J. Jance - Outlaw Mountain

“I’m going to hang around here. If Pima County cuts a deal and they take Joaquin out to look for the crime scene, I intend to ride along.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “Keep me posted.”

Switching off the speakerphone, Joanna turned back to Dick Voland and business as usual. Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. “The Pima County attorney gave Morales his sweetheart deal. If Joaquin leads us to the crime scene, all charges are dropped. That’s where I’m going now-someplace out on Houghton Road. Morales and the Pima County cops are going in one vehicle and I’m going in mine. Once we get out in that general direction, we’re supposed to rendezvous with a Search and Rescue team.”

“Has Clete Rogers been informed about any of these latest developments?” Joanna asked.

“No,” Frank said. “I haven’t called him. Up to now, I didn’t think I had enough information to clue him in. Once we locate where the kids picked up the car, we’ll have a probable place to start looking for his mother. Now is most likely a good time to bring him up to speed. Clete Rogers may be a complete jerk. Even so, he deserves some advance warning about what’s going on. And, taking all the political implications into consideration, Joanna, you’re the one who should tell him,” Frank added.

Not so very long ago, Joanna Brady herself had been on the receiving end of a next-of-kin notification. She knew how much that kind of news hurt-knew that it tore people apart from the inside out. Not only that, her own wounds were still fresh enough that there was no way for her to distance herself from other people’s hurt. Those were her private concerns, but she was careful not to make them part of her voiced objection.

Across the polished surface of Joanna’s desk, Dick Voland shook his head. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’ve got too much work to do.”

“Look, Sheriff,” Frank Montoya said in a placating tone that was calculated to win her over, “I know how this guy operates. Clete Rogers is an arrogant jerk, but he’s also a master manipulator. You’ll be doing yourself and your whole department a big favor if you handle this in person. Clete will be a lot less likely to get his nose out of joint and make trouble if news of his mother comes to him sheriff-to-mayor rather than deputy-to-mayor. Most people don’t give a rat’s ass about who gives then the bad news, but Clete Rogers isn’t most people. He’s a guy who walks around with a huge chip on his shoulder just waiting for somebody to cross him or slight him in any way. That’s why I ended up in Tombstone in the first place. Rogers somehow got the idea that the previous marshal wasn’t respectful enough toward him, regardless of whether or not he deserved anybody’s respect.”

“In other words,” Joanna said, “if I don’t do this, Mayor Rogers is going to make your life miserable for as long as you’re stuck in Tombstone.”

“My life and yours, too,” Montoya told her. “He’ll pull out all the stops.”

Sighing, Joanna glanced at her watch. “What about the board of supervisors meeting this morning?” she asked. “If I can’t go and you’re not going, who will handle that?”

“Let me guess,” Voland grumbled from the far side of Joanna’s desk. “I suppose that’s going to wind up in my lap. I’ll take care of it. I’d much rather do that than have to deal with Clete Rogers.”

“Okay, then Frank,” Joanna said. “Since Dick has agreed to handle the board meeting, I’ll be responsible for notifying Rogers. But what about his sister? Who’s going to notify Susan Jenkins? If Clete merits the benefit of the full deluxe treatment, including a personal visit from the sheriff, shouldn’t his sister deserve similar consideration? What if she feels slighted?”

“Let me point out that Susan Jenkins isn’t an elected official with a sizable voting constituency,” Frank said. “I’m sure someone should go talk to the woman in person, but that someone doesn’t have to be you.”

“Good,” Joanna breathed. “Maybe Dick has some stray deputy or other he can spare long enough to send out to Sierra Vista.”

The Chief Deputy for Operations was already examining his duty roster. “There’s Deputy Gregovich,” Voland said. “He and Spike are heading that direction first thing this morning. They’re due at the Oak Vista construction site outside Sierra Vista. If he stops by to see Susan Jenkins, it won’t be that far out of his way.”

Oak Vista Estates was a new mammoth-sized housing development being built at the southern end of the Huachuca Mountains. The previous Friday afternoon, sign-carrying protesters-people who preferred grassy, oak-dotted foothills to freshly bulldozed urban blight-had held hands across the development’s construction entrance in an unsuccessful effort to block the arrival of flatbed trucks delivering bulldozers, back-hoes, and front-end loaders to the site. In the end Mark Childers, the developer, had carried the day by simply waiting out the protesters. He had delivered his equipment after the tree-huggers had all gone home for the night.

Now, in a new week and with work on the project underway in earnest, no one knew quite what to expect. Which was why Voland had dispatched Deputy Gregovich and Spike to the scene in hopes of preventing trouble before it could start.

Terry Gregovich was a Bisbee native and a former marine who had been riffed out of the service after two tours of duty. Back home in Cochise County, Gregovich had done such outstanding work with the Search and Rescue team that Joanna had brought him on board, hoping to turn him into a detective.

That plan had been shot down by budget considerations, but when Frank Montoya had located grant money to establish a K-9 unit, Terry’s previous K-9 experience working airport security with the military as well as time spent as an MP had put him on a fast track. He and Spike, an eighty-five-pound German shepherd, were the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s newest rookies. They generally worked nighttime shifts, but Voland had posted them to days to help handle the Oak Vista protesters.

“Terry’s pretty new on the job,” Joanna observed. “Do you think he can handle talking to bereaved relatives on his own?”

“No doubt about it,” Voland said. “Terry may be new to our department, but it’s not like he’s never been a cop before. He’ll be fine.”

“And what about Spike?” Joanna asked.

“What about him?”

“Here’s Clete Rogers getting a personal visit from the sheriff herself while his sister ends up with a rookie officer and a slobbery German shepherd besides. It sounds a little inequitable to me.”

Dick Voland didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, but Frank Montoya laughed aloud. “No doubt Hizzoner will approve. I’m not so sure about Susan Jenkins.”

“It’s Gregovich or nothing,” Dick Voland growled. “He’s the only deputy I can spare this morning.”

“All right,” Joanna said. “That settles it then. I’ll head for Tombstone as soon as I can. Talk to you later, Frank.” With that she once again switched off the speaker and focused her attention on Voland. “Anything urgent before I hit the road?”

“Nothing that won’t keep,” he said. With that Dick Voland stood up and lumbered toward the outer office. This time he marched straight into the reception area. Breathing a sigh of relief, Joanna followed him. At a desk just outside Joanna’s office Kristin Martin was busily sorting through a stack of mail.

“I’m on my way to Tombstone to talk to Clete Rogers,” Joanna told Kristin. “Just put the mail on my desk. It’ll have to wait until I get back.”

Letting herself out of her private entrance and into the parking lot behind the building, Joanna was faced with a decision. As sheriff, she had two vehicles at her disposal-a battle-scarred Chevy Blazer and a shiny and relatively new Crown Victoria. Because she wanted to make an impression on Clete Rogers and because she wasn’t anticipating driving through any four-wheel-type terrain, she opted for the Crown Victoria. Other jurisdictions sometimes referred to Crown Victoria cruisers as “Vics.” Joanna and Frank Montoya preferred to call them Civvies.