“I didn’t bother with the road,” Machett said. “I ran into that woman from the truck-the one from the dog pound. She told me you were out this way. I didn’t see any point in following the road when the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”
Not when you’re driving through sand, you jerk, Joanna thought. It turned out Guy Machett did need a babysitter.
“Where are you exactly?” she asked.
“Somewhere between the gate and where you are,” he said. “Can you come pull me out or send someone who can?”
“You need a tow truck,” Joanna said.
“Then call one for me,” Machett replied.
Months earlier, Joanna’s department had been forced to eat a five-thousand-dollar towing bill when a murder victim’s vehicle had crashed through a guardrail and come to rest on a steep mountainside. She didn’t want to fall into a similar trap. She suspected that if she or someone from her department called for the tow, Guy Machett would somehow find a way to have the costs come out of her budget instead of his.
“I’ll get you a number and call you back.”
“Come on,” Machett said. “That homicide cop of yours has four-wheel drive. I’ve seen it. Couldn’t you just send him over here with a tow chain?”
And get Ernie stuck, too? Joanna thought. Not on your life.
“He’s interviewing a witness right now,” she said. “And I don’t think our insurance covers DIY towing. If something happened to your vehicle or ours, the damage wouldn’t be covered.”
“Have a heart, Sheriff Brady,” he wheedled. “Help me out here.”
But on this matter, Joanna’s mind was made up. “I’ll get you the number,” she said.
She called Dispatch, got the names and numbers of several towing companies, and relayed them back to Guy Machett. Then Joanna called in to Animal Control and spoke to Jeannine Phillips. It was easier and faster to call on the phone than to work with the nonworking radio system.
“Have Officer Wilson take the homicide victim’s dog into custody and bring him back to Bisbee.”
“To the pound?” Jeannine asked. “Does that mean none of the relatives want him?”
“Not so far.”
“Natalie already asked me about this,” Jeannine said. “According to her, Miller seems to be a great dog. He’s been neutered, has all his shots, and is properly licensed. Instead of bringing him to the pound, she was wondering if she could foster him until we find out if the relatives give a final yea or nay. If they don’t want him, Natalie might take him permanently.”
Joanna felt a slight lightening in her chest. In the course of that tough afternoon, not having to lock up a grieving dog seemed like a good thing-a small but good thing.
“Great,” she said. “If you don’t have a problem with that arrangement, far be it from me to interfere.”
Call waiting buzzed, and Joanna switched over to another call. “I just talked to towing company number three,” Guy Machett complained. “They can’t be here in anything less than an hour. What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime-waste my whole day?”
Of course Guy Machett wasn’t the only one wasting time. Until he made his appearance to examine the victim, Joanna’s detectives were also stuck in a holding pattern.
Joanna covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “The tow truck’s at least an hour away,” Joanna told Ernie. “Want to try pulling him out with the Yukon?”
“What’s the matter?” Margie interrupted before Ernie had a chance to answer. “Who’s stuck?”
“The medical examiner,” Joanna said. “He’s bogged down in the sand somewhere between here and the gate.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Margie Savage said. “Why don’t I just go get him? I’ve been driving these dunes most of my life. I’ve got a tow chain right here on my jeep, and I know how to use it.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” Joanna asked.
“Hell, no,” Margie said. “Why would I mind?”
With that, she headed for her jeep. Ernie moved as if to stop her, but Joanna held up her hand.
“Let her go,” she said. “There’s nothing Dr. Machett will hate more than being rescued by an old lady.”
And nothing I’ll like better.
CHAPTER 5
By the time I got back to the Kittitas County complex, I had no intention of going another few rounds with the receptionist. Instead, I prowled the parking lot. You’ve heard the old adage: Rank hath its privilege? In the world of bureaucrats, no privilege counts for quite as much as having your very own reserved parking place. It didn’t take long to find the spot that was marked: RESERVED MEDICAL EXAMINER.
I kept circling the parking lot until someone finally left a parking place that gave me a clear view of the M.E.’s precious spot. That way, when she finally showed up, I’d be the first to know. I put the seat all the way back, opened my computer, logged on, and indulged myself. For a long time, I had resisted doing online crossword puzzles. Doing them on a computer rather than in a banged-up folded newspaper had seemed sacrilegious somehow.
But I’m over it. That was another change Mel had instituted in my life. Despite her love of fast, powerful cars-she adores the Porsche Cayman I gave her as a wedding present-she’s a greenie at heart. She has managed to convince me to give up on newsprint altogether, including crosswords, which were the only thing I thought papers were good for to begin with.
Just because it was raining in Seattle and snowing in Snoqualmie Pass didn’t mean it was raining or snowing here. Ellensburg is right at the edge of Washington State’s unexpected stretch of desert. So I sat in the clear cold sunlight, squinting at my dim computer screen, and worked the
A few minutes later and an hour and a half after the receptionist had given me the brush-off, a bright red Prius pulled into the M.E.’s reserved spot. A young woman with long dark hair and wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses got out of the car and then turned to retrieve a briefcase. I put down the computer and scrambled to intercept her.
“Dr. Hopewell?” I asked tentatively.
Peeling off the glasses, she swung around and faced me. I was surprised to see a pair of almond-shaped dark eyes, angry dark eyes, staring back at me. “Yes,” she said. “I’m Dr. Hopewell. That was certainly quick. Where is it?”
Excuse me? She seemed to be in the middle of a conversation I hadn’t yet started.
“Where’s what?” I asked.
“My suitcase. The airline called while I was still in the pass. They said they had found the missing luggage and they were dispatching someone to deliver it to me. I thought maybe the airline finally got around to doing something right for a change.”
That seemed unlikely, but rather than telling her so, I managed to fumble my ID out of my pocket and hand it over. “Sorry,” I said. “Special Investigator J. P. Beaumont. I’m here for the autopsy.”
“Oh,” she said. She glanced at my ID and handed it back. “Sorry about that,” she said. “As you can see, there’s been a slight delay. Come on in. I’ve been out of town. I’ve heard about the case, but so far I haven’t seen anything about it. As soon as I get suited up, we can start. You can wait in my office if you like.”
She led me through the lobby. I waltzed past the evil-eyed receptionist without being hit by any incoming missiles and hurried on into the relative safety of the morgue’s nonpublic areas. The first office beyond the swinging doors was labeled DR. HOPEWELL. She ushered me into that and offered me one of two visitors’ chairs. Then she set the briefcase down behind a suspiciously clean and orderly desk.
“Wait here,” she instructed. “I’ll be right back.”
I find that women in positions of authority have a tendency to be at one extreme or the other. Either they’re
