Paradise Lost

When Kristin entered the office, Joanna was shocked by her secretary’s appearance. Her nose and eyes were red. She looked almost as bad as Joanna felt, and she walked as though she had aged twenty years overnight.

“Kristin,” Joanna demanded, “what’s wrong?” as the younger woman deposited a new stack of papers on one corner of Joanna’s desk.

“Nothing,” Kristin mumbled, turning away.

“Come on,” Joanna urged. “Something’s not right. Tell me.”

“It’s Terry,” her secretary replied with a tearful sniffle. “What about him?”

“He didn’t come in until four o’clock this morning. He tried to tell me he was working overtime, but I looked on the schedule after I got here. He wasn’t cleared for any overtime. He tried to tell me he was teamed up for some special operation with Deputy Howell. It was a special op, all right. I think he’s sneaking around with her behind my back and—”

“They were on a special operation,” Joanna interrupted. “I per­sonally authorized the overtime last night. From now until we catch that I-10 carjacker, I want them ruising the freeway rest areas for as many hours a day as they can stand.”

Kristin’s face brightened. “Really?” she said.

Joanna sighed. “Really.”

Kristin shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Me. Terry tried telling me the same thing, but I didn’t believe hint.”

“It’s hormones, Kristin,” Joanna said patiently. “They’re all out of whack when you’re pregnant.” As she spoke, Joanna couldn’t help realizing that she had made the exact same kinds of accusations with Butch on Sunday—and without the benefit of hor­monal imbalance to use as an excuse. “You’d better call Terry and apologize,” she added.

“I can’t. He’s asleep right now.”

“Well, when he wakes up later, call and apologize.”

“I will,” Kristin promised. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”

It was almost nine o’clock before Frank came dragging into Joanna’s office carrying yet another sheaf of papers, this one con­taining the stack of incident reports that would constitute the morning briefing.

“Sorry I’m late, Boss. With both of us out of the office all afternoon and half the night, there were a lot of pieces to pull together.”

“Don’t worry about being late,” she assured him. “If you think your desk is a disaster, look at mine. So what’s on today’s agenda—other than Rob Whipple’s murder and the Texas Canyon carjacking?”

“Burton Kimball cut a deal for Sally Matthews.”

“What kind of deal?”

“He played the sympathy card big-time—as in, officials of the State of Arizona have already cost Sally Matthews die life of her only daughter. Consequently, she shouldn’t he punished further, et cetera, et cetera. Phoenix PD  busted Sally’s boyfriend, B. B. Ardmore, while he was making a drug sale in downtown Phoenix yesterday afternoon. If Sally agrees to turn state’s evidence and if she tells investiga­tors everything she knows about B. B.’s organization and his associates, she’s off the hook. She also has to agree to enter rehab as soon as pos­sible after Dora’s funeral, which is currently scheduled for Friday afternoon at two o’clock.”

“Are you telling me Sally Matthews has been cut loose?” Joanna demanded. “Sally Matthews was running a meth lab—an illegal and dangerous meth lab inside the city limits. She broke any number of laws, one of which should be child neglect. Nonetheless, she gets to turn Dora’s death into a get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s not right.”

“Talk to Arlee Jones about that,” Frank Montoya suggested. “Until the voters decide to replace him with a county attorney with brains, that’s what we can expect. In the meantime, the charges are open, so that if she doesn’t carry through on her promises, they can be refiled.”