"The feds are looking for oleander? What's the matter?" Joanna asked. "Have people stopped smoking grass and started smoking oleander?"

"It's poison."

"Of course it's poison. But then, according to what my mother always told me, so are poinsettias. Maybe oleander's getting the same bum rap."

"I wouldn't know about that," Ernie replied. "But somebody back in D.C. came up with the bright idea that oleander is killing wildlife out in the wilds of California, Arizona, and New Mexico. They commissioned a study, and that's what Ashley was doing. She was working on a summer internship sponsored jointly by Northern Arizona University and the USDA. The Pima County Sheriff's Department found her camper and her pickup truck parked in Redington Pass three weeks ago, but they never found her."

"Because she wasn't anywhere near Redington Pass," Joanna said.

She was thinking about the sign posted outside the Triple C. About no trespassing for employees of the federal government or for people giving information to the federal government. And about the conflicting layers of regulation that, according to his wife, threatened to strangle Alton Hosfield's efforts to keep the Triple C alive and running.

"Who owns those ledges along the river?" she asked.

"I don't know," Ernie answered. "I'm not sure where the boundary lines are. That land looks as though it might belong to the Triple C, but that may not be true. Once I finish up with Doc Daly, I could check with the county recorder's office and see who the legal owner is."

"Don't bother," Joanna told him. "You stick with the autopsies. I can check with the county recorder's office. Give me a call, here or on my cell phone, when you finish up with Dr. Daly."

"Okay," Ernie said. "Will do."

"Speaking of autopsies, what's happening on that score?"

"Because of the dental chart deal, Dr. Daly decided to do the girl first. That one's done. She's taking a break and then she'll do Philips."

"She told you she thinks he's a suicide?"

"She said something to that effect, but we'll see."

"Good," Joanna said. "Keep me posted."

She put down the phone and sat staring out her office window at the lush forest of green grass and fully leafed ocotillo covering the steep, limestone-crowned hillsides be-hind the justice center. She had seen Alton Hosfield's No Trespassing sign, but was it possible he had made good on the implied threat by killing some poor girl out earning a college degree through doing an oleander survey? That seemed so silly as to be almost laughable. Still, Joanna knew enough about the supposed Freeman Movement to be worried. She had heard a few of them interviewed on television. A lot of what they had to say made sense-up to a point-but it was what went beyond good sense that worried her. Maybe Ashley Brittany's oleander study had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Maybe her very existence had pushed Alton Hosfield over the edge.

Joanna picked up the phone and dialed the county recorder's office. She was glad when she heard Donna Littleton's cheery "May I help you?"

Donna, verging on retirement, had worked in the recorder's office from the time she graduated from Bisbee High School. She knew more about county property parcels than anyone, and it was only a matter of minutes before Joanna had her answer. The property just across Pomerene Road from the turnoff to Rattlesnake Crossing definitely belonged to Alton Hosfield-and the Triple C.

"Thanks, Donna," Joanna said when she had the requested information. In truth she didn't feel especially grateful. The answer she had was one she hadn't necessarily wanted.

There were two phones on Joanna Brady's desk. She had just finished talking to Donna when the other one rang. This was the private line that came directly to Joanna's desk. Expecting this to be a call from Marianne, she snatched the handset up before the first ring ended.

"How about lunch?" Butch Dixon asked. "You name the place and I'll be there with bells on."

"Oh, Butch," Joanna said. "It's you."

"Yes, it's me," he said. "Don't sound so disappointed. Now that I get thinking about it, I could even use an apology. The dogs and I had a nice evening watching the stars and the moon, but it wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I'm sorry," Joanna said. "I got tied up with…" The beginning apology sounded lame, even to her, and Butch didn't give her a chance to finish.

"I know," he said. "I picked up a copy of the Bisbee Bee this morning and read all about it. I could see from the headlines that you had your hands full yesterday. No hard feelings."

The fact that Butch was so damned understanding about it made things that much worse. Joanna didn't remember ever being understanding about Andy standing her up. Eleanor hadn't been understanding, either-not as far as D. H. Lathrop was concerned. Could that be a trait that was hidden away somewhere in maternal DNA?

"Where do you want to have lunch?" she asked. "And when?"

"Seeing as how I missed breakfast, any time at all would be soon enough," Butch told her.

Now that he mentioned it, Joanna realized she hadn't eaten any breakfast that morning, either. "What about where?"

There was the smallest hesitation in his voice before he answered. "Daisy's."

"All right. See you there. In what, about twenty minutes?"

"That'll be fine."

She put down the phone, finished racing through the few holdover items on her desk, and put that day's crop of correspondence to one side. Then she picked up the phone. "Kristin," she said, "I'm going to lunch. After that, I'll be going up to check on things in Pomerene. When I'm done there, I may end up going on to Tucson as well, so don't expect me back in the office today."

Picking up her private phone once again, she punched in the code that would forward all the calls on that line directly to her cell phone. If Marianne and Jeff called her from the hospital, she didn't want to risk missing them.

Joanna's corner office had a private entrance that opened directly onto her reserved spot in the parking lot. She had picked up her purse and was on her way to the door when the regular switchboard line rang once more. She hurried back to her desk and snatched the receiver up to her ear.

"What is it, Kristin?" she asked impatiently. "I was just on my way out the door."

"I know, Sheriff Brady," Kristin Marsten said. "But I thought you'd want to take this call. It's from Detective Carbajal."

"Right. Put him through."

"I think we found her," Jamie said as soon as he came on the line.

"Found who, Katrina Berridge?"

"That's right," he said, but there was nothing in his tone that sounded like the usual elation and pride of accomplishment that follow a successful search-and-rescue operation. Joanna heard none of the triumph searchers exhibit when they've gone into the wilderness and returned with a living, breathing, formerly missing person.

She felt a sudden clutch of dread in her gut, a knowledge that the other shoe was about to drop. "She's dead, then?"

Jamie sighed. "Yes, she is."

"How did it happen? Where did you find her?"

"The body is only half a mile south of where we were last night. If we hadn't been delayed by finding the first one yesterday, we might have found this one then as well. The victim was shot to shit with something big."

"How big?" Joanna asked. "A fifty-caliber, maybe?"

"Possibly."

But there was something more in young Jaime Carbajal's voice-a pained reticence-that Joanna almost missed at first. "What else?" she demanded.

"This one's the same as the other one," he said.

"What other one?”

"The victim we found last night. Like I said, she was shot. That's probably what killed her, but afterward…"

There was a part of Sheriff Joanna Brady that didn't want hire to go on, didn't want to hear what he had to say. But there was another part that already knew what was coming.