Random Acts Page 7

  “No,” she said. “I’m not an angel.”

  “Will God ever forgive me for what I did?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said quietly, squeezing his hand. “I believe He will. He forgives you, and so do I.”

  And so do George and my mother, she thought.

  His hand went limp in hers. She knew within seconds that Scott Braeburn was gone, but she also knew that the last words he had heard on this earth were the ones he had needed to hear—­that he was forgiven. And it turned out they were the ones Joanna had needed to say—­to say and believe.

  She had responded to a random act of violence with a random act of kindness. She had returned good for evil. Somehow that was as it should be. After all, that was how she had been raised. And she knew in that moment, too, that her parents—­all three of them—­would be proud of her.

  Sometime later, an EMT tapped her gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “we need to check him out.”

  “It’s too late,” she replied, reaching out to close Scott Braeburn’s staring eyes and then brushing tears from her own. “It’s over now. He’s gone.”

  “And before you go up top,” he added, “you might want to put your shirt back on.”

  Looking down Joanna was astonished to see that she was completely topless. While the EMT averted his gaze, Joanna grabbed her shirt and dragged it on over her head. Then she got to her feet and staggered toward the embankment. Another EMT stopped her as she passed. “You might want to use one of these,” he said, nodding toward her bloodied hands and offering her a Handi Wipe.

  “Thank you,” she said. Several Handi Wipes later her hands were mostly clean, and she made her way back up to the roadway. Ali and Dave Holman stood on the passenger side of the RV. Dave stepped away from the group as she approached. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Flushing with embarrassment at having been seen half dressed by Dave Holman as well as the EMTs, Joanna took the cell phone from her pants pocket and turned off the recording app.

  “Scott Braeburn is gone,” she said. “He also confessed. He said he was just trying the gun out and didn’t intend to kill anyone.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Joanna thought for a moment before she answered. “I do. He was just a kid, a stupid kid with no idea about the real consequences of his actions. I recorded the confession, by the way. It’s all here on my phone. Will you need the phone itself or will I be able to take it home?”

  “The suspect is dead?”

  Joanna nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then just send me the audio file,” Dave said with a shrug. “Since we won’t be needing to use it in court, the file will be fine.”

  By then Ali had joined them in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. “Are you all right?” she asked now, echoing Dave’s previous question.

  “I’m okay,” Joanna said. “But I’m glad the press wasn’t here a few minutes ago.”

  “Right,” Ali said with a grin. “Photos like that would make for a very interesting reelection campaign. Now how about a lift back to your car?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Good work, Sheriff Brady,” Dave said as he opened the passenger door to help her enter. “You did what you could for him. No one can ask for more.”

  “Thank you,” she said, giving him a hug.

  Joanna and Ali said little on the trip back to General Crook Trail. Nothing more needed to be said.

  “I’m assuming you won’t be spending the night,” Ali said when Joanna exited the Cayenne.

  “Thanks, but no,” Joanna said. “Butch and I should head home. The kids need us.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Ali said with a smile. “I thought that’s what you’d say. But you might want to stick around the house long enough to take a shower and change clothes. Right now you look like you’ve been in a knife fight.”

  “Fortunately I packed an overnight bag,” Joanna said.

  “How will all of this go over with Butch?” Ali asked.

  “He’s used to me by now,” Joanna said. “Nothing I do really fazes him anymore.”

  “Then you’re one lucky woman, Sheriff Brady,” Ali Reynolds said. “In more ways than one. And so am I.”

  Back at the house on Manzanita Hills Road, Joanna found Butch sitting in a wicker chair on the shaded front porch.

  “Ali called a few minutes ago and told me you got him,” Butch said, as Joanna sat down beside him. “But you shouldn’t have let me sleep. I would have been glad to go along and help out.”

  “I wanted you rested in case we ended up driving back home tonight.”

  “Are we?”

  “I hope so.”

  Butch gave her an appraising look. “What happened to your bra?” he said.

  “Used it as a tourniquet,” Joanna explained.

  “On the guy who killed your mother?”

  Joanna nodded. “But he died anyway.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Butch told her. “You tried to save him. That’s what counts. Now go inside, take a shower, and change clothes—­bloodstain red isn’t exactly your color. How soon do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as I get cleaned up.”

  “Okeydokey.”

  Joanna leaned over and kissed the top of Butch’s bald head on her way past. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a brick?” she asked.

  “Thank you,” Butch said with a grin. “Coming from you, I consider that as high praise.”

  Next from J. A. Jance

  Cochise County Sheriff Joanna Brady has never been busier, but her life is about to get even more complicated when a puzzling new case hits her department. The bodies of two women have been found at the base of a nearby peak, known to Bisbee locals as Geronimo. One victim was a local teacher and minister’s wife, while the other was a microbiologist—­two vastly different women with seemingly no connections to link them. As Joanna and her team hunt down answers, they begin to uncover a web of sordid secrets and lies—­clues that take the sheriff down a road that leads shockingly close to home . . . and to a desperate and determined killer.

  Keep reading for a sneak preview of

  DOWNFALL

  Coming soon from William Morrow

  An Imprint of Harper­Collins Publishers

  Prologue

  SHERIFF JOANNA BRADY pulled into the parking place in front of the Higgins Funeral Chapel, put her Buick Enclave in park, and then sat staring at the storefront before her, only vaguely aware of her surroundings. Lowering clouds blanketed the Mule Mountains in southeastern Arizona. It was the last day of August. The summer monsoons had arrived early and stayed on, leaving the desert grassland valleys of Cochise County lush and green.

  A flash of lightning off toward the east roused Joanna from her reverie with a warning that the skies might open up at any moment. Still she lingered, unready to go inside and face down this awful but necessary task. She was relieved when her phone rang with her husband’s name in the caller-­ID window. Answering a call gave her an excuse to stall a little longer.

  “Hey,” she said. “Where are you? I thought you’d be here by now.”

  “So did it, and we would have been,” Butch said, “if not for the huge backup caused by a semi rollover on the I-­10 bridge over the Gila. We’re in Tombstone right now. If I come straight there, I could arrive before they close, but—­”

  “No,” Joanna said firmly. “Take Denny home. A funeral home is no place for a five-­year-­old. I’ll handle this on my own.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll see you at home.”

  She switched her phone to silent and stepped out of the SUV just as the first fat raindrops splattered down on the hot pavement. As soon as the moisture dampened nearby overheated creosote bushes,
the air came alive with the unmistakable perfume of desert rain. Most of the time, Joanna would have rejoiced at that distinctive aroma, but not today. Instead, she crossed the sidewalk and opened an all-­too-­familiar door.

  She had come to the Higgins Funeral Chapel for the first time as a teenager, arriving there with her mother, Eleanor, in the aftermath of her father’s death. D. H. Lathrop had been changing a tire for a stranded family when he had been struck and killed by a passing vehicle. Then Joanna had come here alone nine years ago. On that occasion she had been a widow, making funeral arrangements for her newly deceased husband, Andrew Roy Brady. And this time?

  A week earlier, in the dead of August, life had been as normal as Joanna’s life could be, considering she was a busy county sheriff with a daughter heading off to college, a five-­year-­old son starting kindergarten, and a baby girl due to arrive in early December. That normal had been shattered by a three A.M. phone call that had rousted her out of bed with the news that her mother, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, and her stepfather, George Winfield, had been involved in a serious vehicular accident while driving their RV home to Bisbee from a summertime sojourn in Minnesota.

  George died at the scene; Eleanor had perished after being airlifted to a Phoenix-­area hospital for treatment. In the ensuing investigation, Joanna discovered that what had originally been regarded as a simple traffic accident was anything but. A troubled kid, wielding a high-­powered rifle with a laser scope, had stationed himself on a highway overpass south of Camp Verde, where he had fired at passing vehicles. With the help of a relatively new friend, Ali Reynolds, Joanna had helped search for and eventually find the shooter.

  While attempting to elude his pursuers, the boy had crashed his 4x4. Less than twenty-­four hours after George and Eleanor’s murders, Joanna had found herself kneeling on the ground at the injured boy’s side, comforting their dying killer. Now she was left cleaning up the rest of the bits and pieces. The remains had finally been released by the Yavapai County Medical Examiner’s Office. The mortuary had called earlier that day to say that the bodies had arrived in Bisbee shortly after noon.

  A discreet chime sounded in a distant room as Joanna opened the funeral home’s Main Street door. Norm Higgins, dressed in his customary suit and tie, appeared silently in the doorway of an office just to the right of the entryway.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Sheriff Brady,” he said, giving her a stiff half bow. “So sorry for your loss. How can we be of ser­vice?”

  He ushered her into an old-­fashioned wood-­paneled office where a single file lay on the polished surface of an ornate antique desk. “I took the liberty of glancing through your mother’s file,” he said. “At the time of your father’s death, your mother purchased two adjoining plots at Evergreen Cemetery. According to this, she was opposed to cremation and wished to be buried in the plot next to your father’s. As far as your stepfather’s wishes are concerned, however, we’re completely in the dark.”

  “That makes two of us,” Joanna said, withdrawing a piece of paper from her purse. “In going through George’s things, I located this letter saying that he wished to be cremated and have his ashes scattered near his cabin at Big Stone Lake in Minnesota. The problem is, this letter predates his marriage to my mother. Just today I’ve learned that my mother has been negotiating with the Rojas family, the ­people who own the plots next to my parents’ plots, in hopes of purchasing the nearest one for George’s use. Presumably he had changed his mind about cremation.”

  She didn’t mention how she had learned about the cemetery-­plot situation because, the truth was, it hurt like hell. Joanna certainly hadn’t heard about it from Eleanor herself. No, that bit of vital intelligence had been gleaned in a phone call with her brother, Bob Brundage—­a brother, born to her parents out of wedlock and given up for adoption long before Joanna was born. After the deaths of both his adoptive parents, Bob had come looking for his birth family. Once reunited, he and Eleanor had gotten along like gangbusters. And the fact that her brother had been privy to her mother’s final wishes when Joanna herself had not was something that still rankled. In fact, Joanna had heard about cemetery situation for the first time, earlier this morning, mentioned in passing when Bob had called to let her know when he and his wife, Marcie, would be flying in from DC on Tuesday.

  What am I? Joanna had wanted to ask while they were still on the phone. Chopped liver? Why had her mother chosen to tell Bob all about what was going on when it was Joanna, the daughter with boots on the ground, who would most likely be expected to oversee the arrangements? Why was she the one who had been left in the dark? Joanna’s feelings had been hurt, but she hadn’t said anything to Bob about it. After all, it wasn’t his fault.

  “Did it work?” Norm Higgins asked, bringing Joanna back to the present conversation and perhaps repeating a question he had asked previously.

  “Did what work?”

  “The negotiations to buy the plot.”

  “More or less,” Joanna said. “I mean, my brother was able to reach an agreement on the deal this morning. He expects to have the certificate of purchase in hand by tomorrow afternoon, but I’m not at all sure that’s how I want to handle this, and that’s what I need to discuss with you. My mother specifically said she wanted to be buried rather than cremated? You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes,” Norm replied, patting the file but not bothering to open it and verify the information. “Her position in that regard is quite clear.”

  “What am I supposed to do, then?”

  Norm Higgins drummed his fingers on top of his desk. “We have a situation where we have reason to believe that Dr. Winfield and your mother wanted to be buried together even though there was no separate plot currently available. On the other hand, we have a handwritten document indicating his wish to be cremated.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Joanna asked, rephrasing her earlier question.

  Norm shook his head. “Quite frankly, Sheriff Brady, these kinds of issues are usually resolved by what we commonly refer to as ‘the last person standing’. They’re the ones who have the final say, as it were.”

  “In other words, it’s up to me.”

  “Exactly.”

  Joanna took a deep breath. “All right, then,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Go ahead and cremate George’s remains. Put his ashes in an urn, reserving a small portion that Butch and I can scatter at Big Stone Lake later on. I want you to have both the urn and the casket on display during the funeral. At the end of that, we’ll put the urn in the casket with my mother. That way Mom and George can be buried together. If my father objects, the three of them will need to sort that out among themselves when they get to the other side.”

  Norm withdrew a piece of paper from his desk, a form of some kind, and began filling in the blanks. “I trust you’re not expecting to have an open-­casket ser­vice or a viewing, are you?”

  Joanna was adamant. “Absolutely not. I saw the damage,” she said. “My mother wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that.”

  The unthinking words were out of her mouth before she realized how absurdly true they were. Eleanor Lathrop had always put her best foot forward. Remembering that and the appalling way her mother had looked in the hospital, Joanna forced herself to bite back a sob. If Norm noticed her discomfort, he didn’t acknowledge it. No doubt he was accustomed to dealing with ­people who blurted out inappropriate comments because their emotions had been strained beyond the breaking point.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That’s my assessment, too. There’s only so much we’re able to do. But placing an urn in the casket is a creative way of handling a complex issue. I believe you mentioned the word ‘funeral’ rather than ‘funerals.’ Does that mean you’re anticipating a joint ser­vice?”

  Joanna’s cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her blazer. She had turned the ringer to silent when she came inside.
Over the course of the last several days, she had been overwhelmed with condolence calls. She appreciated all of them, of course, but the sheer number made it hard for her to think straight. Right now she needed to deal with Norm.

  “Yes,” she said. “A joint ser­vice.”

  “Here in our chapel or at your mother’s church? I believe Eleanor attended the Presbyterian church.”

  “Here,” Joanna said, “and with my friend Marianne Maculyea officiating. How soon could you schedule it?”

  Norm leaned back in his chair. “We keep a very limited number of caskets and urns in stock,” he said. “If you were to make your selection from those, we would have more flexibility. Otherwise, scheduling would depend on how soon we could receive the shipments.”

  “Assuming I find something suitable in your inventory and choose from those?”

  “In that case, I would suggest scheduling the funeral for late Friday morning—­say eleven or so,” Norm suggested. “Doing it as early as Thursday would make it difficult to get notices to the local media. We handle all of those, by the way,” he added. “The notices, I mean. That’s part of our comprehensive ser­vice. And I’ll need to get bio information from you on both your mother and Dr. Winfield in order to write the obituaries. Or would you rather do that yourself?”

  “I’ll provide the info,” Joanna said, “but I’d rather someone else did the writing. And when you post those notices, please mention that the ser­vice itself will be private, by invitation only. I’ll give you a list of the ­people who should be there. What I don’t want is to have a bunch of outside gawkers show up just for the fun of it.”

  Joanna’s phone buzzed again. Whoever had called earlier had just left a message. She ignored the message notice just as she had ignored the call.

  “How much will all this cost?” she asked. “And how soon do I need to pay?”

  “Let’s worry about that after you’ve selected the casket and urn,” Norm said, rising to his feet. “We expect payment in advance, of course. Once you’ve made casket and urn selections, I’ll be able to prepare an invoice, and since we’ll be holding only a single ser­vice, I’m sure you’ll find the charges reasonable. This way, please.”