J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

“When Ernie and I were out at the house earlier today, I saw the father writing what looked like a suicide note. The mother is pissed as hell-at the father. Not only that, she said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. She said her husband has never lived with the consequences of his actions. The way she said it set off all my alarms.”

Again the telephone line went quiet. Joanna suffered through the silence, expecting the DEA agent to tell her she had a far too vivid imagination.

“The liar comment is the very last entry in the journal?” Adam asked at last. “The final one the girl made before she died?”

“No. It was the last entry in the next-to-last volume. It was written months ago. The problem is, the volume Brianna O’Brien has been writing in since then-the one that might contain any telling details-is missing. It isn’t in her room. It wasn’t at the crime scene, either.”

“As in maybe somebody got rid of it,” Adam York muttered.

“The same thought that occurred to me,” Joanna said.

“Unfortunately,” Adam continued, “this Freon thing is a multimillion-dollar business. If our suspicions are correct, Stevie Marcovich, otherwise known as Marco, runs an operation that will be right up there with the six-million-dollar bust we made in Florida a year ago. If the O’Briens are involved and their own daughter was expendable, I’d say Sam Nettleton up in Benson i5 in way over his head. So is Jim Hobbs, for that matter.”

“What do we do about it?” Joanna asked.

“For one thing,” Adam said, “I’m canceling the sting operation as of right now. How soon can your detectives be in Benson?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. One forty-five. “Ernie Carpenter is probably still up the canyon at the coroner’s office. With luck I can possibly have him there by two-thirty. The same thing goes for Jaime Carbajal. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I think somebody should go see Sam Nettleton and lay the cards on the table. We’ll let him know his ass is on the line. Maybe we can scare him into springing with what he knows.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“Except you may have blown your chance to nail Marcovich,” Joanna said.

“Right,” Adam returned. “But considering there are innocent lives at stake, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m on my way to Benson, too, but I’m coming from Casa Grande. I don’t know if I’ll make it there before all hell breaks loose.”

“Do me a favor,” Joanna said.

“What’s that.”

“Tell your people that Nettleton comes here first for questioning.”

“Joanna-”

She cut off his objection. “You owe me, Adam. This is my turf. As far as I’m concerned, my homicide takes precedence over your sting.”

“Okay,” Adam York agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll let them know.”

The moment Joanna was off the telephone with Adam York, she called Dispatch and told the operator who answered to locate both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter and send them off to meet up with the DEA task force in Benson. Once that was done, there wasn’t much more for Joanna to do except sit and wait. She was tempted to go racing off to Benson right along with everyone else. After a moment’s consideration, though, she decided against it. That wasn’t her job. It was why she had detectives. Besides, Cochise County or not, the Benson operation was the DEA’s deal. Adam York would he in charge of that one-of his officers and Joanna’s as well.

Sit and stay, she told herself firmly. No need for a second commander in the field. All that would do would be to gum up the works. She stopped long enough to eye the ever-growing mounds of paper that littered her desk.

Especially, she added, when I’ve got more than enough to do right here.

During Joanna’s term as sheriff, paperwork had become the bane of her existence. No matter how often she did it-no matter how hard she tried to keep up-it continued to roll across her desk in a perpetual stream. It struck her that it was just like trying to keep up with housework at home, where there was always another pile of dirty laundry to wash or another load of dishes to do. It was a drudgery aspect of police work that somehow never quite made it into the phony TV world of quirky cops and equally fantastic crooks duking it out in exotic high-speed car chases.

She had barely made a dent in the pile labeled “Thursday” when Chief Deputy Frank Montoya tapped on her half-open door and let himself into her office. Frowning, he eased his lanky frame into one of the chairs opposite Joanna’s desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s that obvious?” he returned.

“From a mile away,” she said with a smile. “Now, what is it and how bad?”

“The usual,” he said. “It’s going to be another big-time media blitz, including all the out-of-towners.”

“Great.” Joanna groaned. “Just what we need.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve been doing this job long enough that I should be getting used to it. At least by now I pretty well know all the players-as in which reporters are trustworthy and which ones should be run out of town on a rail.”

“That sounds ominous,” Joanna said.

“It is. I happen to have in my possession a preview of Marliss Shackleford’s column for tomorrow’s Bisbee Bee.”

“What do you mean a preview?”

“Just what I said. Ken Dawson, the publisher over at the Bee, sent along a copy of tomorrow’s column just in case you have any comment.”

Despite the fact that Joanna and Marliss both attended Canyon Methodist Church, the two of them had never been friends. Since Joanna’s election, their already thorny relationship had deteriorated even further. Marliss never failed to publicly point out whatever she thought to be Joanna’s official shortcomings.

Joanna reached for the paper Frank was holding in front of him. “That bad?” she asked.

“It’s not good,” Frank muttered as she turned her attention to the words on the paper.

With eighteen-year-old honor student Brianna O’Brien dead by what officials are calling homicidal violence, it remains to be seen how much responsibility Sheriff Joanna Brady must shoulder for the girl’s untimely death.

As late as Saturday afternoon Sheriff Brady reportedly refused to call in the FBI to search for Brianna even though the girl’s father, retired Paradise Valley developer and Naco native David O’Brien, specifically requested that she do so.

Although it is doubtful summoning the FBI at that point would have spared the recent BHS graduate’s life, the question remains about why Sheriff Brady was so reluctant to request the involvement of other law enforcement agencies to help with this unfortunate situation.

At a time when the criminal element is able to leave a trail of destruction that crosses both state and international boundaries, can Cochise County afford a sheriff who regards herself as a female version of the Lone Ranger?

Think about it, Sheriff Brady. How about a little more cooperation and a little less egomania?

Her head buzzing with anger, Joanna tossed the paper back to Frank. “How dare she? That’s garbage and Marliss knows it. Brianna O’Brien was dead long before I refused to call in the FBI.”

“You know that and I know that,” Frank agreed. “Unfortunately, everybody else-other reporters included-may take this stuff as gospel. I think you should make some kind of official comment. In fact, I’ve even drafted a couple…”

“The Lone Ranger?” Joanna continued, almost as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve never been a lone damned ranger. And here she is, putting that in the paper when, even as we speak, my department is up to its ears in the middle of a joint operation with the DEA.”