J. Jance - Trial By Fire

After the briefing ended, Ali made a point of introducing herself to the two correspondents with national connections. After collecting contact information for both Raymond Martin and Alicia Hughes, Ali took her laptop-loaded briefcase and hiked the two blocks back to the sheriff’s office on Gurley. Once there, she made her way to the broom closet-sized office Sheriff Maxwell had designated as her Prescott headquarters.

Logging on to her computer, she found a mountain of e-mail. The subject line of most of them showed they were requesting information on the Camp Verde fires. One of them, with the subject line “Hassayampa,” came from the editor of the Wickenburg Weekly. He wanted more details about the cactus-rustling situation. The rest of the world might be focused on ecoterrorism with a capital E, but small-town newspapers still thrived on small-town events and people, with an emphasis on names.

Ali replied by suggesting the editor contact the rancher in question, Richard Mitchell. Smiling to herself, Ali also typed in the contact information for the Congress substation. Deputies Camacho and Fairwood wouldn’t be able to give out any more information about an ongoing investigation than she could. She wondered if they’d actually report the request to her.

Ali had just punched Send and was starting to deal with the other messages when Sheriff Maxwell popped his head inside her office. “Busy?” he asked.

“I am,” Ali said, “but what do you need?”

“I just had a call from Jake Whitman, the administrator of Saint Gregory’s Hospital down in Phoenix. They’re dealing with the same kind of media frenzy we are. They’ve got a clot of reporters parked in their lobby wanting information on our unidentified victim, who might or might not turn out to be an unidentified suspect. Mr. Whitman wanted to know what I’m going to do about it. I told him I’d ask you if you’d be willing to go down to the hospital and hold the fort for a while. Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” she responded. “If that’s what you need me to do, of course I will. How long do you think you’ll need me to be there?”

“Today for sure,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “Maybe tomorrow, too. If you need to stay overnight, book yourself a hotel room and expense it.”

“What if it turns out to be longer than overnight?” Ali asked.

Looking uncomfortable, Sheriff Maxwell hesitated momentarily before he answered. “According to the EMTs, the woman has second- and third-degree burns on her legs, hands, and arms-close to fifty percent of her body. With burns like that as well as smoke-inhalation injuries, chances are she won’t last much longer than that.”

“You really want me to be down there that long, just to take charge of the media during a death vigil?” Ali asked. “With everything else that’s going on, wouldn’t you be better off with me here?”

“Actually,” he said, “there’s one more thing you might do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve hammered out an agreement with Donnelley that his folks will be the ones tracking the victim’s identity. Truth be known, in dealing with a major incident like this I don’t have enough detectives to cover all the bases. So I’m hoping you’ll keep your ear to the ground while you’re down there. If you hear anything about an ID on the victim, or anything else at all, I want you to let me know-ASAP.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali said. “You just told me that the ATF would be working on identifying the victim. Shouldn’t they be the ones keeping you apprised of everything they’ve learned?”

Sheriff Maxwell gave a mirthless chuckle. “My poor little honey lamb,” he said, shaking his head. “You really are new at all this, and you don’t know how things work.”

“What do you mean?” Ali asked.

“It’s like this,” Maxwell said. “Of course Agent Donnelley and I stood up together in front of all those cameras and microphones and acted like we were the very best of pals, long-lost friends, or maybe even blood brothers. Don’t believe it for a minute. That was strictly a public relations performance, and it’s also a big wad of B.S. His people aren’t gonna tell me or my people a damned thing they don’t have to. The reverse is also true. You tell them nothing without checking with me first. Got it?”

“Understood,” Ali said. “As plain as my woolly little butt.”

Half an hour later, Ali turned off her computer and repacked her briefcase. On the way out, she stopped by the front office to let them know that she would be gone from the office for an unspecified time. Holly Mesina seemed downright thrilled to hear the news.

The only thing she’d like better, Ali thought, was if she’d heard I’d been run over by a bus.

The media folks had disappeared. Now there was plenty of parking on the street, but when Ali made her way back to the Cayenne she was surprised to see a rectangular piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper.

That’s just what I need, Ali thought, a parking ticket.

Except when she plucked the paper off the windshield, it wasn’t a parking ticket at all. It was an unsigned note with a Prescott area phone number. “Please call me,” it read.

Ali got into the driver’s seat, put her briefcase on the floor next to her, and dialed the number in question. “This is Ali Reynolds calling. Who’s ‘me’?” she asked when a woman answered.

The person on the other end of the line hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d call me back.”

If you’d said who you were, I might not have, Ali thought.

“You asked me to call,” she said aloud. “Who is this?”

“It’s Sally,” the woman said. “Sally Harrison. I used to be Sally Laird. I was afraid that with everything that’s happened, if I left my name, you wouldn’t return the call.”

“But I am returning it,” Ali pointed out a trifle impatiently. “I’m calling, as you asked. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you my side.”

If this was going to be a rehash of the union situation, Ali didn’t want to be involved.

“Look,” she said, “I’m working media relations for Sheriff Maxwell. I’m not at all concerned with events that occurred around here before I arrived on the scene. Those things don’t really matter to me, especially not right now. After what happened at Camp Verde last night, I have my hands full.”

“I didn’t do it,” Sally said.

“Didn’t do what?”

“I didn’t take drugs from the evidence room. Ever.”

The fervor in her voice made Ali pause. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “I’m a temporary consultant. Shouldn’t you be saying that to someone inside the department?”

Like Internal Affairs, Ali thought. Or maybe a defense attorney?

“Don’t make me laugh,” Sally replied. “I’m off on administrative leave, but that’s only temporary. Once they have a chance, I’m gone. The problem is, I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“As I said,” Ali told her, “this has nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does,” Sally insisted. “You’re in the middle.”

Exactly, Ali thought, and I need to stay that way.

“Have you met Devon Ryan yet?” Sally asked.

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s good-looking,” Sally said. “He’s smart and funny, and he’s messed up my life. I’m about to lose my job. My marriage is on the rocks. Carston and I are in counseling to see if we can pull things back together. They’re saying it’s all about ‘conduct unbecoming,’ but that’s bogus. Devon ’s slept around before, and so have other people in the department. What they’re after me for is evidence-room theft-that I didn’t do.”