Letting herself out of her private entrance and into the parking lot behind the building, Joanna was faced with a decision. As sheriff, she had two vehicles at her disposal-a battle-scarred Chevy Blazer and a shiny and relatively new Crown Victoria. Because she wanted to make an impression on Clete Rogers and because she wasn’t anticipating driving through any four-wheel-type terrain, she opted for the Crown Victoria. Other jurisdictions sometimes referred to Crown Victoria cruisers as “Vics.” Joanna and Frank Montoya preferred to call them Civvies.
The twenty-five-mile drive from Bisbee to Tombstone gave Joanna plenty of time to contemplate how Cletus Rogers would react to the news that his mother’s car had been stolen and that, although she was still officially missing, it was becoming more and more likely that she was dead. Like Frank Montoya, Joanna feared the mayor of Tombstone would come unglued and overreact.
Thirty minutes later and still dreading the task ahead, Sheriff Joanna Brady pulled into the parking lot of Clete Rogers’ Grubsteak Restaurant and Saloon on Allen Street. The clapboard-covered building, complete with phony white shutters, looked more like a refugee from a film set than a genuine product of the Old West. As Joanna stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed, on closer examination, that the exterior paint was chipped and peeling. And when she pushed open the front door, she noted that the carpeting in the front entryway had been tacked down with a few strategically placed strips of duct tape.
Stationed in front of an old-fashioned cash register stood a well-endowed peroxide blonde holding a stack of menus. “Smoking or nonsmoking?” she asked.
Joanna hauled out her badge and flashed it. “I’m looking for Mr. Rogers.”
The hostess stuck a pair of red-framed reading glasses on her nose long enough to examine the ID. “Mr. Rogers is busy,” she said in a brusque manner designed to forestall any further discussion. “He’s upstairs in his office and on the phone long distance. Monday’s order day around here. He’s not to be interrupted.”
“I’m sure he’ll want to speak to me,” Joanna said. “It’s about his mother.”
The hostess sniffed disdainfully. “Well,” she said. “it’s about time someone started looking into that. We’ve had that useless deputy hanging around here for weeks on end, but as soon as there’s a real problem, he up and disappears.”
“Frank Montoya didn’t disappear,” Joanna corrected, coming to her chief deputy’s defense. “He spent the whole night working on this situation, first down in Nogales and now up in Tucson.”
“Oh,” said the hostess, sounding somewhat mollified. “If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll try to catch Mr. Rogers’ eye the next time he’s between calls. Care for a cup of coffee while you wait?”
Joanna was finishing her second cup of coffee when Clete Rogers finally appeared. He was a large, rawboned man some-where in his mid-to-late fifties. His eyes had the look of some-one dealing with life on too little sleep. As soon as he had settled into the booth across the table from Joanna, the hostess hurried up behind him and set a large tumbler of orange juice on the table in front of him.
“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. Her double chins waggled when she spoke. So did the ample cleavage that showed over the top of her peasant-style blouse.
“Goddamn it, Nancy!” Clete Rogers grumbled at her. “I know if I’m fine or not! Leave me the hell alone. Don’t hover, and get back to work!”
Behind red-framed glasses, Nancy ’s enormous blue eyes filmed with tears. Her lower lip trembled right along with her chins, but after a moment she seemed to pull herself together. “Well, excuuuse me!” she snapped back at him, and flounced off.
Clete Rogers looked after her. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s the owner around here and who’s the employee.”
Even though Frank Montoya had warned Joanna about Clete Rogers’ arrogance and ill temper, she was nonetheless surprised by his shabby treatment of someone who was, as far as Joanna could see, a fiercely loyal employee.
Finished with what appeared to be an unwarranted attack on Nancy, Clete turned his attention back to Joanna. “So what’s the deal here, Sheriff Brady? Have you found my mother or not?”
“We’ve located her car,” Joanna said carefully.
“Where?”
“A group of juveniles were stopped while attempting to take it across the border into Mexico.”
“What about Mother?” Rogers asked. “Where’s she?”
“We don’t know,” Joanna said. “Not for sure. We haven’t found her yet.”
Clete Rogers took a swig of his juice. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Just what I said. It means we’re looking for her. So are authorities from Pima and Santa Cruz counties. According to Frank Montoya, they’ve just received what they regard as an informed tip up in Tucson. There’s a Search and Rescue group heading out there now. They’ll be concentrating their efforts along Houghton Road between I-10 and Old Spanish Trail.”
Clete Rogers raised his hand. Despite having been ordered not to hover, Nancy appeared from nowhere as if she’d been hanging fire to see what, if anything, her lord and master might require.
“I’m leaving,” he announced. “Have Ken put together a care package for me. The usual. I’m driving up to Tucson. I don’t want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere with nothing to eat.”
“Excuse me, Mayor Rogers,” Joanna said. “As I said, there is a search, all right. But it’s being conducted by members of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. Since it sounds as though that’s where your mother’s car was stolen, officers from Pima County are the ones in charge at this point. I doubt very much that they’ll want any unauthorized onlookers clambering around under hand and foot and possibly disturbing crime scene evidence.”
“And let me remind you, Sheriff Brady, that the person those people are searching for is
Inside her purse, Joanna’s pager buzzed, sending out a warning that sounded for all the world like a rattlesnake. She reached inside and stifled the thing before Clete Rogers seemed to notice what was going on.
“Really, Mr. Rogers,” she said. “I don’t think your showing up there is wise. As I said before, the more people milling around a crime scene, the greater the chance that important information will be overlooked or destroyed. I believe we’d be better off if-”
“I didn’t hear anyone asking for your advice or your
It took all of two seconds for Joanna to make up her mind. No way did she want to be trapped into three hours’ worth of car travel with this overbearing jerk, but she also wanted to be on hand to defend her department and her people in case Rogers launched into an all-out attack over how his mother’s case was being handled.
“Not,” she replied. “I’ll head on up to Tucson as well, but I’ll drive my own vehicle. In fact, I think I’ll leave right now. How much for the coffee?”
What Joanna had left unsaid was that while Rogers waited for his “care package,” she would go on ahead and help run interference for whoever was in charge. Hopefully, she’d have enough of a head start to beat him to the crime scene.
“Never mind about the coffee,” Clete Rogers said. “It’s on the house.”
Reaching into her purse, Joanna pulled out two ones and slapped them down on the table beside her empty cup. She wasn’t going to be beholden to Clete Rogers for anything at all, including two cups of unbelievably bad drip coffee.
“I’ll see you there.”
Out in the car, Joanna checked the pager. Not surprisingly, the number listed was Dick Voland’s direct line at the department. She called him on her cell phone. “It’s Joanna, Dick,” she said when he answered. “What’s up?”
“Frank Montoya just called in. They’ve found Alice Rogers.”
“Alive or dead?” Joanna asked.
“Dead, unfortunately. The kid-Morales-showed them where he and his friends found the car. Search and Rescue turned a dog loose, and he went right out and found the body. It’s six miles east of I-10 on Houghton in a big stand of cholla on the south side of the road.”
“They’re sure it’s Alice Rogers?”
