“Do me a favor,” Joanna said.

“What’s that.”

“Tell your people that Nettleton comes here first for questioning.”

“Joanna-”

She cut off his objection. “You owe me, Adam. This is my turf. As far as I’m concerned, my homicide takes precedence over your sting.”

“Okay,” Adam York agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll let them know.”

The moment Joanna was off the telephone with Adam York, she called Dispatch and told the operator who answered to locate both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter and send them off to meet up with the DEA task force in Benson. Once that was done, there wasn’t much more for Joanna to do except sit and wait. She was tempted to go racing off to Benson right along with everyone else. After a moment’s consideration, though, she decided against it. That wasn’t her job. It was why she had detectives. Besides, Cochise County or not, the Benson operation was the DEA’s deal. Adam York would he in charge of that one-of his officers and Joanna’s as well.

Sit and stay, she told herself firmly. No need for a second commander in the field. All that would do would be to gum up the works. She stopped long enough to eye the ever-growing mounds of paper that littered her desk.

Especially, she added, when I’ve got more than enough to do right here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

During Joanna’s term as sheriff, paperwork had become the bane of her existence. No matter how often she did it-no matter how hard she tried to keep up-it continued to roll across her desk in a perpetual stream. It struck her that it was just like trying to keep up with housework at home, where there was always another pile of dirty laundry to wash or another load of dishes to do. It was a drudgery aspect of police work that somehow never quite made it into the phony TV world of quirky cops and equally fantastic crooks duking it out in exotic high-speed car chases.

She had barely made a dent in the pile labeled “Thursday” when Chief Deputy Frank Montoya tapped on her half-open door and let himself into her office. Frowning, he eased his lanky frame into one of the chairs opposite Joanna’s desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s that obvious?” he returned.

“From a mile away,” she said with a smile. “Now, what is it and how bad?”

“The usual,” he said. “It’s going to be another big-time media blitz, including all the out-of-towners.”

“Great.” Joanna groaned. “Just what we need.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve been doing this job long enough that I should be getting used to it. At least by now I pretty well know all the players-as in which reporters are trustworthy and which ones should be run out of town on a rail.”

“That sounds ominous,” Joanna said.

“It is. I happen to have in my possession a preview of Marliss Shackleford’s column for tomorrow’s Bisbee Bee.”

“What do you mean a preview?”

“Just what I said. Ken Dawson, the publisher over at the Bee, sent along a copy of tomorrow’s column just in case you have any comment.”

Despite the fact that Joanna and Marliss both attended Canyon Methodist Church, the two of them had never been friends. Since Joanna’s election, their already thorny relationship had deteriorated even further. Marliss never failed to publicly point out whatever she thought to be Joanna’s official shortcomings.

Joanna reached for the paper Frank was holding in front of him. “That bad?” she asked.

“It’s not good,” Frank muttered as she turned her attention to the words on the paper.

With eighteen-year-old honor student Brianna O’Brien dead by what officials are calling homicidal violence, it remains to be seen how much responsibility Sheriff Joanna Brady must shoulder for the girl’s untimely death.

As late as Saturday afternoon Sheriff Brady reportedly refused to call in the FBI to search for Brianna even though the girl’s father, retired Paradise Valley developer and Naco native David O’Brien, specifically requested that she do so.

Although it is doubtful summoning the FBI at that point would have spared the recent BHS graduate’s life, the question remains about why Sheriff Brady was so reluctant to request the involvement of other law enforcement agencies to help with this unfortunate situation.

At a time when the criminal element is able to leave a trail of destruction that crosses both state and international boundaries, can Cochise County afford a sheriff who regards herself as a female version of the Lone Ranger?

Think about it, Sheriff Brady. How about a little more cooperation and a little less egomania?

Her head buzzing with anger, Joanna tossed the paper back to Frank. “How dare she? That’s garbage and Marliss knows it. Brianna O’Brien was dead long before I refused to call in the FBI.”

“You know that and I know that,” Frank agreed. “Unfortunately, everybody else-other reporters included-may take this stuff as gospel. I think you should make some kind of official comment. In fact, I’ve even drafted a couple…”

“The Lone Ranger?” Joanna continued, almost as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve never been a lone damned ranger. And here she is, putting that in the paper when, even as we speak, my department is up to its ears in the middle of a joint operation with the DEA.”

After that, Joanna fell silent. “So,” Frank asked. “Do we send a response or not?”

What Joanna really wanted to do in response was get in her car, drive uptown to the Bee’s office on Main Street, grab Marliss by the front of her shirt, and shake her until her teeth rattled. That, of course, was a rotten idea. Struggling to get a grip, Joanna thought about it. As for a written response, any mention of the joint operation ran the risk of blowing the Freon deal and possibly the murder investigation as well. Much as Joanna personally would have liked to drop Marliss Shackleford down the nearest mine shaft, Joanna knew that just wasn’t possible-not without jeopardizing too many other things.

“Not,” she said. “Thank Ken for sending it over. That was very evenhanded of him for a change, but we’ll let the column go as is. With no comment.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you said something?” Frank asked.

“No,” Joanna said. “In this case, I think we’ll let our actions speak for themselves.”

“All right,” Frank conceded. “Have it your way.”

Once Frank left her office, Joanna continued to fume. She found herself second-guessing her decision. Between that and wondering what was going on in Benson, it wasn’t too surprising that she couldn’t concentrate on paperwork anymore. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t force herself to proof-read a densely worded letter from her to the board of supervisors. The sentences on the page simply didn’t make sense. They kept becoming entwined with Marliss Shackleford’s Lone hanger comment and with the single sentence from Brianna O’Brien’s diary that Joanna had come to regard as the dead girl’s haunting last words. “My mother is a liar.”

Finally, giving up on her third attempt at reading the letter, Joanna put it aside, along with the remainder of that day’s untended correspondence. Abandoning all pretense of staying on task, Joanna leaned back in her oversized chair and stared out the window.

When Joanna had come into her office an hour or so earlier, the sky outside her window had been brilliantly blue. Now that same blue sky was pockmarked with puffy white, gray-bottomed clouds. On the ground below, swiftly moving shadows from those same clouds glided silently over the desert landscape like so many circling vultures. Watching the shadows, Joanna found herself once again thinking about Brianna O’Brien’s mother, the liar.