The route we took around the traffic circle and out of town was familiar. We’d gone that way the day before when I had followed Joanna’s Crown Vic to Naco. This time, though, we blew straight through that critical intersection. Half a mile later, we turned left into a little subdivision of humble-looking late-fifties bungalows, complete with what looked distinctly like another hazardous material – asbestos siding.

Dee Canfield’s house was the most beat-up place on the block. A seven-foot-tall chicken, made of soldered-together scrap metal and too tall to fit under the low-slung front porch’s overhang, stood sentry in the middle of a weed-clogged front yard.

Joanna parked on the street. While she hurried off to confer with her deputies and the Haz-Mat guys once again, I stayed put. I didn’t have the patience or the inclination to go hang around another crime scene. Playing fifth wheel and staying out of the way of the people who are doing useful work doesn’t suit me.

That’s how come I was still in the car and half-dozing when the radio call came in from Frank Montoya.

“Sheriff Brady,” he asked. “Can you put Beaumont on?”

I picked up the radio. “I’m here,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Maddern, Maddern, and Peek may not be representing UPPI in Washington State, but they are in several other jurisdictions – Missouri, Arkansas, and Pennsylvania, to be exact. The law firm UPPI is using in Washington is actually McRainey and Dobbs. They’re located in a place called Bellevue.”

My heartbeat quickened. It may have been entirely circumstantial, but here was a connection – a real connection – between Latisha Wall’s killer and UPPI. I could hardly wait to tell Ross Connors that I was making progress.

“Thanks, Frank,” I said. “Thanks a lot. I’ll let Sheriff Brady know right away.”

But before I did that, I picked up my cell phone. Without thinking, I dialed the attorney general’s cell phone number, only to discover I had once again been captured by that Spanish-speaking babe from Old Mexico.

“Damn!” I exclaimed, whacking the phone on the dashboard in utter frustration. What’s the point in packing the damned thing if it doesn’t work most of the time?

Climbing out of the car, I went looking for Joanna Brady.

“What now?” she asked when I interrupted her yet again. I was going to ask to borrow her phone, but she looked so harried that I simply passed along what Frank Montoya had told me. “I need to get back up to the hotel,” I added. “I want to call my boss and let him know what’s happened.”

“Sure,” Joanna said. “Go ahead.” With that, she turned once again to her officers.

“But I don’t have a car,” I objected.

Shaking her head, she reached in her pocket and found a set of keys, which she tossed over to me. I caught them in midair. “Go get your Kia,” she said. “Leave my Blazer at the department. You can leave the keys at the front desk.”

“But how will you get back?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. Somebody here will give me a ride when we finish up.” With that Joanna turned away and returned to her huddle with Workman, Hollicker, and the others.

I didn’t fault her for rudeness. Cops working crime scenes don’t have time to observe all the Miss Manners rules of polite behavior. Joanna Brady was working a crime scene and, as it turned out, so was I.

Eighteen

AFTER DROPPING OFF JOANNA’S BLAZER, I took the Kia and headed for the hotel. It was early Sunday evening. With the weekend over, parking was a little less scarce than it had been the day before. I walked down the hill and up the steps in early evening twilight.

Entering the Copper Queen, I was intent on going straight to my room and calling Ross Connors, but Cornelia Lester was in the lobby. She caught my eye and flagged me down before I could make it to the elevator. She sat on one of the deep leather couches before a cup-and-saucer-laden coffee table. Walking toward her, I realized she wasn’t alone. A grim-faced Bobo Jenkins was there, with her, along with a blond-haired woman in a business suit. The blonde appeared to be crying.

“You know Mr. Jenkins, don’t you?” Connie asked.

“Yes, I do.”

Bobo Jenkins and I shook hands.

“And this is Serenity Granger,” Connie continued. “She’s Deidre Canfield’s daughter. Serenity, this is Mr. J.P. Beaumont. He’s a special investigator for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office.”

The other murder victim’s daughter, I realized. No wonder she’s in tears.

Serenity Granger pulled herself together. “Hello,” she said.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said.

She nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Won’t you sit down?” Cornelia Lester asked.

What I wanted to say was, No, thanks. I have to go up to my room and make some phone calls. But I didn’t want to be rude. Here were three grieving people, two black and one white – all of them bound together by tragedy and loss – who had found the strength of character to offer comfort to one another in a time of trouble.

I understood the kind of limbo they were in. They were stuck between knowing their loved one was gone and being able to deal with it. Their lives had been put on hold by officialdom. There would have to be questions and interviews and autopsies before bodies could be released. Only then would they be free to observe the familiar rituals of funerals and memorial services that precede any kind of return to normalcy.

Under those circumstances, it was impossible for me to walk away no matter how much I might have wanted to. I sat.

Cornelia Lester was clearly in charge. “Can we get you something?” she asked. “Coffee, tea, a drink? The waitstaff has been kind enough to serve us out here. It was far too noisy in the bar, and we weren’t interested in food.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Nothing for me.”

“Have you heard if they’re finished with Mr. Jenkins’s house yet?” Cornelia asked. “Sheriff Brady said someone would let him know when it’s safe for him to return home. So far he’s heard nothing.”

That was hardly surprising. Once the second call came in summoning Joanna to the new Haz-Mat site, the sheriff had a readily understandable excuse for not getting back to Bobo Jenkins. I also knew that, although the Haz-Mat guys were gone, Casey Ledford, the fingerprint tech, probably hadn’t had a chance to go through Bobo’s house yet, either.

“She’s pretty busy,” I said. “Another call came in.”

Bobo’s eye drilled into mine. “You mean I can’t go home yet?”

“I don’t think so. You’d probably be better off renting a room. Maybe you should bunk in here with the rest of us.”

There was plenty I could have told them, but not without raising Joanna Brady’s considerable ire. I sat for a while making appropriately meaningless small talk. When a waitress from the dining room came out to refill coffee cups, she asked me if I wanted something. I took that as a sign I had done my bit and was free to escape.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “I need to make some phone calls.”

As soon as I shut the door to my room, I hurried over to the desk. I dragged the raggedy list of Ross Connors’s telephone numbers out of my wallet and dialed his home number first. I recognized Francine Connors’s voice as soon as she answered the phone.

“Is Ross there?” I asked.

“Yes, he is,” she replied. “May I tell him who’s calling, please?”

“Sure,” I said. “Tell him it’s Beau.”

I hate waiting on phones even when it’s on somebody else’s nickel. It seemed like a long time before Ross Connors came on the line, but then again, the AG and I aren’t exactly pals. I had never been invited to his residence down in Olympia, but I assumed from the considerable delay that it had to be a fairly large place with lots of distance between phone jacks. Eventually, Ross’s hearty baritone boomed into my ear.