Glancing to the east, she saw columns of fat thunderheads rising over the Chiricahuas. Quickly she folded her phone and returned it to her purse. “No problem,” she said, motioning to the still ashen-faced Daniel Berridge. “I’ll be glad to take you back.”
The return trip to Rattlesnake Crossing was conducted in absolute silence. While a stricken Daniel Berridge stared stonily out the window, Joanna tried desperately to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound either stupid or patronizing. Only when he opened the door to climb out did she finally find words.
“I’m very sorry about all this, Mr. Berridge. I lost my husband, too, so I know what you’re going through. It’s a bitch!”
He had started to slam the door shut. But when he opened it once more and stared back across the seat at Joanna, she was touched to see that trails of tears were still clearly marked on his pallid face.
“You warned me,” he said, “but I didn’t know how bad it would be to see her like that. I had no idea.”
“We should have foreseen that. If I’d been thinking, we could have waited and just used dental records. It might have taken a little longer, but not much, and it would have spared you—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I wanted to see her. I wanted to see her the way she is now. That way I won’t be able to kid myself into thinking that she’s coming back.”
Joanna saw the terrible emptiness in Daniel Berridge’s eyes. She knew part of the pain had nothing whatever to do with how Trina Berridge looked now—had nothing to do with the indignities that had been inflicted on her body during and after her death. Her husband’s hurt came from what had gone before, from the quarrel that had sent Trina Berridge into the desert in the first place. Hoping to ease the man’s pain, Joanna found herself admitting to this stranger something she had mentioned to no one else, not even to Marianne. It was something so hurtful that she barely acknowledged it herself.
“Andy and I fought too,” she said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Berridge said.
“Andy,” Joanna said. “My husband. We had a big fight the morning he was shot. It took me months to learn that I had to let it go, Mr. Berridge. I can never take back those angry words, but the words aren’t what killed him. The two aren’t related.”
The combination of surprise and aching distress that flashed across the man’s face told Joanna she was right, that she had unearthed part of what was adding extra weight to an already overwhelming burden of grief.
“But it is my fault,” he insisted. “We had a fight, she walked out, and now she’s dead. If I had just kept my mouth shut—”
“If it hadn’t been Katrina,” Joanna heard herself saying, “it would have been someone else.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re dealing with a monster here, Mr. Berridge. I believe he was out hunting, looking for someone to kill. My guess is your wife walked into his range finder and he blew her away. That same night he also shot up some of Alton Hosfield’s cattle and an irrigation pump over on the other side of the cliffs but still on Triple C property. He probably gave the same amount of thought to killing your wife as he did to killing the cattle.”
“But how…”
“He’s a serial killer, Mr. Berridge. We’re pretty sure of one other case and have tentative links to at least one more. There may be others as well, ones we don’t know about yet.”
“But how can this be? I had no idea there were others. If he’s been operating around here, how come nobody ever heard anything about him?”
“We told your sister earlier, but it must have been after you left the lobby. Once these cases hit the media, as they probably will, either this afternoon or tomorrow morning for sure, you need to know that everything about this case is going to come under intense media scrutiny. Your years of relative anonymity here will be at an end.”
“They already were,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“A few months back, this guy showed up here at the ranch unannounced. I don’t remember his name now, but he said he was writing a book on failed sports stars.” He paused and frowned in concentration. “What was the title? I’m sure he thought it was real catchy. That’s it. Losers Weepers was the name of it. All about sports greats or near greats who, for one reason or another, hung up their cleats or gloves or whatever and went home without ever living up to their supposed potential.”
“And did you talk to him?”
“For a few minutes, but when he finally explained what he was after, I told him to take a hike.”
“What was he after?”
“He wanted to know why I quit.”
“And did you tell him?”
“No,” Berridge said. “But I’ll tell you. I lost my nerve. It was during the Indy. We were going around the track on a yellow. I wasn’t even going that fast—seventy or so, maybe. And I was feeling great. I’d had the lead for twelve laps until somebody else spun out on the third turn. I was coming past the place where the safety team was cleaning debris off the track. And then my left rear tire flew off. For no reason, although they said later that I ran over a piece of metal that exploded the tire and tore the wheel right off the axle. It hit one of the safety guys full in the face. Broke his neck. He died instantly. I remember seeing his kids on TV that night, three little girls. The oldest was eleven; the youngest, seven. I haven’t been in an Indy car since then. It just wasn’t worth it to me. If I could kill somebody going seventy, what the hell could I do at two hundred?”
“But your wife wanted you to go back to it?” Joanna asked.
Berridge nodded. “Trina was really offended by the book and by my being included, with or without an interview. She went behind my back. She started calling up some of our old friends from racing, trying to see if she could put together a deal—a car, a sponsorship, all of that. She almost made it work, too. Two weeks ago, I happened to answer the phone in the middle of the day. Usually I’m outside then. This time, though, when nobody else answered, I picked it up. And I recognized the guy’s voice the moment he opened his mouth—Tom Forbes. We used to be buddies when I was on the circuit. Now he’s team manager for my old sponsor.
“‘How’re you doing out there, Bud?’ Tom says to me. That’s what he always called me—Bud. ‘I hear you’re thinking about coming back into the fold.’ I didn’t know what to tell him. That was the first I had heard anything about it. But as soon as I talked to Trina, I figured out where it came from. I told her no deal, and that’s when the fighting started. I knew right then it was just a matter of time.”
“That’s when you started shopping around for a replacement cook?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right.” He paused. “Racing gets in your blood. It can be dangerous as hell, but it’s also glamorous and exciting. And you can make a hell of a lot more money by winning a single race than you can grubbing out an existence here for five or ten years. What Trina didn’t understand is that I like this better. I like taking the time to plant something and then having a chance to watch it grow. I like taking something apart—like a broken bread machine—and putting it back together so it works like new.”
The plank door slammed at the front of the ranch house. Joanna looked up and was surprised to see a collection of several people—young men, mostly—staring at them. Daniel Berridge saw them, too. “I’d better go,” he said. “And I’m doing better now. Thanks for letting me talk. I guess I needed to.”
Joanna nodded. In a few minutes of not asking questions, she had learned far more about Daniel Berridge than might have emerged in even the most focused of interrogations. By talking to him about Andy—by revealing her own dark secret—she had created a bond between them, a human connection, that left her utterly convinced that the man had no involvement in his wife’s death.
Turning the Blazer to drive back out of the yard, Joanna tried to catch a glimpse of Rattlesnake Crossing’s current crop of temporary residents. For Apache-warrior wannabes, the group of mop-ha
ired, mostly blond young men standing on the porch looked disturbingly normal and ordinary.
When Joanna had crossed Pomerene Road earlier to bring Berridge home to Rattlesnake Crossing, the four-way intersection had been empty. Now, though, a white Nissan was parked there—a Nissan Sentra with a Bisbee Bee logo plastered on the door.
Not Marliss again, Joanna thought despairingly. Not twice in one day.
She would have tried to drive right on by, but Marliss Shackleford had seen the Blazer coming toward her. She clambered out of her car, waving frantically.
Joanna slowed and rolled down her window. “Is something the matter?” she asked.
“Is this where it all happened?” Marliss pointed up the now well-worn dirt track that led off toward the cliffs. “Is this where you’re finding all the bodies?”
“From right here, this is a crime scene,” Joanna told her. “That means it’s off-limits for everyone but investigating officers.”
“But what happened out here?” Marliss demanded. “Tell me. Back in town we’re hearing all kinds of awful rumors. Is it true there’s a serial killer on the loose in Cochise County?”
“As you know, Chief Deputy Montoya is in charge of media relations. I believe he’s scheduled a news conference for later today. In the Quarter Horse over in Benson. If you want information, I’d suggest you be there.”
“The Bee’s reporters will be there to cover the news conference,” Marliss replied indignantly. “I’m a columnist, Joanna. My job is to cover the human-interest part of the story. The angle. Most of the time, angles have nothing to do with the pablum that’s dished out at official news conferences.”
“We’re not exactly on the same wavelength, then, are we, Marliss?”
“What do you mean?”
“You say your job is to find an angle,” Joanna told her. “Mine is to enforce the law. Between the two, I don’t think there’s a lot of common ground.”
Marliss Shackleford’s jaw stiffened. Joanna Brady had landed a blow, and both women knew it.
“My, my,” the columnist said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are we power-tripping or what?”
“You’re welcome to call it whatever you want,” Joanna returned. “As you said, I’m merely doing my job.”
“And getting a swelled head in the process,” Marliss added. “It might be a good thing if you took a good, long look in the mirror once in a while, Joanna. Maybe you’d see how you’re treating some of your old friends. Maybe you’d come to your senses.”
“Who are you trying to kid, Marliss? The two of us have never been friends, and you know it. And if you ask me, I don’t think we’re likely to be buddies in the future, either. So give it a rest. Forget the phony friendship stuff. Stay away from me and stay away from my crime scenes.”
“Why, I’ll…”
As Joanna drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Marliss Shackleford stood frozen in a billowing cloud of dust, her mouth open in astonished but silent protest.
Within half a mile of driving away, Joanna regretted what she’d done. She understood at once that she had taken a bad situation and made it infinitely worse. If Marliss Shackleford had been gunning for Sheriff Joanna Brady before this, now the columnist would be downright rabid.
Way to go, girl, Joanna scolded herself. You and your big mouth.
FIFTEEN
HALF A mile down the road, Joanna was so caught up in mulling over the confrontation with Marliss Shackleford that she barely noticed an early-eighties F-100 Ford pickup coming toward her. Only when the truck wheeled in a sharp U-turn and came speeding after her with its lights flashing on and off did she pay attention. She pulled over immediately. Stepping out of the Blazer, she was standing on the shoulder of Pomerene Road when the pickup stopped beside her. There were two men in the truck—Alton Hosfield, owner of the Triple C, and a younger man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.
“Sheriff Brady, what the hell is going on out here?” Hosfield demanded, leaning forward to speak across the young man in the passenger seat. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook. My ranch is crawling with people I don’t know, but I can’t get any of them to talk to me. I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”
“We’re conducting a homicide investigation,” Joanna said. “Two actually. One body was found up on the ledges just below the cliffs last night. Another was found by Search and Rescue this morning.”
“Two homicides,” Hosfield echoed. “On my property? You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Joanna returned. “Katrina Berridge was the cook at Rattlesnake Crossing, just up the road. From the looks of it, the weapon that killed her may very well turn out to be the same one that killed your cattle and wrecked the pump. The other victim, Ashley Brittany, was a biology student from N.A.U. in Flagstaff. She was down here doing a master’s degree internship.”
Hosfield rammed the pickup into neutral and then climbed out. He came around the front of the truck, clutching a frayed Resistol Stetson in his hands. Meanwhile, his passenger stepped out of the truck as well.
“This is my son Ryan,” Alton Hosfield said. “Ryan, this is Sheriff Brady.”
Nodding politely in Joanna’s direction, Ryan doffed his Denver Rockies baseball cap. He was tall and lean like his father, but his bright blue eyes, unruly mop of long blond hair, and finely chiseled features bore little resemblance to his red-haired father’s craggy features. Had Joanna encountered Alton and his two sons on the street, she would have known at once that Alton Hosfield and Jake were father and son. Ryan, on the other hand, didn’t look as though he was remotely related to either his father or his half brother.
Joanna acknowledged the polite greeting by offering her hand.
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” he said.
Joanna turned back to Alton Hosfield, whose face was knotted with a puzzled frown. “Why does the name Ashley Brittany sound familiar to me?” he asked.
“As I said, she was a student intern,” Joanna told him. “Working on a project for the U.S. Department of Agriculture.”
“Wait a minute,” Ryan offered helpfully. “I think I remember her. Wasn’t she the cute little blonde who came around earlier this summer, talking about how we needed to get rid of all the oleanders in the yard because they were damaging the environment and killing off wildlife?”
Comprehension washed across Alton’s tanned features. “That’s right,” he said. “The oleander lady.”
“You knew her, then?”
“I talked to her that one time,” Alton admitted. “Long enough to tell her to get the hell off my property. She showed up in one of those little Toyota 4x4s, wearing her ID badge around her neck and packing a laptop computer. Ryan’s right. She was real full of business, too. She had been up to the house and had seen the oleander we have there—oleander my grandmother planted. Next thing I know she shows up in her shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes and wants me to get rid of it. Wants me to pull it out by the roots. ‘Whatever you do, don’t burn it,’ she says to me. ‘The smoke’s poisonous, too.’ Give me a break!”
“So what happened?” Joanna asked.
“I told her to take a hike. I told her if she wanted to do something useful, to get her ass up to Montana or North Dakota and do something about leafy spurge. Now, there’s something the Feds ought to be worrying about. We’ve had oleander around the house for seventy-five years and it’s never killed even so much as a damned horned toad to say nothing of cattle or deer. Now, leafy spurge, that stuff’s a killer.”
“Leafy spurge?” Joanna repeated. “I’ve never even heard of it.”
“So far,” Hosfield said ominously. “That’s because it hasn’t shown up in Arizona yet. But that’s what I told this woman—girl, really—that if she wanted to do something useful, she should go to work on the spread of that. Euphorbia esula is nightmare stuff. That’s the whole problem with the Feds. They get all hot and bothered about things that aren’t important, like oleander, for God’s sak
e, and totally ignore the kind of thing that will put me and hundreds of people just like me out of business.”
“Well, I can tell you that Ashley Brittany is out of business,” Joanna said quietly. “Somebody shot her and then buried her under a pile of rocks up there on the ledge just under the cliffs. When’s the last time you saw her, Mr. Hosfield?”
“I only saw her the one time, and I’m not sure when it was. A month ago? Three weeks, maybe? All I remember is, the river had flooded one of my pastures. I needed to get the cattle moved to higher ground or they were going to drown. And here’s this little twit of a girl who wants me to drop everything else and chop down a bunch of oleander. Give me a break!”
“What happened?”
“I ran her off. I told her she must have missed the sign when she drove onto my property, or maybe she couldn’t read it. But I told her that the little plastic badge with the USDA printed on it meant she was persona non grata on the Triple C and that she’d better get the hell out.”
“And she left?”
“You bet.”
“And you never saw her again?”
“Sheriff Brady, I already told you…”
“Let me ask you another question, Mr. Hosfield. Have you seen any other strangers around here in the last couple of weeks—somebody who looked like he didn’t belong?”
“On the Triple C?”
“Yes. Or anywhere in the neighborhood for that matter.”
He considered. “Well,” he said, “there are those stupid pretend Indians. Seems like there’s always one or two of them wandering around where they’re not supposed to, either on foot or riding horseback. Other than that, I don’t guess I’ve seen anybody. But then, Ryan and I have had our hands full, too. I haven’t been on the west side of the river since we finally managed to move the stock over here. With the river doing its thing all summer long, we’ve been keeping most of the stock in fenced pastures on this side. That way, we can get trucks to ’em if we need to.”
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