Sitting back in the chair, Joanna closed her eyes for a moment. She felt isolated and alone. It was fine to go have lunch with Angie or Marianne, but within the department she was on her own. It was hard not to envision that she had stumbled into a den of vipers, all of them waiting for her to make the smallest misstep.
She realized that having Martin Sanders leave without even bothering to discuss the situation constituted a real blow to her credibility. She had tried to talk Dick Voland into staying, because, with one supervisor out the door, she realized the need of maintaining experienced officers around her to give the department the appearance of continuity. But she also needed an ally, someone on her side who wasn’t going to be eagerly awaiting or even engineering her first public tumble.
The only problem was, she couldn’t think of anywhere to turn for help. Voland would work with her, but only grudgingly, and only so long as he perceived her to be holding up under pressure. At the first sign of weakness, he’d be all over her like flies on crap. The same held true for Ernie Carpenter.
For right now, her only choice was to trudge along as best she could. Until she could forge some in-house alliances, it was important to cover all the necessary bases, wear all the hats.
She picked up the intercom and buzzed Kristin.
“Call the MJ folks and let them know I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be sitting in on their Multi-Jurisdictional meeting after all.”
Without complaint, Linda Kimball had spent all morning doing what she regarded as her wifely duty. That was her job. She made one phone call after another, working her way through the con founding layers of bureaucracy, finding out when the two bodies were likely to be released for burial, making arrangements with Norm Higgins for a private service for Thornton Kimball, and politely dodging Norm’s questions about services for Uncle Harold.
Norm Higgins had hinted that it would be a lot simpler for all concerned and a lot less expensive to have one joint service for both men, but Linda had nixed that harebrained idea. The funeral for Thornton Kimball would be absolutely private for family members only. Anyone who tried to turn her husband’s grief into some kind of spectacle would have Linda herself to deal with. As for questions about Uncle Harold’s service, she told Norm, in no uncertain terms, that she was sure Ivy would be in touch to take care of those matters just as soon as she possibly could. If Norm Higgins knew about Ivy’s inappropriate wedding arrangements, he had the good sense not to broach that touchy subject with Linda Kimball. When the phone rang between calls, Linda was taken aback to find Holly Patterson on the line In fact, once she realized who it was, Linda’s first instinct was to hang up. After all, hadn’t Holly Patterson already caused enough trouble for everyone concerned? But Linda’s overall courtesy and good nature won out. Instead of hanging up, she listened.
When the call was over, she stood with her hand on the receiver for only a moment or two while she made up her mind. A sincere request for help was something Linda Kimball was almost physically incapable of ignoring.
Without giving herself a chance to change her mind or back out, she combed her hair, put on lipstick and a jacket, and headed for Cosa Viejo.
She presented herself at the front door at precisely half-past two and smiled pleasantly at the uniformed Mexican woman who opened the door.
“Why, Isabel Gonzales. I haven’t seen you since your mother passed away in the hospital three years ago. I had no idea you worked here.”
Isabel nodded. “For almost a year now. Jaime and me both. It’s a good job.”
“I’m looking for Holly Patterson. Is she here?
Another woman appeared over Isabel Gonzales shoulder. “Who is it, Isabel?”
“Mrs. Kimball,” Isabel answered. “To see Miss Patterson.”
“I’m Holly’s therapist, Amy Baxter,” the other woman said, moving fully into Linda’s view and easing Isabel aside. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I came to see Holly.”
“I’m afraid Holly isn’t up to seeing anyone just now. She hasn’t been feeling well, with what happened to her father and all. I’ve prescribed total bed rest.”
“But she called me,” Linda Kimball protested. She called earlier this afternoon and asked me to stop by.”
A look of seeming dismay flickered briefly across Amy Baxter’s countenance and then disappeared, replaced by a determined shake of her head. “That can’t be,” Amy said.
But it is,” Linda returned civilly. “I came as soon as I could.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Kimball. The woman is seriously ill. It simply isn’t possible for her to see you or anybody else.”
Linda Kimball was an experienced mother whose finely honed instincts warned her whenever one or both of her children was even tempted to tell a lie. Although the reason for it eluded her, she felt the blind panic Linda’s unexpected appearance at the door of Cosa Viejo had engendered in the other woman’s supposedly composed expression.
What’s going on? Linda wondered.
“I’ll be dead by then.” That’s what Holly Patterson had said on the phone not threateningly, as if dying were something within her own power.
She wasn’t crying out with the plaintive voice of someone contemplating suicide and hoping for a last-minute rescue.
No, she spoke with the fatalistic, matter-of-fact despair of someone caught in the middle of a railroad trestle with an oncoming train speeding toward her.
This was Bisbee, a small and supposedly safe community, a town where general wisdom assumed that murders weren’t supposed to happen.
But murders do happen here, Linda thought grimly, more often than she liked to believe possible.
Astute enough to realize that forcing her way into the house would do nothing to help the situation, Linda
