Once in her car, Joanna drove herself back to Bisbee. It was early afternoon when she pulled into the justice complex and parked in her reserved parking spot just outside her office door.

Inside, she sat down at her desk, kicked off her shoes, and closed her eyes for a moment before punching the intercom button. “I’m here, Kristin,” she said. “You might as well bring in today’s mail.”

When Kristin brought in the stack of mail, Joanna found that the topmost item was a homemade postcard with a Polaroid picture of Jenny glued to the front. Soaked to the skin and grinning from ear to ear, she stood in a downpour outside the door to an eight-person tent. The hand-painted sign over her head said, BADGER. The message on the other side of the card was cheery and brief:

Dear Morn,

It rained today, but we had fun anyway. Wish you were here. Hello to the G^’s.

Love, Jenny

Joanna reread the note several times, struck by what it didn’t say more than by what it did. There was no remark to indicate that Jenny was lonely or homesick or that she missed her mother or the dogs. It also didn’t say that Joanna should come right back up to Tucson to bring her daughter home. Joanna turned the card over and was still studying the picture when her private line rang. The caller turned out to be Eleanor Lathrop.

“Hello, Mother,” Joanna said. “What’s up?”

“I just had the strangest call from that little friend of yours. You know who I mean. That blonde girl-Angie Kellogg.”

“What kind of call?”

“She wanted to know where in Bisbee she could buy Wedgwood. I told her I didn’t know of anyplace at all anymore, but why did she want to know? She says her boyfriend broke a piece of his Kutani Crane china. The set was a gift from the young man’s grandmother. Angie is trying to find a way to replace it. Do you believe that?”

“That Angie would want to replace something that’s broken? That doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s a very kindhearted-”

“I know Angie’s kindhearted,” Eleanor Lathrop agreed irritably. “What I want to know is where in the world would she find somebody who has a set of Wedgwood china. Not only that, she says he uses it for everyday!”

“She found him up in the mountains,” Joanna said. “She and Dennis Hacker went hummingbird-watching together.”

“Wedgwood for everyday,” Eleanor repeated morosely. “Now, why couldn’t you find someone like that?”

Smiling, Joanna thought of the serviceable and often-chipped Fiesta Ware that was used on the Formica tables in Butch Dixon’s Roundhouse Bar and Grill up in Peoria, Arizona. It was a long way from Wedgwood, but it suited the rough-hewn Butch.

“I guess,” Joanna said, “Wedgwood users just aren’t my type.

“I suppose some bald-headed, twice-divorced motorcycle rider is?”

Over the past several months, Frederick “Butch” Dixon had made several trips to Bisbee on his Goldwing. Each time, Eleanor had been quick to voice her disapproval, which, Joanna realized, probably only served to make the man that much more appealing.

“He isn’t bald,” she said now. “He shaves his head.”

“If you ask me”-Eleanor sniffed-”it’s the same thing.” Fortunately, the intercom buzzed again just then, saving the conversation from deteriorating any further. “Adam York is on line one,” Kristin announced.

“Sorry, Mother,” Joanna said. “There’s another call. I’ve got to go.” She picked up the other receiver. “Hello, Adam. What’s up?”

“What kind of trading mood are you in?” he asked.

“Trading? What do you mean?”

“I just got off the phone with Arlee Jones…” Adam began.

“The Cochise County Attorney?” Joanna demanded. “What are you doing talking to him? You two didn’t make some kind of deal on Aaron Meadows, did you?”

“Settle down, Joanna,” Adam soothed. “Arlee told me I couldn’t do any kind of horse trading unless you agreed up front.”

“Are you talking plea bargain here? If you are-”

“All the man wants is a guarantee that Jones won’t seek an aggravated first-degree murder conviction, that we most likely wouldn’t be able to win anyway. If you’ll agree to that, I’m pretty sure I can get Meadows to give us a signed confession. In addition, he’ll turn state’s evidence. From what he’s said so far, I’m betting that, with his help, I’ll be able to put Marco Marcovich away for a long time. We’ll both come up winners, Joanna. Your two homicide cases will be cleared. So will my Freon problem.”

Sitting there, staring out the window at the sunny parking lot, Joanna thought again about what she had said to Dick Voland the night before-about how, in the course of being sheriff, she had been forced to become a pragmatist. How she was in favor of whatever worked.

“That’s the only thing we’ll be conceding here-we won’t ask for the death penalty?”

“The only thing.”

“And what does Arlee Jones say?”

“That whatever you say goes.”

“Get the confession,” Joanna said, wearily. “Fax me a copy as soon as you have one. I’ll need to go talk to the girl’s parents and let them know what’s happened.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

About four o’clock in the afternoon, still watching the clock and waiting for the fax to come in, Joanna finished her paperwork and made her way down the hall to the evidence room.

“I believe Ernie Carpenter or Jaime brought in another journal either last night or this morning,” she told Buddy Richards. “It’ll be one similar to the one I looked at yesterday. It’s part of the Aaron Meadows investigation.”

“What about it?” Buddy asked.

“I’d like to take a look at it.”

Shaking his head in disapproval and mumbling objections under his breath, Buddy found the journal. He handed it over only after making doubly sure the paperwork was properly signed and documented.

Back in her office, Joanna opened the book to the last page:

I’m sorry Nacio isn’t here tonight with me, but that’s one of the things I love about him-he’s dependable. With his aunt in the hospital, his family needs…

The journal ended in mid-sentence, leaving Joanna with the bittersweet knowledge that Brianna O’Brien had been interrupted then and had died in the act of declaring once again her unrepentant love for the young man her family had deemed entirely unsuitable.

Fighting back tears and swallowing the lump in her throat, Joanna went on to read the entire book, scanning from back to front. She expected to stumble upon some reference to Brianna O’Brien’s discovery that her parents were involved in Marco Marcovich’s smuggling game, but she found nothing at all like that. What Joanna found instead was Brianna O’Brien’s shock and outrage that her father had slapped her face-for wearing the forbidden earrings.

As she worked her way backward through the journal, though, Joanna found more and more references to something bad-something Bree had discovered. Over and over she had wrestled in her journal with whether or not she should tell “Nacio what was really going on,” but there was hardly any information at all to say what that awful secret was. Finally, at the very beginning of the book, Joanna found what she was looking for. In an investigation that almost paralleled Joanna’s, Brianna O’Brien had come to the same damning conclusion Joanna had-that Katherine O’Brien had murdered Ricardo Montano Diaz-the man responsible for the deaths of David O’Brien’s family-his previous wife and his firstborn children.

Closing the book, Joanna stared off into space. What was her responsibility here? Katherine and David O’Brien had already suffered an incredible loss. Of course, there was no statute of limitations on murder, but would justice he served by re-opening that ancient wound?