"Afterward, what?" Joanna demanded. "Was she scalped?"

"You got it," Detective Carbajal replied bleakly. "From the middle of her forehead to the back of her neck, there's nothing left but bare bone. Nothing at all."

Stunned, half sick, Joanna allowed her body to sink back into her chair. For the space of a few seconds she said nothing, letting the awful realization penetrate her being. Joanna's department had started out to investigate reports of someone shooting up local livestock. Instead, her investigators had stumbled into the deranged leavings of someone who was obviously a serial killer.

"Have you called Ernie?" she asked finally.

"Not yet, but I will."

"Do it right away. I talked to him just a little while ago from the Pima County Medical Examiner's office. If we're lucky, you may be able to catch him and Dr. Daly before she starts on the second autopsy. Where are you now?"

"Still at the scene. The S and R guys are roping it off. Evidence techs are up working on the ledge. There's no sense in bringing them here until after the ME does what she needs to do."

"All right," Joanna said. "Finish up as soon as you can, then meet me at Pomerene Road and Rattlesnake Crossing. I want to be with you when you go to notify Katrina Berridge's husband and sister-in-law. In the meantime, get on the horn to the FBI and see whether or not this is an MO they've seen before."

"Will do," Jamie replied. "How soon do you expect to be here, Sheriff Brady?"

"Soon," Joanna answered. "I'm on my way."

As soon as she turned the key in the ignition, Joanna remembered Butch. She also realized that if she went straight to Rattlesnake Crossing without either breakfast or lunch, her body would run out of fuel long before she finished what she'd have to do that day. Not only that, she didn't know when there'd be another chance to eat. Pulling her cell phone out of her purse, she punched in the number of Daisy's Cafe. Not surprisingly, Daisy herself answered the phone.

"Sheriff Brady," she said, "your gentleman friend is already here. I've got him stowed in a booth and drinking coffee."

"Good," Joanna said. "And that's why I'm calling. Something's come up. I'm going to have to go on a call, but I thought I'd try to eat and run. Put in my order for chorizo and scrambled eggs and then go ahead and pour my coffee. I'll be there in three minutes or less."

"What about O.J.?" Daisy asked.

"I'll have some of that, too."

"Good enough," Daisy said. "It'll be on the table by the time you get here."

When Joanna pulled into the parking lot, the first vehicle she saw was Butch's Goldwing. That struck her as odd, because she dearly remembered him saying that he wouldn't be Goldwing-ing it when he came to take her to dinner. Oh well, she thought, he must have changed his mind.

She climbed out of the Blazer and slammed the door. That was when she saw a little white Nissan Sentra sedan with the Bisbee Bee logo on the door and a windshield sun-screen with the word PRESS printed on the outside. Joanna recognized the vehicle at once. It was one usually driven by Marliss Shackleford, whose tell-all column, "Bisbee Buzzings," kept the Bee's circulation humming with local gossip. Ever since Joanna's election to sheriff, she had often found herself chewed up and spit out as part of Marliss' journalistic fodder. The fact that the sheriff and the columnist were both parishioners of Canyon United Methodist Church had done nothing to blunt the difficulties between them.

In the small-town world of Bisbee and of Cochise County, Joanna Brady was regarded as a public person. What she did or didn't do was thought to be of interest to everyone-at least that was how Marliss seemed to view the situation. Unhappy with the constant scrutiny, Joanna had learned to dodge the woman whenever possible. In small towns and even smaller churches, that wasn't always possible. Just as it wouldn't be now, when Joanna would be seen having breakfast with an out-of-town visitor-a male out-of-town visitor.

Marliss had already been introduced to Butch Dixon once-on the occasion of Joanna's mother's wedding reception after her marriage to Dr. George Winfield. If Marliss saw Joanna and Butch having breakfast together in Bisbee, no telling what conclusions she would jump to or how those would play out in her next column.

For two cents Joanna would have climbed back into the Blazer and driven away. But she couldn't do that. It wouldn't have been fair to Butch or to Daisy, either one. Squaring her shoulders, Joanna marched into the restaurant. Walking inside, she clung to the faint hope that she and Butch would be seated close enough to the door so she could slip in and out without being noticed. Unfortunately, Butch waved to her from the far corner booth, two tables beyond where Marliss sat chatting with her boss, Ken Dawson, the publisher and editor in chief of the Bisbee Bee.

Because Daisy was already carrying a pair of loaded plates toward the booth where Butch was sitting, Joanna gave Marliss a wave and hurried past almost before the woman saw her and without pausing long enough to ex-change any pleasantries.

"Good morning, sunshine," Butch said with a grin, toasting her with his newly filled coffee cup. "I understand this is going to be wham, bam, thank you ma'am. I'm glad you could squeeze me in, although you're probably here more for the chorizo and eggs than you are for me."

"I'm sorry to do this to you twice in a row," Joanna said, "but Search and Rescue just now found another body up by Pomerene."

The grin disappeared from Butch's face. "The woman who was missing?"

"You know about that?" Joanna asked.

Butch held up a copy of that morning's Bee. "I'd say the coverage was pretty thorough. I always wondered what happened to the guy."

"What happened to what guy?"

"To Danny Berridge."

"You mean you know him?"

"I don't know him per se, but I know of him. He’s a former Indy driver. He won several races. Placed second or maybe third at Indy one year. Was named Rookie of the Year. The next year during the Indy 500, he wiped out one of the rack people-one of the safety workers. He walked away from the wreck and the track. That was the last I ever heard of him until I read about him in this morning's paper. At least I'm assuming it's the same guy. How many Daniel Berridges could there be?"

“The article didn't actually identify him as the same guy?”

"No, but 1 just assumed. He's evidently had a hell of a life, and now with his wife turning up dead…"

Joanna covered her lips with a finger. "We probably shouldn't talk about this right now. We don't have a positive ID and nobody's notified the next of kin. That's where I'm going right now-to meet up with the detectives and then go talk to the husband."

"I can see why you're in a hurry," Butch said, picking up his fork. "You'd better go ahead and eat before it gets cold. You need to keep up your strength."

Joanna's heaping platter of scrambled eggs mixed with hot, spicy chorizo came with a helping of cheese-smothered refried beans, a dish of Daisy's eye-watering salsa, and a tortilla warmer stacked full of tiny, homemade flour tortillas fresh from the grill in the kitchen. Butch helped himself to one, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. As soon as he did, a beatific smile spread across his features.

"I didn't know it was possible to find a place that still served homemade tortillas."

Joanna took one herself. "You have to go pretty far out into the boondocks before that happens," she said. For several moments they ate in silence. "If it wasn't in the paper, how did you know all this about Daniel Berridge?" she asked.