Dead to Rights

woman-with a wiry frame, dishwater-blond hair, and almost total lack of self-confidence-bore an eerie resemblance to a much younger Terry Buckwalter. A pre-Helen-Barco Terry Buckwalter.

No wonder Bucky had hired Bebe to work for him. No wonder she had been so susceptible to his charms and empty promises. No wonder, either, that she so desperately wanted keep Bucky Buckwalter’s baby. With or without the presence of a father, Bebe wanted this child. A baby would give her someone to love. Someone who, unlike her own family, might love her in return.

The more Joanna heard, the more she realized how sad the whole situation was. She knew, too, that it would continue to be so far into the future. It was difficult for her to keep from saying some of the things that were on her mind-lessons she had already learned the hard way-about how demanding it was to be left to raise a child alone. Finally, exhausted by the telling of it, Bebe Noonan simply ran out of team.

“How old are you?” Joanna asked after a long pause.

“Twenty-three,” Bebe sniffed.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell your parents?”

“I can’t,” Bebe whispered.

“You’ll have to tell them sooner or Liter,” Joanna insisted.

“My dad’ll kill me when he finds out.”

Joanna shook her head. “He won’t be happy, but he’ll cope,” she interjected. “That’s what parents do.”

“But he’ll say I’m no good,” Bebe continued. “He’ll throw me out. I’ll have to find someplace else to live.”

“Then you’ll find an apartment of your own,” Joanna told her.

Bebe’s eyes filled with tears once more. “How? I’ve been living here for free. Even so, I can barely afford my car payments. That’s why I went to see Terry. I wanted to ask her for help with the baby. And she told me to… to…”

“I heard what she told you,” Joanna said. “And you can’t very well blame her.”

“No,” Bebe said. “I suppose not, but I thought maybe…”

“You thought what?”

Bebe shrugged. “That since it’s Bucky’s baby, that maybe she’d give me something. You know, that she’d offer to help out with money. She’ll have insurance and stuff. She’ll be able to afford it.”

Joanna thought of Terry Buckwalter, suddenly unencumbered and liquidating assets as fast as she could so she could get on with her own life. In the meantime, here was Bebe expecting to put a very compelling, living and breathing wrench in the works. Joanna felt sorry for both women. She fell even sorrier for the baby.

“I lave you seen a lawyer?” she asked.

“No,” Bebe said. “I haven’t even seen the doctor yet. Why would I need a lawyer?”

“Because if you’re expecting to collect money from Bucky’s estate or from his Social Security account, you’ll have to file a paternity suit. You’ll have to prove Bucky is the baby’s father. In order to do that, you’ll need a lawyer. It’s not all that hard to establish paternity these days, but you’ll need to collect some DNA evidence. The only way to do that is with court order. You’ll be better off doing it before Bucky is buried rather than afterward.”

“But do I have to?” Bebe asked miserably. “Do I have to go through all that-get a lawyer and go to court and all like that? If I do, my parents will know, and so will everybody else.”

“I told you before, Bebe. People-your parents included-are bound to find out eventually,” Joanna pointed out. “And if what you say is true, if your parents really are going to throw you out, then you’d better start acting like a grown-up right now and making some arrangements to protect not only yourself but also the baby. Social Security isn’t going to pay survivors’ benefits to a child based on your unsubstantiated claim as to who the father might be. You’re going to have to prove the baby is Bucky’s. If I were you, I’d get on the telephone right now.”

“Is that why you came to see me?” Bebe asked. “To tell me that?”

“No,” Joanna said. “I came to ask you if you were with Bucky the night before he died. Terry told me he wasn’t home that night. I thought maybe he might have been with you.”

“He wasn’t with me,” Bebe said. “I only wish he had been. The last time I saw him was that afternoon. The day before he died. At work.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have been that evening, then?”

Bebe shrugged. “Probably playing poker. He did that a lot.”

“With whom?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know. He never really told me. And I didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was any of my business. That’s what love is all about,” she added. “Learning to trust.”

Joanna was so astonished by that statement that she wanted to scream. He was married to another woman, screwing around with you, and you trusted him? How stupid can you get?

Exasperated beyond bearing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “I have to go now,” she said, getting to her feet. “I have plenty to do, and so do you.”

Bebe followed her out the door to the car. “Do you know which lawyer I should talk to?” Bebe was asking. “About the DNA thing, I mean.”

Joanna realized that she had already said far too much. If she said anything more, she would simply be helping to pit two bereaved women against one another. “No,” Joanna said. “I don^’t have any idea who to suggest. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

It’s part of being a grown-up, she wanted to say. Part of being a parent. But Joanna Brady had reached the limit on her ability to give advice. “If I were you,” she said. “I’d check in the phone book-the Yellow Pages.”

Belle’s face dissolved into a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go to work on that right away.”

Feeling a little like King Solomon offering to carve up the baby, Joanna headed back toward the Cochise County Justice Center. Considering all that had happened in the past two days, that name had an ironic, almost cynical, ring to it. Was there any such thing as justice to be found in a case like this one? Or for people like Hannah Green? For two cents, right about then, Joanna Brady would have been happy to turn in her badge and go back to being the office manager of an Insurance agency.

By the time Joanna pulled into her parking place, it was well into late afternoon. She felt as though she had been dragged through a wringer. Lack of sleep from the night before gnawed at her whole body. Once again she was grateful for the privilege of that reserved parking space and for the private entrance that allowed her to come and go without having to face whatever crisis was currently in process in the main lobby.

The door between Joanna’s office and Kristin’s was closed, and Joanna didn’t rush to open it. Stuck to the middle of her desk was a stack of messages. Thumbing through them, Joanna found the usual assortment. Two calls from Eleanor Lathrop, one each from Frank Montoya and Dick Voland. The last one came from Marianne Maculyea. That was the first message Joanna attempted to return. There was no answer. The moment Joanna depressed the switch hook to try making another call, Kristin appeared at the door, closing it behind her as she entered.

“Until I saw your line light up, I didn’t know you’d come in,” she said. “There are some people outside waiting to see you.

“Who?” Joanna asked.

“One’s a priest. He said his name is Father Michael McCrady. The other is a really scary-looking guy in leathers. He says his name is Frederick Dixon. He claims he’s a friend of yours. I checked your calendar and didn’t see any appointments, so…”

“Frederick Dixon…” Joanna mused. “That doesn’t ring any bells. What does he look like?”

“Thirties or forties maybe,” Kristin answered. “I can’t really tell. But he’s bald. Not a hair on his head.”

“Butch Dixon!” Joanna exclaimed. “I always forget his name is Fred.”

“Who’s Butch Dixon?”

“He is a friend of mine. From up in Peoria. He runs cafe that’s close to the Arizona Police Officers’ Academy. I met him in November and again this month when I was u there. What’s he doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Kristin said sourly. “He showed up over an hour ago. I told him you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. He said it was all right, that he’d wait.”