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but also the baby. Social Security isn t going to pay survivors benefits to a
child based on your unsubstantiated claim as to who the father might be.
You re going to have to prove the baby is Bucky s. If I were you, I d get on
the telephone right now.
 Is that why you came to see me? Bebe asked.  To tell me that?
 No, Joanna said.  I came to ask you if you were with Bucky the night before
he died. Terry told me he wasn t home that night. I thought maybe he might
have been with you.
 He wasn t with me, Bebe said.  I only wish he had been. The last time I saw
him was that afternoon. The day before he died. At work.
 Do you have any idea where he might have been that evening, then?
Bebe shrugged.  Probably playing poker. He did that a lot.
 With whom? Joanna asked.
 I don t know. He never really told me. And I didn t ask. I didn t think it
was any of my business. That s what love is all about, she added.  Learning
to trust.
Joanna was so astonished by that statement that she wanted to scream.He was
married to another woman, screwing around with you, and you trustedhim? How
stupid can you get?
Exasperated beyond bearing, Joanna glanced at her watch.  I have to go now,
she said, getting to her feet.  I have plenty to do, and so do you.
Bebe followed her out the door to the car.  Do you know which lawyer I should
talk to? Bebe was asking.  About the DNA thing, I mean.
Joanna realized that she had already said far too much. If she said anything
more, she would simply be helping to pit two bereaved women against one
another.  No, Joanna said.  I don t have any idea who to suggest. You ll have
to figure it out for yourself.
It s part of being a grown-up,she wanted to say.Part of being a parent. But
Joanna Brady had reached the limit on her ability to give advice.  If I were
you, she said.  I d check in the phone book the Yellow Pages.
Belle s face dissolved into a watery smile.  Thank you, she said.  I ll go
to work on that right away.
Feeling a little like King Solomon offering to carve up the baby, Joanna
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headed back toward the Cochise County Justice Center. Considering all that had
happened in the past two days, that name had an ironic, almost cynical, ring
to it. Was there any such thing as justice to be found in a case like this
one? Or for people like Hannah Green? For two cents, right about then, Joanna
Brady would have been happy to turn in her badge and go back to being the
office manager of an Insurance agency.
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 Vo-land. 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
appoint-ments, 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.
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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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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