J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

“Wait a minute,” Joanna interrupted. “You’re talking Vehicle Identification Numbers? I thought this was about Freon. What’s going on, Ernie? Why is Jaime bringing in the suspect instead of you?”

“Because I’m on my way to Willcox,” Ernie answered. “Along with the boys from DEA. Adam York is going to meet us there.”

“Willcox?”

“The DEA guys put the fear of God in Nettleton. He gave us a name,” Ernie explained. “Aaron Meadows.”

“Who’s he?” Joanna asked.

“He’s the guy who’s supposedly selling the stuff to Nettleton. He’s an ex-con lately out of Florence. He grew up just outside Willcox. You probably don’t remember this. It’s before your time, but his grandparents once ran a combination gas station/cattle rest east of there.”

“What’s Meadows’s connection to all this?”

“He went to prison for smuggling years ago. Drugs back then. Chances are, that’s what he’s doing again-smuggling, only now the payload is Freon rather than drugs. I’m in the process of having Dick Voland issue an APB. Meadows drives an ‘89 Suburban. With any luck, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Joanna considered for a moment. With Ernie Carpenter to-tally focused on the Freon situation, it seemed like a bad time to bring up anything more about the O’Briens. Mentioning an almost-twenty-year old wrongful death case in Phoenix would simply muddy the waters for an officer who was already neck-deep in a complicated joint operation. There would be plenty of time to discuss the Diaz case with Ernie once the dust had settled and the damned Freon situation had finally come to a head.

“Keep me posted,” Joanna said at last. “What about deputies? Will you need more?”

“That’s handled. Dick Voland’s already put out the word for all uncommitted deputies to head for Willcox. With them and the guys from the DEA we should have a full contingent.”

“Be careful,” Joanna warned. “You’re wearing body armor?”

Ernie laughed. “Are you kidding? After what we paid for this outfit, Rose won’t let me out the front door without it. She’s determined we’re going to get our money’s worth.”

“If nagging is all it takes to get you to wear it, good for Rose,” Joanna returned.

She put down the phone and looked outside just as a storm-spawned dust devil tore through the parking lot. Wind-driven rain came moments later, slanting down to the ground with such ferocity that for a few minutes even Joanna’s Crown Victoria, parked right outside the window, was totally obscured from view.

Ernie was right. If the storm lasted for very long, it would indeed be another gully-washer. All her life, Joanna had delighted in these spectacular downpours. But as sheriff, she couldn’t help seeing them through the nagging prism of her fiscal and budgetary responsibilities. What had once been a welcome summertime diversion now meant nothing more than another hit in the overtime department. She didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to gaze into the next morning’s briefing and see exactly what would happen. Both her chief deputies would be there, and Frank Montoya would be pitching his usual fit.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, shutting out the tumult outside her window and deliberately turning off the turmoil within. Reinforcements were headed for Willcox, which meant there was no need for her to go traipsing up there. Besides, by staying behind, she would be on hand when Detective Carbajal brought Nettleton in for questioning.

Opening her eyes again, she glanced at her watch. Five of four. In a while she’d call Doc Winfield and ask him about the medical missionaries. Jaime wouldn’t arrive with his prisoner for the better part of an hour. Before then, maybe Joanna could finally make some progress on her paperwork.

Resolutely reaching for the stack, she forced herself to handle the first thing she touched-the board of supervisors letter. Next came a governmental treatise-a thick, bound notebook of bureaucratic doublespeak containing the latest federal man-dates and guidelines concerning the care and feeding of prisoners.

With the very best of intentions, Joanna opened it and began to read. Halfway through page five, she nodded off and fell fast asleep.

Getting off the phone at noon, Angie Kellogg had turned to find her customers hanging on her every word. All afternoon she faced a barrage of good-natured teasing about her car’s going for a ride without her. The jokes were made easier to endure, however, by the fact that Angie’s loyal customers were also determined to do something about it. She was surprised and touched to see that while her back had been turned, someone had placed an empty gallon jar on the end of the bar with a label affixed to it reading “Let’s fix Angie’s Omega.” By two that afternoon the jar already contained several crumpled hills and a collection of loose change.

The Blue Moon’s easy camaraderie made those unsolicited donations possible. It also gave rise to teasing of a more personal nature. All afternoon, Archie McBride and Willy Haskins kept up a running interrogation about what had gone on with Angie’s “Boy Scout.”

“Are you gonna see him again?” Willy asked.

Angie, wavering between hoping Dennis Hacker would call and never wanting to see him again, shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

“He seemed like one of those real gentlemen. Was he nice to you?”

Angie considered for a moment before she answered. Yes, Dennis Hacker had been nice to her-right up to the time he hurt her feelings. Now, mulling over his phone call, which had obviously been an apology, she didn’t know what to think. It was stupid for her to believe that Dennis Hacker had actually fallen for her after seeing her only one or two times. And yet, those things did happen. Or did they? Was that kind of instant romance something that happened only in the movies?

“He didn’t try to take advantage of you, now, did he?” Archie pressed solicitously. “ ‘Cause if’n he did, me an’ of Willy here’ll take care of him the next time he walks through the door. Right, Willy?”

“What?” Willy asked.

“Never mind,” Angie said with a laugh. “You’ll do no such thing.”

Feeling better, Angie went back down the bar to serve an-other customer. It was nice to have champions even if they were nothing more than a pair of broken-down, toothless old miners.

About three o’clock the Blue Moon’s swinging door banged open and in walked the last person Angie Kellogg ever expected to see there -the Reverend Marianne Maculyea. “What are you doing here?” Angie asked.

“I brought you something.” Marianne reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of car keys, which she deposited on the bar directly in front of Angie.

“What are those?”

“The keys to the truck,” Marianne answered. “The International may not be a thing of beauty, but it’s totally dependable. Jeff and I talked it over. He’ll borrow a car from one of his clients until we can get your Omega back on the road. In the meantime, it doesn’t make sense for you to be stuck walking. This way you can come and go as needed.”

For Angie, this latest kindness was almost overwhelming. “But what about-”

“No buts,” Marianne interjected. “This is how it is. It’s parked right outside the door.”

“Thank you,” Angie said. That was all she could manage.

From then on, the rest of the afternoon seemed to crawl by. Customers came and went. By four o’clock, Angie was sneaking periodic checks at the clock behind the bar. Would Dennis Hacker call or not? Finally, when the phone rang at four-fifty, she leaped to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Angie,” he said. “I’m back.”

Angie had been waiting eagerly for the call. Now that he was on the line, she found herself drowning in confusion with no clue as to what to say. “How was the meeting?” she stammered.