Free Shoot, Don't Shoot by J. A. Jance Page B

guardian angels aren’t such a bad idea, Joanna thought as she drove across the vast, patchily lit parking lot to the place where two dozen or so cars were grouped together near two buildings connected by breezeways and laid out in a long L.
    The two-story structure built along one leg had the regularly spaced windows, doors, and lights that indicated living quarters. That was probably the dorm. Although lights were on in some of the rooms, there was no sign of life. The other building was only one story high. From the spacing of rooms, Joanna surmised that one contained classrooms. She parked the car and walked to the end of the dorm nearest the classroom building. There she found a wall-mounted plaque that said OFFICE along with an arrow that pointed toward the other building.
    Past a closed wrought-iron gate, Joanna discovered that the last door on the classroom building was equipped with a bell. Even though no lights were visible inside, she rang the doorbell anyway.
    “I’m out here on the patio. Who is it?” a male voice called from somewhere outside, somewhere vend that iron gate.
    “Joanna Brady. Cochise County,” she answered. When she tried the gate, it fell open under her hand. Across a small patio between the two buildings, she could see a cigarette glowing in the dark.
    “It’s about time you got here,” the man growled in return. “You’re the last of the Mohicans, you know. You’re late.”
    Nothing like getting off on the right foot, Joanna ought. “Sorry,” she said. “My paperwork said suggested arrival times were between four and six. If whoever wrote that meant required, they should have said so.”
    The man ground out his cigarette and stood up. In the dim light, she couldn’t make out his features, but he was tall—six four or so—and well over two hundred pounds. He smelled of beer and cigarettes,  and he swayed slightly as he looked down at her.
    “I wrote it,” he said. “In my vocabulary, suggested and required mean the same thing. Suggested maybe sounds nicer, but I wanted you all checked in by six.”
    “1 see,” Joanna replied. “I’ll certainly know better next time, won’t I?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see. Come on, then,” he added. “Your key’s inside. Let’s get this over with so I can go back to enjoying the rest of my evening off.”
    Instead of heading back through the gate, he stomped across the patio to a sliding door that opened into the office unit. Before entering, he paused long enough to drop his empty beer can into an almost full recycling box that sat just outside the door. Shaking her head, Joanna followed. This was a man who could afford to take some civility lessons from Welcome Wagon.
    Joanna had expected to step inside a modest motel office/apartment. Instead, she found herself a huge but sparsely furnished living room that looked more like a semi-abandoned hotel lobby than it did either an office or an apartment.
    Leaving Joanna standing there, the man headed off toward what turned out to be the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” he said, over his shoulder, but he was gone for some time, giving Joanna a chance to examine the room in detail.
    It seemed oddly disjointed. On the one hand, the ornate details—polished granite floors, high ceilings, gilt cove moldings, floor-to-ceiling mirrors and lush chintz drapes—seemed almost palatial, while the furnishings were Danish-modern thrift store rejects. Between the living room and kitchen was a huge formal dining room with a crystal chandelier. Instead of a polished dining table and chairs, the room contained nothing but a desk and chair. And not a fancy one, at that. The battered, gun-metal-gray affair, its surface covered with a scatter of papers, was almost as ugly as it was old.
    The man emerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of Coors beer. He paused by the desk long enough to pick up a set of keys. When he was barely within range, he tossed them in the general direction of