Joanna shook her head in disgust. “What else?” she asked.
“A single car, non-injury rollover, just outside of Hereford. Then there was a bunch of drunk Harley riders who left one of the bars in Tombstone and then went out to the municipal airport for a late-night fistfight session. When a pair of Border Patrol agents broke it up, everybody else jumped on their bikes and took off. The only one left was the one who was too busted up to leave. He’s in the county hospital down in Douglas with a broken jaw and three broken knuckles. Then there’re two DWIs and a domestic violence down in Pirtleville. Oh, and I almost forgot, yesterday’s carjacking’s car—the Pontiac Grand Am that was taken from over in Texas Canyon—was stopped at the crossing in Naco early this morning with a full load of illegals. The car’s in the Border Patrol’s impound lot down on Naco Highway. The lady’s purse isn’t.”
“What’s the word from the crime scene in Paradise?”
“I talked to Ernie. He and Jaime stayed there until three this morning. According to him, somebody did a half assed job of trying to clean up Rob Whipple’s house, but there are still plenty of traces of blood there. The crime scene team and Casey Ledford will be working that today, as well as Irma Sorenson’s Nissan once we get it dragged out of where it landed and back here to the justice center. Since Rob Whipple was shot in Irma Sorenson’s car, presumably the blood in his cabin will be from someone else.”
“Like Connie Haskell, for instance,” Joanna said. Frank nodded. “But there’s still no trace of Irma or Rob Whipple’s Dodge Ram?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
Joanna shook her head. “Nothing like being under the gun,” she said.
“It’s more than that, Joanna,” Frank returned. “Think about it. We’ve had three homicides in four days, and here the department sits with only two detectives to its name. We’re understaffed and underfunded, and—”
Joanna held up her hand and stopped him. “Please, Frank. Let’s not go into this right now. I know you’re right. What do you think kept me awake half the night? I was worrying about the same thing, but before we go off trying to deal with all the political and financial ramifications, let’s handle what’s on our plates right now. What are Ernie and Jaime doing at the moment?”
“I told them to take the morning off. They have to sleep some time. At noon they’ll head up to Tucson to talk with Chris Bernard and his lawyer. As a result, Rob Whipple’s autopsy will must likely have to be put off until tomorrow.”
“Which shouldn’t hurt Doc Winfield’s feelings any,” Joanna added.
“Since the Grand Am’s been found,” Drank resumed, “it may mean our carjacker will be back on the prowl again. Deputies Gregovich and Howell are also taking the morning off, but I’ve scheduled them to hit I-10 again today. By the way, did you know Kristin thought there was some hanky-panky going on?”
“I hope you told her otherwise,” Joanna said.
Frank nodded. Before he could say anything more, Joanna’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Kristin?”
“There’s someone on the phone who insists on talking to you.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Hardy. Brian Hardy.”
“Brent, maybe?” Joanna asked.
“Sorry. Yes, that’s it. Brent. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through, then,” Joanna told her. “Good morning, Mr. Hardy. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about Irma. She just left.”
“Left from where?” Joanna demanded.
“From here, from Quartzite East,” Hardy said. “Tommy and I had a big argument about whether or not we should call you. He said we ought to mind our own business, but I told him, ‘No way. I’m calling.’“
Joanna switched her phone to speaker. “What exactly happened?”
