J. Jance - Partner In Crime

Joanna put down the microphone and glanced at me. “I suppose you think returning the paintings is a bad idea.”

“No,” I replied. “Not at all. Returning them to their lawful owners is the right thing to do – the sooner the better.”

Another radio call came in. I was grateful for the continuing interference. It was giving me time to pull myself together.

“Sheriff Brady,” the dispatcher said. “Is Mr. Beaumont with you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The tow-truck driver is on the line. He was on his way to pick up Mr. Beaumont’s vehicle, but the car-rental agency needs a form signed before the driver can pick it up and take it back to Tucson. He wants to know where Saguaro should fax the form.”

Joanna had already offered me a lift to Tucson, but if I accepted it, God only knew what would happen. My mother struggled to raise me to be a “good boy,” and good boys don’t do the kinds of things I wanted to do with some other man’s wife.

When Joanna handed me the microphone, I took the easy way out of what could have been a bad situation for all concerned.

“Have Saguaro fax me the form at the Copper Queen Hotel,” I said. “And tell the driver that when he comes to pick up the form, he’ll need to pick me up as well. He can give me a ride back to Tucson right along with the car.”

At that very moment, Joanna’s Crown Vic was pulling into the loading zone in front of the hotel.

“You’re turning down my offer of a ride?” she asked.

I nodded. “I think it’s for the best. Don’t you?”

She bit her lower lip. I wanted that lip about then, wanted to feel it against mine and taste the remains of the lipstick she had bitten off. But her lips were forbidden fruit for me, just as mine were for her.

“Does that mean we’re supposed to pretend that what happened back there didn’t happen?” she demanded huskily. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I made the whole thing up, and it didn’t happen after all.”

“No,” I told her evenly. “It happened, all right – it happened to both of us.”

“What does it mean , then?” She seemed close to tears.

I wavered between what I wanted to do and what I needed to do. Between right and wrong. Good and evil. Between my mother’s long-ago admonitions and the burning present. I tried to ignore the craving I felt. And the need.

“We’re comrades-in-arms,” I said at last. “We’ve been through a tough three-day war. Being on a battlefield together makes for strong connections. They’re not meaningless, but they don’t necessarily last forever. What happened to us back there isn’t worth risking the family you already have or hurting the people you love. The war is over, Joanna. This old soldier needs to go home now, and so do you.”

I reached out, clasped her hand – the one without the wedding ring – and shook it. “You’re doing a fine job, Sheriff Brady. Best of luck to you. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I guess.”

I opened the car door and stepped out into brilliant sunlight. I stood on the curb and watched her drive away. She didn’t wave, and she didn’t look back.

TWO HOURS LATER A STILL-SHAKEN Joanna Brady ventured into Castle Rock Gallery, which was bustling with activity. Detective Carbajal had been dispatched to unlock the door and then stand by and observe the proceedings. Bobo Jenkins, however, had drafted Jaime into the work crew. Armed with hammer and nails, the two men worked together, busily fashioning sturdy crates from sheets of plywood and lengths of two-by-fours.

One by one, Serenity Granger and Cornelia Lester removed the framed paintings from the walls, brought them to the construction zone, wrapped the artwork in bubble wrap, and slipped them into newly made crates. As they worked, Cornelia related stories about the people pictured on the various canvases – the absent loved ones whose lives Latisha Wall had so carefully recreated with brush and pigment. Working like that while listening to Cornelia’s stories was a balm that seemed to help all three hurt and bereaved people begin to come to grips with their losses.

Banished to the sidelines and nursing her own hurt, Joanna felt let down and useless. She was relieved when Ernie Carpenter came looking for her.

“Hey, boss,” he said, peering at her face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “What’s up?”

“We finally finished scouring the San Pedro for money.”

“How much did you come up with?” she asked.

“Six thousand and some,” he answered.

“There was a lot more than that in Brampton’s backpack,” she told him. “Do you think that’s his pay for making the hit?”

“Seems likely,” Carpenter answered. “The people Jaime and I have talked to who knew Jack Brampton said he was usually dead broke. If it hadn’t been for Dee Canfield putting a roof over his head, the man would have been living on the streets.”

Joanna was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Let’s say he got paid twenty thousand,” she said. “If I’m the guy paying for a hit, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to cough up that kind of money until I was sure the job was done. Latisha Wall died on Wednesday night. Today is only Monday. So who sent Brampton the blood money, and how did it get here?”

“FedEx?” Ernie suggested. “Either that, or UPS.”

But Joanna’s mind was on that pair of pay phones that stood outside the post office – the phones Jack Brampton had used often enough to arouse Harve Dowd’s suspicion.

“The post office has next-day delivery,” she told Ernie. “Do you have any friends who work there?”

“Moe Maxwell retired.”

“Ask him anyway. He may still be able to ask around and find out whether or not any packages came in for Warren Gibson on Friday or Saturday. Tell him it’s an informal inquiry only. If it looks like a yes, we’ll get a warrant.”

An hour later, when Joanna drove into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch, Tigger came racing out to meet her. She felt a tug at her heart to see that Sadie wasn’t with him, but it was reassuring that the younger dog was picking up the pieces and going on. That was what she had to do, too. She had lost something – missed something – even if she wasn’t sure what.

Slanting late-afternoon sunlight glinted off the house’s tin roof. The surrounding trees were only now beginning to change color. Fall was definitely on its way.

Opening the back door, she welcomed the steamy warmth of a kitchen replete with the comforting aroma of baking meat loaf. She found Butch and Jenny in the combination living and dining room. Jenny was sprawled on the floor talking on the telephone while Butch worked at his computer on the dining-room table. Once inside, Tigger raced to Jenny and curled up next to her, letting her use his shoulders as a shaggy, pit-bull/golden retriever pillow.

Joanna started for the bedroom but paused long enough to give Butch a peck on the cheek as she went by.

“How’d it go today?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen or his fingers off the keyboard.

“Okay,” she said. “I think we got him.”

“Great,” he said. “Not bad for a girl.”

She gave his shoulder a friendly whack and then continued into the bedroom, where she removed her uniform and locked away her weapons. When she returned to the living room, Jenny was still on the phone, but Butch’s computer was closed. She saw him moving back and forth in the kitchen, carrying dishes from cupboard to table.

He brightened when she came into the kitchen. “So tell me about your day,” he said, handing her three glasses. “I’ve already heard the condensed version. Now give me the real story.”

Half an hour later, Jenny finally put down the phone and came into the kitchen, “Oh, Mom,” she said, “I almost forgot. Somebody called while I was talking to Cassie. He wanted me to give you a message.”