Desert Heat (7 page)

“You asked me if I thought your husband was going to make it, Joanna, and I’m telling you. It’s going to depend in large measure on his attitude, on whether or not Andrew Brady wants to recover, on whether or not he thinks he can.”

“You’re talking about paralysis, aren’t you? You’re telling me that if he’s going to be crippled for the rest of his life, he may not want to live.”

“No,” Dr. Sanders answered slowly. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. This morning I’ve already had two calls from one of the people down there in Bisbee, an investigator. Dick somebody.”

“Dick Voland. He’s the Chief Deputy, Andy’s boss.”

“Voland. That’s right. That’s the name. We talked for some time.”

“What did he say?”

Dr. Sanders rubbed his forehead. “You may find this information disturbing, but I think it’s only fair to warn you, Joanna. The people at the Sheriff’s Department are investigating your husband’s case as an attempted suicide.”

The room seemed to spin around her. The last sip of coffee rose dangerously in her throat. She fought it back down. “No,” she said. “You mean attempted murder.”

“I said exactly what I mean,” Dr. Sanders insisted. “The physical evidence there on the scene and also what we found here in the hospital—the angle of penetration, the powder burns on your husband’s hands—are consistent with a self-inflicted bullet wound, what we call around here a misplaced heart shot.”

He waited for Joanna to speak, but she simply shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Joanna. I can see it’s a shock to you, but I wanted you to have a chance to compose yourself. There are several reporters down in the lobby waiting to interview you. Once you venture off this floor or try to leave the hospital, they’ll be all over you. I didn’t want you to encounter them without first having some warning, some time to prepare.”

“Reporters,” Joanna repeated stupidly, as if her stunned brain had to struggle in order to grasp hold of a single word or idea from all he had told her. “Why would they want to talk to me?”

“Cochise County may be small potatoes, but nonetheless, your husband is a political candidate. An attempted murder of a politician always causes an uproar. As of right now, it’s still being reported as an attempted homicide. That will change soon enough, but even so, when someone in the public eye attempts suicide, that’s also considered newsworthy. Regardless of which way it goes, until the case is resolved, you’re going to continue to find yourself shoved into the limelight.”

For a long moment Joanna stared dumbly at Dr. Sanders, not just looking at him but thinking about the implication of his words. Then her mind clicked out of its temporary paralysis and into gear. “You’re saying Andy tried to kill himself? That he did this?”

“Yes.”

Anger rose within her, but she remained to-tally clearheaded. “Where’s the weapon then? He didn’t shoot himself with his bare hands. I was there, with him, on the ground, and I didn’t see any sign of a weapon.”

“Voland told me they found it under the truck this morning when they towed it away.”

Suddenly she was bristling with fury. “Sure, he shot himself and threw the gun under the truck. And who the hell do you think locked the car doors?”

Sanders seemed taken aback by the sudden transformation. “I don’t know anything about locked doors,” he said placatingly.

“Well I do!” Joanna exclaimed. “Both doors were locked and his keys were in the ignition.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

Erupting in anger, she stood up, violently crashing her chair into the wall and leaving a dent in the plaster.

“I’ll tell you what it has to do with! Andrew Brady locked his keys in his car one time in his whole life. He did it once and only once, the first time he ever drove a car by himself, and it never happened again. Including yesterday! Somebody else locked those keys in his truck. When Dick Voland finds out who did that, he’ll have the right killer.”

Setting her shoulders defiantly, Joanna marched from the conference room and back down the hall. Marianne Maculyea saw the look on her face and immediately assumed Andy had taken a turn for the worse. “What did the doctor tell you, Joanna? How bad is it?”

Joanna fought to keep her voice under control, speaking slowly and deliberately. “He says Andy might’ve tried to commit suicide.”

“Andy?” Marianne said dubiously. “Andrew Brady tried suicide? The doctor’s got to be kidding.”

“Dr. Sanders isn’t kidding, and neither is the Sheriff’s Department. They’re investigating what happened to Andy as a possible at-tempted suicide.”

Marianne shook her head. “Come on, now. That’s ridiculous. He’s a happily married man, an excellent father. Did you tell Dr. Sanders that?”

“I told him,” Joanna responded. “I told him it wasn’t possible, just couldn’t be that it happened that way.”

“Wherever did he get such a crazy idea?”

”From the Sheriff’s Department. From Dick Voland. And he’s wrong. I swear to you, no matter what Dick Voland says, somebody tried to kill my husband, and that’s attempted murder in my book.”

Marianne Maculyea looked thoughtful. “They couldn’t just say that without any evidence, but...”

“You know what will happen, don’t you?” Joanna interrupted. “They’ll declare it a suicide as soon as someone can finish writing up the paper. They’ll close the book on the case, and whoever really did it will get away scot-free. No one will ever go looking for him. In the meantime, while everyone’s busy pretending it’s suicide, all the real evidence will simply disappear.”

“But when Andy comes around, surely he’ll be able to tell someone what really happened.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Joanna objected. “I’ve been going in there every hour for four hours now, Mari, and Andy hasn’t moved, not once. He hasn’t spoken and he hasn’t responded to my touch. I think the machines are all that are keeping him alive. What if he never wakes up?”

“Then you’re right. Whoever did this will literally get away with murder, won’t they,” Marianne Maculyea agreed.

The waiting room suddenly seemed to fill up and grow smaller as two other families arrived to keep their own separate ICU vigils. The newcomers talked in hushed, worried voices, waiting for the time when one or two of them would be ushered into a room for a five-minute visit.

Just as the new arrivals were settling in, the door to the waiting room slammed open again and Jennifer Brady rushed inside. A careworn Walter McFadden followed hot on her heels. Lack of sleep had left dark circles under the old man’s eyes. In one hand he carried Joanna’s shabby luggage. In the other was a long white florist’s box tied with a red satin ribbon.

Breathlessly Jenny darted up to her mother, talking full speed as she came. “Will I be able to see him now? Sheriff McFadden doesn’t think so, but I do. They’ll let me, won’t they? Grandma’s mad because I rode up with Sheriff McFadden. She thinks I should have ridden up with her. Are you okay, Mommy? You don’t look very good.”

Joanna took Jennifer firmly by the shoulders. “Jenny,” she said. “I want you to go sit with Reverend Maculyea for a few minutes. I’ve got to talk to Sheriff McFadden.”

“But . . .” Jenny objected.

Marianne Maculyea headed off the objection and led the protesting child away. Meanwhile, Walter McFadden set the suitcase on the floor. After placing the box on a nearby table, he gave it a gentle tap.

“I brought this from the hotel,” he explained. “As soon as he heard what had happened, Melvin Williams from up at the Copper Queen called and left word for me to call him. Evidently Andy dropped this off at the hotel late yesterday afternoon and asked Melvin to keep it in the refrigerator until you two came in for dinner. Under the circumstances, Melvin wanted you to have it right away while the flowers are still fresh.”

“What flowers?” Joanna asked.

She had been staring at him, but she must not have been listening to a word he said. McFadden shook his head impatiently as though wanting her to pay closer attention.

“These flowers, Joanna. The ones here in this box. Don’t you want to open them?”

“I don’t give a damn about flowers,” Joanna said vehemently. “I only want to know one thing. Who besides Dick Voland says Andy tried to kill himself?” Her icy tone of voice matched the pallor of her cheeks.

Walter McFadden’s shoulders sagged. “You heard then?”

Joanna nodded. “I heard.”

McFadden left the box on the table and moved closer to her. “I’m sorry, Joanna, sorry as hell.”

“You think
you’re
sorry? I want to know who came up with that crackpot idea,” she insisted. “Tell me.”

“Dick Voland, Ken Galloway, the detectives who worked the scene. Don’t take it personally, Joanna. It was a consensus opinion.”

“Consensus my ass!” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Whoever says that is dead wrong.”

“You can’t argue with the evidence, Joanna. It’s plain as day. They found the gun, you know. Under the truck. Andy must have dropped it when he fell. It’s his own gun, Andy’s .38 Special. We’ve already checked. His are the only prints on it.”

“If it’s Andy’s gun, of course his prints are on it. Whoever else used it probably wore gloves.”

Their raised voices caused the other families in the room to turn away from their own concerns in order to watch the drama unfolding in the middle of the room—an older man using soft, placating words while he argued with a visibly angry red-haired woman who seemed ready to tear him apart.

“Look, Joanna, I know this is hard on you. Suicide’s always hell for whoever’s left trying to pick up the pieces.”

Joanna’s voice dropped a full octave.

“You’re not listening to me, Walter.”

Of all the people in the room, only Jenny knew enough to be wary. Experience had taught her that when her mother’s voice fell that low in pitch, something was bound to happen.

“Somebody tried to murder my husband,” Joanna continued. “I want you and the rest of your goddamned department to find out who did it.”

Oblivious to the danger signals, Walter McFadden raised both his hands. “Look, little lady, I don’t know what . . .”

He never finished the sentence. With a lightning grasp, Joanna’s hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist. Searing pain from the nerve shot up his arm. Without knowing quite how it happened, Sheriff Walter McFadden found himself down on one knee in the middle of the room with Joanna Brady standing over him.

“Don’t you ever ‘little lady’ me again, Sheriff McFadden,” she hissed. “And don’t tell me to shut up and mind my own business, either. This is my business. Somebody tried to kill my husband last night. According to the doctor, whoever it was did a pretty damn thorough job of it, too. Liver damage, intestinal damage. Even if Andy lives, he may be paralyzed from the waist down.”

She let go of McFadden’s thumb and stepped back two paces before turning her back on him and walking away. One of the men in the room made as if to come help him get back up, but McFadden motioned him aside. “I’m all right,” he grunted sheepishly. “Let me be.”

With both knees cracking in protest, the sheriff of Cochise County lurched to his feet. No one had ever done that to him before, and the fact that a little slip of a woman had tumbled him like a tippy-toy galled him down to the toes of his snakeskin boots. More curious than angry, he hobbled after Joanna. “How in the hell did you do that?”

She spun around and faced him again. “I’m warning you, Walter, don’t close the book on this case without finding out who did it.”

“Joanna, be reasonable,” he countered, testing his thumb, trying to determine if it was broken. Despite the fact that it hurt like hell, it was probably only sprained.

“Reasonable!” she stormed. “My husband’s in there dying, and you expect
me
to be reasonable? I can outshoot half the men in your department. My dad and my husband both saw to that. And I can handle myself, too. It’s your job to find out who attacked my husband, but if you don’t solve this thing, I will.”

Just then Jennifer escaped Marianne Maculyea’s clutches. She rushed over to where Joanna and McFadden stood in nose-to-nose confrontation. The child’s face was beaming. “Mom, that was great. It worked just like you said it would.” She turned to Walter Mc-Fadden. “Mommy taught me how to do it, too. Want me to show you?”

Jennifer’s unexpected interruption took the edge off the situation, although it didn’t defuse it completely. In spite of himself, Mc-Fadden smiled down at the child. “No thanks,” he said. “Not right now, but do me a favor, Jennifer. Go get that box off the table for me, would you?”

While she did as he asked, McFadden turned back to Joanna. “If I were in your place, I’d probably be mad as hell, too. I don’t blame you, Joanna, not a bit, but in the end you’re going to have to leave the investigation to the professionals.”

“And take your word for it?”

“Yes,” Walter McFadden said. “That, too.” Jenny walked up to them with the box in hand. “Is it a present?” she asked.

“I think so,” McFadden nodded, “an anniversary present from your dad for your mother.”

Jennifer held out the package, but Joanna made no move to take it. “Maybe you can get her to open it,” McFadden said to Jenny. “After all, I only had to beat off half my department to bring that box up here this morning. The very idea sent Dick Voland straight through the roof. He wanted it for his investigation. They all think I need to have my head examined.”

Once more Jennifer held out the package. This time, reluctantly, Joanna took the box and slid off the red ribbon. She handed the ribbon to Jenny then carefully lifted the lid and folded back a layer of delicate green tissue paper. Inside on a bed of ferns lay two dozen beautifully formed apricot-colored roses. She had always preferred apricot ones to the more traditional, dark red kind.

A huge lump formed in Joanna’s throat. “Oh, Mommy,” Jenny exclaimed. “They’re beautiful! Can I hold them?”

Joanna nodded and started to hand the box over to her daughter. “There’s a card,” Jenny pointed out. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

The card was nothing more than one of those tiny envelopes found on florist counters everywhere. Andy wasn’t one to spend money on lavish, gold-embossed, flowery greeting cards. Joanna’s name was scrawled on the out-side of the envelope in Andy’s careless hand-writing.