Trial by Fire by J. A. Jance Read Free Book Online Page A

drink water from the Hassayampa never tell the truth again.”
    Deputy Camacho was lying. Ali knew he was lying, and he knew she knew he was lying. As far as evening the score, that was a good place to start. “So how about you tell me what’s going on?” she said.
    Just then, a gnarled old man carrying a shotgun and accompanied by a white-faced blue heeler came walking up to the Cayenne. Sinewy and tough, he didn’t look the part of crime victim. Neither did his equally grizzled dog.
    “Hey, lady,” Richard Mitchell called. “Is this here deputy giving you a hard time?”
    “Not at all,” Ali returned. She gave Deputy Camacho a winning smile. “This looks like Mr. Mitchell himself,” she said, opening her car door and stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll have a word with him.”
    Deputy Camacho did mind, and he looked as though he was about to object. Then, thinking better of it, he backed off.
    “Be my guest,” he said gruffly. “Knock yourself out.”

CHAPTER 4
    Ali made it back to Prescott by two, in time to jot off a press release about the incident along the Hassayampa. It turned out that the alleged cactus rustlers had warrants and were working for a landscaping company in Phoenix that was helping finish up a cut-rate remodel on a once thriving hotel in downtown Scottsdale. Now under new ownership, some of the hotel’s former reputation remained, but Ali suspected that the contractor’s use of illegal saguaros wasn’t the only corner that had been cut in the makeover process.
    Remind me never to stay there, she told herself, and don’t encourage anyone else to stay there, either.
    In the break room the two baking sheets were empty—empty of rolls but still dirty. Even though there was a kitchen sink only a few steps away, no one had bothered to rinse out the mess. Ali cleaned the trays herself using dish detergent she found under the sink and drying them with a handful of paper towels. Then, for good measure, she wiped down the tables and countertops.
    Her DNA dictated that she leave the kitchen spotless. That’swhat her father did for her mother every day before he finished his afternoon shift at the Sugarloaf.
    Ali was rearranging the chairs around the tables when Sheriff Maxwell himself showed up in the break room doorway and leaned against the frame. At five foot ten, Ali had always thought herself tall. Gordon Maxwell made her feel downright petite.
    “You really believe in pitching in, don’t you,” Maxwell observed affably. “When Dave Holman first mentioned you as a candidate for this job, I was afraid you’d turn out to be stuck-up. You’re not.”
    You might consider mentioning that to some of my coworkers, Ali thought.
    “That was a great piece you sent out about the incident down along the Hassayampa. Did any of the media outlets bite on it?”
    “Not so far,” Ali told him, “but it’s early days. They probably have this evening’s broadcasts racked up and ready to go. Maybe tomorrow.”
    “I don’t suppose following up on cactus rustlers was what you thought you’d be doing when you signed on.”
    “No, I didn’t,” Ali agreed, “but I loved meeting Richard Mitchell and his blue heeler wonder dog, Trixie.”
    Sheriff Maxwell grinned. “Ol’ Rich is one of a kind, all right,” he said. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Those guys would have been well advised to pick on someone a little less self-sufficient. They’re lucky he called us. Twenty years ago Rich would have handled it on his own, and the devil take the hindmost.”
    “As in shoot first and call for help later?” Ali asked.
    “You got it.” Then, nodding in the direction of the baking trays, he added, “Were those you mother’s sweet rolls?”
    “Yes,” Ali said.
    “Tell her thanks from me. I helped myself to one before they all disappeared. Pure heaven.”
    “I’ll let Mom know you liked them,” Ali said.
    Ali had headed home to Sedona a little past