“This way. It’s not far, but the cactus grows so thick you can’t see inside it.”
As Claude Mallory and Fran Daly walked away, Joanna started to follow them. She went as far as the ditch and then stopped. Fran was dressed in proper crime scene attire-a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and snakeskin cowboy boots. Joanna was in high heels, a silk blouse, and a cotton-knit blazer and skirt. One glance at the thick grove of spiny cactus convinced her that what she had worn into the office that morning-clothing that would have been entirely appropriate for an appearance at a board of supervisors meeting-wasn’t going to cut it at a cholla-studded crime scene.
Remembering her mother’s old adage about an ounce of prevention, Joanna retreated to the trunk of the Crown Victoria and dug into the small suitcase of “just-in-case” clothes she kept packed at all times.
She extracted jeans and a worn pair of tennis shoes as well as an ankle-length cotton duster straight out of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. After changing, she was just starting to cross the ditch when a battered Ford F- 100 pickup pulled up beside her. It screeched to a halt with Clete Rogers at the wheel. Parking half-on and half-off the road, he rammed the pickup into neutral and jumped out.
“All right, Sheriff Brady,” he demanded. “Where is she? Over there? In that stand of cactus somewhere?”
Joanna had hoped Clete Rogers wouldn’t arrive until after Sergeant Mallory had returned from leading Fran Daly to the crime scene. That way, someone from Pima County could have taken the flak for sending the mayor of Tombstone on his way. Unfortunately, Sergeant Mallory had dodged the bullet.
“You can’t go there, Mayor Rogers,” Joanna said, stepping into the path and barring his way. “As I told you earlier, crime scenes are off limits to civilians.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Rogers objected. “This isn’t Cochise County. You’ve got no authority here.”
“Yes, I do,” Joanna told him. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Fran Daly of the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office about this. She made it clear she doesn’t want you here. You’re to go to the Pima County morgue in Tucson to make an official identification. If you’d like, you can go there and wait.”
“How long will that be?”
“No telling.”
“Is it hours, then? Days?” Clete Rogers demanded. “What are we talking about here?”
“As I said, there’s no way to know.”
Another car pulled up and stopped. This one was a cherry-red Chrysler Sebring convertible with an auburn- haired woman at the wheel. She, too, parked without first bothering to move her vehicle entirely out of the path of traffic. She jumped out of the car. Leaving her door ajar, she came striding up to where Joanna and Clete Rogers stood.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
Clete turned to Joanna. “If I’m not supposed to be here, why is she?” he demanded. “Who told her?”
An angry woman marched up until she stood within inches of Clete Rogers’ face. Belligerently she stared up at him. “She’s my mother, too,” she stormed. “And it happened just the way I said it would. 1 tried to tell you the guy was bad news-that he was trouble. But you’re always so much smarter than anyone else. You knew all about this long before I did, but you didn’t bother to lift a finger. If you had told me what was really going on, I might have prevented this from happening, but oh no. Not you. And now Mother’s dead because of you, because you’re such a closed-mouthed son of a bitch. I hope you’re happy.”
“Wait just a damned minute here!” Clete railed back at his sister. “You’re saying what happened is all
“You should have made her break up with him.”
Clete hooted with laughter. “Sure,” he said. “Me
Joanna remembered what Frank Montoya had said about the previous day’s incident in the Grubsteak, about the two-sided fight between Susan Jenkins and her brother, and the scuffle that had included a table’s worth of flying crockery and glassware. Before they could start whaling on one another, Joanna attempted to soothe the raging waters.
“Excuse me,” she began calmly, holding out her hand. “You must be Susan Jenkins. I’m the-”
“You stay out of this,” Susan snarled back. “Who the hell do you think you are? If I want to tell my brother he’s a jackass, it’s nobody’s business but ours. Now leave us alone.”
“A jackass!” Clete choked. “Why, of all the-” He clenched one massive fist and drew back, as if preparing to deliver a brain-crushing blow.
Joanna’s mind echoed with all the police academy cautions about the danger of stepping into the middle of a domestic dispute. She knew the statistics involved-the textbook recitations of cops killed and injured nationwide when summoned to intervene in family disturbances. Even so, as Clete Rogers wound up to deliver a haymaker to his sister’s skull, Joanna had no choice but to act.
“All right, you two,” she said, stepping into the fray and inserting her own body between the bristling pair, both of whom towered over her. “Knock it off!”
Surprisingly enough, Clete complied immediately. Susan Jenkins, however, held her ground. “I told you to leave us alone.”
“And I said knock it off!” Joanna repeated.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are-”
“I’ll tell you who I am,” Joanna told her. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady, and I’m ordering you back to your vehicle. Now!”
“Why? If my brother’s allowed to be here, I should be able to-”
“Return to your vehicle immediately, Mrs. Jenkins. Otherwise I’ll be forced to place you under arrest.”
“Under arrest!” Susan screeched. “Me? My mother’s dead. My worthless brother turned a deaf ear and let her boyfriend kill her, and you’re telling me I’m the one who’s under arrest?”
But even as she objected, Susan Jenkins took a backward step. Joanna stepped after her, hoping to keep her moving in the right direction. “All the way to the car, Mrs. Jenkins,” Joanna urged. “I want you to stand behind your vehicle. Spread your legs and place both hands on the trunk.”
The big danger in domestic disputes is always the possibility that both combatants will stop fighting with one another and turn on the police officer. Concerned that Clete Rogers might come at her from behind, Joanna glanced over her shoulder. She was relieved to see that rather than joining in, he had moved away, backing up until he collided with the rear bumper of Fran Daly’s van. It took mere seconds for Joanna to see that he posed no threat, but that momentary lapse of attention was enough for Susan Jenkins to launch a full-scale attack. By the time Joanna realized what was happening, the enraged woman was almost on top of her.
Dodging to one side, Joanna reached out, grabbed Susan by one arm and then tossed her over an outthrust hip. One moment Susan, bent on attack, was rumbling forward. The next she was sailing skyward and flipping end over end. She landed on her back with a thump that sent the air whooshing out of her lungs. For several long moments she didn’t breathe. She simply lay there, staring bug-eyed into the sky.
With her own heart pounding, Joanna placed one foot on her opponent’s shoulder. She was in the process of wrestling her Glock out from under the billowing duster when another car-a familiar white Econoline van-stopped beside her. Her burly, middle-aged homicide detective, Ernie Carpenter, vaulted from his vehicle and into the fray. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.
“Cuff her, Ernie,” Joanna ordered, moving away. “I don’t think she’s armed, but you’d better check.”
By then, Susan was coughing and gasping for breath. Ernie reached down, hauled her to her feet, and then spun her around to secure her wrists behind her. Meanwhile, Joanna hurried to check on Clete Rogers, who was leaning against Fran Daly’s van. His face had gone dangerously white.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
He nodded. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ve got some medication in my truck. Just help me back to it.”
With him leaning against her for support, Joanna led him back to his pickup. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” she asked. “I can call for an ambulance and have them take you to a hospital in Tucson.”
He waved her away and then reached for a lunch-box-sized cool chest on the seat beside him. “No,” he said, as he opened the lid. “Just let me be for a little. I’ll be fine.”
Sergeant Mallory appeared at that moment. “What’s going on?” he demanded, looking from Joanna to a dust- covered but still belligerent Susan Jenkins.
“I want that woman arrested,” Joanna said, pointing at Susan. “She’s to be charged with assaulting a police
