“I’d like the number for the Los Gatos, California, Police Department,” she told the operator.

“The emergency number?” the operator asked.

With Clayton dead, the emergency was long over. “No,” Joanna said. “The non-emergency number will be fine.”

She spent what seemed like several long minutes waiting on hold before a desk sergeant finally took her call. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Sheriff Joanna Brady of Cochise County in southeastern Arizona. We’ve had a death here-a man named Clayton Rhodes. I understand his daughter lives there where you are-in Los Gatos. I need someone to do a next-of-kin notification.”

The desk sergeant sounded terminally bored. “Name?” he said.

“Clayton Rhodes.”

“No. The daughter’s name.”

“Reba Singleton.”

“Address.”

“943 Valencia,” Joanna returned, followed by the 415 area code telephone number.

“You say this Singleton woman is the stiff’s daughter?”

“The deceased’s name is Clayton Rhodes,” Joanna returned sharply. “The man happened to be a friend of mine-a good friend.”

“And this is the most recent address information you have for his daughter?”

Joanna was losing patience. “It’s the one that was in Mr. Rhodes’ address book,” she answered somewhat testily.

“That may be true, but it could be out of date. The phone number is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our area code’s been 650 for years now. If the dead guy didn’t bother to fix that in his book, the address listed may be out of date as well. What did he die of, by the way-murder, natural causes, old age?”

The word “suicide” stuck in Joanna’s throat. She wanted to find a way to cushion the blow for Reba Singleton. Learning a loved one has died is hard enough. Being told that person has taken his or her own life is infinitely harder on the people left behind. Joanna had never met Reba Singleton, but already her heart ached for her. By not saying too much right now, perhaps Joanna could give Clayton’s daughter a chance to prepare herself.

“Tell Ms. Singleton that the cause of her father’s death has yet to be determined,” Joanna said. “I’ll give you several numbers where I can be reached. Or else, if she’d rather, Ms. Singleton can speak directly to George Winfield, our medical examiner. I’ll give you his office and home numbers as well. That way, once your officers have notified her, she can call one of us for more details.”

“I’m sure that’ll suit our officers just fine.”

“Will you notify me once they’ve talked to her?” Joanna asked.

“That’s not how we usually do it,” he said.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d do it that way this time,” Joanna said firmly. “Let me know one way or the other, whether your people locate her or not. I need to know either way.”

“We’re not equipped-” he began.

Joanna cut him off in mid-excuse. “And what did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Carlin,” he replied after a short pause. “Sergeant Richard Carlin.”

“Thanks so much, Sergeant Carlin. You’ve been most helpful. It’s always a pleasure to work with someone who really cares about inter-departmental relations.”

She hung up before he had a chance to reply. Then, shivering against the cold, she turned on the porch light and waited on the front steps of Clayton Rhodes’ house to see who would be the first to arrive. The winner was Deputy Debbie Howell, followed closely by George Winfield. Somehow Joanna didn’t have the heart to go back to the shed and work the crime scene. She stayed where she was and sent Deputy Howell along to assist the medical examiner and catalog evidence. Not wanting to pay any more overtime than absolutely necessary, Joanna had put off summoning one of her two homicide detectives until after hearing what the medical examiner had to say.

Sitting alone on the top step, Joanna lost track of time. She was surprised by the amount of anger she felt toward Clayton Rhodes-toward a dead man. What was happening that he would have committed suicide over it? she wondered. Was his health going bad? Did he have money worries that he never mentioned? And why the hell didn’t he tell me about it? Maybe I could have helped. Or at least been there to say good-bye.

Clayton Rhodes hadn’t given Joanna that opportunity, and right then that omission on his part seemed utterly unforgivable.

She was still lost in thought some time later when Deputy Lance Pakin showed up fresh from his traffic investigation. She directed him to assist Debbie in bagging and loading Clayton’s body into the medical examiner’s van. While the two deputies went about doing that, George Winfield came up the gravel walkway and sat down beside her. “How’s tricks?” he asked.

Dr. George Winfield was a permanent snowbird who had come to Arizona from Minnesota. Hired by the Board of Supervisors, his initial position had been that of county coroner. Now, though, he held the recently created title of Cochise County Medical Examiner. Due to his equally recent marriage to Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, he was also Joanna Brady’s stepfather.

She looked up at him and gave him a wan smile. “Not so hot,” she answered. “Why’d Clayton go and do that, George? Why did he have to commit suicide?”

“Who said anything about suicide?”

“Well, I thought…”

“You thought he locked himself in that garage with the engine running on purpose?”

“Didn’t he?”

“Deputy Howell,” George called out. “Mind bringing that bag of evidence over here?”

Debbie Howell came toward them carrying a clear plastic bag. Inside it were several glassine envelopes. George held it up to the light and pointed to a rectangular black-and-white object inside. “What does that look like?” he asked.

“A garage-door opener?”

“Right you are. And guess where I found it?”

“I don’t know.”

“In Clayton Rhodes’ shirt pocket-pressed tight up against the steering wheel. My guess is the garage door was open when he turned on the engine. But then something happened-a heart attack maybe, or possibly even a stroke. We won’t know exactly what until the autopsy. Whatever it was, he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. When that happened, the weight of his body pressed against the button, shutting the door.”

“You’re saying he didn’t commit suicide after all?” Joanna asked wonderingly.

“Are you kidding?” George Winfield returned. “To do that, the place would have had to be airtight. And it’s not. Definitely not. If there wasn’t plenty of air, the engine wouldn’t have been running when you got here. In an airtight garage the engine would have quit long ago due to lack of oxygen.”

“So you’re saying he most likely died of natural causes?” Joanna asked.

“Or smoke inhalation. That could be the culprit as well. In any event, for right now I don’t believe Clayton Rhodes took his own life. You didn’t find a note or anything to indicate otherwise, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, he wasn’t bright red, either, which pretty well rules out carbon monoxide, but as soon as I have autopsy results, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, what about notifying next of kin?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. To her surprise she realized two hours had passed since her call to the Los Gatos Police Department. What wasn’t the least bit surprising was that Sergeant Carlin hadn’t bothered to call her back.

“I found Clayton’s daughter’s address and telephone number. Reba Singleton lives in Los Gatos, California,” Joanna replied. “Someone from the local police department there is supposed to notify her and report back to me once the notification has been made.”

“Good. Glad that’s being handled.”

“What next, Sheriff Brady?” Debbie Howell asked. “You calling in the homicide guys?”

Joanna considered for a moment. From what George Winfield was saying, a full-scale homicide investigation might not be necessary, which meant that neither would an overtime visit from one or both of her two homicide detectives.