Paradise Lost

“I won’t take it easy,” Sally Matthews hissed, shrugging away his hand. “I want to know who killed my daughter.”

“So do I,” Joanna breathed. “Believe me, so do I.”

She punched the intercom button. “Kristin,” she said when her secretary answered. “Would you please have Chief Deputy Mon­toya come to my office?”

When she looked back at Sally Matthews, the woman had dis­solved into tears, sobbing into a large men’s handkerchief that had most likely come from Burton Kimball’s pocket. From the way Jaime Carbajal had described the Matthews’s home, Joanna knew Sally wouldn’t have won any Mother of the Year awards. Still, there was no denying that the woman was overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her only daughter.

Before Joanna could say anything to comfort Silly, there was a sharp knock at her door. Turning, Joanna expected to sere Frank Montoya. Instead, Kristin stood in the doorway, beckoning frantically to Joanna.

“It you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Joanna said. She got up and walked over to the door. Kristin drew her into the lobby and then closed the door after them.

“What’s the matter?” Joanna said.

“You’d better go out front,” Kristin said, speaking in an urgent whisper. “All hell’s broken loose out there.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“From what I can tell, right after Frank’s news conference, one of those photographers from the Arizona Reporter tried to jump in and get a picture of Jenny as Butch was leading her out of the building. I think Butch grabbed the camera out of the guy’s hands and lobbed it into the parking lot. He and Jenny are both in Frank’s office.”

Joanna could barely believe her ears. “They’re not hurt, are they?” she demanded.

“No, they’re fine,” Kristin answered quickly. “But the photographer is out in the public lobby raising hell. He wants somebody to arrest Butch for assault and battery. And then there’s Ron Haskell. He’s here waiting ...”

Joanna looked across the room and saw Ron Haskell sitting forlornly on the lobby loveseat. Stifling her own roiling emotions, she walked across the room to him and shook hands. “Thank you for conning, Mr. Haskell. As you can see, there’s a bit of an emergency going on right now. If you don’t mind, I’ll have my secretary here take you back to speak to one of our evidence technicians.”

Joanna turned back to Kristin. “Take him to see Casey Ledford,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “She’ll need to take fingerprints from him. We’ll need to collect DNA samples as well.”

With that, Joanna Brady headed for her chief deputy’s office, where, with the public brawl now over, her husband and daughter were waiting.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By early afternoon, Joanna was in her office and elbow-deep in paperwork. Kristin Gregovich had gone out for an early lunch and had returned with a tuna sandwich for Joanna, the half-eaten remains of which lingered on her correspondence littered desk. With two separate murder investigations under way, it was difficult for Joanna to stay focused on the routine administrative matters that had to be handled—duty rosters to approve and vacation schedules to be juggled, as well as making shift-coverage arrangements around Yolanda Canedo’s extended sick leave.

Looking over the schedule, Joanna was reminded of her stop at University Medical Center. Picking up her phone, Joanna dialed Frank’s number. “All the inmates and all the jail employees made and signed get-well cards for Yolanda Canedo,” she said. “Have the deputies done anything similar?”

“Not that I know of,” Frank replied.

“Is Deputy Galloway on duty?”

“He should be. Why?”

“If you can track him down, let him know I need to see him.”

Deputy Kenneth W. Galloway was one of Joanna’s problem children. He was the nephew and namesake of another Cochise County deputy, Ken Galloway. Ken Galloway the elder had been