Missing and Endangered (Joanna Brady #19)(10)
Left with no alternative and unwilling to pay for Beth’s schooling on her own, Madeline had grudgingly taken possession of the house in SaddleBrooke, allowed her daughter to enroll as a freshman at NAU, and kept her mouth shut—right up until Thanksgiving weekend, when Beth had gone so far off the rails as to bring one of those forbidden, filth-filled cell-phone things into Madeline’s home. For Madeline that was the last straw, and for Beth it was the next rung on her ladder to independence.
The phone buzzed in Beth’s hand. Ron at last. “Hey, babe,” he said, “how’s my sweet Betsy from Pike?”
Beth didn’t like it when he called her that. The term came from a corny old folk song about Betsy crossing the prairie with her husband, Ike. The reason Beth hated the song so much was the Ike part. The name reminded her too much of home and church and Pastor Ike—of everything Beth Rankin was trying to escape. She wanted to tell Ron that she would rather be called Beth or even Elizabeth, but she wasn’t brave enough. She let the words pass without making an objection.
“Oh, Ron,” she breathed. Just the sound of his voice sent her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. “I’m so glad you called. I was afraid we wouldn’t have a chance to talk tonight. I love you so much, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
Chapter 3
With Butch off on tour, the early-morning scramble was the bane of Joanna’s existence. Getting everyone up, dressed, fed, and ready for school and work was complicated to say the least, and doing so in a timely manner was almost impossible. That Thursday morning Denny might have missed his bus and Joanna most certainly would have been late to work if Carol hadn’t shown up around seven thirty to finish pulling all the critical pieces together.
On Joanna’s drive between home and office, she took a piece of Butch’s advice to heart and placed a call to the main number at Rob Roy Links. Myron Thomas usually stayed on each night to oversee the closing of the restaurant and bar, so she didn’t expect him to answer, but she left a message asking if his party room would be available for a retirement gathering sometime during December. By the time she pulled in to her parking place at the Justice Center, she had switched gears from mommy duty to cop duty and was ready to go back to work on that budget request.
She was deep into that when Chief Deputy Tom Hadlock stormed into her office a little before ten. “We’ve got a problem,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“An OIS.”
OIS was copspeak for officer-involved shooting, and having one of those in her department was unwelcome news indeed. Joanna was on her feet and reaching for her Kevlar vest, hanging on a nearby coatrack, before Tom finished speaking.
“Who?” she demanded, as she slipped on the vest. “Anybody hurt?”
She didn’t usually wear one when she was in her office, but she always did when she was out on calls, and she insisted that her people do the same. Hopefully that would be the case here.
“Deputy Ruiz,” Tom answered. “And it sounds like he’s hurt real bad.”
A sudden chill seemed to fill the room. Not another deputy! Joanna thought despairingly. “Where did this happen?” she demanded.
“Armando went out to Whetstone first thing this morning to deliver a no-contact order. He was at an address on Sheila Street right at the edge of town when it all went south. He sent out a shots-fired/officer-down call, requesting backup and medical assistance. Officers and EMTs from Huachuca City are on their way.”
“What about the shooter?” Joanna asked.
“Down and unresponsive at this point,” Tom replied. “He may be deceased.”
Joanna let out her breath. Not only an officer-involved shooting but a fatal one at that! “Do we have any idea how this happened?”
“Details are sketchy right now. The only witness is the shooter’s estranged wife. She’s the one who dialed 911, screaming that a cop had just shot her husband.”
“That would be the woman who swore out the no-contact order?” Joanna asked.
“Evidently.”
Joanna’s temper soared. “If she didn’t want any contact with the man, what the hell was she doing there?” she demanded. “Why not just stay away and leave him alone?”
“Who knows?” Tom asked. “Who the hell knows?”
Joanna grabbed her purse and started for the door. “Okay,” she said, “are any of our patrol units nearby?”
“The closest one right now is Garth Raymond. He was investigating an abandoned vehicle on Davis Road east of Tombstone. He’s been notified and is headed to the scene.”
“I’m headed there, too,” Joanna said grimly, “and I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’ve already lost one deputy. I don’t want to lose another.” It was years now since Deputy Dan Sloan had been fatally shot, and his loss remained an open wound not only in the department but also in Joanna’s heart.
Joanna made it to the door before turning back to her chief deputy. “Okay, Tom, please keep me posted. I’ll need the names of everyone involved as well as the exact location—a physical address—of the crime scene. You’ll need to alert both the Department of Public Safety and the county attorney’s office. DPS will be handling the actual investigation, but if Arlee Jones isn’t in on the ground floor on something like this, he’ll make our lives hell on earth.”