Paradise Lost

schedule extra patrols along I-10?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank said. “Our resources are already stretched pretty thin.”

“What about moving units away from the southern sector and putting them up north?”

“Considering the situation along the border, is that wise?” Frank asked.

Joanna knew what he meant. For months now, Cochise County’s eighty miles of international border had been deluged with an unprecedented flood of illegal immigrants. Increased INS enforcement in Texas and California had led to an influx of illegals throughout Joanna’s jurisdiction. Even with additional help from the U.S. Border Patrol and INS, things along the border were still out of control. All the extra enforcement made her county resem­ble an armed camp.

“What about the guys who were picked up driving the Saturn?”

“UDAs again. The guy driving it was an illegal with no license and no insurance. He may have known the vehicle was stolen, but I doubt it. Lots of fingerprints, but so far, Casey Ledford’s found nothing useful.”

“Tell you what, Frank,” she said. “Let’s beef up patrols in the northern sector of the county and along our portion of I-10. Since the feds have brought all those extra Border Patrol agents, we’ll let theist take up some of our slack for a change. God knows we’ve been doing plenty of their work.”

Moments later, Frank was giving Joanna computer-generated driving directions that would take her from the Conquistador Hotel in Peoria to Southeast Encanto Drive near downtown Phoenix. By the time she finished up with her phone call, Butch was coming back across the driveway carrying a pair of room keys, one of which he handed to her.

“We’re in room twelve fourteen,” he said. Looking at her closely, he frowned. “You’re upset. What’s wrong?”

“The autopsy’s in on the Apache Pass victim,” Joanna said. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Does that mean you want to head home and go to work on it?” Butch asked. “If that’s the case, I can rent a car to do what I need to do here.”

“No,” Joanna assured him. “As they told us in one of the ses­sions up in Page, we sheriffs need to learn to delegate. From what Frank and Ernie have both told me, I think they have things under control. Besides, I have a part of the job that needs doing right here in Phoenix, remember?”

Up in the room, Joanna changed into a skirt, blouse, and lightweight microfiber jacket. At home in Bisbee and in order to save wear and tear on her own newly recreated wardrobe, she had often taken to wearing a uniform to work. For the Sheriffs’ Associ­ation Conference, she had brought along mostly business attire, and for next-of-kin notifications, that was the kind of clothing she pre­ferred. Out of respect for the victim, she always felt she needed to show up for those heart-rending occasions wearing her Sunday best—along with her small-of-back holster.

“Be careful,” Butch told her, giving her a good-bye hug. “And, case you’re interested, I think changing clothes was the right thing to do.”

Even though the car had been parked in the shade, the Crown Victoria felt like an oven. The route Frank had outlined took her down the Black Canyon Freeway as far as the exit at Thomas. On Thomas she drove east past Encanto Municipal Golf Course to Seventh Avenue. There she turned south. Southeast Encanto Drive wasn’t a through street, but as soon as Joanna turned of Seventh onto Monte Vista, she knew she was in one of the old-money neighborhoods in Phoenix. The houses were set back from the street on generously sized lots. Around the homes were the kinds of manicured lawns and tall, stately trees that thrived in the desert only with careful attention from a professional gardener and plenty of irrigation-style watering.

The address turned out to be an ivy-covered two-story red brick house with peaked-roof architecture that revealed its pre World War II origins. Joanna pulled into the driveway and parked the Crown Victoria behind a bright-red Toyota 4-Runner. Turning off the ignition and dropping the car keys into the pocket of her blazer, Joanna felt the same kind of misgiving she always experienced when faced with having to deliver the kind of awful news no family ever wants to hear.

Just do it, Joanna, she told herself firmly. It’s your job.

Letting herself out of the car, she walked up the well-groomed sidewalk. Here in the center of Phoenix, surrounded by grass and shaded by trees, it didn’t seem nearly as hot as it had on the shiny new blacktop that graced the driveway at the Conquistador Hotel. Reaching for the doorbell, Joanna was startled to see that the door was slightly ajar. A steady stream of air-conditioned air spilled from