Missing and Endangered (Joanna Brady #19)(41)

Joanna was busy putting puzzle pieces together, and she hit on the other thing Casey had mentioned—that there’d been signs of struggle in Leon Hogan’s living room, with dregs of coffee spilled on the protective order itself. Was it possible that Madison Hogan had slipped something into Leon’s coffee in an effort to incapacitate him? And if so, was there a chance that evidence of her doing so might linger on some of that coffee-stained paperwork?

Kendra was still speaking. “. . . to the Taylor/Finch Funeral Home in Sierra Vista. They’ll be the ones handling the services.”

“Anything else of interest?” Joanna asked.

“I spoke to Armando’s surgeon early on, requesting a forensic examination of the slug removed during the surgery. A microscopic examination shows the presence of powdered glass on the bullet.”

“Because it hit him after going through the safety glass in his car window?” Joanna asked.

“Yes,” the M.E. replied. “But that safety glass might also have helped save his life. Leon fired from up on a porch. The angle was such that the bullet in question came through the car window on a slightly downward trajectory, striking the window frame along the way. That combination—the window frame and the window itself—might have slowed the velocity of the bullet enough that Armando’s internal damage is less severe than it would have been otherwise.”

“What you’re saying,” Joanna murmured, “is thank God for safety glass.”

As soon as the call with the M.E. ended, Joanna dialed the lab and passed along everything Doc Baldwin had told her.

“All right,” Casey said. “Once Dave Hollicker gets back from Elfrida, I’ll have him take a close look at that window frame. Anything else?”

“One thing more,” Joanna said. “Would it be possible to examine the coffee stains left on that protection order? There’s a chance Madison Hogan might have slipped Leon something, and using his morning coffee to deliver it would be a good bet.”

“A mass spectrometer could tell us that in a blink,” Casey said.

“But since we don’t have one of those,” Joanna muttered, “that’s probably a no go.”

“Not exactly,” Casey said, “because you know who does have one? The Department of Public Safety. And you just happen to be talking to someone—that would be me, the CSI assigned to the case—who can request they use it.”

“How does it work, and how soon can it happen?”

“They’ll need a sample of the document itself, but I can put a rush on it and ask for the test to be done as soon as I can get the evidence to their lab in Phoenix.”

“Get it ready, then,” Joanna ordered. “As soon as it is, I’ll have Tom Hadlock assign a deputy to make the delivery. Tox screens take forever. We want this done sooner rather than later.”





Chapter 15





That morning when Joanna left home, Butch had sent along a tuna sandwich for her lunch. She ate it while seated at her desk doing the boring but necessary administrative work her position as sheriff demanded. Movies and television shows made it sound as though people in her line of work bounced from one piece of high drama to the next, without anything in between.

Unfortunately, what went on in all that “in between” space was both complicated and excruciatingly dull. How many vehicles did her department have? How many of them needed new tires at any given moment? How many computers out in the front office would need to be replaced? Was someone keeping up with the department’s cybersecurity needs? How many prisoners passed through the jail? How much was the county paying to feed them on any given day? And if you happened to have a jail guard who was doing things he shouldn’t with a female prisoner? Firing his ass was also Joanna’s responsibility—and she had done so, by the way—immediately.

Late in the afternoon, Kristin tapped on the door. “Someone to see you, Sheriff Brady.”

The seriousness in Kristin’s tone caught Joanna’s attention. “Who?” she asked, looking up from her paperwork.

“A Mr. Lyndell Hogan,” Kristin replied.

“Leon’s father?”

Kristin nodded.

“By all means send him in,” Joanna said.

Joanna stepped out from behind her desk to welcome her visitor. The man who entered the room was an older gentleman, probably somewhere in his sixties. He was dressed in cowboy attire—jeans, boots, and a western shirt—and carried a worn Stetson in both hands. His long, silvery hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and an equally silver handlebar mustache graced his upper lip.

“Howdy, Sheriff Brady,” he said, extending a hand as Joanna came forward to meet him. “Hope you don’t mind my dropping in on you like this,” he said in a soft drawl that reminded Joanna of her late father, D. H. Lathrop. “I was told if I needed any information, I should contact a guy named Dave Newton, but he doesn’t seem interested in getting back to me. Since you’re the local sheriff, I thought I’d come straight to the horse’s mouth.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Hogan,” Joanna said.

“Thank you, ma’am. Appreciate it. My names Lyndell, but please call me Lyn.”

Joanna glanced behind him. “Is your wife here, too?”