Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (12 page)

Finally, in late afternoon, after myriad attempts, I reached the Honorable Juliana Thorsson, who had either been ducking my calls or doing what politicians love to do—making life more complicated for the rest of us.

“Keep it brief,” she said in a hurried whisper. In the background, I heard the buzzing echo of voices in a large room. Another fund-raiser, probably. What did that make—four this week? Every time I turned on MSNBC, there she was, surrounded by her minions, pretending she hadn’t already made up her mind to run for the Senate.

“There’s not much to tell you yet.” I gave her a quick rundown on what I’d discovered so far, finishing with Ali’s damning note to Kyle.

“I don’t believe it,” Thorsson snapped.

“Don’t believe Ali wrote it, or don’t believe she meant it?”

“Just a minute.”

I heard the clippety-clop of high-heeled shoes, what sounded like doors opening and closing, then her voice returned at a more or less normal level. “I’m in a restroom stall now so I can talk freely.”

“Did you check the other stalls?”

“I’m famous for my attention to detail. But back to Ali. I don’t know how familiar you are with teenagers, girls especially, but there’s a lot of frustration that goes on at that age, a lot of unfocused anger, especially toward authority figures. I’m sure she was just blowing off steam. She didn’t mention her younger brother, did she? But whoever broke into the house killed him, too.”

“Then why did Kyle hide the note?”

“Didn’t you say you found several other love notes with it? Regardless of all that emailing and texting, kids still love to pass notes to each other. Maybe a lot of that intensity came about because Kyle’s foster parents didn’t approve of their relationship, and Ali knew it. She was having the same kind of trouble on her own home front, so that would just double her angst.”

I suddenly became aware that I hadn’t discussed Ali with Fiona, the boy’s foster mother. I needed to remedy that. “Good point, but…”

Over the phone I heard a door opening again, laughter, two women discussing a third. They weren’t being complimentary.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” the Honorable Thorsson whispered before she killed the call.

***

Six o’clock found me parking my Jeep outside Jimmy’s trailer to carpool over to his cousin’s new restaurant.

Louise’s Fry Bread Shack was located just off the eastern boundary of the rez in a commercial area hard-hit by the recession. It sat next to a second-hand furniture store, across the street from a failed shopping center where the only signs of life were two coyotes snuffling through an overturned dumpster. The out-of-the-way location hadn’t hurt the restaurant’s business, because when we arrived, a long line of Pimas and Anglos were waiting for service at the takeout window. We bypassed them and went inside.

Like many fry bread restaurants, Louise’s place was bare bones. Other than the large framed print of Geronimo that hung on one wall, there was no décor to speak of, which only highlighted the large, hand-printed sign above the order counter: IF YOU ARE TALKING ON YOUR CELL PHONE WHEN YOU TRY TO PLACE YOUR ORDER, WE WILL TAKE THE ORDER OF THE PERSON BEHIND YOU.

Pimas take good manners seriously.

The menu wasn’t complicated. Fry bread is a popular Southwest Indian staple and the Pimas cook up some of the best. Plate-sized slabs of dough deep-fried until golden, then slathered with mixtures of your choice. In my case, I opted for the chorizo, beans, lettuce, and cheese combination. Louise, a cheerful Pima beauty with mahogany eyes that perfectly matched Jimmy’s, suggested I might be happier with the milder green chili chicken entree, but I didn’t want to seem like a wuss, so I stayed with the chorizo. Jimmy, even less cautious than I, ordered the house special, which included just about everything—chorizo, mutton, chicken, and God only knows what else.

When I looked appalled, he just smiled: “I’ll still have room for dessert fry bread—honey, butter, and cinnamon.”

“That’s two days’ worth of calories,” Louise warned, before she headed to the kitchen. “You’ll get fat.”

“Fourteen hours a week at L.A. Fitness says I won’t,” he countered.

“How come I never see you there?”

“Different schedules, Lena. You’re a night owl, I’m a morning person. Anyway, haven’t you been spending more time at Fight Pro lately? Working on that, what’s it called, Cro Magnon stuff?”

“Krav Maga. It’s an Israeli form of martial arts.”

“You and your…”

I interrupted. “Hey, Almost Brother, I just had a thought.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What? Interrupt you?”

“Have one of your ‘thoughts.’ They always wind up causing trouble.”

I made a face. “Seriously, how long has Big Black Hummer been trespassing in our space?”

“About a week. Why?”

“That’s when Fight Pro started resurfacing its parking lot, and finding a parking space got tough. I’ll bet the Hummer belongs to one of the members.”

“Could be. But wouldn’t that…?”

At that moment, our food arrived and all conversation ceased. As Jimmy had promised, the fry bread was delicious, if spicy, so I downed three glasses of iced tea to offset the heat. It didn’t help.

Louise joined us for a few minutes while she and Jimmy discussed all things Pima. The tribe’s new casino and resort on the northern edge of the rez was raking in big bucks. Their child-friendly Butterfly Pavilion, located near the new Diamondbacks spring training facility, was doing well, too.

When I facetiously asked if the tribe would eventually build a Disneyland Pima, they both laughed.

“The Mouse got rich without our help,” Louise replied, brown eyes sparkling. “But don’t discount a Pima Magic Mountain. I’ve always been partial to roller coasters, and wouldn’t mind living within walking distance to one.”

Hanging out with the mellow Pimas always calmed my restless soul, so by the time we’d finished our meal, I felt relaxed and happy. It wasn’t to last.

On the way back to Jimmy’s trailer to pick up my Jeep, the chorizo-laced fry bread took its revenge.

“Uh, I need to use your bathroom,” I said, as he pulled his pickup up next to my Jeep.

Jimmy gave me a pitying look. “Didn’t I warn you about the chorizo?”

“Always one to say, ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you? Now are you going to let me in there or do I have to find a friendly ditch?”

Ordinarily I like to see the sights at Jimmy’s trailer, which is decorated with Pima designs, but this time, I rushed straight to the bathroom, where I spent the next few minutes contemplating my gastronomic sins. Finally, I emerged and joined Jimmy outside. He’d pulled two lawn chairs together and sat looking up at the stars. They were bright tonight, especially the Milky Way, a broad spackling of white against the indigo sky.

“Feeling better?”

I eased myself into the chair beside him. “I might live.”

He chuckled. “Next time temper that adventuresome spirit with some common sense.”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

I checked my watch. Almost eight thirty. “Mind if I stay here a little while longer? It’s Art Walk night on Main Street, and I’m not in the mood for teeming crowds right now.”

“Told you we should have leased that office on Indian Bend.”

“Too far from the action.”

“It had a great bathroom, though. Shower, the whole deal.”

“Uh, which reminds me, I better use yours again.”

As I staggered toward the trailer, he called, “There’s a new issue of
Arizona Highways
in the magazine rack next to the sink. A few
National Geographic
s, too. Not that you’re in a reading mood.”

After my shaky return, we sat in companionable silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. A warm breeze delivered scents of sage, mesquite, and fresh earth, while nearby, two coyotes yipped at one another. I-love-you calls? Or a let’s-team-up-and-kill-something conversation?

“Did you know we’re part of the Milky Way?” Jimmy asked, when the coyotes’ dialogue ended in a rabbit’s shriek.

“Learned it in Astronomy 101. From here it looks like it’s way out there in the distance, not that we’re looking at it from the inside. Just think—billions of stars, and probably a thousand planets like our own. Makes me feel small.” I sighed, oddly comforted by the thought. Compared to the enormity above us, my bad memories weren’t that big a deal.

“We Pimas have our own version of Astronomy 101, you know,” he continued. “Our ancestors believed the Milky Way was created when a mule bucked off a load of flour. Coyote ate some, but Earth Doctor picked up the rest, and with his walking stick, swirled it across the sky.” In a soft tenor, he sang Earth Doctor’s ancient psalm,

I have made the stars!

I have made the stars!

Above the earth I threw them.

All things above I have made

and placed them to glow

above Coyote’s home.

When Jimmy’s song ended, Earth Doctor’s creation swung its way through the now-silent night.

***

A rare feeling of contentment remained with me during the drive home. Past the widely spaced Pima homes, through the creosote thickets, around the newly harvested cotton fields, and onto the glittering streets of Scottsdale.

My contentment died only when I turned onto Main Street and saw Desert Investigations ablaze.

Chapter Eleven

A fiery starburst of light shape-shifted beyond the remnants of the gold script sign DESERT INVESTIGATIONS, which now read only ERT INVES. Tendrils of black smoke curled through what was left of the plate glass window. As I braked my Jeep on the other side of Main Street, the rest of the glass shattered, and a storm of wickedly sharp shards blew outward. The crowd gathered in the street made scared sounds and moved back en masse.

Being an ex-cop, my instinct was to run toward the inferno to rescue, well, something, but as I leapt out of my Jeep and started toward ERT INVES, a hand reached out and dragged me back.

“Fire department’s on the way,” a familiar voice said. “We all called about the same time.”

I turned and saw Cliff Barbianzi, owner of the Damon and Pythias Gallery across the street from Desert Investigations. “Lena, if you think I’m letting you run in there, you’re crazier than I already think you are.”

“But it’s burning!”

“Better your office than you.”

Orange and red tongues of flame. Tinges of blue. An acrid smell jabbing tiny pitchforks in my nostrils. Waves of hellish heat in the already hot night.

“Cliffie, I need to…” I strained away from him.

His hand, which up to that point had been lightly holding my arm, tightened. “Wait until Rural Metro gets here, which should be any minute. They’re only six blocks away. No point in getting killed over something you can’t do anything about.”

Cliffie wasn’t a large man, nor an especially strong one, and I could easily have broken away, but I didn’t because he was right. There was nothing I could do about the situation, other than wait for the fire trucks and hope my upstairs apartment wasn’t burning, along with my office.

Our helpless vigil was joined by several other gallery owners who had stayed late after the Thursday Night Art Walk to clean up the mess the art-loving crowds had left. Anastasia, the owner of the Orthodox Art Gallery, offered me a glass of champagne left over from a Russian icon painter’s opening, while Jeff, who ran the Native Trails Gallery, offered me a toast triangle spread with caviar. Another gallery manager, a woman new to the neighborhood and who didn’t know me all that well, offered me a dainty handkerchief to sob into. I ‘thanks-but-no-thanks’ed everyone, but did wind up accepting the bottle of Evian someone shoved into my hand. As I took my first sip, sirens filled the night.

“What happened?” I asked Cliffie, while the sirens grew louder.

“You were firebombed, Lena. I was putting away the punchbowl when I heard some god-awful noisy truck or motorcycle or something equally as obnoxious roaring up the street. It was annoying, yeah, sure, but getting that big punchbowl into that tiny cupboard isn’t the easiest trick in the world, so that was what I was focused on. At first, anyway. Then I heard glass breaking and out of the corner of my eye saw a flash, then the sound of the truck or cycle or whatever the hell it was roaring off, and next thing I knew, I was looking at flames. Well! It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on, so I grabbed my cell and speed dialed 9-1-1 while running across the street and upstairs to your apartment.”

He paused for breath, then continued. “I banged and screamed and kicked at your door, and redialed and redialed and re-redialed your home number, but you didn’t answer, so I started to run around to the back where the fire escape is, ’cause I was going to break your window and drag you out by your glorious blond hair, but when I turned into the parking lot, I saw your Jeep was gone, thank God.” Another deep breath. “So I sensibly removed myself from harm’s way and came down here to wait for the beautiful boys of Rural Metro.”

Just then several fire trucks rolled up and the beautiful boys of Rural Metro got busy with hoses and axes. Immediately afterward, two cars from Scottsdale PD pulled in and blocked off the street. Assured that I was no longer tempted to run into the inferno, Cliffie loosened his clutches and continued. “It could be worse. There’s a good chance they’ll be able to save that cunning little apartment of yours, maybe even most of your office, and anyway, I’m sure that gorgeous Indian partner of yours backs up everything, right?”

“Right.” Jimmy was compulsive that way, backing up Desert Investigations’ files on his home computer as well as every cloud site known to man. He’d even made me buy fireproof file cabinets and a safe, purchases I’d pooh-poohed at the time. I would pooh-pooh no more.

But at the moment, all those safety measures brought me little comfort.

At a time of borderline sanity, Desert Investigations had saved me. I’d begun the business years earlier after leaving the Scottsdale Police Department with a bullet in my hip, souvenir of protecting an innocent bystander during a drug raid gone bad. It’s true what they say about the mental anguish of a gunshot often being more difficult to recover from than the physical injury itself. The days became a litany of “What if I’d done this, instead of that?” “What if I’d moved to the right instead of the left?” Or even the more wounding, “What if I’d refused to follow orders?”

Mistakes had been made. Three officers were shot. One died. Two lived on in the company of nightmares.

Desert Investigations—my savior.

Now it was dying.

And all I could do was stand there and watch.

The roar of the fire trucks’ big engines only partially eclipsed the moans of buckling furniture. The firemen’s shouted orders hardly muffled the sounds of breaking glass. Blue, red, and yellow flashing lights paled next to the crimson tongues licking across my desk. Splash-back from thick streams of water couldn’t cool the heat that scorched my face.

“So much for my carpet,” I said lightly, wanting no one to sense the despair I felt.

Cliffie, my would-be lifesaver, wasn’t fooled. He gave me a hug that almost cracked my ribs. “But you’re safe and well, dearest heart. And so is Jimmy. So it’s all good.”

Jimmy
.

The name jolted me out of my self-involved misery. Desert Investigations was as much his baby as mine, so I pulled out my cell and hit his number. When he answered, I could hear coyotes yipping in the background. He was outside, probably still singing ancient Pima songs about the beginning of the Universe. Jimmy was purpose. Jimmy was peace.

I was about to change that.

He listened to my hurried words in silence until I was finished.

“I’m on my way.” His voice was calm.

“Not necessary. I can take care of this.”

“It’s my office, too, Lena, so just this once, don’t try to handle everything all by yourself. Let the police and the firemen do their jobs.”

Giving up control has always been difficult for me, but I grunted something that might have been taken for agreement. Before I could clarify, he hung up. Deciding not to call him back, I stuffed the cell into my carryall and stood there, watching my life incinerate.

Jimmy must have broken all kinds of traffic laws driving in from the rez, because before I finished the bottle of Evian, he came running up.

“Had to park a couple of blocks away,” he panted. “Main Street’s blocked off.”

“I told you I could have taken care of all this trouble by myself.” There went that control thing again.

He said nothing, yet I could tell he was almost as upset as I was. He wasn’t losing his home, but the man was so empathetic he’d always felt my pain, and tonight was no exception.

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

“Considering the timing, I’d say the owner of Big Black Hummer is the obvious suspect. A person who drives a vehicle like that is all about show, and when you had his baby towed, you hit him in the ego.”

“Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so’ this time. But you did warn me, didn’t you?”

The glow from the dying fire flickered across his face. He didn’t appear to be nearly as upset as I was. If anything, he looked cross. “I warn you about a lot of things, Lena, but you’re in the habit of not paying attention.”

“That amounts to an ‘I told you so,’ I think.”

“Yeah, well. If the shoe fits.”

Being firebombed involves a lot of paperwork. After the last of the flames disappeared, the deputy fire marshal pronounced the fire “suspicious,” needing a full investigation. When Jimmy and I told him about Big Black Hummer, and Cliffie related what he’d seen, the fire marshal stepped away for a few moments to make a quick phone call. Once the conversation finished, he handed over a batch of forms to sign and said he’d see us tomorrow. Then, while the beautiful boys of Rural Metro were loading their trucks back up, a Scottsdale PD detective—a woman I only vaguely knew—arrived, wrote a report, and we signed more forms. Hard on her heels came Gavin Biddle, our insurance agent, followed by a cleanup crew from Scottsdale Restore. All bore forms of their own. It was almost eleven before we were through signing everything.

“Am I clear to check out my apartment now?” I asked Gavin.

He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Not until the authorities declare it safe for access.”

“The deputy fire marshal’s already gone,” Jimmy put in.

“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Gavin assured us. “Meanwhile, you don’t want to even think about going in there tonight. Thanks to your neighbors, the fire department got right on this, but there’s always a danger of hot spots, flare-ups, and the like. In such an eventuality, the last thing you want is to be caught on the second story with a blocked stairway for an exit. Not to mention the fact that it appears the fire reached the ceiling in one spot, so the upstairs flooring needs to be checked before you take one step on it. Don’t want to be falling through, now, do we?” Although Gavin was barely thirty, and baby-faced to boot, his tone was that of an elderly grandpa delivering a warning to a misbehaving grandchild.

“No, we don’t, do we? So where am I supposed to sleep tonight, in my Jeep?”

A gentle smile. “Perhaps now is the time to remind you that in the event of a fire, your policy covers not only cleanup and restoration, but ten nights in a motel. It being July, I’m sure there are plenty of vacancies within your policy’s price point parameters. Why don’t you let me call around and…”

“Um, Lena.” Cliffie, that faithful friend, had remained behind after all the other gallery owners slowly drifted away. “I have a pied-à-terre in the Arcadia District, and I’d be honored to have you as my houseguest for the duration. Or if you want to be closer to what’s left of your office, there’s a daybed-and-desk setup in the back room of my gallery. You’re more than welcome to use that. For as long as you like, no ten-day limit.”

Before I could accept his offer, and I was about to, Jimmy spoke up. “That’s generous of you, Cliff, but here’s another option. When I built that office extension onto my trailer last year it freed up the second bedroom. It’s small, but livable. My home computers are linked to our case files, which means Lena can continue working without interruption.” As Gavin and Cliffie looked at me expectantly, Jimmy continued, “But whatever you decide, we’ll work it out.”

Pied-a-terre. Art gallery. Reservation trailer. A good range of choices, but for reasons too worrying to disclose, I followed Gavin’s advice and opted for a motel.

Two hours later, after stopping at an all-night Walmart for emergency clothes and toiletries, I checked into the Best Western on Indian School Road. My upstairs room wasn’t luxurious, but the business center on the ground floor provided a computer, printer, and copier. Since an IHOP was within walking distance, I figured that after a few hours’ sleep and a decent breakfast, I could resume work on the Cameron case.

That is not what happened.

By four a.m. I hadn’t yet fallen asleep. Instead, I lay awake in the king-sized Sleep Zone bed, staring at the ceiling. Gavin Biddle had warned me to be prepared for, at the very least, smoke damage to my apartment. Clothes could be easily replaced, as could office equipment, but I couldn’t seem to stop cataloging the items I felt most concerned about. My collection of blues vinyls, some of them original pressings. My Lone Ranger bedspread. The Two Gray Hills Navajo rug hanging over my saguaro-rib sofa. The Hopi kachina doll I’d bought at the Hubbell Trading Post. The George Haozous oil painting. The black satin toss pillow emblazoned with the words WELCOME TO THE PHILIPPINES I’d stolen from my fourth foster home.

Keepsakes of good times, reminders of…Well, other times. When you lose a memory, you lose part of yourself.

And I’d already lost so many.

Memories of my childhood, memories of my parents—whoever and wherever they were. They had vanished with the bullet that left the scar on my forehead.

***

It’s always a mistake to shop when you’re upset. None of the clothes I purchased the night before fit, so first thing the next morning I drove back to Walmart. The rest of the day continued down the same path, playing catch-up, fixing screw-ups—I’d forgotten to buy workout clothes, too—and placing calls to a bevy of insurance companies. Before I realized it, the day was over, and although exhausted, I’d accomplished little. At least the Sue Grafton novel I’d bought on my third trip to Walmart was good, but I fell asleep reading it, only to wake at three a.m. to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

The sun rises early in July. At six thirty, giving up any hope of sleep, I slipped into my Walmart workout clothes and headed to Fight Pro, hoping an hour on the treadmill and a few rounds with the Nautilus equipment would calm me down. Given the early hour, there were plenty of parking spaces to be had and the gym was all but deserted, except for the usual gym rats: Cage Fighter Man, slamming a punching bag. Steroid-enriched Monster Woman, grunting in the free-weights section. We ignored each other, caught up in our own private worlds of sweat and pain.

***

Showered and changed into my new tee-shirt and jeans, I stopped by Desert Investigations to see if anyone from Scottsdale Restore was there yet. No sign of them, other than the chain-link fence which now surrounded the building so that I couldn’t sneak into my own apartment. The woman working the phones at the company’s emergency number told me the clear-out and reconstruction couldn’t start without signed permission from the fire marshal. Did I want her to call over there and find out exactly when he’d be by?