indicated that the Suburban had been traveling in excess of eighty miles per hour when it crashed through the Jersey barrier. That report would later be verified and/or fine-tuned by a computerized analysis.
A while later a faxed copy of Dr. Fran Daly’s preliminary autopsy results on Richard Osmond appeared on Joanna’s desk. That, along with the interviews Ernie and Jaime had conducted with each of Osmond’s current and previous cell mates, indicated that Osmond had died of natural causes resulting from a 194
previously undiagnosed and untreated form of cancer. The evidence appeared to exonerate Joanna Brady’s department from all blame with regard to Osmond’s death, but she knew that what seemed cut-and-dried to her would become far more murky in the hands of an attorney bent on pursuing a wrongful-death claim.
She was still considering that thorny issue when her phone rang.
“Sheriff Trotter here,” her caller said. “I’m not surprised to hear you’re hard at work this morning, Sheriff Brady. Me, too. If our guys had been a little quicker on the draw, that mess at Silver Creek would have happened on my turf instead of yours. Sorry about that.”
“Sure you’re sorry,” Joanna returned. “And the word ‘mess’ doesn’t come close to covering what happened out there.”
“I know, and I know, too, that you’ve got your hands full today, and I’m about to add to it by sending more trouble your way.”
“How’s that?”
“For one thing, we’ve got tentative IDs on our two Jane Does. Their names are Pamela Davis and Carmen Ortega, freelance television journalists from L.A. Diego Ortega, Carmen’s brother, is a pilot. He’s flying into Lordsburg later on today to give us a positive ID.”
“Television journalists?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right. Pamela was the on-screen talent. Carmen ran the camera and tech stuff.
They worked with a production company called Fandango Productions that sells in-depth pieces to outfits that specialize in female-oriented programming. You might know who they are, but since I never watch that kind of stuff, I hadn’t ever heard of them.”
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Joanna liked Randy Trotter and had worked with him on numerous occasions. Even so, she couldn’t help being slightly irked by his automatic assumptions about her.
“I’m not big on watching TV of any kind,” she told him. “I don’t have time, so I don’t know them either.”
Sheriff Trotter hurried on. ‘According to the brother, Carmen and Pamela won some big cable award a year or so ago for a piece they did on the pedophile scandal in the Catholic Church. They were going to Tucson to do a new series of interviews.”
Joanna thought about what Edith Mossman had said about Carol Mossman’s shaky finances-about how she had first asked her grandmother for financial help in having her dogs vaccinated.
Later she had told Edith that help was no longer necessary -that she had somehow come up with another way of laying her hands on the money.
“Does the production team pay for interviews?” Joanna asked.
“Pay?” Trotter repeated.
“You know,” Joanna said. “Like the tabloids do. Do they buy exclusive rights to people’s stories?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Trotter replied, “but the brother might.”
“What time is Diego Ortega due in Lordsburg?” Joanna asked.
“Sometime around two,” Sheriff Trotter said. “Why?”
Joanna looked at her watch and considered her options.
“Tell you what,” she said. “My investigators are all up to their ears in work this morning, but all I’m doing is clearing paperwork. If I leave right now, I should be able to be in Lordsburg by the time Mr. Ortega arrives.”
“Thought you might want to have someone on hand to talk 195
to him,” Trotter agreed. “I sure as hell would if I were in your shoes.”
As soon as she got off the phone with Sheriff Trotter, Joanna left word with Lupe Alvarez about where she was going. After stopping at the Motor Pool long enough to gas up, she headed out of the Justice Center compound. Demonstrators still milled in the parking lot and a few of them rapped on the windows of her Ciwie as she drove past.
Peaceful, all right, she thought as she goosed the Crown Victoria forward and left the demonstrators behind. Two miles down Highway 80, she realized that the ratty clothing that had been inappropriate for her newspaper photo wasn’t going to work any better for a next-of-kin interview, either. Rather than driving by the Double Adobe turnoff, she headed home to High Lonesome Ranch to change.
Butch was sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop open in front of him when Joanna walked in the back door. “You’re home early,” he remarked. “What happened?”
“I need a change of clothes,” she explained. “I’m on my way to Lordsburg to interview a next of kin. My in-office grubbies aren’t going to hack it.” She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged minutes later wearing a summer-weight khaki uniform. “The dress one has to go to the cleaners,” she told Butch. “Lucky peed on it.”
“Great,” Butch said. “Whose next of kin?”
“Randy Trotter has a tentative ID on the two women killed north of Rodeo. The brother of one of them is flying into Lordsburg this afternoon.”
“When will you be back?” Butch asked.
