The third page contained the text of the article that accompanied the picture:

In honor of their nineteenth wedding anniversary, fifty-six-year-old Hal Morgan of Wickenburg presented his wife, Bonnie, with a bouquet of nineteen balloons, a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses, and a weeknight’s stay in the honeymoon suite of the Hyatt Regency Hotel.

Morgan spent his anniversary night alone. His wife, Bonnie Genevieve Morgan, the victim of an allegedly drunk driver, died in a crosswalk less than two blocks from their hotel.

Today, balloons and roses as well as a number of candles form part of an impromptu memorial gracing the corner of Third and Van Buren where Bonnie Morgan became the fifth traffic fatality on Phoenix area streets so far this year.

Joanna could stand to read no further. Her eyes blurring with tears, she looked again at the picture. Bonnie Morgan had died on the night of her wedding anniversary. Andrew Roy Brady had died on his wedding anniversary, too. Joanna had been sitting at home-waiting for him and steamed that he was late for their tenth anniversary getaway-when he was gunned down by the drug dealer’s hired hit man. Andy hadn’t died that very night. In fait, he hadn’t died) until the afternoon of the next day, but as far as Joanna was concerned, he had died on their anniversary, when he spoke to her for the last time.

“JoJo,” he had whispered, calling her by the pet name only he had used. “JoJo. Help me.” That was before the ambulance arrived, before the helicopter ride to Tucson and be-fore the killer paid one final visit to finish his deadly work. But for Joanna Andy’s life had ended in the bloodied sand of the wash, and the date that had once marked one of the happiest days of her life now commemorated her worst night-mare rather than her wedding.

For the space of several minutes Joanna stared at the picture with unseeing eyes, letting the events surrounding Andy’s death play themselves out one more time. What if she had gone looking for him earlier? What if she hadn’t left the hospital waiting room when she did? What if? What if? These were questions that still haunted her months later. The only difference was, usually they assailed her in the middle of the night when she was alone in her bed and attempting to fall into some kind of fitful sleep. This time, thrown into an emotional relapse by the eerie similarity between Bonnie Morgan’s death and Andy’s, Joanna found herself sitting at her desk with unchecked tears streaming down her face.

“Sheriff Brady…” Unannounced, Joanna’s secretary burst into the room. Kristin stopped short when she caught a glimpse of Joanna’s face. “Excuse me,” she said in confusion. “I didn’t know… Is something the matter?”

“It’s all right,” Joanna said, quickly wiping at her eyes. “Every once in a while, things just get to me. I end up all weepy with no real warning or reason. Just ignore it. Eventually it goes away.”

Kristin was already backing out of the room. “I’ll come back later,” she said. “When you’re feeling better.”

“No,” Joanna insisted. “Come back now. What’s up?”

“Detective Carpenter just came in. He’s on his way to Sunizona again, but he wanted to talk to you for a few minutes before he leaves.”

“Sunizona,” Joanna repeated. “Why’s he going back there?”

Kristin shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

Joanna sighed. “Give me a minute to fix my face,” she said. “Then send him in.”

Reaching for her purse, she dug inside until she located her compact and lipstick. She had pretty well repaired the damages by the time Ernie let himself into her office.

“Sunizona again?” Joanna asked. “Did somebody else fall off a fence up there?”

She had thought a wry comment might help them both, but a somber Detective Carpenter seemed unmoved. “That’s the whole problem,” he grunted, sinking into a chair. “Nobody fell off a fence-not even Reed Carruthers.”

“But I thought…”

“So did I,” Ernie answered. “But I’ve just come from Dr. Winfield’s office. Reed Carruthers didn’t die of a single blow to the head from falling on a rock. According to the doc, he suffered from blunt-instrument head trauma-multiples of same. In other words, somebody literally beat his fucking brains in, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

It was the first time Ernie Carpenter had ever used the F-word in Joanna’s presence. It was an indication of how distressed he was over missing something he now thought should have been obvious.

“No need to apologize, Ernie,” she said.

“Thanks. At any rate, I’m going to head back up there in a few minutes and try talking again to his daughter, Hannah.”

“You think maybe she had something to do with his death?”

“We’ll see. According to Carruthers’ doctor up in Willcox, Hannah Green has been her father’s sole caregiver for a number of years now. His condition has kept her virtually home-bound. Who else would have had an opportunity? Maybe taking care of him got to be too much for her and she just lost it-lost control. That happens sometimes. What gripes me is that I didn’t see it to begin with.”

Joanna nodded. “All right,” she said. “But if you’re off to see Hannah Green, what about Hal Morgan?”

Carpenter gave Joanna one of his beetle-browed frowns. “What about him?” he asked. “The guy’s still in the hospital, isn’t he?”

“As far as I know. Have you talked to him yet?”

Ernie shook his head. “Not so far. His doctor wouldn’t let me near the guy last night. I may be able to see him later on this afternoon, when I get back to town. I wanted to wait until I had autopsy results, and they won’t be ready until later today. I just left the coroner’s office a few minutes ago. Dr. Winfield is up to his ass in alligators this morning. As I walked out the door, he was completing the paperwork on one autopsy and had yet to start the next one.”

“Autopsy results or not,” Joanna interrupted, “you’re still convinced that Hal Morgan’s our man? That he’s responsible for Bucky Buckwalter’s death?”

“No question.” Ernie Carpenter answered without the slightest hesitation. “We’ve got him dead to rights on this one. You can count on it, Sheriff Brady.”

“All right,” Joanna said. “Keep me hosted.”

Moments later, with Ernie oft and running, Joanna turned back to the various stacks of paper littering her desk. Determinedly, she shoved the material concerning Bonnie Morgan’s death back into its file folder, then she refocused her attention on the half-completed conference registration form. With that finished, she tackled the backed up correspondence.

Concentrating on clearing her desk, Joanna totally lost track of time. She was reading over an incomprehensible set of new federally mandated guidelines regarding jail-inmate rights when Kristin tapped on her door once again.

“What is it now?” Joanna asked.

“Your mother’s on the line,” Kristin answered. “She’s wondering where you are and aren’t you going to be late for the luncheon?”

It took a second or two for realization to dawn. “Damn!” Joanna muttered, leaping out of her chair and grabbing her purse. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Twenty to twelve,” Kristin answered.

“I’m late,” Joanna said as she bolted toward the private entrance in the corner of her office, one that opened directly onto her reserved parking place. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

She started the Blazer and rammed the gear shift into re-verse. If eleven-thirty was too late to pick up Eleanor Lathrop and Eva Lou Brady to take them to the women’s club lunch-eon, then eleven forty-five would be that much worse.

Nice going, Joanna told herself as she headed for her mother’s house. What do you do for an encore?