Detective Carbajal: Since both you and Mr. Gibson were in Latisha Wall’s house yesterday, we’ll need fingerprints from both of you.

Ms. Canfield: Yes, yes, of course. I understand. We’ll take care of it right away, tomorrow probably, but not right now. The show’s tonight. I really do have to get back up to the gallery now so I can be ready to meet the caterer and let her in.

That was the last entry. The transcript indicated that the interview terminated at 3:08 P.M. An hour and two minutes later, Dee had sent her daughter an incomplete e-mail voicing her concern that perhaps Warren Gibson had been involved in Latisha Wall’s murder. I could see where Sheriff Brady was going with all this.

“Casey and Deputy Galloway spent a great deal of time last night and early this morning processing Castle Rock Gallery. A while ago, Casey got an AFIS hit on one of the prints she found there. The man everyone in Bisbee knows as Warren Gibson turns out to be a convicted felon named Jack Brampton. How about passing around copies of that rap sheet, Casey?”

As we say in the trade, “Bingo!”

Joanna Brady was totally in her groove by then. While the fingerprint tech slid pieces of paper out across the smooth surface of the conference table, Sheriff Brady continued without pause. “So we’ve put out an APB on Jack Brampton, aka Warren Gibson.” She stopped long enough to give her chief deputy a searching look. “It did go out, didn’t it, Frank?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Montoya replied. “And I added that the suspect is most likely driving a 1970 red Pinto wagon.”

Joanna frowned. “Red,” she repeated. “Where did you get that information?”

Montoya bristled slightly at the impatient way she posed the question. I would have, too.

“Where else?” he returned. “From the DMV. That’s the vehicle they show as being registered to one Deidre Canfield, 114 Cochise Drive, Bisbee, Arizona.”

“The DMV maybe thinks it’s red,” Joanna told him. “But they’re wrong. The last time I saw Dee Canfield’s Pinto, it looked like somebody had used it for a drop cloth.”

“What color is it then?” Montoya asked.

“All colors,” she answered.

The chief deputy sighed. “All right, then,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll go amend that APB.”

Frank Montoya stood to leave the room as Joanna continued. “The good news is, there aren’t that many 1970 Pintos of any kind or color still on the road. If someone spots one moving under its own power, they’re likely to let us know.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, opening my mouth for only the second time in the course of the meeting. “A 1970 Pinto? What kind of fuel does it run on?”

“Leaded,” Joanna said.

“I didn’t know you could still buy leaded,” I objected.

“You can,” she replied, “but only across the line in Old Mexico.”

Frank Montoya was still lingering by the conference room door. “That’s something then,” he said. “If Brampton is using the Pinto as his getaway car, it’s a pretty good bet he’ll be headed south. I’ll get on the horn to Border Patrol here about him, and I’ll let the federales in Mexico know about this as well.”

“Good idea,” Joanna said. “Do it.”

Meanwhile, I busied myself studying Jack Brampton’s rap sheet. What stuck in my head was the fact that he’d served his time at a medium-security facility in Illinois. UPPI’s corporate headquarters was based in Illinois. I wondered if there was a connection. I circled the name of the prison. When I came back to the discussion, Frank had returned and Joanna had moved on to another topic.

“For someone who claims he doesn’t gossip, Harve Dowd from Treasure Trove is full of information,” she was saying. “He told me last night he thought Warren Gibson was pulling a fast one on Dee Canfield. Harve is of the opinion that Dee wasn’t Gibson’s only romantic interest. He claims to have seen Gibson using the pay phones down by the post office on numerous occasions. Frank is currently in the process of checking phone records, but since his special phone company pal doesn’t work weekends, it’s taking more time than usual.”

“Wait a minute,” Jaime Carbajal said. “Does this mean we’re dropping Bobo Jenkins as a possible suspect?”

“Okay,” Joanna said. “Let’s talk about him for the moment. What do we know?”

“That he was at Latisha Wall’s home the night she died,” Jaime Carbajal began. “We also know, by his own admission, that he and the woman he calls Rochelle Baxter had quarreled or at least had a disagreement earlier in the day. We also have his fingerprints on those sweetener packets from the kitchen.”

Casey Ledford raised her hand. “May I speak to that? To the sweetener packets?”

Joanna nodded and all eyes went to the fingerprint tech. “Dave and I examined the crime scene evidence from Latisha Wall’s kitchen. It’s true Mr. Jenkins’s fingerprints are on the sweetener packets. They are. But the physical evidence – the way the fingerprints are layered on the glass and bottle – would indicate that Ms. Wall drank iced tea and Mr. Jenkins had the beer.”

“See there?” Jaime said. “What did I tell you? He poured the sweetener in her tea and then sat right there and watched her drink it. What a hell of a nice guy! And then, on the Dee Canfield part of the equation, we know Bobo was adamantly opposed to her plan to go through with the show despite Latisha Wall’s death. Sheriff Brady, you witnessed some of that yourself on Thursday morning at the gallery.”

“You’re right about that,” Joanna conceded. “Bobo Jenkins was at the gallery, and he was very upset. Do we have any idea where he was or what he was doing between three and five on Thursday afternoon?”

“He claims he was at home and alone the entire afternoon,” Jaime answered. “That’s in the transcript of the interview Frank and I did with him on Saturday morning. He told us he stayed home all day, trying to come to grips with what had happened. Of course,” the detective added, “at the time we spoke to him, we were only aware of the Latisha Wall incident. We had no idea Dee Canfield was also dead, so there was no reason to check on his whereabouts or movements the day after what we assumed to be a single homicide.”

“Did he come right out and actually say he was home alone?” Joanna asked.

Jaime scanned through the transcript. “Here it is, right here. Yes, that’s what he said, but I’ll go uptown a little later. I’ll talk to Bobo’s neighbors and see what they have to say.”

“All right,” Joanna said. “You do that.” Then she turned to Chief Deputy Montoya. “In the meantime, Frank, while you’re dealing with the phone factory, have a go at Bobo’s phone records as well. If he happened to be on the phone making calls between three and four o’clock Thursday afternoon, that would tend to corroborate his story even if no one was there with him at the time.”

That intrigued me. Just because Bobo Jenkins was a suspect in one homicide, Joanna Brady wasn’t giving her people carte blanche to turn him automatically into prime-suspect material in the second death as well. In other words, rather than looking for the quickest way to clear cases, Sheriff Brady was prepared to take the time and make the effort to find out what had really happened. I liked that about her. Respected it.

As Joanna Brady fired off one question after another, I felt as though I had been transported back to the fishbowl at Seattle PD with Captain Larry Powell popping questions left and right to see if his detectives were making any progress or doing something to earn their keep.

I sat up straighter and paid closer attention because I was beginning to suspect that perhaps Sheriff Joanna Brady was my kind of cop after all.

JOANNA LOOKED DOWN AT THE CHECKLIST she had scribbled off in advance of the meeting. “So,” she said, crossing off another item. “With the next-of-kin notification out of the way, what does Doc Winfield say about scheduling the autopsy?”