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people locate her or not. I need to know either way.”
    “We’re not equipped—“ he began.
    Joanna cut him off in mid-excuse. “And what did you say your name was?” she asked.
    “Carlin,” he replied after a short pause. “Sergeant Richard Carlin.”
    “Thanks so much, Sergeant Carlin. You’ve been most helpful. It’s always a pleasure to work with someone who really cares about inter-departmental relations.”
    She hung up before he had a chance to reply. Then, shivering against the cold, she turned on the porch light and waited on the front steps of Clayton Rhodes’ house to see who would be the first to arrive. The winner was Deputy Debbie Howell, followed closely by George Winfield. Somehow Joanna didn’t have the heart to go back to the shed and work the crime scene. She stayed where she was and sent Deputy Howell along to assist the medical examiner and catalog evidence. Not wanting to pay any more overtime than absolutely necessary, Joanna had put off summoning one of her two homicide detectives until after hearing what the medical examiner had to say.
    Sitting alone on the top step, Joanna lost track of time. She was surprised by the amount of anger she felt toward Clayton Rhodes—toward a dead man. What was happening that he would have committed suicide over it? she wondered. Was his health going bad? Did he have money worries that he never mentioned? And why the hell didn’t he tell me about it? Maybe I could have helped. Or at least been there to say good-bye.
    Clayton Rhodes hadn’t given Joanna that opportunity, and right then that omission on his part seemed utterly unforgivable.
    She was still lost in thought some time later when Deputy Lance Pakin showed up fresh from his traffic investigation. She directed him to assist Debbie in bagging and loading Clayton’s body into the medical examiner’s van. While the two deputies went about doing that, George Winfield came up the gravel walkway and sat down beside her. “How’s tricks?” he asked.
    Dr. George Winfield was a permanent snowbird who had come to Arizona from Minnesota. Hired by the Board of Supervisors, his initial position had been that of county coroner. Now, though, he held the recently created title of Cochise County Medical Examiner. Due to his equally recent marriage to Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, he was also Joanna Brady’s stepfather.
    She looked up at him and gave him a wan smile. “Not so hot,” she answered. “Why’d Clayton go and do that, George? Why did he have to commit suicide?”
    “Who said anything about suicide?”
    “Well, I thought . . .”
    “You thought he locked himself in that garage with the engine running on purpose?”
    “Didn’t he?”
    “Deputy Howell,” George called out. “Mind bringing that bag of evidence over here?”
    Debbie Howell came toward them carrying a clear plastic bag. Inside it were several glassine envelopes. George held it up to the light and pointed to a rectangular black-and-white object inside. “What does that look like?” he asked.
    “A garage-door opener?”
    “Right you are. And guess where I found it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “In Clayton Rhodes’ shirt pocket—pressed tight up against the steering wheel. My guess is the garage door was open when he turned on the engine. But then something happened—a heart attack maybe, or possibly even a stroke. We won’t know exactly what until the autopsy. Whatever it was, he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. When that happened, the weight of his body pressed against the button, shutting the door.”
    “You’re saying he didn’t commit suicide after all?” Joanna asked wonderingly.
    “Are you kidding?” George Winfield returned. “To do that, the place would have had to be airtight. And it’s not. Definitely not. If there wasn’t plenty of air, the engine wouldn’t have been running when you got here. In an airtight garage the engine would have quit long ago due to lack of oxygen.”
    “So