"For one thing, Detective Carbajal is working with that lady buzz saw from Pima County, Dr. Fran Daly," Joanna said. "Incidentally, since Dr. Daly fully expected to report to you, she wasn't at all pleased to have me involved."

"I'm sorry," Voland apologized. "When I was talking to the woman on the phone, I told her as plain as day what the deal was. Where she got the idea that I was in charge, I don't'-"

Joanna cut him off in mid-apology. "II doesn't matter. What Dr. Daly did or didn't think makes no difference. Whatever her misapprehensions, we've worked them out."

Trying to change the subject, Joanna glanced around the room and said:

"It looks to me as though poor old Clyde was a far better shop owner than he was a housekeeper. The house is a pig-sty. You maybe wouldn't want to eat off the floor in here, but it's a whole lot cleaner than the house was. With the added advantage that the shop feels like it's built on a concrete slab."

At once Voland turned solicitous. "You didn't get hurt when the floor collapsed, did you? Even with an injured woman down there, you never should have climbed down there by yourself without waiting for backup."

Cops are always concerned about the well-being of other cops. Had there been someone else present, Voland's comments probably would have passed unnoticed and unremarked. Unfortunately, Joanna knew the man too well. She read the worried look of concern in his eye; heard the undiluted caring in his voice. Not wanting to make things worse, Joanna decided to treat the subject lightly.

"The only thing hurt is my pride," she said, reaching out in another futile attempt to brush some of the grime from her skirt and blazer. "Ernie Carpenter's always on my case about grunging around crime scenes in good clothes. My problem is, I just can't seem to take a hint."

"You'll catch on eventually," Voland said.

Ignoring the slight but unmistakable quaver in the man's voice, Joanna tried to turn the conversation back to business. "Speaking of catching on, how about bringing me up-to-date on what's been happening back in the office? I've been out of the department all afternoon. Anything else interesting going on?"

"We found the trucker," Voland said. "The trucker and his truck, both."

"What trucker?" Joanna asked with a frown.

"Remember that naked hitchhiker from last night, the one we didn't catch?" Joanna nodded. "Well," Voland continued, "she may have been naked, but it turns out she wasn't alone. A guyin an eighteen-wheeler picked her up and drove her as far as that rest area east of San Simon. The driver and the girl were up in the over-cab sleeper and just getting it on when the girl's accomplice burst in on them. The two of them held the driver up at gunpoint. They took all his cash and credit cards. Afterward, they hogtied him with duct tape, drove him as far as Portal, and left him there-stark naked, miles from anywhere. Then the two of them drove the poor guy's truck as far as Lordsburg, New Mexico, where they abandoned it at a truck stop."

"So the trucker's all right?"

Joanna had learned that talking cases with Dick Voland always seemed to help put the proper distance back between them. This time was no exception. The chief deputy grinned at her. "Same as you," he said. "The only thing hurt is his pride and some missing hair where the tape pulled it out. He managed to get loose and walk as far as Mabel Lofgren 's place. She keeps a collection of men's clothing around just in case somebody shows up who might need them."

"You mean, in case a passing UDA showed up and happened to need work clothes," Joanna remarked. In INS circles, the Widow Lofgren was notorious. Mabel had been cited countless times for employing undocumented aliens. No one was sure exactly how she did it, but she always somehow managed to skate free of the charges.

"In this case, though, it was probably a good thing that she had those extra clothes and shoes. I sent Deputy Hollicker out to interview both her and the trucker. According to Dave, by the time the guy could get to a phone and call his bank, the bandits had already used his ATM card to lift a chunk of money out of his account. And they were going through his credit cards like a dose of salts."

"Any other incidents reported with the same kind of MO?" Joanna asked.

Voland nodded. "I'm afraid there are. Sheriff Trotter, over in Hidalgo County, New Mexico, claims this is the third one his department has seen this month. So far no one's been hurt, but with handguns involved…"

"It's only a matter of time," Joanna finished.

"That's right," Voland said.

"Do we have a description?"

"Yes. Since the other two incidents both happened on Trotter's watch, he's talking about having Identi-Kit sketches done for all three. He said he'll pass them along to us."

"Good," Joanna said. "When he does, I'll have Frank Montoya make sure those pictures are posted at every truck stop and rest area in Cochise County. Pima County, too, for that matter."

"Good idea."

"And what about the missing woman up at Rattlesnake Crossing? Have you heard anything from Search and Rescue?"

Voland shook his head. "Not so far," he said. "One of us should probably go up there as soon as possible to see how things are progressing."

"I will," Joanna volunteered. "That was where I was headed to begin with. With everything that's happened this afternoon, I still haven't had a chance to talk to either Alton Hosfield or Martin Scorsby."

"Better you than me," Dick Voland said. "If those two are going to start taking potshots at one another, I'm likely to try knocking some sense into them first and asking questions later. Actually, if you want to head over there now, I can stay here and supervise the crime-scene guys."

Joanna thought about it, but not for long. "You can also oversee Fran Daly," she added with a smile. "Compared to dealing with her, Scorsby and Hosfield should be duck soup."

The sun was dropping behind the Little Rincons as Joanna headed north from Pomerene along the San Pedro. The angle of the setting sun exaggerated the jutting angles and deep crevices in the black-shadowed cliffs to the west of the river. She remembered her instructor in a college-level class in Arizona Geology explaining how three different periods of down cutting had dug three separate levels of terraces along both sides of the San Pedro, creating two matching sets of steep canyon walls. At some time in the distant past-a time of supermonsoons when llamas and turtles had populated a far wetter Arizona landscape-a massive flood had washed away the entire eastern side of the canyon. Left behind, the cliffs to the west still thrust skyward, but their rugged outline was nothing more than a muted echo of the same natural forces that had carved the monumental Grand Canyon.

The rough brown cliffs stood out that much more due to the striking contrast between them and the unaccustomed greenery on the steep flanks of hillside beneath them. Water had been so plentiful that summer that even in the high heat of mid-August, the hillsides were dressed in lush green robes of grass and waist-high weeds.

As Joanna drove north, she turned her thoughts from one case to the other. In Cochise County, crimes involving gunshot livestock were fairly commonplace. Ordinary murders-the kind of crime where people kill people-usually occurred among folks who were known to one another. Killers and victims often turned out to be relatives, lovers or ex-lovers, former partners, or former friends. When it came to the unauthorized slaughter of livestock, Joanna had learned that was generally a stranger-to-stranger kind of crime. That was especially true during hunting season when good-old-boy city-slickers came down from Phoenix and Tucson to shoot up everything on four legs and occasionally a few things on two legs as well.