J. Jance - Desert Heat

Joanna shrugged. “From Hiram Young, I suppose. In Bisbee. That’s what the box said. Young’s Fine Jewelry.”

Adam York smiled his white-toothed smile. Joanna remembered the lyrics from “Mack the Knife,” that old song from Threepenny Opera, “Oh the shark has pearly teeth, dear…” Adam York was definitely a shark.

“Oh, come now. Aren’t we being a little obtuse?”

Joanna felt the danger, as though she were about to be pulled over an abrupt edge into some terrible, unknown abyss. All around her, oblivious to what was going on, the other diners in that gracious old room continued their leisurely luncheons, punctuating their genial conversations with polite laughter.

Joanna took a deep breath and studied her adversary. One of Big Hank Lathrop’s lessons came back to her from the far distant past. Eleanor had hated it, lobbied against it, even when it was happening, but her husband had stubbornly persisted in teaching the daughter he called Little Hank the finer points of playing poker. Over and over he had stressed that the secret of winning lay in never, ever showing your opponent that you were scared. Remembering her father’s words, an eerie sense of tranquility seemed to settle over her.

She signaled the busboy to bring more coffee. When he did, she picked up the cup with both hands, letting her ring finger rest casually around the brim of the cup. The ring was hers. It had been given to her and she had nothing to hide. She was gratified to see that her hands didn’t betray her with even the slightest tremor.

She offered Adam York a thin smile. “Obtuse?” she asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you have any idea how much that ring of yours cost, Joanna?”

“I told you before, it was a gift. When someone gives you a present, it isn’t polite to ask how much it cost, or didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

“It cost three thousand four hundred fifty three dollars and twenty two cents,” he said deliberately. “One of my agents checked that with Mr. Young himself in Bisbee early this morning. He let us have a copy of the receipt. It’s paid in full.”

“I don’t understand why the DEA should be interested in the cost of my anniversary present, Mr. York. It seems to me you’d have better things to do with your time.”

He had expected her to crumple then and start spilling the information that would make it easy to nail Andrew Brady once he was fit to stand trial. Instead, Joanna stood firm and brazened it out. York had pictured her as one of two things, either the innocent and most likely wronged wife, one who had no inkling of her husband’s extracurricular activities, or as a guilty co-conspirator. And despite what had been said so far, Adam York still had no idea which was which. Either way, she was very good at fighting back.

“I hope your agent showed Mr. Young the kind of respect he deserves,” she continued deliberately. “Hiram Young is a sweet, frail old man. I’d hate to think one of your henchmen gave him a hard time.”

“I can assure you that my agent was unfailingly polite,” Adam York replied.

“I’ll just bet,” Joanna said with what sounded like a trace of sarcasm. She took an-other sip of coffee.

“Would you like to see a copy of the receipt?”

“No, thank you. That’s not necessary.” She, too, could be unfailingly polite. “I’m happy to take your word for it.” This time there was no mistaking the sarcasm.

“So. Is giving your wife a diamond ring for an anniversary present a criminal offense these days, Mr. York? You said the DEA was investigating my husband, but all you’ve been interested in so far is this ring.”

“And where the money came from to buy it,” he said. “Have you checked your bank balance lately, Joanna?”

Adam hoped that by continuing to use her first name, he might annoy her into a telling emotional outburst, but somehow she seemed to have turned off the weakness he was sure he had detected earlier.

Her green-eyed gaze drilled into him. “Actually, Mr. York, I’ve been a little too busy lately with what you might call life-and-death matters to give a tinker’s damn about my checking account balance, so the answer is no. I have no idea.”

Adam York reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Allow me to enlighten you. Here’s your balance as of ten o’clock this morning.”

He held up the paper. She didn’t even glance at it much less take it, but he could tell from the sudden jutting of her chin that he had finally landed a solid blow.

“How did you get that?” she demanded.

Again he smiled. “It’s all perfectly legal. You can check with the branch manager down there in Bisbee. When federal officers show up at a bank’s head office with court orders in hand, bankers usually jump to give us whatever we need.”

“Then suppose you tell me what my balance is. ”

“Five thousand eight hundred seventy one dollars and five cents. That’s after the checks for the ring and the flowers both cleared.” He gave her another of his overly tolerant smiles. He thought he detected the smallest twitch in the corner of her left eye, but afterward he couldn’t be sure.

“Are you in the habit of keeping that kind of money in your checking account, Joanna?” he continued smoothly. “That seems like a sizeable amount for a struggling young couple like you and your husband.”

She stiffened at that remark, but she didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she leaned forward in her chair and stared back at him with those disconcerting green eyes.

“Mr. York,” she said at last, her voice drop-ping almost to a whisper. “My father was a police officer once, and my husband still is. I am a person who has always been in favor of law and order, one who has utmost respect for officers of the law, but I will tell you here and now that if you are any indication of the kind of people currently serving in the capacity of federal police officers, then this country of ours is in big trouble.”

With that she pulled a ten dollar bill from her purse, slapped it on the table, and pushed hack her chair. This wasn’t exactly the kind of reaction Adam York had expected, and it caught him by surprise. He got up and trailed after her, catching her by the elbow as she stepped up into the dining room’s doorway.

“Look,” he said, “if you’re going back to the hospital, I could just as well give you a ride.”

She wrested her arm away from him. “I don’t ride in cars with strangers,” she responded frostily. “It’s a very dangerous practice.”

She strode away from him, but then, sensing that he was still staring after her, she stopped, turned, and came back.

“By the way,” she said, “if you or any more of your so-called agents show up in the ICU waiting room this afternoon, I promise you, I’ll throw the sons of bitches out. And if you think that’s an empty threat, you might check with Sheriff Walter McFadden.”

“Oh, Miss,” the busboy called to her from across the dining room. “You forgot your bag.

He came over to her, lugging the heavy shopping bag with its bulky load of boots and jacket. She took it, murmured a quick thank you, then turned on her heel and marched away.

“She’s a cool one, all right,” York muttered to himself without realizing the busboy was still listening. He, too, was watching Joanna Brady make her way through the long, narrow lobby.

“She’s beautiful,” the busboy breathed fervently. “Who is she? Someone on TV?”

“Not yet,” Adam York replied grimly. “But keep watching the news. She may turn up there real soon.”

Joanna kept her shoulders back and her head high as she walked away from him. She felt betrayed and wounded by the system. How dare they go nosing around Bisbee, asking Hiram Young questions about the ring? How dare they contact the bank about their balance? People couldn’t really believe that Andrew Brady was involved in drug trafficking. That wasn’t possible!