Joanna stared at the bloodstained milk cartons as though they were leaking powder kegs.

“We’d better bag them up and get them to the lab,” Joanna said. Her comment proved to be unnecessary, since Detective Carbajal was already doing that very thing.

“Not only that,” Jaime continued as he entered the bagged cartons into the evidence logs. “It looks to me as though this end of the culvert wasn’t disturbed by the EMTs. There are a few tracks just inside here that are probably worth casting. I’ll go get my equipment.”

With Frank Montoya’s help, Detective Carbajal mixed up a batch of plaster of paris and set about making the casts. Meanwhile, Joanna took down the remainder of Hal Witter’s information-his phone number and address in Mesa, along with the names and phone numbers of friends in Bisbee with whom he was planning to stay for the next several days. When she was finished and because it was nearing sundown, Joanna offered the man a ride back into Pearce.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’ll walk. I want to finish the event. Accepting a ride would mean it doesn’t count.” He started away.

“One other thing,” Joanna called after him.

“What’s that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention any of what you heard or saw here this afternoon. Of course, you’re welcome to let people know that you found the victim. Good Samaritans are always appreciated, but when it comes to disclosing pieces of our investigation that you may have overheard, I’d rather you kept those quiet.”

“Certainly,” he said. “I understand. Holdbacks and all that. No problem, Sheriff Brady. I’ll be more than happy to keep what I’ve heard to myself. I just hope you catch whoever did it. Shooting some poor woman and then leaving her to die in a ditch like a run-over dog isn’t what I call civilized. The sooner those people are off the streets, the better.”

Once Hal Witter walked away, Joanna went over to where her two deputies were working. “I’m assuming the campground up at the Stronghold is full of RVers. Has anyone thought to check with those folks to find out if any of them saw or heard anything unusual last night?”

“We’re on it,” Frank Montoya returned. “Deputy Pakin went up there as soon as the helicopter took off. As far as I know, he’s still up there. I wanted him to get cracking on interviewing possible witnesses in case some of the campers pull up stakes overnight. I don’t want any of them leaving without letting us know what they may have seen.”

“Good work,” Joanna said.

By then the afternoon sun had long since slipped behind the Dragoons. The cliff-lined canyon that had once sheltered Cochise and his warrior band of Apaches was fast fading into deepening shadows. Even though she realized they were losing daylight, Joanna knew better than to try to hurry the painstaking plaster-casting process. Experience had taught her that with proper analysis, footprints can be almost as foolproof as fingerprints in testifying to a suspect’s physical presence at a crime scene.

She spent the next several minutes pacing back and forth. She was considering the possibility of heading back home and leaving Frank in charge when Deputy Lance Pakin came wheeling up in his Blazer.

“Find anything?” she asked.

“Mostly no one remembered seeing anything unusual,” Deputy Pakin answered. “I was about to give up when I ran into a guy named Naujokas-Mr. Pete Naujokas of Estes Park, Colorado.”

“What about him?” Joanna asked.

“He and his wife have a winter home in Oro Valley, but they’ve been out here in the park for several days, camping with some friends who are visiting from Colorado. Yesterday afternoon Pete had to go into Tucson on business. He planned on being back here at the RV in time for dinner last night. Things didn’t work out, though. First he was delayed leaving town, then he had car trouble that kept him in Benson for several hours. By the time he finally made it here, it was almost midnight.

“As he was coming up the road, he came across a vehicle parked up the road with its flashers flashing. He saw a woman down on her hands and knees by the Cochise Stronghold sign, and he stopped to see if she needed any help. She said everything was fine. She had lost a ring and was using the headlights to look for it. Since she didn’t seem to be in any trouble and since there wasn’t that much he could do to help, he went on his way.”

“What kind of car?” Joanna asked.

“He wasn’t sure. Late model. White. He thought it might have been a Lexus.”

Joanna felt a sudden clutch in her gut. At mention of the word, she realized she had failed to pass along Larry Kendrick’s message about Melanie Goodson’s supposedly stolen Lexus. Now it seemed that a Lexus might play a pivotal part in this case as well.

Finished with their casting job, Frank Montoya and Jaime Carbajal came walking toward Joanna. Between them they carried a collection of several plaster casts.

“What’s this about a Lexus?” Frank Montoya asked as he loaded the casts into boxes in Jaime’s van.

“One was seen near here late last night. Up by the Cochise Stronghold sign. And I believe we now may have a line on our victim,” Joanna answered. “My guess is her name is Sandra Ridder.”

Montoya frowned. “Ridder,” he repeated. “Any relation to Lucinda Ridder, the runaway?”

Joanna nodded. “Sandra is Lucinda’s mother. She was released from prison up in Perryville sometime yesterday afternoon. And it turns out she’s so well-rehabilitated after spending almost eight years in the slammer that she took the first opportunity that presented itself to steal her attorney’s Lexus overnight.”

“When did this all come up and why didn’t I know about it before now?” Frank Montoya demanded.

“Larry Kendrick told me about the bulletin on the stolen Lexus as I was on my way here. I meant to mention it to you as soon as I arrived, but with everything else that was going on, it slipped my mind. It wasn’t until Lance here mentioned a Lexus that I remembered. Exactly how far is it from here to Lucinda’s grandmother’s house?”

“It’s off on Middlemarch Road. Two miles, give or take.”

“Maybe we’d better drop by and see her,” Joanna said.

“Catherine Yates told me her daughter was due home either today or tomorrow,” Frank replied irritably. “But she didn’t say from where-certainly not from prison. All Catherine said was that she wanted Lucy home when her mother got there. Any idea what the mother was in for?”

“Manslaughter. I don’t know any of the details. Just that she got sent up for ten years and served eight.”

“All of which puts Lucy’s disappearance in a whole new light.”

Joanna nodded grimly. “Doesn’t it just,” she said. She turned back to Deputy Pakin. “Lance,” she said, “I’m going to go with Chief Deputy Montoya in his car. You stay here and assist Detective Carbajal. When it’s too dark to see, I’d like you to stay here and keep the crime scene secure until we can get a crew of techs back out here in the morning.”

“Will do,” Deputy Pakin agreed. “What about emergency calls?”

“Call into Dispatch and let them know you’re on assignment. If the need arises, they’ll have to bring in officers from other sectors to cover problems in yours. And when you go off shift, have the Night Watch Commander send someone else out here to take your place.”

“Sure thing.”

Leaving her Blazer parked on the shoulder of the roadway, Joanna followed Frank to his waiting Crown Victoria. Without a word, Frank got in, slammed the car door shut, started the engine, and then rammed the gearshift into drive for a tire-spinning, gravel-spattering U-turn. From the set of Frank’s jaw, Joanna knew her chief deputy was ripped. For the next several minutes they maintained a strained silence, punctuated here and there by radio chatter.

“What’s wrong, Frank?” Joanna asked at last.

He turned and glowered at her. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I feel like you left me out of the loop back there. Like there were things going on that I should have known about and nobody told me.”