Kiddo was no longer young enough for the racing circuit, but he was a good, line-looking horse. Joanna knew nigh about horses to realize Terry’s selling price was far lower than it should have been. Fire-sale prices. One step above dog-food prices. If Joanna offered to buy Kiddo for that, she’d be doing exactly what she’d worried about others doing to Terry-taking advantage of her misfortune.

“Jenny’s interested in having a horse,” Joanna said.

“I thought she might be,” Terry said. “Whenever she came here, she always seemed to have either a carrot or an apple in her pocket. That’s why I mentioned it.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

Out in the Blazer, Joanna was eager to tell someone what she had learned, but the long night had evidently taken its toll. No one she asked for was in or available-not Ernie Carpenter, not Jaime Carbajal, not even Dick Voland. Her original plan had been to drop by the department and pass along her latest tips. Now, though, she changed her mind.

Joanna’s interview with Terry Buckwalter had worked far better than she would have expected. The dynamics of two women talking had made it possible for her to emerge with more information than Ernie had been able to elicit in a full-court press of an interview. It was possible that the same thing would happen with Bianca “Bebe” Noonan.

Half an hour later, three and a half miles east of Double Adobe, Joanna turned right just beyond a battered, bullet-sprayed mailbox marked “R. Noonan.” The moment she drove in through the gate, she felt as though she had landed in a slum. The hundred yards or so of dirt road between the fence line and the collection of buildings were strewn with trash. Shards of broken beer bottles glittered, marking the edge of the road. Windblown papers clung to the bottom strand of barbed wire. Hulks of several wrecked vehicles in various stages of deterioration dotted the desert on either side of the road. When she reached the buildings, the cars she found parked there weren’t in much better shape than the junked ones she had passed earlier. Several of the tumble-down buildings seemed barely capable of remaining upright. In fact, the remains of what may once have been a barn had blown over on its side, leaving behind a knee-high stack of gray, tinder-dry wood.

The house itself was a ramshackle clapboard affair seemingly held together by little more than multiple layers of peeling paint. A sagging front porch teetered drunkenly to one side. The remains of a screen door, permanently stuck open, sagged on a single hinge. A long-legged mongrel dog lay in front of the closed front door. He sat up, scratched himself deliberately, then came to the edge of the porch, barking without much enthusiasm or threat. That changed, though, once the faded front door opened and a middle-aged woman in worn jeans and a man’s flannel shirt stepped outside. The trashy house, the weed-choked yard, the woman herself conveyed the same air of uncaring hopelessness and disrepair.

As soon as the woman appeared, the dog went through a sudden ominous transformation. His hackles came up. Now each deep-throated bark was accompanied by a threatening show of teeth.

Wary of the dog’s sudden change in personality, Joanna rolled down the window. “I’m looking for Bebe,” she said. “Does she live here?”

“Out back,” the woman answered. “Take this driveway and go on around to the back of the house. Her place is the trailer, not the bus. You go on ahead. I’ll keep Buddy here with me.”

Buddy, of course. That’s was exactly the name people like that would give to a vicious dog.

Following the directions, Joanna drove around the house. The Blazer’s passing sent a flock of chickens scurrying in all directions. Out back, positioned at either end of a no longer functional clothesline in a yard randomly punctuated by any number of dead appliances, sat a small camper/trailer and a converted school bus. Halfway down the side of the bus a stovepipe, belching smoke, stuck up out of the roof. From the looks of the moldering rubber tires, both formerly mobile vehicles had been marooned in place for a very long time.

Bebe Noonan’s Honda was parked beside the door to the camper. Taking a deep breath, Joanna crawled out of the Blazer and walked up to the door.

Bebe answered her knock. “What do you want?” she demanded, standing in the open door and barring Joanna’s way.

“I need to talk to you,” Joanna said.

Bebe shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. Leave me alone.”

“Do your parents know about the baby?” Joanna asked, ignoring Bebe’s attempted dismissal. “Or are you still trying to keep it a secret?”

Bebe’s face registered shock, then dissolved into a torrent of anguished tears. “Oh, please. You didn’t tell my mom, did you?^”

“No,” Joanna said. “I didn’t tell anybody. Not yet. Let me in.

Wordlessly Bebe complied. Moving away from the door, she allowed Joanna to step inside. The room was impossibly hot. The windows were covered with a thick layer of steam. “Please don’t tell my parents,” the young woman begged, pulling the door shut and following Joanna to a tiny table with two bench seats. “Please.”

Uninvited, Joanna sat down. Bianca Noonan sank down opposite her. “How did you find out about it?” she continued. “Did Terry tell you?”

“You didn’t see me at the clinic a little while ago?” Bebe shook her head.

“I’m not surprised,” Joanna said. “I was just outside the door when you came rushing out. You and Terry were arguing when I got there. I couldn’t help overhearing what was said. It’s true then? You are pregnant?”

Bebe nodded.

“And Bucky Buckwalter is the father?”

Instinctively, as if to protect her unborn child from Joanna’s prying question, Bebe’s hand went to her belly. “What if he is?” she asked. “Terry can’t take it away from me, and neither can you.”

“You’re planning on keeping the baby?”

“Yes,” Bebe whispered. “Of course. I want this baby. So did Bucky.”

“He knew about it then?”

Bebe hesitated. “He was happy about it. Glad.”

“Wasn’t that awkward for him, having you turn up pregnant with his baby while he was still married to Terry?”

Bebe’s chin jutted out determinedly. “They were married, but he didn’t love her anymore. And she didn’t care about him, either. Ask her. She’ll tell you. She was always busy with other stuff, like golf every afternoon. Even when she was there at the clinic, she was mean to him. Sometimes she said such ugly things to him, I was surprised he didn’t hit her. And she wouldn’t have kids. He wanted to, but she wouldn’t. Did you know that?”

And there it was. As simple as that. Bucky Buckwalter had lied to this young woman, betraying her as well. “Terry Buckwalter couldn’t have children,” Joanna said softly. “She had a complete hysterectomy several years ago. I know because I helped handle the insurance claim.”

Dismay washed across Bebe’s face. “But…”

“That’s not what he told you, is it,” Joanna said.

Bebe considered for a moment, then seemed to gather her resources. “It doesn’t matter what he said. Bucky wanted a baby, and now he’s going to have one.”

Expecting contrition, Joanna wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “Maybe,” she suggested. “Are you sure?”

“You mean, am I sure I’m pregnant? Yes. I haven’t been to a doctor, but I know.”

“No,” Joanna said. “Are you sure he wanted it?”

Bebe’s tough facade crumpled. “No, I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was going to tell him, but I never got a chance. My appointment to see the doctor isn’t until next week. I was sure, but I wanted it to be official. But I know Bucky would have wanted it.”

“And you thought he’d divorce Terry to marry you?”

“Yes. He would have, too.”

“How many other people know about this?” Joanna asked.

“Other people? Terry and you, I guess.”