Free Damage Control by J. A. Jance Page A

“According to my count, we’re already two homicides over capacity, and the weekend’s barely started.”
    Rather than calling the medical examiner’s office and risking interrupting George, Joanna scrolled through her phone until she located Deb Howell’s number. Detective Howell answered after the third ring. She didn’t sound good.
    “What’s wrong?” Joanna asked.
    “Autopsies,” Deb replied weakly. “I’m still not very good at them.”
    “Nobody is at first,” Joanna assured her. “And I’m still not. But which autopsy, Arthur Beasley’s?”
    “That’s the one,” Debra replied. “Doc Winfield started on him just a few minutes ago. I was glad when my phone rang. It gave me an excuse to step outside. Madge said I’m a bit green around the gills. I’ll probably never hear the end of it.”
    Madge Livingston was George’s tough-as-nails clerk/receptionist. She made fun of anybody who couldn’t handle the nitty-gritty of what went on in the medical examiner’s office—Joanna Brady included.
    “It turns out the Beasleys are why I’m calling,” Joanna told Detective Howell. “Chief Deputy Montoya just told me that one of their daughters, Samantha Edwards, is waiting for me at the office. According to him, she’s pissed as hell that her sister was notified about her parents’ deaths and she wasn’t. Do you know anything about that?”
    “Samantha Edwards is at your office?”
    “That’s what I just said.”
    “But Sandra Wolfe told me she was dead.”
    “Who’s Sandra Wolfe?” Joanna asked.
    “Sandy Wolfe. The Beasleys’ other daughter. When I talked to her, she told me her sister was dead.”
    “Either Sandy is mistaken, or her sister is risen from the dead,” Joanna said. “I’ll try running both those options past Samantha when I see her. I have a feeling they won’t go over very well.”
    At the Justice Center Joanna directed Deputy Raymond to drop her off on the far side of the building near her private back entrance. Using the keypad, she let herself in. Even though it was not yet ten in the morning, the heat outside, combined with sky-high humidity, was downright brutal. Everyone always talked about Arizona’s “dry heat,” but as soon as the summer monsoons arrived, the whole idea of dry heat went right out the window.
    Joanna set her purse and briefcase down on the credenza behind her desk. Then, with the door shut, she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped off her Kevlar vest. She required that all her officers wear bullet-resistant vests when they were out in the field. In an effort to lead by example, Joanna wore hers as well, but the damned things didn’t breathe, especially not in weather like this. Rebuttoning her blouse over her damp skin, Joanna dropped into her chair and allowed herself a moment to revel in the luxury of air-conditioning and to be grateful that somehow full electrical power had been restored to the Justice Center.
    Finally she called Frank. “Okay, I’m here,” she said. And dressed, she thought. “Now where’s the dragon lady?”
    “Out by Kristin’s desk,” he told her. That meant Samantha Edwards had left the public lobby behind and was seated directly outside the door that led to Joanna’s office.
    “So I guess I can’t act like it’s business as usual and pretend I don’t know she’s here.”
    “Nice try,” Frank said. “I guess not.”
    “Bring her in, then,” Joanna said. “Let’s get this over with.”
    The woman Frank ushered into Joanna’s office a few minutes later was a small, well-put-together lady who appeared to be somewhere in her early sixties. Her iron-gray hair was cut in a short pixie style that accented the sharp angles of her face. She was thin to the point of being bony, well dressed in a stylish pantsuit, and utterly furious.
    “I want to know who’s responsible for my not learning about my parents’ deaths in a timely fashion,” she said. “And once I know who the responsible party is, I want