The place was quiet. At first all I heard was a stiff breeze blowing from the west. But then, carried on by the wind, I heard the faint but familiar chatter from a nearby police radio. Even if the radio wasn’t Sheriff Brady’s, she wouldn’t be far from the one I was hearing.

I got back into the Sportage and drove. I roamed through several blocks of gravel-topped streets where a series of very old wooden and red-dirt buildings seemed intent on melting back into the desert. I found what I was looking for when I came to where a patrol car with flashing lights was parked astride a red-dirt trail. The officer signaled for me to stop. I pulled up next to a big bony dog who lay beside the road, unconcernedly observing the action. His shaggy black coat was tinged red by a layer of dust. The officer, who was now engaged in putting out a string of flares, booted the dog out of the way. Shaking off a cloud of dust, the dog sauntered off.

With the dog gone, the scowling deputy turned his illtempered gaze on me. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. “This is a crime scene. No unauthorized personnel allowed beyond this point.”

“My name’s Beaumont,” I said, passing him my badge. “Special Investigator Beaumont. It’s okay,” I added. “Sheriff Brady knows I’m here.”

He squinted at the badge and compared my face to the picture on my ID. “All right, then,” he said. “Pull over to one side so your vehicle’s not blocking emergency access.”

Poor guy, I thought, feeling almost guilty as I followed his instructions. She’ll have his butt for letting me through.

I decided my best course of action was simply to act as though I belonged. I left the car with the keys in it. Mimicking the dog’s unconcerned attitude, I sauntered past the deputy who, by then, was busy turning someone else away. I walked through several blocks of what looked like old-time military barracks. And I do mean old. The place came complete with a long, dilapidated building that had clearly been a stable. It took a few minutes for me to realize that I hadn’t wandered into a moldering Western movie set. This was truly the genuine article – an old U.S. Cavalry station.

By then I could see Sheriff Brady. She stood in a huddle with Frank Montoya and a plainclothes guy I hadn’t seen before.

She caught sight of me while I was still fifty feet away. Breaking out of the huddle, she marched toward me, furious and practically breathing fire.

“What have we got?” I asked casually, thinking that my well-placed “we” might mollify her just a little.

It didn’t. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

I expect women to yell when they’re upset. That’s what I’m used to, anyway – ranting and raving, if not outright screaming. That wasn’t Joanna Brady’s style. She barely whispered her question, but the effect was the same.

“Look,” I said reasonably, “I’m trying to do my job. Your deputy back there told me there’s been another homicide. I thought maybe it might have something to do with those two missing-”

“Get out!” she ordered.

“But Sheriff Brady, I thought we were supposed to be working together on-”

“I said, ‘Get out!’ and I meant it.”

“I just-”

“You just nothing! Go!”

More officers were showing up by then, and I could see she wasn’t going to change her mind. So I left. I put my tail between my legs and beat it back to the Sportage. A woman wearing golf course duds was chatting with the unfortunate deputy. No one could have overheard what Sheriff Brady was saying to me, but her hand gestures had spoken volumes. By then the deputy had figured out that he had made a potentially career-stopping mistake in letting me through. He shot me a disparaging look as I passed, but I ignored it. What did he expect me to do? Apologize?

I had folded myself back into the Sportage and was wondering what to do next when somebody tapped on my window. When I rolled it down, the lady in the golf clothes, who wore her blond hair in a wild frizz of curls, gave me a bright smile.

“Yes?” I said.

She reached in through the opened window and handed me a card. “Marliss Shackleford,” the card said. “Columnist. The Bisbee Bee.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” she said, batting her eyes.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to a reporter. But I was currently at war with Sheriff Joanna Brady. That meant all bets were off.

I held out my hand. “Special Investigator J.P. Beaumont,” I said. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

Thirteen

WHEN I INVITED MARLISS SHACKLEFORD to come up to the Copper Queen Hotel so we could talk, she jumped at the chance. “If you don’t mind, though,” she said, “I’d like to go home and change first.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

As I walked into the lobby, the desk clerk caught my eye and waved to me before I could step into the elevator. “There you are,” he said. “A call for you. I was about to take a message. If you want, there’s a house phone over there.”

He pointed to an old-fashioned black phone hidden away in the corner, right next to a darkened hotel-lobby jewelry stand that was evidently closed for the evening.

“Is that you, Beau?” Attorney General Ross Connors asked. “Francine told me you called. How’s it going?”

“Let’s just say Sheriff Brady didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms.”

“I didn’t expect she would. Are her people making any progress?”

“They brought a suspect in for an interview today. He was accompanied by his attorney. As far as I know, however, no arrests have been made.”

“Who’s the suspect?” Connors demanded impatiently.

I glanced around the lobby to see if anyone was listening. No one seemed to be. Still, talking on a house phone in a hotel lobby, I didn’t want to say too much. “Boyfriend,” I said. “Could be a lovers’ spat of some kind.”

Ross Connors breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s hope,” he said.

His heartfelt reaction jangled a nerve that had been niggling at me ever since Harry I. Ball sent me off on this wild-goose chase.

“Would Latisha Wall’s presence really have made that big a difference?” I asked. “In the upcoming trial, I mean. Surely you have depositions and so forth from her that can be placed in evidence even if she’s not there to testify in person.”

“Believe me,” Ross said. “It makes a huge difference.”

In other words, I’d have to take his word for it.

“Listen,” he went on, “if the boyfriend angle pans out – and I’m sure you’ll know that within a day or two – then you can put yourself on a plane and come on home.”

“If it pans out,” I returned. “There’s no guarantee that it will. In the meantime, though, while we’re still looking at all the other angles, I have a question for you.”

“What?”

“Who knew about the arrangements?”

“What arrangements?”

What the hell did he think I meant – arrangements for his next day’s tee time? “For Latisha Wall,” I said. “I know enough about witness protection programs to realize they cost money, lots of it. I also know you don’t jar that kind of money loose from the Washington State budget without having to jump through a bunch of hoops.”

“Dale Ahearn,” Ross answered. “And O.H. Todd. O.H. is the actual case manager. He was in charge of making all financial and living arrangements. He’s also the one who put together her supporting documents.”

“His telephone number is the one that’s listed for Lawrence Baxter, the guy who’s named as next of kin in Rochelle Baxter’s DMV file.”

“Right,” Ross agreed.

“What about Dale Ahearn? Who’s he, and what does he do?”

“He’s my chief of staff. Like I said, O.H. made the arrangements, but Dale signed off on them and passed them along to me for final approval.”

I didn’t know O.H. Todd and Dale Ahearn from holes in the ground, but Ross Connors did. “You think these two guys are trustworthy?” I asked.