But what about her mother and Lyle? Were they worried about her? Did they suspect that something bad had happened to her? Did they even know she’d gone missing? Did they still care? And what were they doing now? Just before Latisha ran away with Trayvon, her mother had gotten a job working the night shift in the ER at Kindred Hospital. Was she still working there? And what about Lyle? Latisha supposed he was still driving a bus, but was he still making those wonderful pancakes on Saturday mornings?
Chapter 4
ACTING SHERIFF TOM HADLOCK LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, PUT his hands over his eyes, and closed them. It was four thirty on Friday afternoon. He had almost made it through his second week of being in charge of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. That meant he had to live through a little more than two weeks and survive two more board of supervisors meetings before Joanna came back from maternity leave. Compared to sitting through those meetings, running the jail had been a breeze.
Kristin Gregovich—Joanna’s secretary and currently filling that role for Tom—popped her head in the door. “They’re here,” she said. “Are you ready to come meet Mojo? I just took Spike outside so the two of them could meet.”
On the night of Jeremy Stock’s suicide, it had been Joanna’s K-9 unit—Kristin’s husband, Terry, and his dog, Spike—who had risen to the occasion. Joanna might well have died of gunshot wounds herself had Spike not lunged to her rescue. The brave dog had taken a bullet intended for Joanna and had suffered severe injuries. Four months later Spike had recovered better than anyone thought possible, but his days of active-duty K-9 work were over, and that was where Mojo came in.
Years earlier Joanna’s department had taken down a pit-bull puppy mill that had been in operation near Bowie in the northeast corner of the county. Joanna had brought the starving, mistreated animals home to Bisbee and had put her jail inmates to work fostering the animals. The mommy dogs especially had required extensive socializing before they were ready for adoption.
Joanna’s participation in that case had put her and her department in the crosshairs of any number of animal-rescue organizations. The Pit-Bull Brigade was an organization located outside Dallas that specialized in taking abandoned pit bulls from shelters, rehabbing them, and preparing them to perform law-enforcement duties. Some were trained to do drug interdictions. Others specialized in bomb or cadaver sniffing. Still others, the top dogs, were deemed worthy of K-9 training.
Spike and Terry had come to Joanna’s department as a matched set, having served together in the military. When it became apparent that the severity of Spike’s injuries made it unlikely that he would ever be able to return to duty, Joanna had gone looking for a replacement. Spike was a purebred German shepherd, but the cost of finding an exact substitute was prohibitive. That was when she had stumbled across the Pit-Bull Brigade. While the organization was mostly involved in training dogs, it also trained people, giving them the necessary qualifications to be hired as K-9 officers themselves. The dogs came from shelters and were mostly free; the people paid tuition. That meant that a dog trained at PBB could be purchased for a fraction of the price charged by other K-9 dog-training entities.
With an eye on her budget, that’s where Sheriff Brady had gone looking. The director had suggested a dog named Mojo as a possible candidate, and she had dispatched Terry to Texas to meet the dog and see what he thought. After declaring all things a go, he had spent the past two weeks in Texas, working and training with Mojo before driving the dog home to Bisbee.
“Where are they?” Tom asked, pushing back his chair.
“Out in the parking lot,” Kristin said.
By the time Tom and Kristin made it out to the parking lot, Terry was crouched down on one knee with a dog on either side of him. If there had been any stiff-legged interaction between the two animals when they met, that was over.
“Looks just like Petey,” Tom said.
“Petey?” Terry asked. “Who’s Petey?”
“Didn’t you ever see the Little Rascals on TV? I think Petey was a Staffordshire terrier instead of a pit bull, but Mojo looks just like him.”
“I was thinking he’s more like the dog on the Target commercials,” Kristin said.
“That, too, I suppose,” Tom allowed. “How’d he do in the car?”
“Slept most of the time,” Terry answered. “He’s a good traveler. Loves Burger King.”
“That makes two of us,” Tom said.
“Chief Deputy Hadlock?” Sunny Sloan’s voice came through the radio attached to the shoulder of the chief deputy’s uniform. Some people called him “Acting Sheriff.” Some called him “Chief Deputy.” Tom Hadlock answered to both.
“I’m out back in the parking lot, Sunny. What’s up?”
Sunny was the widow of a fallen deputy, Dan Sloan. She had come to work as a clerk for the department in the aftermath of her husband’s death and following the birth of their baby. Believing that her department should take care of its own, Joanna had hired Sunny to work the reception desk out in the public lobby.
“There’s someone here to see you,” Sunny said.
“Can you tell me who it is and what it’s about?”
“It’s a Mrs. Carver from Douglas—June Carver and her son, Jack. All she would say is that it’s urgent and they need to speak to you directly.”
Tom glanced at his watch. The idea of leaving work at five had just gone out the window. “Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute to get back to my desk.”
Minutes later Sunny escorted the new arrivals into his office. June Carver was a tall, slender woman with ash-blond hair and generous curves in all the right places. The permanent scowl imprinted on her face made her look as though she was mad enough to chew nails. She was trailed by an even taller, half-grown kid. He was lanky and scrawny and appeared to be somewhere in his mid-teens. The boy paused uncertainly in the doorway as if reluctant to enter.
“Come on,” his mother ordered. “Get your butt in here!”
Jack Carver shuffled into the room, staring at his feet rather than looking anyone in the eye. It wasn’t until he approached the desk that Tom noticed Jack was lugging what appeared to be a worn leather bowling bag.
“Put it there,” his mother commanded, pointing to an empty spot on Tom’s otherwise cluttered desk.
When the kid placed the bag on the desk as he’d been told, it landed with an alarmingly heavy thud.
Tom had risen to his feet in order to welcome the new arrivals. “I’m Acting Sheriff Thomas Hadlock,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m standing in for Sheriff Brady, who’s currently on maternity leave. And you are?”
“I’m June Carver.” The woman responded to his greeting with a surprisingly firm handshake of her own. “This is my son, Jack.”
The kid’s limp, halfhearted handshake was nothing at all like his mother’s.
“Won’t you both please have a seat?” Tom invited.
June sat down, perching primly on the front edge of her chair, while her son flopped loosely into his, as though his legs had suddenly turned to jelly.
“How can I be of service?” Tom asked.
“Tell him,” June ordered. “Tell him now.”