Partner In Crime

Joa

“Here’s what we have so far,” Frank continued. “Eddie and Marcus told me that they discovered the body earlier in the day, probably between three and four this afternoon. Because their parents have declared this whole place off-limits, they didn’t want to let on about their discovery for fear of getting in trouble. They talked it over, though, and finally decided to tell anyway. Mrs. Verdugo found out about it around forty-five minutes ago. That’s when she called 911.”

Joa

“No, ma’am,” Eddie replied at once. “We were both too scared. Besides,” he added, “Marcus was about to puke because it smelled so bad and he’s such a sissy. We got out of there and ran home.”

“The woman whose body you found has been missing since Thursday,” Joa

“Nada,” Eddie Verdugo answered.

“Me, either,” Marcus chirped.

Joa

Velma nodded and pointed toward a mobile home parked on a lot a block or so away. “That’s where we live.”

“Did you notice any unusual activity?”

“No.”

Just then, a man dressed in a Border Patrol uniform passed through the checkpoint and strode toward them.

“Daddy,” Marcus cried. Darting away from Frank’s car, the boy broke into a run and raced to meet the new arrival. The man caught Marcus in midstep, lifted him off the ground, swung him around in a circle, and then hugged him close. It was only as they came nearer that Joa

“What’s going on?” Gabe Verdugo demanded. “Is everyone all right?”

While Frank explained what had happened, little Marcus clung like a burr to his father’s neck. Joa

Fortunately, Gabe, a law enforcement officer himself, knew what would be expected of his sons now that they had blundered into a homicide investigation.

“When will you want them to come in for the official interview?” he asked.

“Good question,” Joa

“Hey, great!” Eddie crowed, his face breaking into a wide grin. “If we go Monday morning, we’ll get to miss school.”

That was more than his mother could stand. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Velma Verdugo said fiercely. “The detectives can interview you during lunch.” Then, after a long moment, her troubled face collapsed into a smile. Seconds later, the entire Verdugo clan was laughing and hugging.

Joa

“Sheriff Brady?” Deputy Howell said, a

Joa

“What should we do?” Debra asked.

“We’ve got another homicide,” Joa

“Doing what?” Ken Junior asked.

It wasn’t outright insubordination, but it was close – more in tone of voice than anything else.

“Whatever Casey needs,” Joa

Galloway walked away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. “What’s wrong with him?” Frank Montoya asked.

“I’m not sure,” Joa

Within minutes, the medical examiner arrived. While Detective Carbajal led Doc Winfield to the body, Deputies Howell and Hollicker were sent to search other nearby buildings for a second possible victim. Meanwhile, Joa

“What do we know about the missing boyfriend?” the fingerprint tech asked. “How long has he been around?”

“According to Jaime, he’s been in town for several months,” Frank responded. “Working for and living with Dee Canfield most of the time. The DMV tells me that no one named Warren Gibson currently holds a valid Arizona driver’s license, and I haven’t been able to find any other official record of him, either.”

“All right,” Joa

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for me to figure out that Marliss Shackleford hadn’t agreed to talk to me because she’d been charmed by my boyish good looks and overwhelming charm. She was after something. No, make that someone. She was out to get the goods on Sheriff Joa

We retreated from the lobby to the bar. I had O’Doul’s. Marliss had a tall gin and tonic.

“I should have thought you’d be more interested in hanging around a homicide crime scene than in talking to me,” I said for openers.

Marliss gave me a flirtatious smile. She was fortyish and not all that bad looking. She had what my old partner, Sue Danielson, once referred to as big hair. Ash blond and crinkly, it stood out from her head like a massive halo.

“That’s the reporter’s job,” she explained. “Like my card says, I’m a columnist. I write a thrice-weekly piece called “Bisbee Buzzings.” The paper is called the Bee, you see,” she added, as if she thought me a bit dim. “The Bisbee Bee.”

I have a long-term, not-so-cordial relationship with a man named Maxwell Cole who’s a columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Marliss Shackleford didn’t know it, but being in the same league with Max wasn’t the best kind of third-party referral.

“As I understand it, you’re a detective.”

“Used to be,” I told her. “Now I’m a special investigator with the Washington State Attorney’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. That’s spelled S-H-I-T,” I added helpfully.

Marliss Shackleford’s face changed. She looked shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what my unit is called, the Special Homicide Investigation Team.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “But since this is a family newspaper, we’ll probably have to write the whole thing out.” She fumbled to an uneasy stop and then started over. “And you’re here in Bisbee because…”

“Why do you think I’m here?” I asked in return.

She shrugged. “I presume it’s because of the woman who died down in Naco on Wednesday night. I’ve learned that her real name was Latisha Wall. I’ve also been told she was in the Washington State Witness Protection Program.”