coffee.
She shook her head.
“Okay, then. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, whether you need it or not.”
Chief Deputy Frank Montoya usually arrived at the department by seven in order to get incident reports lined up for the morning briefing at eight-thirty. Joanna dialed his direct number and was relieved to hear his cheerful “Good morning.”
“You know about the DOA from Naco?” she asked.
“I was just reading the report,” Frank replied. “The EMTs made it sound like natural causes.”
“Doc Winfield doesn’t think so,” Joanna replied. “We need Casey and Dave down there right away.” Dave Hollicker, having just completed a strenuous course of training, had moved out of patrol into the newly created position of crime scene investigator.
“I’ll get right on it,” Frank told her.
“Anything earth-shattering for the morning briefing?”
“Nothing.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “In that case, we’ll put it off until afternoon. You hold down the fort there. When I leave the house, I’ll go straight to the crime scene.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said.
Once showered and dressed, Joanna hurried into the kitchen, where eggs and bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice were already on the table. Butch stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast with the smooth economy of a well-practiced cook.
“Jenny called while you were showering,” he said. Joanna reached for the phone. “Don’t bother trying to reach her,” Butch told her. “Jenny said Jim Bob was taking her to school early. Something about play practice. There are two rehearsals today, both before school and again this evening.”
“She’s all right then?” Joanna asked.
Butch shrugged. “She sounded okay to me.”
He brought a plate of toast over to the table and set it down. “I suppose this means we won’t be having lunch at Daisy’s,” he added.
“Why not?”
“Come on, Joanna,” Butch said, rubbing his clean-shaven head with one hand. Joanna recognized the gesture for what it was – unspoken exasperation. “You know as well as I do. If there’s a murder investigation under way, you won’t pause long enough to breathe, let alone eat.”
Butch’s complaint sounded familiar – like something Eleanor Lathrop might have said to Joanna’s father when D.H. Lathrop was sheriff of Cochise County.
“We don’t know for sure it’s a homicide,” Joanna countered. “Right this minute, I don’t see any reason to call off lunch.”
“When you call to cancel later,” Butch said, “I won’t forget to say ‘I told you so.’ ”
DR. GEORGE WINFIELD DIDN’T LIKE making next-of-kin notifications over the phone, but hours of fruitless searching for Rochelle Baxter’s relatives had left him little choice. DMV records had yielded a bogus address with a working phone number.
“Washington State Attorney General’s Office,” a businesslike voice responded.
Hearing that, Doc Winfield was convinced the phone number was wrong as well. “I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter,” he said.
There was a long pause. “One moment, please,” the woman said. “Let me connect you with Mr. Todd’s office.”
“Did you say Mr. Todd?” Doc managed before she cut him off.
“Yes.” She was gone before he could ask anything more. After an interminable wait, a man’s voice came on the line. “O.H. Todd,” he said brusquely. “To whom am I speaking?”
“My name’s Winfield. Dr. George Winfield. There’s probably been a mistake. I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter, but they connected me to you instead.”
“Baxter!” O.H. Todd exclaimed. “What do you want with him?”
“You know him then?” George asked hopefully.
“Why do you need him?” Todd demanded. “Who are you again?”
“Dr. George Winfield,” he explained patiently. “I’m the medical examiner in Cochise County, Arizona. I’m calling about Mr. Baxter’s daughter, Rochelle. If you could simply tell me how to reach him-”
“Something’s the matter with her?” the man interrupted. “Why? What’s happened?”
George Winfield sighed. This was all wrong. “I’m sorry to have to deliver the news in this fashion,” he said finally. “Over the phone, I mean. But Ms. Baxter is dead. She died last night.”
For a long moment, all George heard was stark silence. Just as the ME was beginning to think he’d been disconnected, O.H. Todd breathed a single word.
“Damn!” he muttered, sounding for all the world like he meant it.
Two
DRIVING PAST THE Cochise County Justice Center on her way to the Naco, Arizona, crime scene, Joanna wondered about her own motives. Had she opted to go to the crime scene in order to avoid the members of her department who had boycotted the funeral reception? She had anticipated that countywide politics was a necessary part of being elected to the office of sheriff. What she hadn’t expected were the political machinations within the department itself.
She had managed to dodge the obstacles her former chief deputy Dick Voland had rolled into her path. Once he resigned from the department, Joanna had thought her troubles were over. She knew now that had simply been wishful thinking. Politics was everywhere – inside the department and out. She had to accept that reality and learn to work around it.
Fifteen minutes after leaving High Lonesome Ranch, Joanna pulled in behind a fleet of departmental cars parked at the corner of South Tower and West Valenzuela in the tiny hamlet of Naco. The front door of an aging stucco building stood ajar. When Joanna knocked, Detective Carbajal appeared in the doorway.
“Morning, boss,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were with the ME.”
Jaime nodded. “I thought so, too. Then Doc Winfield called to say there would be a slight delay. I had an extra forty minutes, so I thought I’d come see what’s what.” He moved aside and allowed Joanna to enter. “We left the door open in hopes of airing the place out,” he added, handing her the crime scene log. “You may not want to come in.”
As Joanna stepped into the large open room, she understood at once what Jaime meant. The all-pervading stench of stale vomit assailed her nostrils. When she finished signing the log, Jaime passed her a mask and a small jar of Vicks VapoRub.
“Thanks,” she said, dabbing some on her upper lip. “Now where?”
“Dave Hollicker is over there in what passes for a bedroom,” Jaime Carbajal said, pointing. “That’s where the EMTs found the victim. She’d been sick as a dog all over her bed and most of the room as well. Casey’s in the kitchen lifting prints.”
“What’s the victim’s name again?”
Jaime checked his notebook. “Rochelle Ida Baxter. Age thirty-five. The EMTs found a purse with a driver’s license and gave the information to Doc Winfield.”
“Any sign of robbery?”
Jaime shook his head. “Negative on that. They found eighty dollars and some change in her purse, along with a full contingent of credit cards. She was wearing two rings when she was taken to the hospital, and nothing around here looks disturbed. No broken glass. It’s not looking good for a robbery motive.”
“Forced entry?” Joanna asked.
