J. Jance - Desert Heat

In the kitchen where she went to start a pot of coffee, Joanna discovered a note from Jim Bob Brady saying he’d been out to feed the cattle and also that one of Norm Higgins’s boys had stopped by to see about picking up Andy’s clothes for the funeral. Jim Bob had told him to come back later.

Steeling herself for the ordeal, Joanna went back to the bedroom to pick out Andrew Brady’s clothing for the last time. She marched directly to his side of the closet. Norm Higgins had hinted that maybe, under the circumstances, it might be better if Andy were buried in civilian clothes rather than his uniform, but Joanna had decided otherwise.

One at a time she started sorting through the selection of carefully pressed clothing until she located Andy’s newest dress uniform shirt, one that wasn’t frayed around the cuffs and didn’t have any cracked or chipped or missing buttons. She picked out trousers and socks and a full set of clean underwear. After all, Andy never went anywhere without clean underwear.

When the clothes were all laid out neatly on the bed she retrieved the plastic package she’d given in the hospital and sorted through until she found Andy’s badge. Then, taking badge and his best dress boots, she headed for the kitchen. There, drinking coffee and shedding quiet, private tears, she polished the boots to a high gloss and cleaned the badge with Brasso. When she finished, she took the boots and badge back to the bedroom and carefully pinned the badge to the pocket of the shirt, using the previously made holes in the material as a guide to placing the badge properly.

Seeing his clothes all laid out like that made her feel lightheaded. It was as though he had put them there himself and was in the bathroom taking a shower, getting ready to go to work. It was almost too much. Joanna was relieved to hear a car drive into the yard. It meant she had to pull herself together. Otherwise she would have drowned in self-pity.

Marianne Maculyea came in the kitchen door without bothering to knock. “Where’s Jenny?” she asked.

“Still asleep,” Joanna answered.

Marianne shook her head. “Poor little tyke,” she said. “She must have been worn out. How about you?”

“I’ve been better,” Joanna allowed. “How’s Ken Galloway?” Part of her wanted him dead; the other part dreaded whatever investigation would inevitably follow.

“Still nip and tuck,” Marianne answered. “They ’ve flown him to Tucson now. He’s at University Hospital under a heavy police guard.”

Joanna shook her head. “It hurts so much,” she said. “We thought he was our friend.”

“I know,” Marianne said. “The only way an enemy can betray you is by becoming your friend, but when friends…” She broke off, knowing that beyond a certain point, words are no comfort.

“I’ve been working on Lefty O’Toole’s eulogy,” she added, changing the subject. “I’ve spent the whole morning doing my homework. I’ve talked to Adam York. Bobo suggested I talk to him. It sounds to me as though Gertrude O’Toole was right after all, that Lefty really was getting his life turned around.”

“You’ve been talking to York, too?” Joanna asked. “First Bobo and now you. Next thing you know, Adam York’s going to be so popular around here that somebody’ll run him for sheriff.”

Marianne cocked her head. “No,” she said slowly, “but he did have a suggestion in that regard.”

“Oh, really?” Joanna snorted. “What’s it”

“You.”

“Me?” Joanna echoed. “Are you kidding?”

“Nobody’s kidding, Joanna. And he’s not the only one who’s mentioned it, either.”

Joanna Brady shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “Absolutely not. Not me.”

“It’s going to take a complete outsider to straighten up this mess, Joanna,” Marianne said. “Someone who has nothing to gain by taking on the job.”

“I’ve already got a job,” Joanna reminded her.

“That’s funny,” Marianne replied. “It turns that Milo Davis was one of the ones I heard talking about it over coffee this morning.”

“Do we have to discuss this now?” Joanna asked.

Marianne shook her head. “no, I stopped by to pick up Andy’s clothes if they’re ready.”

Joanna nodded. “They’re in the bedroom, laid out on the bed.”

Jenny picked that precise moment to come dashing into the kitchen, trailed by the two dogs. Within minutes a carload of women from the church arrived with the beginnings of what would be several days’ worth of casserole meals. Just when it seemed as though Joanna’s home had turned into a complete circus, a silver-grey Taurus with government plates drove into the yard.

Not wanting to talk to Adam York in front of her other guests, Joanna hurried out to meet him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I came to invite you to the unveiling.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your friends, Bobo Jenkins and Angie Kellogg, just went up to the hotel to pick up that book. I wanted you to be there when they brought it back so you’d be able to see with your own eyes that I’m not in it.”

Joanna looked at him steadily. He met her gaze without faltering. “I really am a good guy, Joanna, and from what I’ve learned around town, I’ve pretty much figured out that you are too. ”

“I’ll go tell Jenny that I’m leaving,” Joanna said.

The Taurus sped down High Lonesome Road. “Is that where it happened?” Adam York asked, nodding at the wash beneath the bridge.

Joanna nodded stonily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a terrible, terrible thing.”

“Thank you,” Joanna murmured.

They drove for a while in silence. “I’ve been thinking about Angie Kellogg,” Adam York said at last. “She wants to sell me that book of hers.”

“I know,” Joanna responded.

“But if I do that, I’ll have to go through channels and across desks. The book will end in an official inventory somewhere, Angie becomes an official witness, a paid informant, and the money she has in that damn beach bag of hers becomes part of an official investigation as well. Since it’s most likely drug cartel money, it would automatically be forfeit.”

“So?”

‘She came up with the idea on her own, and it seems like a good one. She gives me the book. and I don’t ask any questions about the money in her beach bag. The taxpayers aren’t out any money, and I have access to Tony Vargas’s clientele without anyone knowing I have it.”

“I’ll know,” Joanna said.

“Is that a threat?” York asked.

“You could call it that.”

“Listen, Joanna. There may very well be other crooked cops in that book, trusted officers in other jurisdictions, maybe even some in my own. This book, if it’s kept under wraps, may be our one chance to clean house.”

“And if you don’t use it to do just that, you’ll be hearing from me.”

York laughed. “According to the rumors around town, I may be hearing from you any-way.”

“What rumors are those?”

“I heard you’re running for sheriff.” “You heard wrong.”

“Oh,” he said.

A moment later Joanna asked, “Why are you telling me all this, about this under the table deal with Angie? Wouldn’t you be better off with it just between the two of you?”

“Because she won’t finalize the deal until you give the okay.”

“And I’m not okaying anything until I see for sure that your name’s not in that book.”

York laughed again. “You really are one stubborn woman, aren’t you, but believe me. My name’s not in there.”

They found Angie Kellogg with her foot still securely wrapped in bandages sitting on the tiny front porch of Bobo Jenkins’ home in Galena Townsites, one of Bisbee’s subdivisions. Galena was an area where look-alike homes had been built as company housing during Bisbee’s mining heyday. After the mine closures in the mid-seventies, the houses, previously rented to employees, had been sold off at rock-bottom prices.