Missing and Endangered (Joanna Brady #19)(15)

Unable to help herself, Joanna hugged the man. “Thank you,” she said. “Amy had to go back to her classroom to get her things. She turned me down flat when I offered to drive her, but maybe she’ll listen to reason if it comes from you.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Now, you get going and leave Amy Ruiz to me. By the way, who’ll be looking after her kids?”

“Her parents.”

“Good,” he said, “I know the Harpers. They’re excellent people. They’ll take good care of their grandkids, and I’ll take good care of their daughter.”

Grateful beyond words for Frank’s help and not quite trusting her ability to speak, Joanna simply nodded and climbed into her own vehicle. After dictating Leon Hogan’s address into her GPS, she drove away without bothering with either lights or sirens. And she didn’t speed either. The emergency aspect of the case was over. Amy had been notified in a timely fashion. The injured had been transported, and the dead would be carted off soon enough. For right now Sheriff Joanna Brady needed some space and some quiet.

In terms of emotions, Joanna’s conversation with Amy Ruiz had cost her dearly. For one thing, Armando was Joanna’s deputy, meaning that in a very real way he was her responsibility. Whether Armando lived or died—whether he recovered or didn’t—his wife and children were also Joanna’s responsibility. And the fact that Joanna had indeed walked in Amy’s shoes all those years earlier gave her a firsthand understanding of all the emotional pitfalls that lay in store for the entire Ruiz family.

She was headed for the highway, praying for all of them, when Butch called. “I heard about what’s going on,” he said. “Your shooting’s all over the news up here in Phoenix. Which deputy?”

“Armando Ruiz,” Joanna replied.

“What about you?” Butch asked. “Are you okay?”

“Medium,” Joanna said, “or maybe not that good. I just finished notifying his wife about the shooting. Amy was at school and had no idea anything was amiss.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s holding herself together at the moment, but I don’t know how long that will last. I doubt it’s all sunk in yet. Frank Montoya just showed up at the school to drive her to the hospital.”

“The news report said that the injured deputy had been airlifted to Tucson,” Butch said. “Is Armando going to make it?”

“Jury’s out on that,” Joanna said. “Somehow the bullet bypassed his vest. He was hit in the gut. According to Tom Hadlock, Armando’s currently undergoing emergency surgery at Banner Medical in Tucson.”

“How did it happen?”

“Armando was delivering a no-contact order. The guy went berserk and came out shooting. He’s dead, and there’s a good chance Armando won’t make it either.”

“This isn’t your fault, Joey,” Butch said after a pause. “You can’t hold yourself responsible.”

Joanna couldn’t help but smile when Butch called her by his pet name for her. “You know me too well,” she said, because that’s exactly what she was doing—blaming herself.

“The news said it happened out in Whetstone. Have you been to the crime scene?”

“I’m on my way now, but there probably won’t be much for me to do. My people will be sidelined, because the Department of Public Safety will be in charge of the actual investigation.”

“In my experience,” Butch observed, “you don’t do well on the sidelines. And if you don’t believe me, check out your two failed attempts at maternity leave. It might be a good idea for you to take yourself elsewhere.”

The gibe about her inability to stay off work when she was supposedly on maternity leave was well deserved.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“All right, then,” Butch said. “I’m on my way out to do both an interview and a signing. Call if you need to. If I’m busy, I’ll have my phone on airplane mode and call you back when I can.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I really did need to hear your voice.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I know you do.”

“Stay safe,” he reminded her.

“Will,” she returned. “Bye-bye.”

As Joanna turned onto Sheila Street in Whetstone twenty minutes later, she saw the cluster of official vehicles parked haphazardly along the dirt shoulder half a mile away. A few of them probably belonged to some of her people. And it made sense for them to have parked on the street rather than entering the property and disturbing the crime scene. But Joanna was equally sure that if news of the shooting was already being reported on Phoenix television stations two hundred miles away, there was most likely an active media presence here at the scene.

The moment that idea crossed her mind, she saw confirmation that she wasn’t wrong. One of the first vehicles she passed was the very recognizable white RAV4 belonging to none other than a local pain-in-the-ass columnist named Marliss Shackleford.

A Huachuca City officer, attempting to prevent unauthorized vehicles from accessing the scene, flagged Joanna down. She was stopping to display her ID when Marliss, frizzy hair and all, stepped up to the window, pushed her way past the cop, and leaned inside.