Shoot, Don't Shoot (37 page)

“Who?” Joanna asked, wanting to know and yet feeling a sense of dread as she waited for Carol’s answer.

“Emily Dysart Morgan,” she said. “Larry’s mother. She was an Alzheimer’s patient right here in Peoria. She disappeared from a nursing home during a rainstorm in the dead of summer four years ago. Everyone assumed she had died of natural causes and had been washed down the Agua Fria. Her body was never found. Until today.”

“Today?”

Carol Strong nodded, her mouth grim. “Today wasn’t the first time Larry used Tommy Tompkins’s vapor-barrier-wrapped bomb shelter. With Jenny and Ceci, it didn’t work, thank God, but with Larry’s mother, I’d say it did.”

Butch Dixon came around the bar. “Are you off duty now?” he asked Carol Strong.

“Yes.”

“What can I get you to drink, then? It’s on the house.”

“Whiskey,” Carol Strong said. “Jack Daniel’s straight up.”

By Sunday afternoon, as the Bradys were packing up to go back to Bisbee, Joanna already knew that the remainder of her APOA session would be postponed until after the first of the year. “So why can’t you come home today?” Jenny insisted.

“Because I need to pick up my stuff from the dorm,” Joanna answered. “And that won’t
be
available until tomorrow morning. Not only that, Dave Thompson’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I should go to that.”

“All right,” Jenny said. “But I wish you were coming with us today.”

“So do I,” Joanna said.

The next morning, Joanna had to pack twice—first to check out of the hotel and next to leave the dorm. Even so, the process didn’t take long. After closing up her own APOA room, Joanna helped Lorelie Jessup pack up Leann’s things.

“Will Leann be coming to the funeral this afternoon?” Joanna asked.

Lorelie shook her head. “She wanted to, but the doctor says no. It’s still too early for her to leave the hospital.”

“That’s probably just as well.”

At noon, Joanna stood on the steps of the Maricopa County Courthouse, watching from among the crowd while a newly released Jorge Grijalva emerged with his children. As the television cameras rolled, Joanna tried to slip away, but Ceci had spotted her. She dragged the man she knew as her father over to where Joanna was standing.

“Thank you,” Jorge said.

“You’re welcome,” Joanna answered. “Will the kids be going back to Bisbee with you?”

Jorge shook his head. “Not right now. They’re in school. They’ll stay with their other grandparents, at least until the end of the year. It’ll all work out.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I’m sure it will.”

Four hours later, Joanna was part of a large contingent of police officers, both in and out of uniform, who gathered respectfully in Glendale Memorial Park for Dave Thompson’s graveside funeral service. Listening to the minister’s laudatory eulogy, Joanna found herself wondering what the truth was about Dave Thompson. On the one hand, some of the cigarette stubs from the tunnel behind the mirrored walls were the same brand Dave Thompson smoked. But no one—Butch Dixon included—had ever seen Dave smoking inside.

Had he been the one in the tunnel or not? If Larry Dysart had been smart enough to plant evidence in Jorge’s pickup, he might also have planted the incriminating cigarette stubs. But there was no way to know for sure. Not ever.

Toward the end of the service, Joanna watched the mourners. There was an elderly couple—probably Dave’s parents—and then two children—a boy and a girl—who were evidently Dave’s kids.

The program provided by the mortuary listed among Dave’s survivors his children, Irene Danielle and David James Thompson. The girl looked to be a year or so older than Jenny
,
while the boy was maybe a year or so older than that.

The funeral was over and Joanna was almost ready to leave when she saw the boy standing off by himself. Despite the warm afternoon sunshine he stood with his shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. He looked so lost and miserable that Joanna couldn’t walk past without speaking to him.

“David?” she asked tentatively.

He turned toward her, his face screwed up with anguish. “Yes?” he said, and then quickly looked away.

Studying him, Joanna found that David James Thompson resembled his father. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he was almost as tall as Joanna. His sport coat, although relatively new, seemed to be several months too small. His tie was uneven and poorly knotted. Searching for something comforting to say, Joanna felt the lump grow in her throat. Tying ties properly is something boys usually learn from their fathers.

“I’m Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand. “I was one of your father’s students at the APOA.”

David Thompson looked at Joanna. “Was he a good teacher?” he asked. “At home we never heard any good stuff about him, only bad.”

“Your father wasn’t an easy teacher,” Joanna answered. “But sometimes hard ones are the best kind. He was teaching us things that will help us save lives.”

“I wish I’d had a chance to get to know him,” David Thompson said. “Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I certainly do.”

On the third of January, Joanna returned to Peoria to complete her interrupted session at the APOA.

When she checked into her dormitory room—the same one she’d been assigned to before—she was relieved to discover that, under the auspices of an interim director, the mirrored walls had all been replaced with plaster-coated wallboard. The door leading into the tunnel along the back of the dorm no longer existed. The opening had been stuccoed shut.

After unpacking, Joanna climbed back in her Blazer and drove to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Carrying a bag full of Christmas goodies, she walked into the bar.

Butch Dixon grinned when he saw her. “The usual?”

“Why not?” she asked, slipping onto a stool. “How are the hamburgers today?”

Butch waggled his hands. “So-so,” he answered. “I’m breaking in a new cook, so things are a little iffy.”

“I’ll try the Roundhouse Special, only no Caboose this time. I’ve had enough sweets for the time being.”

Butch wrote down her order. “How’s your new jail cook working out?” he asked.

“Ruby’s fine so far,” Joanna answered. “She got out of jail on the assault charge one day, and we hired her as full-time cook the next. The inmates were ecstatic.”

“I only hope mine works out that well,” Butch returned.

Joanna pushed the bag across the bar. “Merry Christmas.”

“For me?”

Joanna nodded. “Better late than never,” she said.

One at a time, Butch Dixon hauled things out the bag. “Homemade flour tortillas. Who made these
?”
he asked.

“Juanita Grijalva,” Joanna answered. “She says she’ll send you some green corn tamales the next time she makes them.”

“Good deal,” Butch said, digging deeper into the bag. There were four kinds of cookies, a loaf of homemade bread, and an apple pie.

“Those are all from Eva Lou,” Joanna explained “I tried to tell her that since you own a restaurant you didn’t need all this food. She said that a restaurant’s the worst place to get anything home made.”

Butch grinned. “She’s right about that.”

From the very bottom of the bag, Butch pulled out the only wrapped and ribboned package. Tearing off the paper, Butch Dixon found himself holding a framed five-by-seven picture of a little blond-haired girl in a Brownie uniform standing behind a Radio Flyer wagon that was stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

“Hey,” he said. “A picture of Jenny. Thanks.”

“That’s not jenny,” Joanna corrected. “That’s a picture of me.”

“You’re kidding! I love it.”

“Marliss Shackleford doesn’t care for it much,” Joanna murmured.

“Who’s Marliss Shackleford?”

“The lady who received the other copy of this picture, only hers is much bigger. Eleven by fourteen. I gave it to her to use in a display at the Sheriff’s Department. It’s going up in a glass case along with pictures of all the other sheriffs of Cochise County. If you ever get a chance to see it, you’ll recognize me right away. I’m the only one wearing a Brownie uniform.”

“I’ll bet it’s the cutest picture in the bunch,” Butch said.

“Maybe you’re prejudiced,” Joanna observed with a smile. “My mother doesn’t think it’s the least bit cute. She says the other pictures are serious, and mine should be, too.”

“Speaking of your mother,” Butch said. “How did your brother’s visit go? You sounded worried about it when I talked to you on the phone.”

“It was fine. He and his wife came in from Washington, D.C. It’s the first time I’ve ever met my sister-in-law.”

“What are they, newlyweds?” Butch asked.

“Not exactly,” Joanna answered. “It’s a long story.”

Other customers came in and occupied the bartender’s attention. Joanna sat there, looking at her surroundings, realizing with a start that she felt safe and comfortable sitting there under Butch Dixon’s watchful eye. No doubt Serena Grijalva had felt safe there as well. But Larry Dysart would have been dangerous no matter where someone met him.

Butch dropped off Joanna’s Roundhouse Special and then stood there watching as she started to eat it. She caught the quick, questioning glance at her ring finger as she raised the sandwich to her lips.

Her rings were still there. Both of them. Andy had been gone since September, but Joanna wasn’t yet ready to take off the rings and put them away.

“It’s still too soon,” she said.

Butch nodded. “I know,” he answered quietly. “But you can’t blame a guy for checking, can you?”

“No.”

She put down her sandwich and held her hand in the air, examining the rings. The diamond engagement ring—Andy’s last gift to her—sparkled back at her, even in the dim, interior gloom of the Roundhouse Bar and Grill.

“If you and Andy had ever met, I think you would have liked each other,” she said at last.

“Why’s that?” Butch Dixon asked.

“You’re a nice guy,” Joanna said. “So was Andy.”

Shaking his head and frowning, Butch began polishing the top of the bar. “People are always telling me there’s no demand for nice guys.”

“You’d be surprised about that,” Joanna Brady said. “You just might be surprised.”

Author’s Note

Ideas for books come from strange places.
Partner in Crime
had its origins in reading an article on the dangers of sodium azide I discovered in my University of Arizona alumni magazine. From that article and from subsequent research, I’ve come to believe that the widespread availability of this hazardous and so-far uncontrolled substance poses a real threat to the safety of far too many people.

When used as intended to inflate air bags in automobiles, the substance is transformed into a harmless nitrogen-based gas. Originally, the idea was that the unused air bags and canisters would be removed from wrecked vehicles and recycled, but in the real world, that’s not happening. No one wants to risk his own life or the lives of his family members to somebody else’s cast-off air bag. As a result, tons of unused and unsecured containers of this deadly, poisonous, and easily water-soluble compound are readily available. They lie, unguarded and unsecured, in junked cars and on junkyard shelves all over the country. And that’s what worries me.

I completed writing this book prior to September 11, 2001, when the world suddenly became a vastly different and more dangerous place. I’m hoping that somewhere there’s a courageous lawmaker who’ll be willing to take on the automotive industry and introduce legislation requiring that all air bags in vehicles must be deployed and the sodium azide rendered harmless at the time the vehicle is scrapped.

A Statement by Joanna Brady

My name is Joanna Brady. Joanna Lee Lathrop Brady. A few years ago I was elected sheriff of Cochise County, Arizona. I’m a widow who never expected or wanted to be drawn into law enforcement. I was working for an insurance company and trying to be a good wife and mother when Andy, my husband and a deputy sheriff, was killed by a drug dealer. Originally, Andy’s death was mislabeled as a suicide. First I had to convince the authorities that it was really a homicide. After I managed to apprehend the killer almost single-handedly, I was asked to run for sheriff myself.

Cochise County, in southeastern Arizona, is eighty miles wide by eighty miles long. That means my department is responsible for six thousand square miles of territory filled with cattle ranches, mines, ghost towns, hordes of undocumented aliens, and even a genuine city — Sierra Vista. My department is spread far too thin to have any permanent partnership kinds of arrangements. Sometimes I’m thrown in with one or the other of my two chief deputies – homicide detectives, Ernie Carpenter or Jaime Carbajal. Chasing crooks with those guys is as new for me as having a female boss is for them, but to give credit where it’s due, we’re all making it happen.

Since I spend most of my work hours in a world of men, I find myself looking to the women in my life to provide balance. My best friend is also my pastor at Canyon United Methodist Church. No matter what’s going on in her own life, Marianne Maculyea, has always been there for me, and I try to do the same for her. I’ve also come to appreciate one of my newer and more unlikely friends, Angie Kellogg. Angie is an ex-L.A. hooker who ended up in Bisbee while trying to escape the clutches of a former boyfriend who turned out to be my husband’s killer. I helped Angie, and she helped me. We’ve been friends ever since. Another valued personal resource is Eva Lou Brady. Officially, Eva Lou is my former mother-in-law. Unofficially, she’s more of a real mother to me than my own mother is. She’s someone I can go to any time of the night or day with any kind of problem. I wish I could say the same for Eleanor Lathrop Winfield.

I was born and raised in Bisbee and have never lived anywhere else. High Lonesome Ranch, the place where my daughter and I live, is a few miles outside the Bisbee city limits and has been in the Brady family for three generations. My father, D.H. Lathrop, died when I was in high school. Dad started out as a lowly miner in Bisbee’s copper mines. Later he went into law enforcement and eventually was elected sheriff. That’s what he was doing when he was killed in a tragic Sunday afternoon drunk-driving traffic incident.