“In other words,” Joanna said, “if I don’t do this, Mayor Rogers is going to make your life miserable for as long as you’re stuck in Tombstone.”
“My life and yours, too,” Montoya told her. “He’ll pull out all the stops.”
Sighing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “What about the board of supervisors meeting this morning?” she asked. “If I can’t go and you’re not going, who will handle that?”
“Let me guess,” Voland grumbled from the far side of Joanna’s desk. “I suppose that’s going to wind up in my lap. I’ll take care of it. I’d much rather do that than have to deal with Clete Rogers.”
“Okay, then Frank,” Joanna said. “Since Dick has agreed to handle the board meeting, I’ll be responsible for notifying Rogers. But what about his sister? Who’s going to notify Susan Jenkins? If Clete merits the benefit of the full deluxe treatment, including a personal visit from the sheriff, shouldn’t his sister deserve similar consideration? What if she feels slighted?”
“Let me point out that Susan Jenkins isn’t an elected official with a sizable voting constituency,” Frank said. “I’m sure someone should go talk to the woman in person, but that someone doesn’t have to be you.”
“Good,” Joanna breathed. “Maybe Dick has some stray deputy or other he can spare long enough to send out to Sierra Vista.”
The Chief Deputy for Operations was already examining his duty roster. “There’s Deputy Gregovich,” Voland said. “He and Spike are heading that direction first thing this morning. They’re due at the Oak Vista construction site outside Sierra Vista. If he stops by to see Susan Jenkins, it won’t be that far out of his way.”
Oak Vista Estates was a new mammoth-sized housing development being built at the southern end of the Huachuca Mountains. The previous Friday afternoon, sign-carrying protesters-people who preferred grassy, oak-dotted foothills to freshly bulldozed urban blight-had held hands across the development’s construction entrance in an unsuccessful effort to block the arrival of flatbed trucks delivering bulldozers, back-hoes, and front-end loaders to the site. In the end Mark Childers, the developer, had carried the day by simply waiting out the protesters. He had delivered his equipment after the tree-huggers had all gone home for the night.
Now, in a new week and with work on the project underway in earnest, no one knew quite what to expect. Which was why Voland had dispatched Deputy Gregovich and Spike to the scene in hopes of preventing trouble before it could start.
Terry Gregovich was a Bisbee native and a former marine who had been riffed out of the service after two tours of duty. Back home in Cochise County, Gregovich had done such outstanding work with the Search and Rescue team that Joanna had brought him on board, hoping to turn him into a detective.
That plan had been shot down by budget considerations, but when Frank Montoya had located grant money to establish a K-9 unit, Terry’s previous K-9 experience working airport security with the military as well as time spent as an MP had put him on a fast track. He and Spike, an eighty-five-pound German shepherd, were the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s newest rookies. They generally worked nighttime shifts, but Voland had posted them to days to help handle the Oak Vista protesters.
“Terry’s pretty new on the job,” Joanna observed. “Do you think he can handle talking to bereaved relatives on his own?”
“No doubt about it,” Voland said. “Terry may be new to our department, but it’s not like he’s never been a cop before. He’ll be fine.”
“And what about Spike?” Joanna asked.
“What about him?”
“Here’s Clete Rogers getting a personal visit from the sheriff herself while his sister ends up with a rookie officer and a slobbery German shepherd besides. It sounds a little inequitable to me.”
Dick Voland didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, but Frank Montoya laughed aloud. “No doubt Hizzoner will approve. I’m not so sure about Susan Jenkins.”
“It’s Gregovich or nothing,” Dick Voland growled. “He’s the only deputy I can spare this morning.”
“All right,” Joanna said. “That settles it then. I’ll head for Tombstone as soon as I can. Talk to you later, Frank.” With that she once again switched off the speaker and focused her attention on Voland. “Anything urgent before I hit the road?”
“Nothing that won’t keep,” he said. With that Dick Voland stood up and lumbered toward the outer office. This time he marched straight into the reception area. Breathing a sigh of relief, Joanna followed him. At a desk just outside Joanna’s office Kristin Martin was busily sorting through a stack of mail.
“I’m on my way to Tombstone to talk to Clete Rogers,” Joanna told Kristin. “Just put the mail on my desk. It’ll have to wait until I get back.”
Letting herself out of her private entrance and into the parking lot behind the building, Joanna was faced with a decision. As sheriff, she had two vehicles at her disposal-a battle-scarred Chevy Blazer and a shiny and relatively new Crown Victoria. Because she wanted to make an impression on Clete Rogers and because she wasn’t anticipating driving through any four-wheel-type terrain, she opted for the Crown Victoria. Other jurisdictions sometimes referred to Crown Victoria cruisers as “Vics.” Joanna and Frank Montoya preferred to call them Civvies.
The twenty-five-mile drive from Bisbee to Tombstone gave Joanna plenty of time to contemplate how Cletus Rogers would react to the news that his mother’s car had been stolen and that, although she was still officially missing, it was becoming more and more likely that she was dead. Like Frank Montoya, Joanna feared the mayor of Tombstone would come unglued and overreact. What if he decides to go traipsing up to Tucson himself? Joanna wondered. Having him show up at a crime scene will drive the Pima County guys crazy.
Thirty minutes later and still dreading the task ahead, Sheriff Joanna Brady pulled into the parking lot of Clete Rogers’ Grubsteak Restaurant and Saloon on Allen Street. The clapboard-covered building, complete with phony white shutters, looked more like a refugee from a film set than a genuine product of the Old West. As Joanna stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed, on closer examination, that the exterior paint was chipped and peeling. And when she pushed open the front door, she noted that the carpeting in the front entryway had been tacked down with a few strategically placed strips of duct tape.
Stationed in front of an old-fashioned cash register stood a well-endowed peroxide blonde holding a stack of menus. “Smoking or nonsmoking?” she asked.
Joanna hauled out her badge and flashed it. “I’m looking for Mr. Rogers.”
The hostess stuck a pair of red-framed reading glasses on her nose long enough to examine the ID. “Mr. Rogers is busy,” she said in a brusque manner designed to forestall any further discussion. “He’s upstairs in his office and on the phone long distance. Monday’s order day around here. He’s not to be interrupted.”
“I’m sure he’ll want to speak to me,” Joanna said. “It’s about his mother.”
The hostess sniffed disdainfully. “Well,” she said. “it’s about time someone started looking into that. We’ve had that useless deputy hanging around here for weeks on end, but as soon as there’s a real problem, he up and disappears.”
“Frank Montoya didn’t disappear,” Joanna corrected, coming to her chief deputy’s defense. “He spent the whole night working on this situation, first down in Nogales and now up in Tucson.”
“Oh,” said the hostess, sounding somewhat mollified. “If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll try to catch Mr. Rogers’ eye the next time he’s between calls. Care for a cup of coffee while you wait?”
Joanna was finishing her second cup of coffee when Clete Rogers finally appeared. He was a large, rawboned man some-where in his mid-to-late fifties. His eyes had the look of some-one dealing with life on too little sleep. As soon as he had settled into the booth across the table from Joanna, the hostess hurried up behind him and set a large tumbler of orange juice on the table in front of him.