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the victim’s place as a crime scene, Joanna, you probably should.”
    “Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll get right on it. When are you planning to do the autopsy?”
    “As soon as you can have one of your detectives up at my office. I’m here now. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
    “Ernie’s on vacation, so it’ll have to be Jaime,” Joanna said. “I’ll get ahold of him at home and give him a heads-up. Thanks for the call, George.”
    “Just doing my job.”
    Butch appeared at the bedroom door carrying a mug of coffee. “What’s up?”
    “The DOA from last night just turned into what George is calling ‘a suspicious death.’ In case it turns out to be a homicide, I’ve got to get Jaime to witness the autopsy. The victim’s home down in Naco needs to be designated as a crime scene and then investigated.”
    Butch glanced at the clock, which now showed twenty past seven, and shook his head ruefully. “Sounds like a full day to me. Joey, don’t you sometimes wish you had a regular nine-to-five job?” he asked, handing Joanna her coffee.
    She shook her head.
    “Okay, then. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, whether you need it or not.”
    Chief Deputy Frank Montoya usually arrived at the department by seven in order to get incident reports lined up for the morning briefing at eight-thirty. Joanna dialed his direct number and was relieved to hear his cheerful “Good morning.”
    “You know about the DOA from Naco?” she asked.
    “I was just reading the report,” Frank replied. “The EMTs made it sound like natural causes.”
    “Doc Winfield doesn’t think so,” Joanna replied. “We need Casey and Dave down there right away.” Dave Hollicker, having just completed a strenuous course of training, had moved out of patrol into the newly created position of crime scene investigator.
    “I’ll get right on it,” Frank told her.
    “Anything earth-shattering for the morning briefing?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Good,” Joanna said. “In that case, we’ll put it off until afternoon. You hold down the fort there. When I leave the house, I’ll go straight to the crime scene.”
    “Fair enough,” Frank said.
    Once showered and dressed, Joanna hurried into the kitchen, where eggs and bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice were already on the table. Butch stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast with the smooth economy of a well-practiced cook.
    “Jenny called while you were showering,” he said. Joanna reached for the phone. “Don’t bother trying to reach her,” Butch told her. “Jenny said Jim Bob was taking her to school early. Something about play practice. There are two rehearsals today, both before school and again this evening.”
    “She’s all right then?” Joanna asked.
    Butch shrugged. “She sounded okay to me.”
    He brought a plate of toast over to the table and set it down. “I suppose this means we won’t be having lunch at Daisy’s,” he added.
    “Why not?”
    “Come on, Joanna,” Butch said, rubbing his clean-shaven head with one hand. Joanna recognized the gesture for what it was—unspoken exasperation. “You know as well as I do. If there’s a murder investigation under way, you won’t pause long enough to breathe, let alone eat.”
    Butch’s complaint sounded familiar—like something Eleanor Lathrop might have said to Joanna’s father when D.H. Lathrop was sheriff of Cochise County.
    “We don’t know for sure it’s a homicide,” Joanna countered. “Right this minute, I don’t see any reason to call off lunch.”
    “When you call to cancel later,” Butch said, “I won’t forget to say ‘I told you so.’ “
     
    D R . G EORGE W INFIELD DIDN’T LIKE making next-of-kin notifications over the phone, but hours of fruitless searching for Rochelle Baxter’s relatives had left him little choice. DMV records had yielded a bogus address with a working phone number.
    “Washington State Attorney General’s Office,” a businesslike voice