“From the sound of it, I’d say your daughter was involved with a whole group of people,” Joanna said gently. “Did she give you any names?”

“Other than Dena? Not really. I’m sure you can ask her yourself if you need to, but I don’t know how soon that’ll be. According to Ed, the first thing that happens at the center is the addicts go into detox for a while-for several days at least. They can’t have any visitors at all until they complete that portion of the treatment. Do you need the address?”

Joanna nodded. “And a phone number,” she added. “Both would be helpful.”

“Just a minute. I wrote them down, but I put the piece of paper in my purse.”

While Maureen went to get the information, Joanna sat considering her next move. Dena Hogan was handling Monica Foster’s divorce from Mark Childers, but she was also palling around with someone who was Mark Childers’ drug-using mistress. This sounded very much like a conflict of interest. Dena Hogan may have left work sick that day, but it seemed to Joanna that it was time someone paid the woman a visit at home.

“Do you happen to know where Dena lives?” Joanna asked when Maureen returned to the kitchen.

“Kino Road,” Maureen replied. “Just south of Ramsey. You’re not going to go see her, are you?”

“I may,” Joanna hedged.

“If you do, please don’t tell her I said anything. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have.”

A car-an old T-Bird-pulled into the yard and stopped. “That’ll be Derek,” Maureen said. “He drives himself to and from school. Please go now, Sheriff Brady. I hope you won’t mind if I don’t introduce you. I’m sure you understand. I just can’t upset him any more right now.”

“Of course,” Joanna agreed, standing up to leave. “I understand completely.”

In the end, there was no problem with introductions, because once Derek Brainard came into the house, he slammed the front door and disappeared into the depths of the house without ever showing his face in the kitchen. Joanna let herself out, climbed into the Blazer, and headed back for Sierra Vista. She used her cell phone to get Dena and Rex Hogan’s exact address on Kino Road. Half an hour later, Joanna approached the Hogan address just as a woman, blond and carrying two suitcases, exited the house.

Driving slowly and checking house numbers, Joanna stopped to watch. The woman heaved two massive bags into the open trunk of a car parked in the driveway. It was only when she turned around to reenter the house that Joanna realized she wasn’t a woman at all. The long blond locks and the missing trademark buckskin jacket had fooled her. No, the person returning to Dena Hogan’s house was none other than Ross Jenkins. The car the suitcases had been loaded into was the same Chrysler Concorde Joanna had seen Jenkins driving on Houghton Road three days earlier. In front of that was a pearlescent-white Lexus.

All at once, the threads of the two separate cases came together for Joanna like crosshairs in the sights of a rifle. She felt an eerie prickling at the back of her neck and knew that Ernie Carpenter had been dead-on right. She never should have come here alone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Ross Jenkins disappeared into Dena Hogan’s house, Joanna switched off the Blazer’s engine. From a discreet distance two houses away, she grappled with what to do. Other than instinct and moral indignation, she had very little to go on. Despicable behavior wasn’t criminal. If Dena Hogan was screwing around with Susan Jenkins’ husband, that was the business of the four people most closely involved. It certainly wasn’t Joanna’s. And standing someone up for an appointment while claiming to be sick but really heading out of town couldn’t be considered criminal either.

Sure, there were clear conflicts of interest involved. Even in small-town legal circles people would frown on an attorney who, while representing one party in a divorce proceeding, was also best friends with the opposing spouse’s mistress. But that called for disciplinary action from a bar association and nothing more, especially since wife, mistress, and attorney were all long-term friends with a supposedly “close” relationship that dated all the way back to girlhood.

All those things were bothersome-worrisome, even-but not cause for involvement by a local law enforcement agency. Still, Joanna knew instinctively that whatever was going on right then was more than morally wrong. Dena Hogan had been privy to the contents of Alice Rogers’ will. More than privy, she was the attorney who had drafted the damned thing. Alice’s two children, as well as her Johnny-come-lately husband, would have benefited to some extent from Alice’s premature death. With one of those beneficiaries dead and the other among the missing, that left only one, Susan Jenkins and her husband Ross, who had just loaded a pair of suitcases-Dena’s, presumably-into his car.

What’s the relationship between these two? Joanna wondered. And how much of this is Susan Jenkins in on?

The door opened once more and again Ross Jenkins emerged from the house. This time he crammed one more, smaller, suitcase into the trunk, then slammed the lid shut before he tossed a heavily loaded garment bag into the back-seat. As he returned to the house once again, Joanna realized she didn’t have much time. The car was full. When it was completely loaded, Ross and Dena would most likely drive away from the house. When that happened, Joanna wouldn’t have sufficient probable cause to pull them over.

She wanted to confront them sooner than that, without the necessity of what might later be characterized as an illegal traffic stop. The problem was, she was there by herself. Approaching a pair of suspected killers alone was downright foolhardy.

After first slipping her cell phone into the coat pocket of her blazer, she thumbed the talk button on her radio. “Dispatch,” she said. “Sheriff Brady here. I need backup.”

“Where are you?” Tica Romero asked.

“Kind Road, just south of Ramsey. It’s a residence that belongs to Rex and Dena Hogan.”

“That’s the same address I found for you a few minutes ago, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Two suspects are loading a vehicle. I want to keep them from leaving. How long before you can have another unit here?”

“We’re short-staffed in that sector right now, Sheriff Brady. The closest county unit is over at Palominas, finishing investigating a multi-car accident. Deputy Pakin can probably be there in half an hour or so. Do you want me to ask for mutual aid from Sierra Vista PD?”

“Yes,” Joanna agreed at once. “Better safe than sorry.”

The door to Dena Hogan’s house opened again. This time two people walked out and headed for the Concorde. The woman was wearing a coat and carrying a purse. That meant the loading was done. The suspects were leaving. There would be no time to wait for backup, none at all.

“I’m going to have to go in alone,” Joanna said. “But when I do, I’ll leave my cell phone turned on. That way, you’ll be able to monitor what’s happening.”

Quickly Joanna punched up Tica’s direct number and then waited for the dispatcher to answer before stowing the phone itself inside the cup of her bra. By then, Ross Jenkins and the woman were standing on either side of the Chrysler. Switching on the ignition, Joanna sent the Blazer roaring forward. Once it was astraddle the driveway and blocking the Concorde’s exit, Joanna slammed the Blazer into neutral and then stepped out onto the parking strip.

“Hi there, Ross,” Joanna said. “Do you have a minute?”

From the dismayed look that passed across his face, it was clear that Ross Jenkins was startled to see her. he recovered quickly, however.

“Well, hiya there, Sheriff Brady,” he said easily. “We were just leaving. If you don’t mind, we’re a little pressed for time at the moment.”