Dead Wrong Read Free

means that people see my name badge and then they want me to sign their books, so I’m already signing autographs even though my book isn’t actually published yet. One of my fellow newbies—a lady named Christina Hanson—is on the same panel I am. Her book is due out in June. At the pre-conference cocktail party she made it abundantly clear that she’s more than a little annoyed that I have bound galleys here and she doesn’t. I’m worried that later on today when we do the panel, the sparks will fly.”
    “Are you saying even mystery writing is political?” Joanna asked.
    Butch laughed. “Evidently. Now, how are you?”
    “Woke up early with my usual backache. And the baby’s a busy little bee today. I’ve been doing paperwork, but it’s about time to shower and go in to work.”
    “You don’t have to work until the last minute,” Butch said.
    “I want to work,” Joanna said. “If I stayed home, I’d sit around and worry. Besides, Marianne and I are supposed to have lunch at Daisy’s today. If I don’t go to work, I won’t have an excuse to go out to lunch.”
    Marianne Maculyea, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea, had been Joanna’s best friend since junior high. She was also the pastor of Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church, where Joanna and Butch were members.
    “Wish I could join you,” Butch said. “I don’t think lunch here will be that much fun.”
    Joanna’s call-waiting buzzed in her ear. Caller ID told her it was Dispatch. “Got to go,” Joanna said. “I’ve got another call. Have fun. I love you.”
    “Good morning, Sheriff Brady,” Tica Romero said. “I hope it’s not too early to call.”
    “It’s not,” Joanna said. “I’ve been up working for a while. What’s going on?”
    “We’ve got a homicide,” Tica responded. “Halfway between Bisbee Junction and Paul’s Spur.”
    Joanna’s initial election to office had been in the immediate aftermath of her first husband’s murder. Andy had been running for sheriff at the time, and Joanna’s subsequent election had been regarded more as a gesture of community sympathy than anything else. Once in office, however, she had been determined to function as a real sheriff rather than sheriff in name only. Through the years she had done her best to show up on the scene of every homicide that happened within her jurisdiction. Now was no time to stop.
    “How long ago did it happen?” she asked.
    “A border patrol officer called it in just a few minutes ago,” Tica answered. “Detectives Carbajal and Carpenter are already on their way. So’s Dave Hollicker.”
    Dave was Joanna’s senior crime scene investigator. Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter, sometimes known as the Double Cs, comprised Joanna’s single team of homicide detectives. All three officers were tremendously overworked. Joanna had planned on adding another CSI, and she had wanted to promote two patrol unit deputies to detectives, so Ernie and Jaime could have worked with the new guys while they learned the ropes. Unfortunately the War on Terror had intervened. So many of Joanna’s experienced deputies had been called up for National Guard duty that she couldn’t afford to deplete the patrol roster further. Her homicide investigation team was overworked, and overworked it would remain.
    Joanna glanced at her watch. If she showered and went to the scene with her hair still wet, she could probably be there within half an hour. “An illegal?” she asked.
    It was a reasonable assumption. Border Road was called that because it ran for miles right along the sagging remains of abarbed-wire fence that constituted the official dividing line between the United States and Mexico. The unimpeded flood of illegal crossers pouring over that line posed a constant drain on Joanna’s officers and her budget.
    “The Border Patrol guy says it’s not,” Tica replied. “The victim is wrapped in a tarp, but from what the officer could see, he’s male, balding, and with