“Then I expect the same courtesy.”

“But surely…” Voland started, then stopped abruptly.

“But surely what?”

“You don’t want to be called and dragged out of bed to every crime scene?”

“I didn’t run for office to be nothing but a glorified bureaucrat,” Joanna told him. “Did you think I broke my neck the last two months for the dubious privilege of overseeing departmental budgets and vacation schedules? I’m here to be a full fledged officer of the law. Possibly my presence won’t be necessary at every unlawful death scene in the county, but for right now I intend to make up my mind on a case-by-case basis. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.” Voland’s reply was curt and sullen “Is there anything else?”

“I came to see the glory hole,” Joanna said.

The chief deputy spun on his heel and started back up the mountain. “This way,” he grunted “We walk from here. Stick to the shoulder.”

“So what’s the status?”

“Ernie’s about finished with what he can do up top. He’s rigging a rope to the come-along on his winch so we can lower him down into the hole itself. He wants to take pictures and gather evidence before calling in a stretcher and sling to drag Old Man Patterson’s body out.”

“What happened?”

“You’ll have to talk to Ernie. He’s not big on talking about what he’s finding. He’s his own one man show.”

“Who found the body?”

“Ivy, I guess.”

“How’d she do it? This is a long way from the house.”

“Like I said,” Dick Voland groused. “Talk to Ernie.”

At five-thousand-some-odd feet of elevation, the steep path soon took its toll on Richard Voland’s more-than- ample frame. Exertion made it difficult for the chief deputy to walk and talk at the same time, and Joanna soon regretted her own double layers of clothing. Removing her jacket, she slung it over her shoulder as she trudged along behind him on the rocky verge of the road.

They crested the top of a steep rise and entered a small basin. A fenced-off area in the middle surrounded the glory hole’s mound of tailings. Parked nearby was Ernie Carpenter’s crew-cab pickup and Harold Patterson’s much- used International Scout. Off to one side was a vintage decommissioned fire truck-pumper permanently positioned next to a metal stock tank. A length of hose led from a spigot on the truck’s tank to the one on the ground. Joanna surmised the truck was used to haul water to thirsty stock in the -Rocking P’s upper pastures whenever necessary.

From the desiccated cow pies littering the area, Joanna knew this section of pasture wasn’t currently in use.

Seated on the running board of the old truck was the red-haired, red-bearded giant Joanna recognized as Yuri Malakov. Two weeks earlier, he had come to church with Ivy. Joanna had seen him and assumed from things Marianne had told her that’s who the huge stranger had to be. But that Sunday had been right toward the end of the campaign. Instead of staying for after-church coffee and socializing, Joanna had rushed off to give a speech in Double Adobe.

Seeing him at first glance when they topped the rise, Joanna assumed the Russian was wearing a blue work shirt. As she came closer, however, she realized he was naked from the waist up. What she had thought to be blue cloth was actually ink.

Above a wide silver-and-turquoise belt buckle, Yuri’s massive chest was covered by a wild assortment of tattoos.

He was leaning against the side of the truck with his eyes closed, dozing. Joanna had never seen such a display of tattoo art. For several long moments, she studied the amazingly detailed patterns that had been inked into his skin.

Most of the pictures were surprisingly well crafted and artistically done, but the subject matter was anything but Russian. The picture covering most of the man’s chest showed a complicated bucking bronco complete with cowboy flailing a Stetson. Beneath that tattoo, lettered in English, was the caption COWBOY SAM.

Two distinct versions of coiled rattlesnakes were inked onto the bunched muscles of his biceps. One forearm featured a hangman’s noose, while the other pictured a single long-stemmed rose.

neath the rose were the letters ‘The yellow Rose of Texas.”

Despite brilliant blue skies, native Arizonans still regard November as winter. For them, it’s no time to be lounging out in the sun, soaking up rays, but Yuri Malakov came from another climate entirely. What his new neighbors experienced as cold, he considered balmy.

Although Joanna was unaware of making a sound, Yuri’s eyes suddenly blinked open. As soon as he saw her standing a few feet away, he grabbed for his shirt and hurriedly pulled it on, scrambling to his feet and blushing in confusion.

“So sorry,” he mumbled, in his severely broken English, clumsily fastening buttons as fast as he could. “So very sorry. I did not think woman would be here. Please excuse.”

“It’s all right, Yuri. They say Ivy is the one who found Mr. Patterson?”

“No. Yes. But she tell me to come here to look while she stays at ranch, at house. Later she ask me to bring police here.”

“She knew where to look without actually coming here?” Joanna asked. “How did she do that?”

“Those,” he said, jerking his head skyward.

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