Then there was nothing. Frustrated, Joanna checked her phone and saw that she had crossed into a no-service zone. She tossed the phone down in disgust.
There was no sense in wondering how Tamara Haynes and AWE had hooked themselves up to Frank Montoya’s press briefing. Ken Galloway no longer worked inside the department but he still had plenty of friends there. Looking for the leak would serve no useful purpose.
Joanna was offended to think her opponent would stoop so low as to use Carol Mossman’s dead dogs to make political hay.
Which is exactly why Ken Galloway isn’t worthy of being sheriff, Joanna told herself determinedly. And it’s why, baby or no baby-Eleanor or no Eleanor-I’m staying the course, and I’m going to win!
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The Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department was located in a single-story cinder-block building in Lordsburg’s small downtown area. Hard-to-come-by tax money had been spent on the new jail and communications center two blocks away, but Randy Trotter’s humble two-phone-line office reminded Joanna of her father’s old office. When D. . Lathrop had been the sheriff of Cochise County, his department -office, jail, and all-had been located behind barred windows in the art deco courthouse up in old Bisbee. That, too, had been a two-phone-line office. Here, though, the iron bars with their brightly painted Zia symbols were more decorative than utilitarian.
Sheriff Trotter, carrying a cup of steaming coffee, emerged from a back room and greeted Joanna. In his late forties, Trotter had the bowlegged, scrawny, sunbaked look of a man whose preferred mode of transportation remained a horse and saddle.
Joanna remembered hearing from someone that Sheriff Trotter’s 202
family had once lived in the Bisbee area, but they had left there before he was born.
Long before Joanna was born, too, for that matter.
“Coffee?” he asked, offering Joanna a stained mug full of thick, brackish brew.
Just the smell of it was enough to make her queasy all over again. “No, thanks,”
she said, shaking her head. “I’m off coffee at the moment.”
“You’re not one of those anti-coffee health nuts, I hope.”
Joanna thought about her answer for a moment. “Not anti-coffee,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”
Trotter was old enough that he hailed from a time when women in law enforcement had been anything but commonplace and pregnant women had been rarer still. Joanna expected some kind of comment. All she got right then was a raised eyebrow. “Water, then?”
he asked. “Or a soda?”
“Water would be great.”
“Come on into my office,” he said. “The place isn’t much, but it works for me. Have a chair.”
Joanna followed him into his private office, where the wooden desk and creaky chair reminded her even more of her father’s old digs. Randy Trotter walked into the adjacent room and removed a bottle of water from a small refrigerator. He handed it over as Joanna sat down on a battered and lumpy brown leather chair that seemed to swallow her whole body.
“Sorry about that,” Randy apologized. “When push came to shove, there was money enough for a new refrigerator or a new chair. The fridge won.” He glanced at his watch.
“Johnny Cruikshank, my homicide detective, is out at the airport now. As soon as Mr. Ortega’s plane lands, Johnny will bring him here to the office. Then, once we make arrangements, we’ll take him to the
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morgue-what we call the morgue, anyway. It’s really nothing more than a couple of rooms the county leases from a local funeral chapel.”
Sipping her water, Joanna nodded. “Fine,” she said.
Trotter eyed her curiously. “If you’re pregnant, are you still going to run?”
‘Absolutely.”
“Do people well … you know …” He paused awkwardly.
“You mean, do they know I’m pregnant?” It was Sheriff Trotter’s turn to nod. “They do,” Joanna continued. “You know how small towns work. I haven’t had my first prenatal checkup yet, but the pregnancy is already hot news in the local paper.”
“So how’s it going then?” he asked, studying her over the rim of his coffee cup.
“My pregnancy or the reelection campaign?”
“Reelection.” He grinned.
Thinking about the demonstrators banging on her car windows and doors as she drove through the Justice Center parking lot, Joanna decided to underplay her hand. “All right, I guess,” she said with an indifferent shrug. “Yours?”
‘About the same,” he agreed. “I just wish politics weren’t so dirty. You think about that poor guy out in Kentucky, the one who was allegedly gunned down by one of his opponent’s henchmen a while ago …” He paused. “I mean, when one candidate for sheriff puts out a contract on the other guy’s life, it kind of defeats the whole idea of law and order, wouldn’t you say? Makes you wonder if it’s worth the time, effort, and trouble.”
Joanna nodded. You’ve got that right, she thought.
“I think I’ve heard, but remind me,” Trotter continued. “What’s the name of the guy who’s running against
