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responded.
    Hearing that, Doc Winfield was convinced the phone number was wrong as well. “I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter,” he said.
    There was a long pause. “One moment, please,” the woman said. “Let me connect you with Mr. Todd’s office.”
    “Did you say Mr. Todd?” Doc managed before she cut him off.
    “Yes.” She was gone before he could ask anything more. After an interminable wait, a man’s voice came on the line. “O.H. Todd,” he said brusquely. “To whom am I speaking?”
    “My name’s Winfield. Dr. George Winfield. There’s probably been a mistake. I’m looking for someone named Lawrence Baxter, but they connected me to you instead.”
    “Baxter!” O.H. Todd exclaimed. “What do you want with him?”
    “You know him then?” George asked hopefully.
    “Why do you need him?” Todd demanded. “Who are you again?”
    “Dr. George Winfield,” he explained patiently. “I’m the medical examiner in Cochise County, Arizona. I’m calling about Mr. Baxter’s daughter, Rochelle. If you could simply tell me how to reach him—”
    “Something’s the matter with her?” the man interrupted. “Why? What’s happened?”
    George Winfield sighed. This was all wrong. “I’m sorry to have to deliver the news in this fashion,” he said finally. “Over the phone, I mean. But Ms. Baxter is dead. She died last night.”
    For a long moment, all George heard was stark silence. Just as the ME was beginning to think he’d been disconnected, O.H. Todd breathed a single word.
    “Damn!” he muttered, sounding for all the world like he meant it.

Two
     
    D RIVING PAST THE Cochise County Justice Center on her way to the Naco, Arizona, crime scene, Joanna wondered about her own motives. Had she opted to go to the crime scene in order to avoid the members of her department who had boycotted the funeral reception? She had anticipated that countywide politics was a necessary part of being elected to the office of sheriff. What she hadn’t expected were the political machinations within the department itself.
    She had managed to dodge the obstacles her former chief deputy Dick Voland had rolled into her path. Once he resigned from the department, Joanna had thought her troubles were over. She knew now that had simply been wishful thinking. Politics was everywhere—inside the department and out. She had to accept that reality and learn to work around it.
    Fifteen minutes after leaving High Lonesome Ranch, Joanna pulled in behind a fleet of departmental cars parked at the corner of South Tower and West Valenzuela in the tiny hamlet of Naco. The front door of an aging stucco building stood ajar. When Joanna knocked, Detective Carbajal appeared in the doorway.
    “Morning, boss,” he said.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were with the ME.”
    Jaime nodded. “I thought so, too. Then Doc Winfield called to say there would be a slight delay. I had an extra forty minutes, so I thought I’d come see what’s what.” He moved aside and allowed Joanna to enter. “We left the door open in hopes of airing the place out,” he added, handing her the crime scene log. “You may not want to come in.”
    As Joanna stepped into the large open room, she understood at once what Jaime meant. The all-pervading stench of stale vomit assailed her nostrils. When she finished signing the log, Jaime passed her a mask and a small jar of Vicks VapoRub.
    “Thanks,” she said, dabbing some on her upper lip. “Now where?”
    “Dave Hollicker is over there in what passes for a bedroom,” Jaime Carbajal said, pointing. “That’s where the EMTs found the victim. She’d been sick as a dog all over her bed and most of the room as well. Casey’s in the kitchen lifting prints.”
    “What’s the victim’s name again?”
    Jaime checked his notebook. “Rochelle Ida Baxter. Age thirty-five. The EMTs found a purse with a driver’s license and gave the information to Doc