Random Acts by J. A. Jance

come and gone, leaving the streets wet and shiny under the glow of recently illuminated streetlights. Runoff from the rain was still draining away, flowing down Brewery Gulch, across Main Street, and into the storm gutter—­known locally as the Subway—­where Joanna had once done hand-­to-­hand battle with a killer.
    Her phone buzzed with a text from Butch:
    Come home. Making dinner. You need to eat to keep up your strength.
    After sending a text back saying she was on her way, she scrolled through her recent calls. The last one had come from her chief deputy, Tom Hadlock.
    She listened to his voice mail. “Sorry to bother you at a time like this, but we’ve got either a double homicide or a murder/suicide. Can’t tell which. Can you give me a call?”
    Joanna ground her teeth in frustration. Tom had served admirably as her jail commander, but she worried that promoting him to chief deputy had been a mistake on her part. He was still out of his depth in certain situations, and this was clearly one of them. She dialed him back immediately.
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œA ­couple of kids out climbing Geronimo east of Warren late this afternoon found two bodies at the base of one of a cliff—­two females. No visible gunshot or stab wounds. Looks like they either jumped or were pushed. One of them seems to have had a campsite set up at near a water hole at the base of the peak, and we found ID in a purse at the campsite. The name on the ID is for one Desirée Wilburton. Apparently she’s a grad student from the University of Arizona. The other victim had no identification of any kind. I know you’re on bereavement leave, but—­”
    â€œNever mind that,” Joanna said. “I’m coming. Who all is at the scene?”
    â€œRight now, just the original responding deputy. The two boys who found the bodies are still there as well. Dr. Baldwin is on her way, coming from the far side of Benson. Dispatch is in the process of notifying the on-­call detectives, the Double C’s.”
    Kendra Baldwin was Cochise County’s relatively new medical examiner. The term “Double C’s” was departmental shorthand for Detectives Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal, Joanna’s longtime homicide investigators.
    â€œAll right,” Joanna said, looking down at her clothing. “At the moment I’m not dressed for hiking either to or around a remote crime scene. I’ll need to go home to change and maybe grab a bite to eat. You should probably call in a ­couple of extra deputies as well. Who all is on duty?”
    â€œJeremy Stock is close by. He’s in the process of finishing up a traffic stop on Highway 92 near the San Pedro. Armando Ruiz is somewhere between Elfrida and Willcox. I’ll call both of them and let everybody know that you’re coming. The ME is still more than an hour out, so there’s no big hurry. You know the way?”
    â€œThe front side of Geronimo or the backside?” she asked.
    â€œFront side,” Tom answered.
    For generations of Bisbee kids, climbing that distinctive double-­humped limestone peak east of town had been a rite of passage. Locals referred to it either as Geronimo or else by the name Anglo pioneers had given it—­Black Knob. In official topo-­map parlance, however, it was referred to as Gold Hill. Too short to be officially labeled a mountain, the limestone peak with a top that resembled the top of a valentine, clocked in at 5,900 feet, 400 higher than the desert surrounding its base. Viewed from the streets of Old Bisbee, Gold Hill stood in the distance like a lonely gray sentinel, towering in the background over the flat expanse of a rust-­colored mine-­waste tailings dump.
    Joanna was personally acquainted with Geronimo, having climbed it twice—­once with a long-­ago Girl Scout troop and once with her first husband, Andy Brady shortly