Shoot / Don't Shoot

“Damn,” Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya said, hearing her sleep-fogged voice. “It’s late, isn’t it? I just got home a few minutes ago, but I should have checked the time before I called. I woke you up, didn’t I?”_

“It’s okay, Frank,” Joanna mumbled as graciously as she could manage. “I wasn’t really asleep. What’s up?”

Frank Montoya, the former Willcox city marshal, had been one of Joanna’s two opponents in her race for he office of sheriff. In joint appearances on the campaign trail, they had each confronted the loud-mouthed third candidate, Al Freeman. Those appearances had resulted in the formation of an unlikely friendship. Once elected and trying to handle the department’s entrenched and none-too-subtle opposition to her new administration, Joanna had drafted fellow outsider Frank Montoya to serve as her chief deputy for administration.

“I had dinner with my folks tonight,” Frank said. “My cousin’s getting married two weeks from now, so my mother had one of her command performance dinners in honor of the soon-to-be newlyweds. I was on my way out the door when she pulled me aside and asked me what are we go to do about Jorge Grijalva. ‘Who the hell is Jorge Grijalva?’ I asked.” Frank paused for a moment. “Ever heard of him?”

“Who, me?” Joanna returned.

“Yes, you.”

Joanna closed her eyes in concentration. She ha been so caught up in her own troubles that it was hard to remember someone else’s, but it came her a moment later. “Ceci’s father,” she breathed.

“Ceci?” Frank asked.

“Ceci Grijalva. She was in school and Brownies with Jenny last year. I believe her parents must have gotten a divorce. The mother and the two kids moved to Phoenix right after school got out. The father worked at the lime plant down by Paul Spur until the mother turned up dead somewhere outside Phoenix. It happened about the same time Andy was killed, so I didn’t pay that much attention. As I understand it, Jorge is the prime suspect.”

“Only suspect,” Frank Montoya corrected.

Joanna sat up in bed so she could think better. “Didn’t the detectives on the case pick him up at work down in Paul Spur? A day or so after I was sworn in, I remember seeing a letter from the chief of police up in Peoria. He sent a note to the department, thanking us for our cooperation. Since it happened on Dick Voland’s watch, I passed the letter along to him. That’s all I know about it.”

“You know a lot more than I did, then,” Frank Montoya returned. “You’re right. The family had been living in Bisbee for a while, but Jorge is orig­inally from Douglas. Pirtleville, actually. And it turns out that Jorge’s mother, Juanita, is an old friend of my mother’s. They used to work together years ago, picking peaches at the orchards out in Elfrida. According to Mom, Juanita thinks Jorge is being sold down the river on account of something he didn’t do. She asked me if I...I mean, if we... could do anything to help.”

“Like what?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is his mother swears he didn’t do it.”

“Mothers always swear their darlings didn’t do it.” Joanna countered. “Didn’t you know that?” “I suppose I did,” Frank agreed, “but if we could just…”

“Just what?”

“Listen to her,” Frank said. “That’s all Mom wanted us to do—listen.”

Joanna shook her head. “Look, Frank,” she said. “Be reasonable. What good will listening do? This case doesn’t have anything at all to do with Cochise County. In case you haven’t noticed, Peoria, Ari­zona, happens to be in Maricopa County, a good hundred and forty miles outside our jurisdiction.”

“But you’re going up there tomorrow,” Frank ar­gued. “Couldn’t you talk to her for a few minutes before you go?”