“Your opinion and mine notwithstanding,” Joanna said, “if the supervisors have already given Childers the go-ahead, what’s the point of my going to see him?”

“If he’s somebody who can make or break a member of the board of supervisors, he could also make or break a sheriff-if he sets his mind to it, that is.”

Joanna thought about that for a moment. “So you’re advising me to do a little political fence-mending.”

Frank nodded. “It couldn’t hurt.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises.”

After Frank left, Joanna sat alone in her office staring at the pile of mail on her desk. From the moment she had been sworn into office, there seemed to have been an unending avalanche of the stuff. It drifted in mountainous heaps from Kristin’s desk to hers and back again. Joanna took the topmost sheet off the stack. Then, for the next five minutes, lost in thought, she stared uncomprehendingly at the piece of paper in her hand without the words ever sorting themselves into meaningful sentences.

What if what Frank had said was true? What if there was a far too cozy relationship between Karen Brainard and Mark Childers? She thought about what Dick Voland had said concerning the previous day’s board of supervisors meeting. She couldn’t help wondering if, besides chewing up a pristine desert landscape, Childers and his lady accomplice weren’t also destroying someone else’s life and career in the process.

“Kristin,” Joanna said, picking up her phone. “Get Lewis Flores on the phone for me, would you? He’s the head of Planning and Zoning. No, I don’t know his number.”

She put down the phone and then waited for it to ring again, which it did-a minute or so later.

“I talked to Linda, the secretary at Planning and Zoning,” Kristin said. “She told me Mr. Flores is out sick today.”

I’ll just bet he is, Joanna thought grimly. If I were in his shoes, I probably would be, too.

After doing what she could about reaching Lewis Flores, Joanna returned to the correspondence. She was making good progress when, after a light tap on the door, Marliss Shackleford let herself into Joanna’s office. Marliss was a stout woman in her mid-forties with a mop of frosted hair that looked as though it had been permed with the help of a jolt of electricity.

“This is a first,” the columnist said, casting an appraising glance around the room. “I’ve never been admitted to the inner sanctum before.” She stopped in front of Joanna’s oversized desk and ran a scarlet-enameled fingernail across the smooth grain of the polished cherry. “Very nice,” she added.

“Thanks,” Joanna said brusquely. “It’s a hand-me-down. This desk used to belong to Walter McFadden. So did the rest of the furniture.”

“But not that adorable picture of Jenny, I’ll bet.”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “Not that. Come on, Marliss. Let’s get down to business. I’m sure Frank already briefed you on the situation. What more can I tell you?”

“My, my. No time for polite chitchat around here. Just wham-barn, thank you, ma’am.”

Joanna’s jaws clenched. “I’m busy, Marliss,” she said evenly. “If that’s how you want to put it, yes.”

“I’m looking for a personal angle,” Marliss said. She sat down in one of the captain’s chairs, dug around in her purse, and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “Frank tells me this young man…”

“He isn’t young,” Joanna corrected. “His name is Junior, and he’s somewhere in his mid-forties to mid-fifties.”

“Junior was left-well, abandoned, if you will-at the Holy Trinity Arts and Crafts Fair over in Saint David. That ended on Sunday. Why are we just now hearing about it for the first time?”

“Because my department wasn’t notified about the situation until late yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “That’s when Father Mulligan first contacted us.”

“And where is he… What’s his name again?”

“He calls himself Junior. No last name. If he knows what it is, so far he hasn’t mentioned it.”

“And where exactly is he staying? Deputy Montoya didn’t say, but I take it you have him in custody of some sort?”

“He’s not a criminal, Marliss,” Joanna said with as much forbearance as she could muster. “He’s developmentally disabled. So he’s not in custody of any kind. He’s staying with a friend of mine-with Butch Dixon, over in Saginaw. Of course, that is not for publication.”

“Of course not,” Marliss agreed. With a pen poised above her notebook, the columnist frowned in concentration. “But is it safe to have him loose in a neighborhood like that? Lowell School can’t be more than a few blocks away. What if he was left unsupervised and ended up doing harm to one of the children? Would you ever be able to forgive yourself?”

Joanna’s heart hardened even as her resolve melted away. Frank seemed to think that a drippy human-interest story from Marliss Shackleford was Junior’s ticket home. As far as Joanna was concerned, dealing with the columnist made the price of that ticket far too high.

Pointing at her watch, Joanna stood up. “I’m sorry, Marliss. I can see this was a bad idea. It isn’t going to work. I have another appointment. I have to get going.”

“But wait,” Marliss objected in dismay. “You can’t just throw me out with nothing. I was led to believe that I’d have an exclusive from you on this. I’m sure that’s what Chief Deputy Montoya said.”

“Chief Deputy Montoya was mistaken, Marliss. The interview with me is over. Good morning.”

“But-”

“No buts. Good-bye, Marliss. But let me warn you, if you go anywhere near Butch Dixon’s house, you’ll have me to deal with.”

Marliss Shackleford’s dismay turned to anger. “Wait just a minute, Sheriff Brady. Are youthreatening a member of the Fourth Estate? This is a free country, you know. We have a Constitution that guarantees freedom of the press. You can’t get away with telling me what I can and can’t do.”

“Maybe not,” Joanna agreed. “But in addition to freedom of the press, this country also makes allowances for private property. If you go where you’re not welcome-and I can pretty well promise that you won’t be welcome at Butch Dixon’s house-then you can count on being arrested for trespassing.”

“See there!” Marliss shrilled. “Another threat.”

“No, it’s not,” Joanna said. “Not as long as you stay where you belong.”

Slamming her notebook back into her purse, Marliss Shackleford rose from her chair and swept regally from Joanna’s office. As soon as she was gone, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed Butch’s number.

“How are things?” she asked.

Butch sighed. “If I’d known how much trouble it was going to cause, I would never have given you back your badge last night. Junior wants it-and he wants it bad. He’s been searching all over the house for it, ever since he woke up.”

“I’ll find him another one,” Joanna promised. “I’ll come by later and drop one off. Right now, I’m calling to give you a storm warning.”

“A storm? Are you kidding? I’m looking out the kitchen window right now. It’s clear as a bell outside.”

“Not that kind of storm,” Joanna told him. “Remember Marliss Shackleford?”

“The Bisbee Bee’s intrepid columnist?”

“None other,” Joanna said grimly.

“What about her?”

“Frank Montoya suggested Marliss write a human-interest story about Junior in hopes that, if it was distributed widely enough, it might lead us to Junior’s family.”

“I suppose it could work,” Butch said.

“It could but it won’t,” Joanna replied. “She came in to interview me about him and I ended up throwing her out of my office. In Marliss Shackleford’s book, developmentally disabled and pedophile/pervert are all one and the same. She’s afraid you’ll turn Junior loose and he’ll go attack some little kid from Lowell School.”