J. Jance: Partner In Crime

“Does that mean you have to go back out?”

Joanna shook her head. “No. Tica Romero said it looks like natural causes. The woman was evidently terribly sick. She’s George’s problem now, not mine.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Butch muttered.

“What’s going on with the house? Have you been working with Quentin all this time?”

Quentin Branch was the contractor Joanna and Butch had hired to build their new rammed-earth home.

“No,” Butch said. “The meeting didn’t last that long, but there were things I needed to do. Puttering, mostly. Making myself useful.”

While Joanna was having trouble at work with Ken Galloway, Butch Dixon was dealing with his own identity crisis. He had yet to adjust to his relatively new role as stay-at-home spouse. He had completed writing his first mystery novel, but now, while he lived through the interminable months of waiting to see if a literary agency would agree to handle his work, Butch had tackled the job of overseeing construction on the house.

Quentin Branch would be in charge of the major aspects of the job. Butch was doing some of the hand excavation and finish carpentry. It was a way of passing time and keeping his hand in. Joanna had seen Butch’s previous remodeling projects. She had no doubt as to his ability, and his do-it-yourself skill would wring more than full value out of their home-building dollars. Her only qualm had to do with how long the process would take.

Butch finished his beer, and they went to bed. Within minutes, Butch was snoring softly on his side of the bed while Joanna lay awake and wrestled with the Devil in the guise of Ken Galloway. She was sorry now that she hadn’t answered truthfully when Butch had asked what was bothering her. He might have had some useful suggestions about dealing with the recalcitrant president of Local 83. Still, Ken Junior was Joanna’s problem and nobody else’s. If she hauled him on the carpet again and made an issue of the deputies’ collective snub of the funeral reception, it would probably do more harm than good. For all concerned. It certainly wouldn’t make things any easier for Leon Cañedo, and it wouldn’t improve intradepartmental relations, either.

The last time Joanna looked at the clock, it was nearly two in the morning. A ringing telephone jarred her awake at ten past seven. Butch was already long gone from his side of the bed when Joanna opened her eyes and groped for the bedside phone.

“Hope I didn’t waken you,” George Winfield said.

“That’s all right,” Joanna mumbled sleepily. “It’s time for me to be up anyway. What’s going on?”

“It’s about that DOA from last night,” the medical examiner said.

Joanna forced herself to sit up. “What about her?” she asked.

“The name’s Rochelle Baxter,” George returned. “Her driver’s license says she’s thirty-five. My preliminary examination says she was in good health.”

“What did she die of?”

“I don’t know. I thought you might want to have a detective on hand when I do the autopsy, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case she was poisoned.”

Joanna was wide awake now. “You think she was murdered?”

“I didn’t say that. But for an apparently healthy woman to become as violently ill as she was, I’m thinking she may have ingested something.”

“What about the water?” Joanna asked. “Could contaminated water have made her that sick?”

For years the local water system had been under investigation by the Arizona Department of Ecology due to sewage from across the line in Old Mexico that had been allowed to seep into the water table and possibly contaminate the wells that provided water for the entire Bisbee area. Lack of money, combined with lack of enthusiasm, had resulted in nothing much being done.

“It could be, but I doubt it,” George replied.

“What are you saying – it’s a homicide?”

“At this time I won’t say anything more than it’s a suspicious death,” George said. “But if you’re not treating the victim’s place as a crime scene, Joanna, you probably should.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll get right on it. When are you planning to do the autopsy?”

“As soon as you can have one of your detectives up at my office. I’m here now. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“Ernie’s on vacation, so it’ll have to be Jaime,” Joanna said. “I’ll get ahold of him at home and give him a heads-up. Thanks for the call, George.”

“Just doing my job.”

Butch appeared at the bedroom door carrying a mug of coffee. “What’s up?”

“The DOA from last night just turned into what George is calling ‘a suspicious death.’ In case it turns out to be a homicide, I’ve got to get Jaime to witness the autopsy. The victim’s home down in Naco needs to be designated as a crime scene and then investigated.”

Butch glanced at the clock, which now showed twenty past seven, and shook his head ruefully. “Sounds like a full day to me. Joey, don’t you sometimes wish you had a regular nine-to-five job?” he asked, handing Joanna her coffee.

She shook her head.

“Okay, then. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, whether you need it or not.”

Chief Deputy Frank Montoya usually arrived at the department by seven in order to get incident reports lined up for the morning briefing at eight-thirty. Joanna dialed his direct number and was relieved to hear his cheerful “Good morning.”

“You know about the DOA from Naco?” she asked.

“I was just reading the report,” Frank replied. “The EMTs made it sound like natural causes.”

“Doc Winfield doesn’t think so,” Joanna replied. “We need Casey and Dave down there right away.” Dave Hollicker, having just completed a strenuous course of training, had moved out of patrol into the newly created position of crime scene investigator.

“I’ll get right on it,” Frank told her.

“Anything earth-shattering for the morning briefing?”

“Nothing.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “In that case, we’ll put it off until afternoon. You hold down the fort there. When I leave the house, I’ll go straight to the crime scene.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said.

Once showered and dressed, Joanna hurried into the kitchen, where eggs and bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice were already on the table. Butch stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast with the smooth economy of a well-practiced cook.

“Jenny called while you were showering,” he said. Joanna reached for the phone. “Don’t bother trying to reach her,” Butch told her. “Jenny said Jim Bob was taking her to school early. Something about play practice. There are two rehearsals today, both before school and again this evening.”

“She’s all right then?” Joanna asked.

Butch shrugged. “She sounded okay to me.”

He brought a plate of toast over to the table and set it down. “I suppose this means we won’t be having lunch at Daisy’s,” he added.

“Why not?”

“Come on, Joanna,” Butch said, rubbing his clean-shaven head with one hand. Joanna recognized the gesture for what it was – unspoken exasperation. “You know as well as I do. If there’s a murder investigation under way, you won’t pause long enough to breathe, let alone eat.”

Butch’s complaint sounded familiar – like something Eleanor Lathrop might have said to Joanna’s father when D.H. Lathrop was sheriff of Cochise County.

“We don’t know for sure it’s a homicide,” Joanna countered. “Right this minute, I don’t see any reason to call off lunch.”

“When you call to cancel later,” Butch said, “I won’t forget to say ‘I told you so.’ ”

DR. GEORGE WINFIELD DIDN’T LIKE making next-of-kin notifications over the phone, but hours of fruitless searching for Rochelle Baxter’s relatives had left him little choice. DMV records had yielded a bogus address with a working phone number.