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tape, a desolate landscape of
scrubby mesquite trees stretched for miles in all directions. The
thorn-studded, winter-bare branches might well have trapped some
critical hair or fiber evidence. Unfortunately, the nearest of the
spindly trees stood well outside the taped crime scene
boundary.
    Joanna stood on the edge of the roadway huddled in
thewarmth of her long leather coat, while Dave
and Jamie helped George wrestle the corpse into a body bag and onto
the gurney. It may have been winter and cold as hell, but as they
moved the body, a swarm of flies buzzed skyward while the stench of
rotting flesh wafted in Joanna’s direction.
    Watching the process, she was struck by the total
lack of dignity. She was glad none of the unidentified
victim’s relatives were present to see him hefted around like
a hunk of unwieldy trash. He had been dumped out along the road
with no more ceremony than someone would use when discarding a
cigarette butt or an empty beer can.
    And that very lack of dignity—the awfulness
of it—was exactly why Joanna Brady, Ernie, Jaime, and Dave
were all here. Redressing what had been done to this poor unknown
man was what they did. It was their job to avenge man’s
inhumanity to man with justice. It was why Joanna had worked her
heart out running for office and why taking a six-week maternity
leave was far longer than she wanted to stay away from work.
    With the cold wind blowing through her still-damp
hair, she realized she had changed. Being sheriff was no longer an
empty title she had wanted to achieve. Somehow it had become what
she was. Finding out who the victim was and why he was now dead and
encased in a body bag was what she had been summoned to do with her
life. The good guy/bad guy game she had once discussed with her
father had somehow seeped into her blood. Or maybe, as with D. H.
Lathrop, the compulsion to be a cop had been there all along.
    Oh my God! she thought
with a start. I really am turning into my
father!
    “Are you all right?” George asked,
bringing her out of her reverie.
    “I’m fine,” she said at once.
    “You looked a little funny there.”
    “No, really. I’m fine.”
    “Nothing much is on my agenda for
today,” George continued, “so I’ll try to get
this autopsy out of the way first thing. Ernie Carpenter and Jaime
Carbajal drew straws. Ernie lost, so he’s coming along for
the ride. What about you?”
    Joanna thought about that peanut butter sandwich
she’d gobbled down in the car and about what might happen to
it if she ventured into George’s stainless-steel-studded room
to observe an autopsy in progress.
    “Since Ernie’s going,” she said,
“I think I’ll take a pass.”
    George Winfield gave her a fond grin. “Good
girl,” he agreed. “I thought you might.”

CHAPTER 2
    J oanna
stayed at the scene long enough to listen as Jaime Carbajal
interviewed Wally Rutterman, the Border Patrol officer who had
discovered the body. Then she watched for a while as Dave Hollicker
did a painstaking inch-by-inch survey of the dump site. Neither
effort revealed anything worthwhile. On the drive back to the
department, Joanna found herself chilled from the inside out in a
way that boosting the output of the Crown Victoria’s heater
did nothing to alleviate.
    She radioed into the office on the way. “Any
missing-persons reports come in this morning?” she asked.
    “None so far,” Tica Romero
answered.
    “You’ll let me know if there is
one?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Tica said.
    When Joanna arrived at her reserved parking place,
she was surprised to see that the one next door—Chief Deputy
Frank Montoya’s—was empty. After a moment’s
reflection, she remembered it was Friday morning. That meant Frank
was probablybusy standing in for her at the
weekly board of supervisors meeting.
    Better him than me.
    Entering the building through her private back
entrance, she dropped her briefcase off on her desk and then poked
her head out into the reception area