieces looked familiar. Walking past, there was no way for Joanna to tell whether or not any of the pieces were originals or whether they were simply extremely well-executed reproductions.
Surely they’re not originals, Joanna thought. No one in his right mind would bring a valuable collection of original art right here to the border…
But then, thinking about the razor wire-topped chain-link fence and the ATV-mounted security guards, the video monitoring system, and what was no doubt a trained guard dog, she reconsidered. Maybe this was original artwork after all.
Al the far end of the long hallway, the housekeeper paused. “You wait,” she said.
Before Joanna, set in an alcove that had clearly been designed for that specific purpose, sat an exquisite, two-foot-tall marble statue of the Madonna and Child. The baby was roly-poly and clung to his mother’s waist with one chubby bare leg. The young mother’s face seemed almost alive with a benevolent, welcoming smile. Her one free hand reached out in graceful, openhanded greeting to all who looked upon her. Beneath the statue sat a polished rosewood prie-dieu. On the prie-dieu lay an open Bible, an onyx-beaded rosary complete with a gold crucifix, and a single lit votive candle. The brown leather of the padded knee rest glowed with the patina of long and faithful use.
Feeling as though she were standing in a chapel, Joanna gazed up at the statue while running an admiring finger over the satin-smooth grain of the wood.
“Sheriff Brady?”
Like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t, Joanna turned to face the lady of the house. The luxury automobiles parked under the covered portico, the spaciousness of the beautifully tiled hallway, the elegance of the artwork had all led Joanna to expect that Katherine O’Brien would be someone equally elegant-slender, fashionable, and maybe even a little on the delicate side.
Joanna was surprised to see before her a plain-faced and sturdy woman in her early to mid-fifties. She was dressed casually in a tank top, Bermuda shorts, and leather thongs. Her brunette hair, going gray around the temples, was drawn back in a casual, foot-long ponytail. As soon as Joanna saw the woman she realized she had seen her before-in the grocery store and post office on occasion-without having the smallest glimmer of who she was.
“I’m sorry,” Joanna apologized. “The wood is so lovely I couldn’t help touching it.”
Katherine smiled sadly and nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on my knees there, praying. Both pieces, the prie-dieu and the statue, came from a Sisters of Silence convent in upstate New York. When the Cistercian Order closed the place down, they asked Sotheby’s to auction off all the contents. The prie-dieu and the statue had both been in the mother superior’s private chapel. I was glad David was able to buy them so we could keep them together.”
Katherine stopped abruptly, as though the customary graciousness of telling visiting guests about her objets d’art had somehow outdistanced the painful circumstances that had brought this particular visitor into her home. “Sorry,” she said. “Detective Carpenter and my husband are out back by the pool. If you’ll come this way.”
Katherine O’Brien led Joanna past a formal dining room and through a large kitchen where the housekeeper was busy cooking something meaty that smelled absolutely wonderful. Beyond the kitchen was an informal dining room and a family room complete with a massive entertainment unit. French doors from the family room led to a fully enclosed patio complete with black wrought iron furniture, a permanently installed canopy, a hot tub, and a lap pool. The interior wall of the patio was lined with raised flower beds that held an astonishing assortment of vividly colored, dinner plate-sized dahlias.
An empty wheelchair sat parked next to the edge of the pool. In the pool itself, a silver-haired man Joanna recognized as David O’Brien swam back and forth. Meanwhile, Detective Ernie Carpenter, overdressed as usual in his customary double-breasted suit, sat sweltering under the canopy.