inside out. She hesitated, with her finger reaching toward the bell. Then, changing her mind, she pushed the door open a few inches.
“Hello?” she called. “Anybody home?”
There was no answer, but deep within the house she heard the sound of murmuring voices. “Hello,” she called again. “May I come in?”
Again no one answered, but Joanna let herself in anyway. Inside, the house was cool. Drawn curtains made it almost gloomy. The furniture was old and threadbare, but comfortably so—as though whoever lived there preferred the familiarity of top-of-the-line pieces from a bygone era to newer and sleeker steel-and-glass replacements. The voices seemed to emanate from the back of the house. Following them, Joanna made her way through an elegantly furnished dining room. Only when she reached a swinging door that evidently opened into the kitchen did she finally realize that the voices came from a radio program. On the other side of the door a loud boisterous talk-show host was discussing whether or not it might be possible for this year’s Phoenix Cardinals to have a winning season.
Joanna eased open the swinging door. On the far side of the kitchen, a woman sat at a cloth-covered kitchen table, her head cradled in her arms. The woman was so still that for a moment Joanna thought she might be dead. On the table beside her, arranged in a careful row, were three separate items: a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label, a completely empty tumbler-sized crystal glass, and a handgun—a small but potentially lethal Saturday-night special.
Holding her breath, Joanna waited until a slight movement told her the woman was alive. The droning voices of the talk-show host and his call-in guests had drowned out the sound of Joanna’s own entrance. Standing there, Joanna battled a storm of indecision. If she spoke again, this near at hand, what were the chances that the startled woman would react by reaching for her gun? Wakened out of a sound sleep and probably drunk besides, she might shoot first and ask questions later. It was then, with her heart in her throat, that Joanna Brady came face-to-face with the realization that she had come on this supposed mission of mercy without one of the Kevlar vests she insisted her officers wear whenever they were on duty.
Joanna hesitated, but not for long. Still using the noisy radio program for cover, she tiptoed across the room and retrieved the handgun. She slipped it into the pocket of her blazer along with her keys and phone. As she did so, the woman issued a small snort that sent Joanna skittering back across the room and safely out of reach. Only when she had regained the relative safety of the door way did she turn around. The woman had merely changed her position slightly, but she was still asleep. Joanna allowed herself a single gasp of relief. At least the still-sleeping woman was no longer armed.
Once Joanna had regained control of her jangled nerves, she tried speaking again. “Hello,” she said, in a more conversational voice. “Are you all right?”
This time the woman stirred. She sat up and stared uncomprehendingly around the room. Once her bleary eyes settled on Joanna, the woman groped for her missing gun. The fact that it was no longer there made tingles of needles and pins explode in Joanna’s hands.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County. Who are you?”
“Maggie,” the woman said flatly. “Maggie MacFerson.”
“Do you live here?” Joanna asked.
Maggie MacFerson glared belligerently at Joanna from across the room, but before she answered, she reached for the bottle and poured a slug of Scotch into the glass. “Used to,” Maggie said after downing a mouthful of it. “Live here, that is. Don’t anymore.”
“Who does?”
“My sister and that worthless shit of a husband of hers. He’s the one I’m waiting for—that no-account bastard. One way or another he’s going to tell me what he’s done with Connie’s money.”
“Connie?” Joanna asked. “That would be Constance Marie Haskell?”
Maggie nodded. “She never should have changed her name. I told her not to. You’d think she’d be able to learn from somebody else’s mistake. I did,” she added bitterly. “Took old Gary MacFerson’s last name, that is. Look what it got me.”
“Where’s your sister now?” Joanna asked.
“Beats me. Probably dead in a ditch somewhere if the message on the machine is any indication. ‘Meet
