As usual, Chief Deputy for Operations Richard Voland was on hand and on time. He brought with him the routine sheaf of incident reports that had come in county-wide over the weekend. Tossing the papers onto Joanna’s desk, Voland eased his bulky frame into one of the captain’s chairs in front of Joanna’s desk.

“I don’t know where the hell Frank Montoya is,” he grumbled. “I was told he’s up in Tucson chasing after the kid who stole Mayor Rogers’ mother’s car. Isn’t it about time he got his butt back here to Bisbee and started tending to business? I’m sick and tired of having to cover for him-of having to do my work and his, too.”

Relations between Joanna’s two chief deputies had never been cordial. Frank Montoya’s temporary posting to Tombstone had made things worse. Not only that, Frank’s continuing absence meant that Joanna and Dick Voland were thrown together alone for much of the time,

In public, Dick carried on with total professionalism. Alone in Joanna’s office, however, the man’s continuing infatuation with her was growing more and more apparent. He often came to the morning briefing with two cups of coffee in hand. When he gave Joanna hers, fingers brushing in the process, his face would flush-whether with embarrassment or pleasure, Joanna couldn’t tell. She did know that a call to her from Butch Dixon while Dick Voland was in her office would be enough to send her Chief Deputy for Operations into a day-long funk.

It bothered Joanna that, once the briefings were over, Voland would often find one excuse after another not to leave her office. He would linger in the doorway, making small talk about anything and everything. Sometimes those doorway discussions were official in nature, but more often they revolved around personal issues-around Voland’s bitter divorce and his difficulties as a part-time father. Joanna knew the man was searching for sympathy, and not undeservedly so. But she worried that any personal comments or kind gestures on her part might be misinterpreted.

Before her election to the office of sheriff, Joanna’s experience with law enforcement had been entirely secondhand, as the daughter of one lawman and, later, as the wife and widow of another. Because she had come to the office as a novice police officer, she remained largely dependent on the professionals who worked for her to give her much-needed advice and direction. Richard Voland was an eighteen-year Cochise County Sheriff’s Department veteran. As such, she needed his counsel and help, but his increasingly personal attachment to her forced Joanna to walk a fine line between not alienating the man and not leading him on, either.

On this particular morning, she welcomed Dick Voland’s ill-tempered griping about Frank Montoya. Focus on work usually helped keep personal issues at bay. Without replying, Joanna buzzed her secretary, Kristin Marsten, whose desk was just outside the door.

“Did Chief Deputy Montoya call in to say he’d be late?”

“Actually,” Kristin returned, “he’s on the line right now. I was about to buzz you when you beat me to it. Do you want me to take a message or should I put him through?”

“Let me talk to him,” Joanna replied.

When her line buzzed seconds later, she punched the speakerphone. “What’s up, Frank? Where are you?”

“Still in Tucson,” Montoya answered. “Sorry to miss the briefing, but I wanted to stay with this thing. I was afraid if I didn’t stick around and keep prodding, Pima County would drop the ball.”

“What’s going on?” Joanna asked.

“Everyone has this one filed as juvenile joyriding, which makes it a pretty low priority. When the kid came out of surgery, they didn’t even have any Santa Cruz County detectives here to talk to him. I was it. His mother was there and so was a hotshot attorney who happens to be the kid’s uncle.

“All I wanted to know was where they picked up the car so we’d have some idea of where to go looking for Alice. The kid’s name is Joaquin Morales. His attorney wouldn’t let him talk to me without having some kind of deal in place first. I tried to tell him that if there was a chance Alice was still alive, we needed to find her as soon as possible. The uncle didn’t buy it. He insisted that I call in someone from Pima County. Since the missing person is from Cochise and the shoot-out happened in Santa Cruz, the guys from Pima County weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to come out.

“Finally-reluctantly – Pima County sent out a pair of detectives. According to them, they’ve talked to the kid. He told them he and his buddies found the car out on Houghton Road. If his doctor will release him and if the county attorney will agree to drop all charges, he’s willing to show us where the car was.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna objected. “That doesn’t make sense. How can anybody put together a deal when they still haven’t found Alice Rogers and when they have no idea whether she’s dead or alive?”

“Good question,” Frank said. “I’m a little curious about that myself. Morales’ attorney made a big squawk about how this is Joaquin’s first offense. I don’t think so. This is just the first one he’s ever gotten caught on, but no one’s particularly interested in my opinion. Besides, all I’m trying to do right now is find Alice while there’s still a remote chance that she’s among the living.”

“I’d say there’s not much of a chance right now,” Joanna murmured.

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “She disappeared on Saturday night, and now it’s Monday morning. That means she’s been missing at least thirty-six hours. An older woman like that, if she’s been out in the weather all that time, she’s probably succumbed by now-hypothermia if nothing else.”

“So what’s the plan?” Joanna asked.

“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.”