“I’m sure you are,” Joanna replied. “I only have a few questions. I presume this is Dena Hogan?”

“Yes, I’m Dena.” The woman’s answer was chilly and wary at the same time. “What do you want?”

Joanna wavered momentarily. She could play it cool and pretend that all she was looking for was a copy of Mark Childers’ financial records. Or she could go for broke. She could take a page from her father’s old poker-playing days and bluff like hell.

“I’m curious where you both were last Saturday night,” she said quietly. “Where you were after Alice Walker left Sierra Vista to drive back home to Tombstone?”

Glances might not be admissible in a court of law, but the dagger-filled look Dena Hogan shot across the top of the car toward Ross Jenkins spoke volumes.

“We were together,” Ross said with a dismissive shrug, as though the fact that he was sleeping around behind his wife’s back was an unimportant detail too insignificant to bother denying. “Right here. I came over after dinner and was here until late-until two or three in the morning.”

“With no witnesses, of course,” Joanna said.

Ross smiled. “I should hope not. I don’t think Susie would like it much if she found out. She’s been through so much lately. I wanted to spare her feelings.”

“We both did,” Dena said.

“How very thoughtful of you,” Joanna observed. “And I suppose you’re also sparing your husband’s feelings at the moment, Ms. Hogan? I’m assuming Rex isn’t home. Otherwise he’d be the one lugging your suitcases out to the car, not Mr. Jenkins here. And speaking of suitcases, from the size of them I’d say you’re planning on being gone for some time. Maybe even longer than next Monday morning, which is when your receptionist said you might be recovered enough to return to work.”

There was no way for Joanna to tell if her cell phone was picking up any of the conversation. It was buried under both her bra and the Kevlar material woven into her soft body armor.

Dena looked at her watch. “Come on, Ross. It’s getting late. Let’s go. She’s got no reason to hold us. If you have to drive across the grass to get around her, do it.”

Ross Jenkins made no effort to comply, and when he didn’t get in the Concorde, neither did Dena Hogan.

“Look, Sheriff Brady,” he said, turning on a gratingly wheedling tone, the persuasive one that could have been dubbed straight into one of his auto dealership’s radio commercials. “You may not be able to understand this or believe it, but Dena and I are in love. Neither one of us planned for it to happen quite this way, but it did. And yes, we are leaving town. We’re going away to try to get some perspective on things-to try to figure out what we should do about it. Maybe you’ve never been trapped in a loveless marriage, but we both have. We feel like we owe it to ourselves to salvage whatever bit of happiness we can.”

Angered by his phony-baloney excuses, Joanna crossed her arms. “As they say in rodeo, Mr. Jenkins, nice try, but no time. This isn’t about love or lack of it. It’s about murder-your mother-in-law’s first and now, quite possibly, your brother-in-law’s as well.”

Dena jaw dropped. A dumbfounded expression flitted across her face. The look caught Joanna’s eye and her attention wavered momentarily. That was all the opening Ross Jenkins needed. His attack came without warning. One moment the man was standing at ease beside the Concorde, with one arm draped casually across the vehicle’s roof. The next moment he sprang at Joanna in a flying tackle that caught her smack in the midsection and sent her flying backward.

The force of the blow knocked her to the ground and drove the wind from her lungs. Before a gasping Joanna knew what had happened or could inhale another breath, the man was on top of her, sitting astride her waist. He wrestled Joanna’s Colt 2000 out of her shoulder holster and stuffed it in his pants pocket. Then he grabbed both her arms, twisted them behind her, and threw her face-down in the dirt.

“For God’s sake, Ross, what are you doing?” Dena demanded. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m not crazy. I’m saving our lives. Do you have any duct tape in the garage?”

“Yes.”

“Go get it then. Hurry. No, on second thought. I’ll bring her into the garage. There’s not much time.”

Wrenched to her feet, Joanna looked up and down the street, hoping there would be someone around to see what was happening. But there was no one. No children were outside for an afternoon bike ride. No retirees took advantage of the crisp afternoon to rake leaves or do other yard work. Ross Jenkins might as well have launched his attack in a completely deserted village.

When he hauled her to her feet, Joanna was afraid the phone might have been jarred loose or turned off. She worried that it would fall out of its hiding place, but it remained where she had put it, the battery warm against her breast as he hustled her past the two parked cars and up the driveway. Moments later, with the whir of an electric motor, the door of Dena’s garage moved slowly open. Jenkins didn’t wait for it to rise all the way before he ducked underneath and pulled Joanna into the garage with him. Immediately the door whirred shut again.

“Dena’s right, you know,” Joanna managed when she was finally able to speak. “Assaulting a police officer is a bad idea. I’ve already called for backup, Ross. Other cars will be here momentarily.”

Still slightly dazed, Joanna tried to assess her situation. Jenkins was far bigger than she was, and his attack had caught her so much by surprise that she hadn’t been able to utilize any of the countermeasures Andy had taught her. Her Colt was gone, but in his haste to hustle her into the garage and out of sight, Ross Jenkins had failed to discover Joanna’s re-serve weapon. Her Glock 17 still rested securely in her small-of-back holster. And, as long as he was busy keeping her arms pinned to her shoulder blades, he might still miss it.

“Don’t listen to her, Dena,” Ross admonished as the woman reappeared with what looked like a brand-new roll of duct tape. “And don’t worry. We’ll be gone momentarily. Here. Wrap the tape around her wrists. When you finish that, tape her ankles together as well.”

With a rip, a length of tape tore loose from the roll. Behind her back, Joanna felt the sticky stuff wrap around her wrists, lashing them together. Any second, Joanna expected one of Dena’s hands to fall against the Glock, but that didn’t happen. When Dena had finished with the wrists, she knelt to tape Joanna’s ankles.

“You can’t kill her, Ross,” Dena was saying. “Aren’t we in enough trouble already?”

“Shut up and tape. Ankles first and then her mouth. I’ll go outside and juggle cars.”

“What are you going to do with her, Ross?”

“You’d be surprised. Right now I’m going to move the luggage from my car to hers. Then we’ll load her into my trunk. If she isn’t bluffing and if cops are on their way, we sure as hell can’t leave her here. All we have to do is make sure that by the time reinforcements show up, we’re long gone.”

With that, Ross let go of Joanna’s arms and moved away, leaving her standing unsteadily, trying to maintain her balance. With her feet taped together, that was almost impossible. Meanwhile, Dena closed in on Joanna’s face with her roll of tape once more firmly in hand.

Joanna noticed that she and Dena Hogan were fairly evenly matched in size. Had Joanna’s arms and legs been free, Joanna no doubt could have taken the woman in a fair fight. But for now, all Joanna could do to defend herself was to hop away, with the ungainly crooked hop of a drunken Easter bunny. As she did so, she looked around the virtually empty two-car garage, trying to get her bearings.

At the far end of the garage was a door that opened into the house. Lining the front of the garage were recycling baskets, a refrigerator/freezer, and a workbench. The right-hand wall of the garage, from workbench to corner, was lined with a collection of garden tools and equipment-rakes, hedge trimmers, grass shears-hanging on a series of wall-mounted hooks.