Fran Daly proceeded through the examination process with Ernie Carpenter and the two Pima County detectives, Hank Lazier and Tom Hemming, observing her every move. With four people crowded around the body, there was no room for Joanna and Frank Montoya to move any closer. They remained on the edge of the clearing. They were close enough to hear most of the crisp comments Dr. Daly spoke to the detectives and into a small tape recorder but not close enough to see what was happening.

Losing interest, Joanna turned to Frank. “You were here when they found her?”

“Not right here,” he said. “I was over by the cars. When the Search and Rescue guys found the body, Lazier and Hemming took off like a shot. I stayed put because I wanted a chance to talk to Joaquin Morales. I figured it was probably the only shot any of us would have at him without his attorney hanging on every word.”

“What did you find out?”

“That his lawyer negotiated a real sweetheart deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“All he had to do was lead us to Alice. Once he did that, he walks. Blanket immunity. No arrest, no charges, nothing. When his buddies come to trial, he doesn’t even have to testify.”

“Come on, Frank,” Joanna objected. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense to someone,” Frank countered. “They claim it was a humanitarian gesture based on the fact that at the time there was a chance Alice Rogers was still alive, since finding her in a timely manner might have saved her life. The other considerations have to do with the fact that Joaquin Morales is only fourteen. He comes from one of Tucson ’s fine ‘old Pueblo ’ families, and this is supposedly his first offense. His pals are older and, according to him, their hands are anything but clean. Once they’re extradited, they’ll be up on charges of grand-theft auto and murder.”

“Not car-jacking?”

“That would make it a federal case. According to the detectives, the county attorney is looking forward to next year’s election and won’t let this one out of his personal jurisdiction.”

“What exactly did Joaquin Morales tell you?”

“That there were several carloads of kids. They came out to the desert for a keg party on Saturday night. He says they were on their way back to town from the kegger when Morales and his buddies came across Alice ’s Buick. He claims it was just sitting abandoned by the roadside with the windows wide open and with a mostly empty bottle of Scotch sitting in the front seat. After the kids polished off the rest of the booze, they decided to take Alice ’s car out for some late-night drag racing. He claims he never even saw the old lady, but it could be he was too drunk to remember.”

“He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t remember where they found the car,” Joanna pointed out.

Frank nodded. “That’s true,” he agreed. “So on Sunday, after the kids had sobered up, one of them came up with the bright idea of driving the car down to Nogales. He said he knew someone across the line who would pay good money for a car like that, no questions asked.”

“Sounds perfectly plausible,” Joanna said with a grimace. “And I’m sure Joaquin is pure as the driven snow. What do Lazier and Hemming think happened?”

“They think the old lady pulled over and stopped. With the booze in the car, there’s probably a good chance she was drinking, too. Maybe she had pulled over and was passed out in her car. Maybe she had stopped to take a leak. Whatever, Lazier theorizes the kids found her, chased her into the cactus, and left her there. Since her death happened in the course of the commission of a felony, that makes it murder.”

“But only for perpetrators who don’t have connections or a sharp wheeler-dealer attorney,” Joanna said.

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Whoever said the world is fair?”

“Justice is supposed to be,” Joanna countered.

She glanced around the area. “Any sign of footprints?” Even as she asked the question, she saw the futility of it. The terrain was far too dry, rough, and rocky to retain usable prints.

“None,” Frank said.

As he spoke, a shadow fell across Frank’s face. Joanna looked up. High above them a buzzard rode the updrafts, drifting in long, lazy circles, hoping for access to the feast. Seeing the carrion eater, Joanna realized that the agreement Joaquin’s attorney had negotiated may not have saved Alice ’s life, but it had, at least, forwarded the investigation. Without the fourteen-year-old’s help in locating the body, it might have been months or even years, before anyone located Alice Rogers’ remains. And with the desert’s numerous carrion caters always on the lookout for their next meal, there might not have been much left for Fran Daly to examine.

Meanwhile, Frank Montoya moved on to a different topic. “I came up just as Ernie was putting the cuffs on Susan Jenkins,” he said. “What happened?”

“Pretty much the same thing you had to deal with in the Grubsteak on Sunday. Susan showed up all pissed off that her brother hadn’t done something about their mother’s boyfriend. She’s of the opinion that Farley Adams is behind whatever happened to Alice Rogers.”

“I doubt that,” Frank said. “I met the man Sunday afternoon. Talked to him in person. He seemed genuinely mystified by Alice ’s disappearance. And in view of what we’ve found here, he sure as hell didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be the mastermind behind a gang of juvenile car thieves.”

“You’re probably right,” Joanna told him. “But with Clete Rogers second-guessing every move we make, I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. I’ve told Dick that we need to go over Alice ’s house from top to bottom. I want it treated like a crime scene even if it isn’t one. I’ve also asked that Jaime Carbajal stop by Outlaw Mountain and talk to Farley again, now that we’ve found the body.”

Joanna paused and looked back toward where Fran Daly was still working. “I’m not being of much use here, so I could just as well go back to the cars and talk to Sergeant Mallory about Susan Jenkins. He needs statements. I can give him mine now, and he can take Ernie’s later.”

Leaving Frank in the clearing, Joanna headed back to where the cars were parked. On the way, her pager went off. Once again Dick Voland’s number appeared on the screen, followed this time by the word “Urgent.” Without waiting to get back to her radio, Joanna used her cell phone to return the call. “What’s up, Dick?” she asked.

“After I talked to you last, I sent Detective Carbajal out to Outlaw Mountain just the way you asked. He called in a couple of minutes ago. He said nobody’s there. Farley Adams is gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Jaime tried peeking in some of the windows. He says it looks like the place has been emptied out. The clothes closet was standing wide open and empty. The dresser drawers are empty, too. I’m sending Deputy Pakin uptown to get a search warrant. I’m betting Farley Adams is our killer.”

That theory didn’t square with Frank Montoya’s ideas about Farley Adams. Nor did it work with the Pima County cops’ hypothesis that Alice had died as a result of being hassled and/or frightened by a gang of juvenile-delinquent car thieves. In her time as sheriff, Joanna had come to realize that often unimportant leads-ones that don’t seem to go anywhere-provide the critical details that point investigators in entirely different directions, leading them eventually to things that are important.

“A search warrant is probably a good idea,” she told her chief deputy. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Dick told her. “Later on, once Pakin gets the search warrant, I’ll follow him on up to Tombstone. With you, Frank, and Ernie all tied up in Tucson someone should go oversee the situation in Tombstone.”

“How was the board of supervisors meeting?” Joanna asked. “Did you go?”