by J. A. Jance
Bobo’s powerful fists were clenched at his sides. Beads of sweat glistened on his face as he struggled to keep his anger under control. “That was before she died,” he said pointedly.
“Yes,” Dee returned. “And that’s why I’m raising the prices. In the world of art, those pieces are all more valuable.”
“Not more valuable,” Bobo countered softly. “They’re priceless. What about Shelley’s family?”
“Who else do you think I’m doing it for?” Dee demanded. “If the pieces sell for more money, the family receives more. It’s as simple as that.”
Bobo stepped closer to Dee. It was a threatening gesture. She blinked, but stood her ground.
“You think that’s what Shelley’s family is going to want—money?” he demanded, his face bare inches from hers. He waved an arm, motioning at the vividly colored paintings that lined the white-stuccoed walls. “Who the hell do you think those people are, Deidre Canfield? You know as well as I that they must be Shelley’s family. Having those pictures is going to be far more important to them than any amount of money. Cancel the show, Dee.”
“No. Absolutely not!”
“Then I’ll cancel it for you.”
A man Joanna hadn’t seen before emerged from a backroom, carrying a hammer. “You’d better leave now, Bobo,” the newcomer said, tapping the head of the hammer in the palm of his other hand.
“And you’d better stay out of this, Warren,” Jenkins growled, his eyes swiveling in Warren Gibson’s direction. “This is between Dee and me.”
“You’d all better cool it,” Joanna ordered, physically inserting herself between Dee Canfield and Bobo. “Now. Before things get out of hand.” She turned toward the man with the hammer. “As for you, put that thing down. On the desk. Now.”
After a momentary hesitation, Warren complied. Meanwhile, Bobo Jenkins ignored Joanna’s presence entirely. “Give me my picture, Dee,” he said, speaking over Joanna’s head. “You can go on with the damned show if you want, but it won’t be with my picture in it.”
“All right,” Dee said. “Go get it, Warren. Whatever it takes to get him out of here.”
Again, Gibson hesitated. “Go,” she urged again. Finally, shaking his head, Warren shambled out of the room.
“Look,” Joanna said reasonably. “You’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. No one here is thinking clearly.”
“Those pictures shouldn’t be sold,” Bobo Jenkins insisted. “Or, if they are, it should only be done once Shelley’s family members have given permission.”
For the first time Joanna took a moment to look around the room. Her eyes fell on a picture of a boy and a dog sitting on a front porch. The heat of a summer’s day shimmered around them, but the two figures in the foreground rested companionably in cool, deep shade. The boy and the dog had been lovingly rendered by someone who knew them well; by someone who cared about who they were. Even without looking at any of the other pictures, Joanna knew instinctively that Dee Canfield was right—that the portraits were those of Rochelle Baxter’s loved ones. She was equally sure that Bobo was correct as well. The people painted there would want the pictures to treasure far more than any amount of money.
“Shelley’s family!” Dee Canfield spat back at him. “What family? Did you ever meet any of them?”
Bobo shook his head.
“If Shelley’s work was so damned important to that so-called family of hers,” Dee continued, “don’t you suppose one or two of them would have been included in the invitations for tonight’s opening party? I asked Shelley specifically if there was anyone she wanted me to invite. She said there wasn’t anyone at all.”
“Now that Rochelle is dead, her family is bound to turn up,” Bobo said.
“Fair enough,” Dee replied. “When they do, I’ll have a nice fat check waiting for them, and they’ll be more than happy to take the money and run.”
Warren Gibson appeared in the doorway carrying an almost life-size portrait of Bobo Jenkins. Bobo swallowed hard when he saw it, then he stepped forward and snatched it out of Warren’s grasp. He walked back over to Dee and stood there, holding the painting with both hands.
“Do you know what you are?” he demanded. “You’re a money-grubbing bitch who doesn’t know a damned thing about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.
Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”
Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”
The doorbell tinkled again. A young uniformed police officer wearing a City of Bisbee badge with a tag that said “Officer Jesus Romero” ventured cautiously into the room.
“Everything all right, Sheriff Brady?” Romero asked. “I was told there might be some kind of problem.”
Joanna felt embarrassed. The lights, siren, and call for backup had all proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s under control.”
The officer grinned at her. “I’d rather have it be nothing than something any day of the week. Glad to be of service.”
With that he left. As the doorbell chimed again, Joanna turned back to Dee Canfield, who looked pale and drawn. There was little resemblance between the woman seated at the desk and the angry hoyden who had raised such hell down in Naco a scant hour earlier.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“I’m fine,” Dee returned, though she didn’t sound it. “I’ve sunk everything I have into getting this gallery up and running. It’s fine for Bobo Jenkins to be all sentimental and altruistic with my money. It’s no concern of his. He’s got his military retirement and now he’s sold his business and has payments coming from that on a regular basis as well. But what the hell does he think I’m going to use to pay my bills? My good looks? This show is important to me, Sheriff Brady, damned important! It’s a chance to make some real money for a change. I’m not going to hand over the paintings for free just because he said so!”
“What about the prices?” Warren said, reappearing behind her. “I started changing them. Want me to keep on?”
“Absolutely.”
Joanna sighed. Obviously Bobo Jenkins’s visit hadn’t altered Dee Canfield’s intentions, but at least Joanna had been there to prevent any physical violence.
“All right, then,” she said. “Mind if I take a look around before I go?”
“Go ahead,” Dee said. “Help yourself.”
Joanna spent the next few minutes wandering through the gallery. The lovingly rendered subjects—a young girl shooting baskets, an old man sharpening his knife, a minister leaning down to speak to a young parishioner—were most likely the same living and breathing people who, by now, would be reeling from the terrible news that Rochelle Baxter was dead. Joanna noticed that the paintings in the first two rooms were priced from $850 to $1,000. In the room where Warren was hard at work, they were triple that. Bobo’s accusation of her being “money-grubbing” wasn’t wrong.
Shaking her head, Joanna returned to the front desk, where Dee Canfield was on the phone. Without saying a word, Joanna let herself out the door. She and her Civvie caught up with Bobo Jenkins halfway through town.
“Hey, Bobo,” she called. “That looks heavy. Care for a lift?”
He glared at her briefly, then shrugged his broad shoulders and headed for the car. Between them, they carefully loaded the painting into the Civvie’s backseat, then he climbed in the front next to her.
“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly. “Appreciate it.”
He sat in brooding silence unt
il they started up O.K. Street. “Dee’s still going through with it, isn’t she—the opening and raising the prices?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied.
Bobo slumped deeper into the seat. “Damn!” he said. “What about Shelley’s family? Have you found them yet?”
“Not so far. We’re working on it.”
“Once Dee sells the paintings, Shelley’s family will never be able to afford to buy them back.”
“Probably not,” Joanna agreed. “But you tried, Bobo. You did your best.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Joanna stopped the car halfway down Youngblood Hill, right in front of the gate and the steep stairway that led to Bobo’s house. For the better part of a minute he made no move to exit the car. The depth of his misery was palpable, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.
“I’m sorry about all this, Bobo,” she said at last. “I can see Shelley meant a lot to you.”
He chewed his lip, nodding but saying nothing.
“And I’m sorry to burden you further,” she added. “But we’re going to need your cooperation.”
“What kind?”
“We’ll want you to stop by the department and give us a set of prints. Detective Carbajal is tied up right now. As soon as he’s free, he’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“You need my fingerprints? Why? I thought you said Shelley was sick.”
“She was sick,” Joanna agreed. “But the medical examiner has labeled her death as suspicious.”
“You’re saying someone killed her?” Bobo asked incredulously. “Who would have done such a thing? And why?”
“I can’t answer those questions, either,” Joanna said. “Not yet. We’re working on it, but it’s very early in the process. Investigations take time.”
“But you want my prints. Am I a suspect?”
“Not at all. Yours will be elimination prints. We print everyone who was known to have been at the crime scene prior to the event. That way we can sort prints that belong from those that don’t. From what you’ve told me, you may have been the last person to see Shelley alive.”
Bobo Jenkins nodded morosely. “I see,” he said. “Do I need to do that right away—the fingerprinting?”
“As soon as possible,” Joanna told him. “Time is always important, but you’ll need to call the department before you come by and make sure Casey Ledford is there. She’s our latent fingerprint tech. The last I heard, she was still at the crime scene. And Detective Carbajal is busy at the moment, too. I’m sure he’ll contact you once he’s free.”
“Crime scene.” Bobo repeated the words and then took a deep breath. “Detectives. I can’t believe all this is happening. I can’t believe Shelley was murdered.”
“Bobo, we don’t know that for sure, either,” Joanna reminded him patiently. “At this time, her death is regarded as suspicious. For all I know, it could have been a suicide.”
“No,” Bobo Jenkins declared. “Absolutely not! Whatever killed Shelley, it sure as hell wasn’t suicide!”
With that, he opened the car door, got out, and slammed it shut again. Joanna unlocked the back door. Then she exited the car, too, and helped him retrieve his painting.
“It’s a very good likeness,” she said, once he was holding it upright so she could see it clearly. “Your Shelley must have been a very talented woman, and very special, too.”
As Bobo Jenkins looked down at the painting, his eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away with one end of the grubby towel that still dangled, unheeded, around his neck.
“Thank you for telling me about this, Joanna,” he said quietly. “For coming in person, I mean,” he added. “You’re the boss. It would have been easy to send someone else instead of doing it yourself.”
Joanna nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said.
“And thanks for following me down to the gallery, too,” he continued. “I was so pissed off when I went down there that I might have done something stupid. I could have hurt somebody.”
Joanna looked up at him and smiled reassuringly. “No, Bobo,” she said. “I don’t think you would have. But for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re right about the paintings. There’s no question—they shouldn’t be sold. They should all go to Shelley’s family. Deidre Canfield is dead wrong on this one.”
“Thanks for that, too,” he said.
Carefully holding the painting in front of him, he angled his way through the gate and started up the stairs. Behind Joanna a horn honked impatiently. She jumped back into the Civvie and hurriedly moved it out of the way of the vehicle she’d been blocking.
It was a tough way to start the day, considering she still hadn’t had her morning briefing or a second cup of coffee.
STANDING IN THE WARM LATE-MORNING SUN with the heavy pay phone receiver held to one ear, the man waited impatiently for his call to be put through. The receptionist had accepted the charges, so it wasn’t a matter of money. Still, he didn’t have all day.
Finally someone picked up at the other end. “Good,” he said when he heard the voice. “It’s you. You’ll be happy to know it’s done. She’s dead. All you have to do now is send money.”
Four
BY THE TIME JOANNA ARRIVED at the Justice Center and let herself in through her private back-door entrance, it was almost eleven o’clock. As usual, her office was a mess. The wooden surface of her desk was barely visible under stacks of neglected files and paper.
Organizing the Fallen Officer portion of Yolanda Cañedo’s funeral had taken far more of Joanna’s personal time and effort than she had expected. She and Frank Montoya had shared the responsibilities. All essential law enforcement work had been handled, but some of the more routine matters had been allowed to slide. Now, though, as Joanna dug into the paperwork on her desk, she discovered items that had been routine on Monday. By Thursday they had moved to the “urgent” column.
Wanting to have some quiet time to attack the daunting backlog of paper, Joanna set to work without bothering to announce her presence to anyone, not even to Kristin Gregovich, her secretary in the outside office. Twenty minutes later, as Joanna whaled away at the mess, Kristin came into her office to deliver yet another batch of paperwork. Startled to find Joanna seated at her desk, Kristin almost dropped what she was carrying.
“You scared me to death!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
“Because my phone would have been ringing off the hook,” Joanna answered. “The only way I’m going to make any progress with this mess is to work on it without interruptions.”
Kristin nodded and placed a neatly arranged stack of papers on the one part of the desk Joanna had finally managed to clear. Then, instead of taking the hint and returning to her own office, Kristin sighed and sank, uninvited, into one of the two captain’s chairs facing Joanna’s desk.
In the past two months, Kristin Gregovich had gone from being slightly pregnant to being profoundly pregnant. Her once showgirl-worthy ankles were now severely swollen by the end of each workday. The baby, a girl, wasn’t due for another three weeks, but Kristin, rubbing her aching back, was vocal about hoping to deliver sooner than that. On the other hand, money concerns made her want to stay on the job as long as possible.
Hearing Kristin’s sigh, Joanna looked at her secretary with concern. She worried that there might be some third-trimester complication brewing. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Kristin nodded, but she didn’t look all right.
“Weren’t you supposed to see the doctor yesterday?” Joanna asked.
Kristin nodded again. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Sheriff Brady. We did go, Terry and I both.”
Terry Gregovich, Kristin’s husband, and Spike, his German shepherd, comprised the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s K-9 Unit.
Joanna stood up and came around to the front of the desk. “You look upset, Kristin,” she said. “What is it? Is there something the matter with th
e baby?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” the young woman answered hurriedly. “Shaundra’s fine. The thing is, the only time we could get in for the ultrasound was late yesterday afternoon. We went right after the church service ended. By the time we finished up at the hospital, it was too late to go to the graveside service. I was too beat to go to the reception, so Terry and I just stayed home. But I didn’t want you to think we didn’t come because . . .” Kristin’s voice trailed off uneasily.
When Joanna had first taken over the job of sheriff, she and her young secretary had needed to sort out some issues between them. For a time after Joanna’s election, Kristin’s loyalties had remained with members of the previous administration. With the passage of time, however, the two women had developed a comfortable working relationship. Months earlier, Joanna was the person to whom Kristin had first confided the news of her unexpected pregnancy. And it was Joanna who had helped Kristin and Terry arrange their nice but hurried shotgun wedding.
In the months since, Joanna Brady had taken a kind of proprietary interest in the young couple’s situation. She had been more than a little disappointed the day before when she’d been forced to assume that they, too, had boycotted the funeral reception. It had hurt her to think that both Kristin and Terry had aligned themselves with Ken Galloway’s malcontents in Local 83. That, of course, had been the other reason Joanna had avoided announcing her presence to Kristin.
“You didn’t want me to think you missed the reception because of what?” Joanna asked.
“You know,” Kristin said with an uneasy shrug. “Because of what’s going on around here.”
“You mean because of Deputy Galloway?”
Kristin nodded. “That’s right. Neither Terry nor I wanted to have anything to do with him and his buddies,” she said quickly. “But four forty-five was the only time we could schedule the ultrasound, and the doctor was later than that. I just wanted you to know, Sheriff Brady—whatever those guys in the union are trying to pull, Terry and I aren’t involved. If we had known what was going to happen—that everybody else was going to stay away like they did—we would have come no matter what!”