Looking around, Joanna located a bedside table that had been far enough from the hole that it hadn't tumbled in. Finding a floor joist that still seemed sturdy enough to hold her weight, Joanna lowered the table down as far as she could reach into the crawl space. She had to drop it the last foot or so, but fortunately, it landed upright and stayed that way. Thankful that her skirt and blazer were permanent press, she lowered herself onto the table and climbed down. Once in the crawl space, she spent a few minutes adjusting to the dim light so she could find Belle.

When the bed crashed through the floor, it had spilled Belle off and sent her rolling away from the hole. Fighting an attack of claustrophobia, Joanna finally located the unconscious woman lying with her head against the foundation. By then, Clyde Philips' ex-wife seemed to be coming around.

"Where am I?" she mumbled dazedly. "What happened?"

At the sound of Belle's voice, Joanna went limp with relief. She was grateful, too, for the woman's forgetfulness.

"You fell," Joanna said. "Don't move, because you may he hurt. I'm going for help."

Unfortunately, Belle Philips' blessed forgetfulness didn't last. "What about Clyde?" she demanded, reaching out and clutching at Joanna's arm before she managed to make her escape. "Where is he?"

“You can't help him, Belle," Joanna said firmly. "It's too late for him. I've got to get help for you. Promise me that you'll stay right here. That you won't move. Promise?"

There was a long moment of silence. "I promise," Belle wild finally, and then she began to cry.

Two separate fire departments responded to the 9-1-1 call Joanna placed from a creaky rotary-dial phone on the wall in Clyde Philips' kitchen. One truck arrived from the Pomerene Volunteer Fire Department, as did another engine and ambulance from Benson. One by one, Belle Philips' would-be rescuers disappeared into the house. Meanwhile, Sheriff Joanna Brady went out to the Blazer and radioed back the department. Larry Kendrick, head of the department’s dispatch unit, happened to be on duty.

"Put me through to Detective Carpenter," she said. Ernie Carpenter was her department's lead homicide investigator. "When I'm done speaking to him, I'll need to talk to Dick Voland as well."

"'This isn't exactly your lucky day," Larry told her "Ernie just went home with a migraine headache, and Deputy Voland is locked up in the conference room with the guys from the MJF "

The Multi-Jurisdiction Force was a group of officers from various jurisdictions that had handed together to deal with crime along or near the U.S./Mexican border. Cochise County 's eighty-mile stretch of international line made Joanna's department the natural headquarters for such a group working what law enforcement had dubbed Cocaine Alley.

"What about Detective Carbajal?" Joanna asked. "Is he in?" Jaime Carbajal was Cochise County 's newly minted homicide detective. His promotion from deputy to detective had happened on Sheriff Brady's watch.

"Jaime's in," Larry said. "I can patch you through to him."

"Good. By the time I finish with him, maybe you can pry Dick free from the MJF long enough for me to talk to him. We have a situation up here in Pomerene that could be either a homicide or a suicide."

"But I thought…"

"You thought what?"

"I understood the nine-one-one call to say that the incident in Pomerene involved a woman with injuries. Something about a bed falling through the floor."

"Right," Joanna said grimly, "but that's only half of it. She and the bed fell, all right, but so did a body. The dead man happened to be on the bed at the time."

"Oh, boy," Larry said. "Okay, then, here's Detective Carbajal."

Jaime came on the line. "What gives, Sheriff Brady?"

"I need you up here in Pomerene," Joanna told him. "ASAP. We've got a dead man with a garbage bag on his head and cinched tight around his neck." Looking down at her tan suit, Joanna caught a glimpse of the grime running down the front of her skirt, blouse, and blazer. "Not only is he dead," she added, "the bed he was on fell into the crawl space under his house. It's a mess down there, so whatever you do, don't show up wearing good clothes."

"Whereabouts in Pomerene?" Jaime asked.

"Four-two-six Rimrock. Do you know where that is?"

"Not exactly," Jaime said, "but I'll find it. Pomerene isn't that big, and Dispatch has the new county emergency map. Larry Kendrick can give me directions over the radio while I'm on my way. Will you still be on the scene when I get there, or do I need to get the details from you now?"

Joanna glanced first at her watch and then at the waiting ambulance. It was now almost twenty minutes since the six firemen and two EMTs had disappeared through Clyde Philips' front door. It seemed likely that they were having some difficulty strapping Belle's oversized body to a stretcher and then hauling her up out of the crawl space.

"Believe me," Joanna said, "I'll be here."

"Okay," Jaime said. "I'm on my way. You want me to send you back to Dispatch?"

"Please."

"I called Chief Deputy Voland out of his meeting. He's right here," Larry told her. "Hang on while I put him on the line."

"I understand you've got a homicide up there?" Dick Voland demanded at once. "Where? Who?"

"Clyde Philips, that gun dealer Frank was telling us about earlier this morning. I went by his house in Pomerene to see if he might have any idea who would be shooting up Alton Hosfield's Triple C with a fifty-caliber sniper rifle. The trouble is, Philips was already dead when I got here-dead in his bed."

"You're saying somebody killed him?" Voland asked.

"I don't know for sure. He had a garbage bag fastened around his neck, so it could be a homicide or a suicide, either one."

"Have you notified Doc Winfield yet?" Voland asked. As of the first of July, Dr. George Winfield, former Cochise County Coroner, had taken on the revised title of Cochise County Medical Examiner. And as of several months prior to that, by virtue of marrying the widowed Eleanor Lathrop, he had assumed the role of stepfather to Sheriff Joanna Brady. Under ordinary circumstances, Joanna's call to 9-1-1 would have been followed immediately by a call to Doc Winfield. Right that minute, however, the pair of newlyweds was out of town.

"He's away, remember?" Joanna said. "On his honeymoon."

"Oh, that's right. The cruise to Alaska. I keep forgetting. So I guess somebody needs to call Pima County and have them send in a pinch hitter."

"Bingo," Joanna said. "That was the arrangement. I was hoping we'd manage to skate through without needing to do that. Since we haven't, I'd like you to make the call. I'm stuck here in Pomerene for the duration, waiting for the EMTs to haul the victim's injured ex-wife out of the crawl space under the house."

"So what is it, then?" Voland asked. "Some kind of domestic?"

"I'm not sure what it is, although I don't think DV is too likely," Joanna told him. "Anyway, once yousettle things with Pima County, I'll need you to do something else. Clyde has a locked gun shop out behind his house. It isn't necessarily part of the crime scene itself, and neither is his truck. We'll need to go through both of those in order to find out whether or not robbery is part of the motive for what happened here."

"You want me to stop off and pick up a warrant?"

"That's right."

"Okay, then," Voland replied. "I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Just as Joanna ended the call, Clyde Philips' front door opened. First one and then another of the firemen emerged. For more than a minute the two stood conferring, studying the door. The old-fashioned door was narrower than expected, and working Belle Philips' stretcher out through it was no easy task. It took several minutes of back-and-forthing before the EMTs finally managed to squeeze the heavily laden stretcher out onto the porch. As they loaded the gurney into the waiting ambulance, one of the firemen, red-faced and mopping grimy sweat from his brow, came over to where Joanna was standing. "How do you guys do it?" he demanded.