Minutes later, Joanna and Dick Voland were in the Blazer. With siren wailing and lights flashing, they headed for Tombstone. Voland sat on the rider’s side, with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. Maneuvering through town, Joanna concentrated on her driving. As they started up the Divide, however, before Joanna had a chance to say a word, Voland surprised her with an unexpected apology.
“Sorry about that Random Acts of Kindness comment,” he said. “I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. And thanks for backing me up on the Morgan surveillance, too. I’ve just got a feeling about this Morgan guy. I can’t explain it.
“You’ve been checking him out?”
Voland nodded. “I have. That’s what worries me. Nobody has a bad word to say about him. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Trust him with my life. Honest as the day is long.”
Joanna thought of her own meeting with Hal Morgan. That was how he had struck her, too. Honest.
“Maybe the people who are telling you those nice things about him are right. Maybe he didn’t do it.”
“And maybe he did,” Voland insisted glumly.
Joanna spent the rest of the trip to the accident scene recounting to her chief deputy what she had learned in the course of the day. She told him about Terry Buckwalter’s plan to sell her husband’s practice and leave town as soon as possible. She also told him about Bebe Noonan’s pregnancy. Voland whistled when he heard that.
“I know Ernie was out talking to the Rob Roy guy this afternoon,” Voland said. “So he may have found out about the golf stuff, but the pregnancy bit is something else. How’d you find that out if Ernie didn’t?”
There was a certain grudging respect in Dick Voland’s voice, something Joanna had never heard there before. “Just lucky, I guess,” she said.
Several miles passed before Dick Voland spoke again. “The last time I remember seeing Terry and Bucky together was at a football game last fall. They seemed just fine-as normal as apple pie. There was no way to tell all this other stuff was going on, but that’s the way life works. You think people are fine, and then one day they blow up in your face.” He paused. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he added.
“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “It certainly does.”
In the course of the next four hours, Joanna learned far more than she had ever wanted to know about triage. Nothing she had read in textbooks could have prepared her for the carnage waiting in a gully off a narrow dirt track east of the Tombstone Municipal Airport. Eighteen adults had been locked in the back of the speeding van when it flipped. Two were dead at the scene. Two more were in critical condition and had been airlifted to trauma centers in Tucson. Neither of those two victims was expected to make it. Others, less seriously injured, had been stashed, under guard, in three different hospitals in Cochise County, and two in Tucson. The remaining five, people with injuries no more serious than cuts and bruises, had been booked into the Cochise County Jail.
Just dealing with the prisoners proved to be a logistical nightmare. Most of the time, Border Patrol policy dictates that undocumented aliens simply be returned to Mexico. This time, however, with authorities wanting to file vehicular homicide charges against the driver, it had been deemed necessary to hold all the U.D.A.s in what, for now, was being billed as “protective custody.”
The smuggler/driver-who had been wearing a seat belt and wasn’t injured in the wreck-had left the scene on foot. After three hours of searching, a canine unit finally found him hiding under a mesquite tree in a wash.
It was almost ten by the time Joanna and Dick Voland returned to the county jail. Not wanting to leave until all the prisoners had been properly booked, Joanna settled down at her desk. There were more messages-two more from her mother and one from Larry Matkin, but Joanna simply put them aside with the others. She would return her calls-all of them-in the morning and not before.
Shortly after eleven Tom Hadlock, the jail commander, stopped by Joanna’s office to report that all the prisoners had been booked into the jail.
“I’ve got the coyote in an isolation cell,” Hadlock told her. “I was afraid some of his victims might try to do him in.”
“I wouldn’t be too surprised if they did,” Joanna said. “Any idea who he is?”
At the time of his arrest, the smuggler had been carrying no driver’s license and had given what everyone had assumed to be a phony name.
“You bet,” Tom replied proudly. “When we ran his prints through that new Automated Fingerprint Identification System, they rang bells from here to Texas. The guy’s real name is Jesus Rojas Gonzales. He has three outstanding warrants on non-related drug-running charges-two in New Mexico and one in Texas. Those warrants plus the three kilos of black gold heroin hidden under the floorboards are most likely what triggered his attempt to elude the Highway Patrol officer who was stopping him for nothing more serious than a busted taillight. By the way, how’s the officer doing?” Had-lock asked.
“About how you’d think,” Joanna replied. “He’s in shock. He doesn’t think he did anything wrong, but there are plenty of people who are ready to string him up right along with the coyote.”
The jail commander grinned. “The Highway Patrol is the state’s baby,” he said. “It’ll be interesting to see what the governor’s Ms. Morales makes of this.”
After Hadlock left her office, Joanna gathered her purse and coat. She was preparing to leave herself when she realized the light was still on in the reception area outside her door. Stepping across the room, she had just switched off tilt light and was about to return to her own office when silt heard a strange rumbling sound. It took a moment for her to place the noise-someone snoring.
Three offices and the conference room opened off the reception area-hers, Dick Voland’s, and Frank Montoya’s Frank’s office was empty, as was Joanna’s. In Dick Voland’ office she found her chief deputy lying stretched out full length on his couch. Except for his shoes, he was fully clothed. His sock-clad feet stuck out beyond a length of plain wool blanket. He was sound asleep.
Joanna went over to him and shook him gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, Dick,” she said.
His eyes blinked open. Glazed with weariness, he stared at Joanna for a moment without seeming to recognize her. “Everything here is under control “ she continued. “Go home and get a good night’s rest. There’s no reason for you to sleep here.”
Slowly he swung his feet to the floor and then sat with his hands clasping his forehead. “I can’t go home,” he muttered.
“Of course you can,” Joanna returned. “If you’re too tired, I’ll get one of the deputies to drive you.”
“I said, I
Without waiting for an invitation, she sank down on the couch beside him.
“What is it, Dick?” she asked.
“Ruth kicked me out,” he said at last. “She says she wants a divorce, and I haven’t had time to go looking for an apartment.”
“Ruth kicked you out?” Joanna repeated. “How come? What’s going on?”
“She’s jealous,” he answered.
“Jealous of your job? She’s been married to a cop for long enough that she should know how it goes.”
There was a long silence. “No,” he said finally. “It’s not the job. She’s jealous of you.”
“Of me!” Joanna exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You told her there was nothing to it, didn’t you?”
“I tried,” Dick Voland said miserably. “I don’t think she believed me.”
Shocked beyond speech, Joanna got tip, walked bark over to the doorway and switched on the light. “How long have you been sleeping here?” she asked.
“A week,” he said. “I’ve been keeping my clothes in the car and showering in the deputies’ locker room, all the while hoping she’d come to her senses.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?” Joanna asked.
“Not on your life!” Dick Voland replied. “That’s the
FIFTEEN
