“Anything else?” Joanna asked.

“Not from us,” Ernie said.

“All right then, you and Jaime go ahead and get with the program.”

The two detectives stood up as one. “Wait a minute,” Jaime Carbajal said. “What about that weird guy from Saint David, the one who was with you last night when you stopped by Alice Rogers’ place? Whatever happened to him? Did you locate his family?”

“What guy?” Dick Voland asked.

Caught being less than candid with her subordinates, Joanna blushed to the roots of her bright red hair. She had thought about mentioning Junior’s situation to the briefing as a whole but had decided against it-right up until Jaime’s awkward question brought the issue out into the open.

“I guess I just haven’t gotten around to telling you,” Joanna replied. “His moue is Junior. He’s developmentally disabled, his family evidently drove off and left him behind when they finished up with the Holy Trinity Arts and Crafts Fair over in Saint David.”

“Where’s this Junior now?” Voland demanded. “You didn’t take him home with you, did you?”

“No,” Joanna replied. “I didn’t. He’s staying with a friend of mine, someone who’s had experience with people like Junior.”

“Whoever he is, he’d better have experience,” Voland growled. “If anything happens to that guy while he’s in our custody, our ass will be grass. His family may not have wanted him last Sunday, but if he croaks out while we’re in charge of him, you can bet they’ll hit us with a million-dollar lawsuit so fast it’ll make our heads spin.”

“Nothing is going to happen to him,” Joanna declared firmly.

“Who says, and how are you going to go about finding his family?”

“I don’t know yet,” Joanna admitted. “I still haven’t decided.”

“Let me remind you, Sheriff Brady,” Voland said. “We’re in the business of law enforcement, not social service. Considering what’s gone on around here the last few days, we’ve got our hands plenty full playing cops and robbers without going out of our way to collect lost retards and drag them home.”

Joanna sent her chief deputy a frosty glance. She was accustomed to that kind of comment from Voland. In the privacy of the morning briefing, where only she and Frank Montoya were present, she cut the man some slack. In front of her two homicide detectives, it was absolutely unacceptable.

“The proper term is developmentally disabled, Deputy Voland, not retard,” Joanna told him. “We’re not calling Junior that in this office-not to his face and not behind his back, either. And don’t think for a minute this is some kind of mindless acquiescence to political correctness. It’s called common decency. Is that clear?”

Voland backed down. “It’s clear all right,” he said.

Joanna turned back to the detectives. “You go on now. If we need your help on the Junior situation, I’ll let you know.” As soon as the two detectives let themselves out of the office, Joanna zeroed in on Voland once again. “Don’t pull that kind of stunt again, Dick. Understand?”

He nodded glumly. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“And now,” Joanna continued, “do either of you have any bright ideas about how to locate Junior’s family?”

“Not me,” Voland said.

“Frank?”

“You’ve checked his clothing for ID?”

“Right,” Joanna said, “and found nothing. It looks suspiciously as though all the labels have been deliberately removed.”

“So you’re suggesting that whoever left him in Saint David did it on purpose, that they don’t want to be found.”

“Right.”

Frank tapped a thoughtful finger on his forehead. “Maybe we should take a lesson from that television show, ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ Let’s try to spread the word on this. Maybe we could even hit the wire services. We’ll show Junior’s picture, tell where he was found, and all that. If we make a big enough splash, maybe someone will recognize him.”

“That might work,” Joanna concluded after a moment’s thought. “Any ideas about how to go about it?”

“This is human-interest stuff. I think it’s the kind of story Marliss Shackleford could really sink her teeth into.”

“Not Marliss!” Joanna objected, setting her law. “After all, she’s not even a reporter anymore. She’s a columnist.”

“Yes, but I bet she’d jump on this one, especially if it gives her a crack at national exposure.”

Of all the people involved in the local news media, Marliss was Joanna’s hands-down least favorite. However, if this really was the only way to help Junior get back home, Joanna knew she’d have to do it.

“All right,” she agreed. “When you finish up with the Oak Vista Estates press conference, see if Marliss will play ball. Speaking of Oak Vista, what do you plan to tell the press?”

During the meeting Frank had continually thumbed through the sheaf of incident reports. “My usual media soft shoe, I suppose.” He grinned. “What do you think they’ll want to know?”

“Whether or not the county is under attack by a bunch of outside environmentalists who are going to try to bring the current building boom to a screeching halt. They’re going to want to know the same things we do-where the protesters come from, what they’re doing here, and who’s behind them. Tell the reporters that when we have some answers, so will they.”

Recovered from Joanna’s reprimand, Voland took them through the other routine reports from the day before. Afterward, he pushed his chair back and heaved himself out of it. “I have real work to do,” he announced. Even so, he paused at the door long enough to glower at Joanna one last time.

“I still think you’d better provide full documentation concerning anything and everything to do with your friend Junior since you took charge of him,” he said. “That’s the only way to go on a deal it that, otherwise you can pretty mulch count on the incident coming back and biting us in the butt.”

“Dick,” Joanna assured him. “I’ll take care of it.” Mumbling under his breath, Voland left Joanna’s office and slammed the door behind him. “He is right about that, you know,” Frank said.

“About Junior?” Joanna asked.

“About the full documentation bit. Are you sure the person Junior’s staying with is absolutely trustworthy?”

“I can tell you this,” Joanna said. “Junior’s a hell of a lot better off with somebody like Butch Dixon than he would be in a cell out back in the jail which, at the time, was my only other option.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Frank agreed.

They both fell silent. There wasn’t much more to add. “So what are you going to do now?” Joanna asked finally. “Handle the press conference here and then head back to Tombstone?”

Frank nodded. “That’s right. Back to my home away from home. What about you?”

“I plan to take a crack at the correspondence. When I finish up with that, I’m going to head out to Sierra Vista to talk with Alice Rogers’ attorney.”

“While you’re out that way,” Frank suggested, “you might consider stopping by to see Mark Childers.”

Frank Montoya may have been a latecomer to the Oak Vista crisis, but already he had some helpful suggestions for handling the situation.

“How come?” Joanna asked.

“You do know who his girlfriend is, don’t you?”

“No, who?”

“Karen Brainard.”

Joanna was stunned. “As in Karen Brainard, member of the Cochise County Board of Supervisors?” she asked.

“None other. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard rumors here and there that Childers backed her to the hilt, that he even helped bankroll her campaign.”

“And now, miraculously, he’s gotten permission from the board of supervisors for a controversial construction project lots of other people around here hate.”

“Have you looked it over?” Frank asked.

Joanna shook her head. “I haven’t had time.”

“Maybe the tree-huggers are up at arms for a good reason. I’ve never been much of an environmentalist myself, but I hate to see another section of the Huachucas get chewed up by uncontrolled development.”