gate was a smooth layer of well-maintained blacktop. Thinking of the rough, rutted track that led through High Lonesome Ranch and of the sometimes sagging barbed-wire fence that surrounded it, Joanna shook her head. The O’Briens must have money to burn, she told herself.
Following the winding road, Joanna reviewed what little she knew about David and Katherine O’Brien. David, in his early seventies, was a Cochise County native and the only grandson of one of southern Arizona’s more colorful pioneers. David’s grandfather, Ezra Cooper, had first set foot in what would eventually become the Arizona Territory when, as a young man, he had worked as a surveyor laying out the boundaries of the Gadsden Purchase. Later, after making a fortune working for what would become the Southern Pacific Railroad and also after contracting TB, Cooper had returned to the southern part of the Arizona Territory hoping to regain his health. He had brought with him a young wife and had expected to found a thriving family dynasty on the lush grassland of the lower San Pedro Valley.
When Ezra Cooper died a few years later, he left behind a widow named Lucille, a six-year-old daughter named Roxanne, and, to his regret, no sons. Lucille’s second husband, a fortune-hunting ne’er-do-well named Richard Lafferty, had so overgrazed the place that when he died of influenza in 1918, what was left of Ezra Cooper’s Sombra del San Jose was little more than a mesquite-punctuated wasteland. Now, with the help of a university trained botanist and liberal applications of money, David O’Brien had gained a good deal of favorable press by systematically removing the water-hoarding stands of mesquite and returning the desert landscape to its original grassy state.
So much for David O’Brien. Joanna knew that Katherine was David’s second wife. Other than the fact that she was the middle-aged mother of an outstanding daughter, Joanna knew very little about her. Economically and socially, Green Brush Ranch and the High Lonesome were worlds apart.
Coming around a curve, Joanna encountered a Y in the road. Never having been to the place before, Joanna might have taken the wrong fork. Fortunately, an all-terrain vehicle, its original color obscured by a layer of red dirt, sat idling at the intersection. The driver—a cigar-chomping cowhand with a roll of fat around his middle—waved her on, sending her down the right-hand fork and slipping onto the roadway be-hind her.
A white-stuccoed ranch house appeared a moment later. Surrounded by yet another razor wire–topped fence, the house was set in a small basin, nestled in among a stately copse of green-leafed cottonwoods. Once again Joanna had to wait for an electronically operated gate to open to allow her access to the house itself.
Threading her way through a collection of several parked police vehicles and past another fiberglass-topped ATV, Joanna pulled up under a shaded portico and parked next to David O’Brien’s customized Aerostar van. In front of the van sat Katherine O’Brien’s distinctive Lexus LS 400—the only one like it in town. On the verandah, beyond David O’Brien’s wheelchair-accessible van and next to a gurgling fountain, stood the hulking figure of Chief Deputy Richard Voland. He was talking to another man, one Joanna didn’t recognize. Beside the stranger sat a huge panting German shepherd.
Voland glanced up as Joanna approached. “Afternoon, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This is Alf Hastings, Mr. O’Brien’s operations manager.”
Alf was a suntanned forty-something man with a cream-colored straw Resistol cowboy hat pulled low over pale blue eyes. Joanna might not have recognized the face immediately, but she did recognize the name.
In Arizona law enforcement circles, Alf Hastings was notorious. As a Yuma County deputy, he had been the focal point of one of the biggest police scandals in the state’s history. He and three other deputies had been fired for
Following the winding road, Joanna reviewed what little she knew about David and Katherine O’Brien. David, in his early seventies, was a Cochise County native and the only grandson of one of southern Arizona’s more colorful pioneers. David’s grandfather, Ezra Cooper, had first set foot in what would eventually become the Arizona Territory when, as a young man, he had worked as a surveyor laying out the boundaries of the Gadsden Purchase. Later, after making a fortune working for what would become the Southern Pacific Railroad and also after contracting TB, Cooper had returned to the southern part of the Arizona Territory hoping to regain his health. He had brought with him a young wife and had expected to found a thriving family dynasty on the lush grassland of the lower San Pedro Valley.
When Ezra Cooper died a few years later, he left behind a widow named Lucille, a six-year-old daughter named Roxanne, and, to his regret, no sons. Lucille’s second husband, a fortune-hunting ne’er-do-well named Richard Lafferty, had so overgrazed the place that when he died of influenza in 1918, what was left of Ezra Cooper’s Sombra del San Jose was little more than a mesquite-punctuated wasteland. Now, with the help of a university trained botanist and liberal applications of money, David O’Brien had gained a good deal of favorable press by systematically removing the water-hoarding stands of mesquite and returning the desert landscape to its original grassy state.
So much for David O’Brien. Joanna knew that Katherine was David’s second wife. Other than the fact that she was the middle-aged mother of an outstanding daughter, Joanna knew very little about her. Economically and socially, Green Brush Ranch and the High Lonesome were worlds apart.
Coming around a curve, Joanna encountered a Y in the road. Never having been to the place before, Joanna might have taken the wrong fork. Fortunately, an all-terrain vehicle, its original color obscured by a layer of red dirt, sat idling at the intersection. The driver—a cigar-chomping cowhand with a roll of fat around his middle—waved her on, sending her down the right-hand fork and slipping onto the roadway be-hind her.
A white-stuccoed ranch house appeared a moment later. Surrounded by yet another razor wire–topped fence, the house was set in a small basin, nestled in among a stately copse of green-leafed cottonwoods. Once again Joanna had to wait for an electronically operated gate to open to allow her access to the house itself.
Threading her way through a collection of several parked police vehicles and past another fiberglass-topped ATV, Joanna pulled up under a shaded portico and parked next to David O’Brien’s customized Aerostar van. In front of the van sat Katherine O’Brien’s distinctive Lexus LS 400—the only one like it in town. On the verandah, beyond David O’Brien’s wheelchair-accessible van and next to a gurgling fountain, stood the hulking figure of Chief Deputy Richard Voland. He was talking to another man, one Joanna didn’t recognize. Beside the stranger sat a huge panting German shepherd.
Voland glanced up as Joanna approached. “Afternoon, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This is Alf Hastings, Mr. O’Brien’s operations manager.”
Alf was a suntanned forty-something man with a cream-colored straw Resistol cowboy hat pulled low over pale blue eyes. Joanna might not have recognized the face immediately, but she did recognize the name.
In Arizona law enforcement circles, Alf Hastings was notorious. As a Yuma County deputy, he had been the focal point of one of the biggest police scandals in the state’s history. He and three other deputies had been fired for
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