J. Jance - Partner In Crime

“That’s right,” Jaime said. “Except now she’s dead. Doc Winfield said the guy in Olympia almost had a coronary when he heard what had happened.”

“What was she a witness about?”

“Todd wasn’t saying, at least not to Doc Winfield,” Jaime replied. “Said he had to check with his superiors before he could release any information to anyone, including us. However, he did request that he be kept informed about all aspects of the investigation. He gave Doc Winfield the name, phone number, and address of Latisha’s mother and sister back home in Georgia. The father is deceased, and the mother is in poor health. The ME says authorities from Washington will contact the next of kin.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Joanna said. “What about the preliminary results from the autopsy?”

“Inconclusive. No wounds of any kind. No bruises or abrasions. No defensive wounds that would indicate a struggle, and no sign of disease, either. Doc’s not willing to say she died of natural causes, though. He’s ordering a full set of toxicology tests. You know how long those take.”

“Weeks,” Joanna murmured.

“Right,” Jaime said. “So where does that leave us?”

Joanna thought for a moment before she answered. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll handle this case like a full-blown homicide investigation until we know otherwise. If we learn later that Latisha Wall took her own life or died from some kind of accidental poisoning, all we’ll be out are the man-hours we’ve devoted to the investigation. But we have to pay attention right now, while the evidence is fresh. If someone did murder her and we wait for toxicology reports, the trail will be cold by the time we start looking for the perp.”

“What should I do then?” Jaime asked.

“Go back to the crime scene,” Joanna said without hesitation. “Make sure Dave and Casey went over every inch of that place without missing anything. I want you to check with the alarm company and see if there was anything the least bit out of kilter in the last few days or weeks. Talk to people. Canvass the neighborhood.”

“I’m on it, boss,” Jaime said. “Anything else?”

“Yes. You should interview Bobo Jenkins up in Old Bisbee, since he and Rochelle Baxter had something going. Bobo told me he was in her home last evening. He must be the last person to have seen her alive.”

“You think he’s involved?” Jaime asked.

“He and Shelley Baxter were romantically involved,” Joanna replied. “But if you’re asking if I think he killed her, the answer is no. I personally told him about what had happened. He was absolutely devastated.”

“He could have been acting,” Jaime suggested.

“Wasn’t,” Joanna returned.

“All right,” Detective Carbajal said. “I’m on my way.”

Joanna shut off the phone and turned back to Butch. He had sat down in front of the family room blueprint. The disappointed expression on his face made her feel as though she’d just told some unsuspecting kindergartner that there was no Santa Claus.

“Butch, if you really want to have a train shelf, it’ll be fine. I can live with it.”

“You’re not supposed to live with it,” he countered. “You’re supposed to love it.”

“The rest of the house is great,” Joanna continued. “And I do love the kitchen and the bathrooms. There’ll be so much more space than we have now. My problem is that I want the house to be sort of… well, normal,” she said finally.

“Normal as opposed to bizarre,” he said. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. I should just grow up.”

“We’ll find a place for your trains,” she assured him. “I promise we will.”

“Where? Not in the house. None of the other rooms are big enough.”

“We’ll sort it out. Isn’t that what marriage is all about – compromise?”

“I guess.” Butch began reassembling and rolling up the set of blueprints. “Sounds like you need to go,” he added.

“I do,” she said. “But not like this. Not if we’re quarreling.”

“We’re not quarreling,” Butch returned. “You were right; I was wrong. The train shelf’s out of there.”

“But you really wanted it.”

“Look, Joey,” he said. “You can’t have it both ways. The train shelf was an oddball idea. You happen to want normal. That’s reasonable enough. You win. We’ll have normal.”

“But I don’t want to win ,” Joanna objected. “I want us both to be happy with the house.”

“I’ll be happy.”

“How much trouble will it be to take it out of the plans?”

He shrugged. “Not much. The train shelf was a late-breaking brilliant idea I added in just a few days ago or so. All I have to do is take it back out. I’m guessing Quentin will be ecstatic to avoid all that extra electrical work. So there you are. Two to one – I lose.”

“It’s going to be okay, then? You’re not mad?”

“Not terminally mad, but you can buy lunch,” he said. “By the time you pay up, chances are I’ll be almost over it.”

Out at the cash register, Junior took Joanna’s money and then painstakingly counted out her change. When he had finished he flashed Joanna a triumphant smile. “Daisy taught me,” he said proudly.

“Daisy’s a very good teacher.”

“Yes,” Junior agreed, nodding vehemently. “Very good!”

By then Butch, with blueprints in one hand and motorcycle helmet in the other, had followed Joanna out of the backroom. He arrived in time to watch the end of the monetary transaction. He waited until they were out in the parking lot before commenting.

“Amazing,” he exclaimed. “When we first met Junior, I never would have dreamed he’d be capable of making change.”

“Kindness and patience go a very long way,” Joanna said. “Now kiss me. I have to go back to work.”

He gave her a halfhearted smooch and opened her car door.

“Can’t you do better than that?” she demanded.

“Not in public,” he said.

He grinned when he said it. Even so, a troubled Joanna Brady headed back to the Cochise County Justice Center. Getting married and combining households wasn’t easy. She had expected that she and Butch would have tough going over child-rearing practices; over the chores of looking after a ranch full of animals in need of care and feeding.

Whoever would have thought we’d end up fighting over model trains ? she wondered. Compared to that, everything else has been a picnic .

WASHINGTON STATE ATTORNEY GENERAL Ross Alan Connors had just returned from a meeting with the governor when O.H. Todd came into his office to give him the bad news.

“Damn!” Connors muttered. “You’re sure it’s her?”

“No mistake, I’m sorry to say,” O.H. returned. “What do we do now?”

Connors rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “We’d better send someone,” he said at last. “But who?”

“One of the special investigators?” O.H. Todd suggested.

Connors considered and then nodded.

“Which one?”

“What about that new hire?” Connors returned. “The one who just retired from Seattle PD.”

“You mean J.P. Beaumont?”

“Right,” Connors said, nodding. “That’s the one. He hasn’t been on board very long. You should probably check with Harry Ball and see if Beau’s up to speed.”

O.H. Todd stood up and made for the door. “Right,” he said. “Will do.”

JOANNA AND FRANK MONTOYA FINALLY HAD their much-delayed morning briefing right after lunch. Late in the afternoon Joanna was boning up for her Friday-morning appearance before the board of supervisors meeting when Detective Carbajal knocked on her door.