By the time Joanna pulled into her parking place, it was well into late afternoon. She felt as though she had been dragged through a wringer. Lack of sleep from the night before gnawed at her whole body. Once again she was grateful for the privilege of that reserved parking space and for the private entrance that allowed her to come and go without having to face whatever crisis was currently in process in the main lobby.

The door between Joanna’s office and Kristin’s was closed, and Joanna didn’t rush to open it. Stuck to the middle of her desk was a stack of messages. Thumbing through them, Joanna found the usual assortment. Two calls from Eleanor Lathrop, one each from Frank Montoya and Dick Voland. The last one came from Marianne Maculyea. That was the first message Joanna attempted to return. There was no answer. The moment Joanna depressed the switch hook to try making another call, Kristin appeared at the door, closing it behind her as she entered.

“Until I saw your line light up, I didn’t know you’d come in,” she said. “There are some people outside waiting to see you.

“Who?” Joanna asked.

“One’s a priest. He said his name is Father Michael McCrady. The other is a really scary-looking guy in leathers. He says his name is Frederick Dixon. He claims he’s a friend of yours. I checked your calendar and didn’t see any appointments, so…”

“Frederick Dixon…” Joanna mused. “That doesn’t ring any bells. What does he look like?”

“Thirties or forties maybe,” Kristin answered. “I can’t really tell. But he’s bald. Not a hair on his head.”

“Butch Dixon!” Joanna exclaimed. “I always forget his name is Fred.”

“Who’s Butch Dixon?”

“He is a friend of mine. From up in Peoria. He runs cafe that’s close to the Arizona Police Officers’ Academy. I met him in November and again this month when I was u there. What’s he doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Kristin said sourly. “He showed up over an hour ago. I told him you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. He said it was all right, that he’d wait.”

“And who’s the other one again?”

“Father McCrady. Father Michael McCrady.”

Joanna nodded. “Hal Morgan’s friend.”

“By the way,” Kristin added, almost as an afterthought, “we had a call from the Highway Patrol a little while ago. There’s been a bad accident off Highway 80, east of Tomstone. A speeding van full of U.D.A.s lost control and flipped. It sounds like a real mess. We’ve got cars en route, but nobody from our department is on the scene yet.”

The fact that people were waiting for her in the front office faded into insignificance. Traffic incidents involving van packed to the gills with undocumented aliens, most of whom were never properly belted in, often resulted in terrible carnage.

“If the Department of Public Safety is investigating, how come they’re calling us?” Joanna asked.

“II was a pursuit. The officer tried to pull the van over for faulty equipment. Instead of stopping, the driver turner off onto a county road. That’s where the accident happened.

“Who all’s going?” Joanna asked.

“All three deputies from that sector, and Ernie Carpenter tip well.”

“It’s a fatality?”

Kristin nodded. “I guess,” she said. “At least one. There could be more.”

“What about Dick Voland?”

“He’s going, too. He’s still in his office right now, but he’ll be leaving in a minute.”

It would have been easy for Joanna to sit back and let her deputies handle what was bound to turn into a major incident. But Sheriff Brady was working very hard at earning the reputation of being a hands-on sheriff. “So will I,” she said.

“What should I tell the two guys out front, then?” Kristin asked.

“Nothing,” Joanna said. “I’ll handle them myself.”

Pulling herself together, she walked out into the reception area. Up in Phoenix, Joanna had heard Butch mention his Goldwing on occasion, but this was the first time she had seen him clad in full-leather motorcycle regalia. He was stretched out comfortably on the couch, feet on the glass-topped coffee table, reading a book. Appropriately enough, the book was none other than Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Meantime, an elderly gentleman in white-collared priests’ attire paced back and forth in front of Kristin’s desk.

The moment Joanna came into the room, Butch closed the book, smiled broadly, and hurried to his feet. “Joanna,” he said. “There you are.”

At only five feet seven or so, Butch Dixon was relatively short, but powerfully built. As Kristin had noted, Butch’s shaved head was absolutely bald, but the pencil-thin mustache he had sported several months earlier was gone. Its absence made him look younger.

“What are you doing here?” Joanna asked, walking for-ward to shake his hand.

“Decided to take a few days R and R,” he said. “A couple of years ago a guy showed up at the Roundhouse claiming that he could get drunk in any mining town in Arizona and wake up in any other mining town and never know the difference. I decided to put that to the test.”

“You came here to get drunk?”

Butch grinned. “No. I came to see if there’s any difference. I’ve been to Globe and Miami and Superior. I’ve even been to Ajo and Morenci before, but I’ve never been to Bisbee. If you and Jenny don’t have plans for the evening, I thought maybe I could take my favorite lady cop and her daughter out for pizza or something.”

Joanna shook her head. “Sorry, Butch,” she said. “No tonight. A call just came in. I’ve got to go to Tombstone right away. It’s a traffic incident that will probably take most o the evening.”

Disappointment washed briefly across Butch’s face, but that was followed by a good-natured grin. “Maybe tomorrow, then,” he said cheerfully. “I’m staying at the Grand Hotel from now through Monday. Give me a call and let me know.”

Joanna was disappointed, too. Butch Dixon had been an Interesting, fun person to be around. An evening of light hearted conversation and pizza would have been just what the doctor ordered after this impossibly grueling week.

She smiled. “It sounds good,” she said. “I’m sorry about tonight, but…”

“I know,” Butch said. “Don’t worry about it. When duty calls, you’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

With that, Butch grabbed his helmet and book and left, leaving Joanna both relieved and sorry he was gone. Sle turned, then, to the priest: a white-haired, gaunt figure of a man. Behind thick steel-rimmed glasses his gray-blue eyes were at once piercing and kind.

“I’m Sheriff Brady,” she said, offering her hand. “What can I do for you, Father McCrady?”

“I’m a friend of Hal Morgan’s.”

Joanna nodded. “I know,” she said. “From M.A.D.D. Mr. Morgan told me about you. I’d be happy to speak to you, but as you heard, there’s been an emergency…”

“Yes,” he said, “I understand. But what I have to say won’t take long. I just wanted to thank you for putting Hal Morgan in touch with Burton Kimball. Hopefully it won’t be necessary for Hal to utilize Mr. Kimball’s services. Still, it was very kind of you to make that connection for him.”

“I’ll say it was,” Dick Voland growled. The chief deputy, hat in hand, had entered the reception area just in time to hear what Father McCrady had to say. “Sheriff Brady seems to be celebrating Random Acts of Kindness Week a little early this year,” he said.

Joanna turned on him. “I believe that’s enough, Dick.”

“I’m on my way to Tombstone, Kristin,” he said with a glower. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He headed for the door.

Joanna stopped him. “Wait a minute, Dick,” she said. “I’m going there, too. Maybe we should ride over together. It’ll give us a chance to talk. You and I seem to have more than one topic to discuss.”

“But I was leaving right now,” Voland objected. “So am I,” Joanna returned.

Voland sighed. “Which car?” he asked. “Mine or yours?” Joanna realized that if she and her chief deputy were about to have a battle royal, it was important that Joanna Brady be the one in the driver’s seat. “Mine,” she said, then she turned back to Father McCrady. “If you’ll excuse us, we have to go now.”