Joanna turned back to David. He was studying her with narrowed eyes, as if expecting her to cave in to his demands.

“What do you mean by your thing and my thing, Mr. O’Brien?” she asked.

“It means that as soon as I saw your department’s reluctance to call in reinforcements, I went ahead and made other arrangements. I’ve contacted a private eye up in Phoenix. Detective Stoddard will be here by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You may be unwilling or unable to do the job, Sheriff Brady. I’m sure my PI won’t be.”

“Hiring a detective is certainly your prerogative, Mr. O’Brien,” Joanna returned. “It may prove to be a waste of money, however, especially if your daughter shows up on her own as scheduled tomorrow afternoon.”

“Even if she does, it’s my money,” O’Brien said sourly.

“Of course,” Joanna agreed. “And you’re entitled to spend it in whatever manner you see fit. Good evening, then.” She started to leave, but then stopped and turned back. “May I ask one more question?”

“What’s that?”

“Have you noticed any changes in your daughter’s behavior in the last few months?”

“What’s this? You’re asking me questions about a daughter you insist isn’t really missing?”

Joanna ignored the jibe. “Has she changed?”

O’Brien shrugged. “Of course she’s changed,” he said. “Night to day. As though she had a personality transplant. Telling us one thing and doing another is just the tip of the iceberg.” He paused long enough to glower at his wife, as though he held Katherine personally accountable for his daughter’s emerging dishonesty.

“She never should have dropped out of the cheerleading squad,” he continued. “That was the beginning of all this and a grave disappointment to me as well. I didn’t raise my daughter to be a quitter. That’s not what O’Briens do.”

You mean being student body vice president and class valedictorian weren’t enough? Joanna wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Instead, she stifled that question in favor of another. “She just quit?”

David O’Brien might have wanted Katherine to keep quiet, but his orders weren’t enough to suppress a mother’s natural inclination to defend her daughter. “Miss Barker had to drop her,” Katherine interjected. “It happened back in November. At the end of football season. Because Bree had been captain of the squad, there was a bit of a flap about it. You may have heard…”

From the moment Joanna had found her wounded husband shot and bleeding in a sandy wash her every waking moment had been preoccupied with her own concerns, with her own survival and with Jenny’s. Joanna Brady had had very little energy left over to squander on anyone else’s difficulties. In That kind of emotion-charged atmosphere, it was hardly surprising that a tempest centered in and around the local high school cheerleading squad had failed to penetrate her consciousness.

Joanna shook her head. “I don’t remember hearing anything about it,” she said.

“You’re probably the only one,” David said. “It happened during the Bisbee-Douglas game. One of the players from Douglas-some young Mexican kid-ended up getting hurt. Had his leg broken, I guess. Bree was upset about it beyond all reason. She walked off the field right in the middle of the game. Left the ballpark and went directly to the hospital. Naturally, the cheerleading adviser had no choice but to put her off the squad.”

Joanna counted off the months in her head. November through June. Seven months. About the same length of time covered by the missing journals. “And that was when you first noticed the change in her?”

“She was moody, I suppose,” Katherine said. “But that was understandable. After all, losing her position on the squad was a very real loss to her, a blow to her self-esteem. There’s some grieving to be done after something like that happens. Grieving and a certain amount of acting out. But beyond that, she was fine. It’s not like it interfered with her grades or anything.”

Realizing Katherine was once again attempting to smooth things over and to minimize whatever had happened, Joanna decided to press the issue. “What kind of acting out?” she asked.

“She called me a bigot, among other things,” David O’Brien snarled, his face darkening with rage. From the looks of him, Bree’s accusatory words might still be hanging in the charged air around him. “My own daughter called me that to my face when I tried to explain to her that some stupid Mexican having his leg broken was no reason for her to give up something she’d wanted for years-something the whole family had worked for.”

Joanna couldn’t help noticing the sneer in O’Brien’s voice when he said the word Mexican. She also remembered his irrational refusal to deal with Detective Jaime Carbajal. Maybe, she thought, Brianna O’Brien’s assessment of’ her father was right on the money.

“Are you a bigot, Mr. O’Brien?” Joanna asked.

The room grew still. Raising his bushy eyebrows, Ernie Carpenter shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The silence lasted so long that Joanna wondered if perhaps she had gone too far, but David O’Brien didn’t appear to be especially of-fended by the question. In fact, he seemed to like the idea that Joanna was standing up to him and pushing back.

“Are you aware that I’m from here originally?” he asked at last, favoring Joanna with an unexpected but grim smile. She nodded.

“Not just from Bisbee,” he continued. “But from right here on the outskirts of Naco. My father, Tom O’Brien, died of a ruptured appendix when I was two. Growing up in a border town makes it tough for kids. On both sides. I didn’t transfer to St. Dominick’s in Old Bisbee until I was in the third grade. Before that I was one of the only Anglo kids in Naco Elementary. The Mexican kids down here used to beat me up every day, Sheriff Brady. Not only that, it was a Mexican driving the truck that killed my first family, smashed my legs to smithereens, and sentenced me to a wheelchair for the rest of my natural life. So believe me, if I’ve got my prejudices, maybe I’m entitled. That’s what I told Brianna, and that’s what I’m telling you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Not knowing what to say in response, Joanna headed for the door. As she did so, Katherine reached forward and plucked a small silver bell off the coffee table. Moments after she rang it, Mrs. Vorevkin appeared in the room. “Olga,” Katherine said, “please show Sheriff Brady and Detective Carpenter out.”

The housekeeper nodded in her stolid, impassive way and started down the hallway. She was standing in front of the open door waiting for them to step outside when Joanna stopped beside her. “Can you tell us anything about all this, Mrs. Vorevkin?” Joanna asked.

The woman’s faded blue eyes welled with tears. “I packed the food,” she said brokenly. “Just like before. I did not mean to cause trouble.”

“What trouble?” Joanna demanded. “And what food?”

“A bag of sandwiches, chips, some fresh fruit, and sodas,” Olga answered. “She always wanted plenty of sodas, root beer and Cokes, both.”

Joanna frowned. “Two kinds?”

Olga nodded. “Several of each.”

“And what kinds of sandwiches?”

“Peanut butter and bologna.”

“How many?”

“Five of each.”

Joanna turned to Ernie. “What do you think?” she asked. “Either Brianna O’Brien was one heavy eater or the picnic lunch was being made for more than one person.”

“That’s what I think,” Joanna said, returning her gaze to Olga’s placid face. “You were the last person here to see her?” Joanna asked.

Olga nodded.

“What was she wearing?”

Olga glanced toward Ernie. “He ask me already, but I don’t remember. Too upset. She’s a good girl, Brianna,” the woman added after a moment. “A nice girl. A very nice girl. You find her and bring her home.”