Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (3 page)

Chapter Three

Ali

Married people don’t know what love is.

I can tell by the way they’re always fighting all the time about stuff like “Why do you keep hiding the broccoli in the crisper where I can’t find it?” or “Don’t you think that for just this once you could manage to clean the bathtub when you’re done taking a bath?” Married people fight like that because if they didn’t keep their minds busy picking each other apart, they’d have to face the fact that they married the wrong person to begin with because they never really loved each other, not one bit.

Kyle and I aren’t like that.

We are truly and deeply in love for forever.

Kyle became my soul mate the day we were walking home from school together and he grabbed my arm to keep me from stepping off the curb when that Beemer blew through the red light and almost squashed me. He saved my life, and you don’t forget something like that. When I was thanking him (trying hard not to cry or do anything else dorky), I looked into his eyes, those awesome dark blue eyes, and they pulled me in until my soul saw right into his soul. I understood then what life was all about.

He understood, too.

After that, it was Kyle+Ali=4ever.

To make sure I always remembered that moment, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and scratched KYLE+ALI= 4EVER into my stomach with an X-ACTO blade, then rubbed black ink into the letters. It hurt, but it didn’t bleed much, and it was worth the pain even if I forgot that mirror images are always reversed, so now I can only read it if I’m looking in a mirror. Which is kind of cool in a way, because it’s like a secret code only Kyle and I can decipher. He did the same thing for me, scratched ALI+KYLE=4EVER into his stomach, only he remembered the part about mirrors.

Before gym the next day, we made a pact that we’d die for each other, just like Romeo and Juliet. If we had to, we swore we’d kill for each other, too, no matter who we had to kill. Our English teacher. My parents. Why, we’d even kill the President of the United States for each other! That’s what real love is all about—finding and staying true to that one perfect person on Earth, because he is you and you are him and nobody else matters.

Kyle and me, we’ll never complain about putting broccoli in the crisper or forgetting to clean out bathtubs. We’re about deep, undying love.

So I don’t let myself think about Dad or Mom or Alec because the whole killing thing was really, really necessary and what happened wasn’t my fault, was it?

It was Mom’s, that’s whose fault it was! Sitting me down and telling me I had to cool it with Kyle for a while and that she’d already called Kyle’s foster mom and told her the same thing. Oh, really? Kyle stay away? As if! And then the next day Dad came across like Godzilla because I only got a ninety-four on my algebra test. He didn’t understand why I didn’t ace it because he’d looked at the test afterward and said it was easy as pie. I told him it wasn’t, but he just kept repeating the same phrase over and over again, easy as pie, easy as pie, until I thought I’d scream. He makes me crazy sometimes, he really does. As if that wasn’t bad enough, an hour later Mom came up to my room and said she wasn’t going to let me spend the night at Tiffany’s house just because she found out the last time I was over there, her mom gave us a beer, helped me dye my hair black, and let me sneak out to see Kyle.

Tiffany’s mom Suzy is mega super cool. She gets it about me and Kyle. My parents don’t, especially my stupid dad.

Didn’t, I mean. Past tense, considering what happened.

Whatever, no biggie.

Nothing I can do about any of it now, is there? Besides, it was their own stupid fault, wasn’t it? Even Alec’s. Talk about a snot-nosed little brat!

Well, screw him. Screw Mom, screw Dad, screw them all. I don’t care what happened to them and never will.

All I care about is Kyle.

And Misty.

Chapter Four

Lena

Considering how tight access had become in juvie cases over the past few years, I was surprised at how easy it was to arrange a visit with Alison Cameron. Once I signed the contract as official investigator for the girl’s attorney, all I had to do was place a call to the juvie complex at Mesa Detention Center, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting across from her in a pungent green and gray interview room. Someone had been sick in here recently.

The child I saw shocked me. Not because of what she had done—during my years on the Scottsdale Police Force I’d arrested several killer juveniles—but because of how she looked. The cheerful blonde beauty I’d seen in Juliana’s candid snapshot was gone, replaced by a scowling dyed-brunette with line-shaped scabs up and down her left arm that her orange jumpsuit failed to cover.

“Good morning, Ali. My name is Lena Jones and I’ve been hired by your attorney to investigate the incident that led to your family’s, ah, deaths. And by the way, have you been cutting yourself?”

No answer, just a combative jutting of chin.

“Okay, life sucks, I get it, and cutting releases the pressure, but here’s what we have to do now. To begin my investigation, I need to ask you a few questions. You up to answering?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Question number one. Did you take part in the incident? Or were you merely the, ah, planner of said incident?”

The silence was so deep that I could hear the guard outside the door scratch some portion of his body.

Time to call a spade a spade and a murder a murder. “Anyway, that’s what you told the police, that you planned it. But I’m a little confused as to whether you physically took part in the murders themselves.”

Silence.

“Then let me frame the question a different way. Did you kill or help kill, one, two, or all three of the victims?”

Silence.

“Where were you when the murders were committed?”

Still that eerie silence.

“Moving on. What about the dog? Why half-kill it, then turn around and take it to the vet?”

Finally a reaction. “Misty’s a her, not an it.”

The dog was the way through this, then. Killers, whatever their ages, frequently dissociated themselves from the more heinous elements of their crimes while obsessively focusing on some triviality. Not that the poor dog was a triviality.

“Cute dog. Friendly, too.”

Ali’s chin trembled. “You…you’ve seen Misty?”

“She came running up to me as soon as I walked in the door,” I lied.

“At the vet’s?”

I shook my head. “Now that she’s recovering from her injuries, she’s been fostered out to a good temporary home.”

Ali leaned toward me, anxiety mapping her face. “Who?”

“A very nice lady.” Another lie. “Nice” was the last word I’d use to describe Juliana Thorsson.

“She better not be one of those animal hoarders I’ve seen on TV!”

“No, no. Misty’s the only animal there. She’s getting plenty of pats and hugs, I promise you that.” I crossed my fingers behind my back on that one, it being hard to imagine the frosty congresswoman cuddling anything.

“Can I see Misty?”

“Maybe if you answer my questions it can be arranged.”

“Just maybe?” A fleeting expression of grief, but it immediately disappeared.

“I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep, Ali. That said, judges do tend to be more lenient with cooperative inmates.”

“Inmates?”

“That’s what you and Kyle are now, yes. Inmates. And if you don’t start cooperating, you and Kyle will continue to be inmates for a long time. In separate facilities, with no visits from Misty.”

She looked down at the floor long enough that I took a quick glance at it, too. Maybe some of the vomit I smelled was still there? Then I saw a drop of moisture splash onto the dusty green tile. It sure as hell didn’t come from me.

Softening my voice, I said, “Ali, I promise you I’ll try very, very hard to get you a visit with Misty.”

“Promise from the heart,” she mumbled.

What did that mean? “Uh, yeah, I promise from the heart.”

She lifted a teary face and gave me a ferocious stare. “Put your hand on your heart and say it!”

Remembering she was only fourteen, gifted with all the magical thinking that age entailed, I put my hand on my left breast. “I promise from the heart that I will try very, very, very hard to arrange a visit with Misty, so help me God.”

“There is no God.”

“Who told you that?” Another way in, perhaps?

“My dad. He’s a doctor and sees a lot of dead people, so he should know. He says he never saw any god of any kind. Or angels. Or Satan.”

Noticing her use of the present tense, I asked, “Is there anything else your dad tells you that might be important to your case?”

Her face shuttered.

“Ali, did your dad do anything bad to you? Touch you where you shouldn’t be touched, maybe? Do something even worse?”

That damned silence again. Other than where the dog was concerned, the kid was an ice queen, just like her egg donor. Fleetingly, I wondered what the beautiful woman who raised her had been like. Not the same, I hoped.

There was no point in continuing down a blind alley, so I switched tactics. “Misty will be glad to see you. Although she’s being well taken care of, she looks lonely.”

Ali picked at one of the scabs on her arm, making it bleed. “Lonely enough to die?”

“Dogs don’t die of lonely, Ali.” At least I didn’t think they did, but maybe I was wrong.

“People do.” Her voice was flat, without affect.

“Do what?”

“Die of being lonely.”

I thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Who are you lonely for?”

“Misty.” She looked down again. “Kyle.”

“Not your mother and father? Your brother?”

“I don’t let myself think about them.”

“Probably the wisest course of action under the circumstances.” For some reason, I was finding it hard to talk. I cleared my throat. “Getting get back to my question, did you or did you not take part in the actual killing?”

She crossed her arms over her chest—never easy to do when you’re wearing shackles—and jutted out her chin. But her voice was still flat. “Did I kill them all by myself? No.”

“Do you know who did?”

No answer.

“Ali, Kyle told the police he did it, that you weren’t involved in any way.”

“I can’t help what Kyle says.”

“Maybe he was just confused. So answer me this. Did you
help
kill one, two, or all three of the victims?”

A shrug. “I wasn’t counting.”

Christ, what a little monster. “Do you know anyone who killed or helped kill any of the victims?”

Nothing.

“Did you plan the killing of one or more of the victims?”

She uncrossed her arms and rested her shackled hands on the table. “Like you said, that’s what I told the police, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but was it the truth?”

She looked down at her hands. The black-painted nails were bitten, the cuticles bloody.

“If you only planned it, and Kyle didn’t kill anyone, who was your accomplice?”

“Some guy.”

“Some guy you knew? Or some guy you just met?”

“Seen him around.”

“School? The neighborhood?”

“Just around.” She looked at the door, as if hoping for rescue. None arrived.

“What’s the guy’s name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Describe him for me.”

“He looked like, you know, just a guy.”

“How old was he?”

A brief hesitation, then, “Old. Almost as old as you.”

To a teenager, anyone past twenty was old, and since I was on the dark side of thirty, she categorized me as ancient.

“Short?”

“Yeah. Real short.”

“Dark-haired?”

“Blond.”

“Blue eyes?”

“Brown.”

Of course that would be her answer. The newspapers had described fourteen-year-old Kyle as tall for his age, dark-haired, with blue eyes.

“Did you pay this short blond guy with the brown eyes to kill your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“With what?”

“With money I saved up from my allowance.”

I almost laughed. Instead, I asked. “Why did you take Misty to the vet?”

“Because she was hurt, you dumb-ass!”

***

Alison Cameron was a liar, and a bad one, too, but exactly where did the lies begin? As I drove back up the Pima Freeway toward Old Town Scottsdale, I replayed the interview in my head. When first arrested, the girl told the police that she had not only planned the murders, but took part in carrying them out. There’d been no mention of a hit man. Kyle Gibbs had done pretty much the same, swearing he and he alone was responsible, that Ali hadn’t asked him to kill anyone. They were exonerating each other. Which story was closest to the truth?

By the time I exited the freeway and started the slow slog up Scottsdale Road, I’d just about decided both stories were complete fabrications. Then again…

The black Lincoln Town Car in front of me suddenly slammed on its brakes, jarring me back to the present. I braked in time to keep from hitting it, then sat back in frustration. Construction. It was eleven a.m. and the work on Scottsdale Road should have been halted due to the heat of the day, but several Hispanic laborers were still pouring chip seal onto hot asphalt. With brown faces flushed red and tempers to match, two of them were arguing with a third. The Town Car driver powered his window down. Due to the jackhammer roaring nearby I couldn’t hear what he said, but there was no missing his upright middle finger.

I glanced in my rearview mirror, hoping I had enough room to back up and turn around, but saw that a silver Mercedes had just about crawled up on my Jeep’s bumper. The Mercedes vented a sustained air-blast that nearly deafened me. But the white church bus idling next to me proved the most unsettling. Although filled with laughing children on the way to some harmless recreational activity, it bore an unpleasant resemblance to the bus that haunted my nightmares.

The bus where it happened, where I’d been thrown from at the age of four.

Question: What is a mother?

Answer: The woman who shoots her child in the face and leaves her to die.

***

I closed my eyes, wishing the bus and the memory away. When I opened my eyes again, the bus and the memory were still there.

A half hour later I arrived at my destination, a measly two blocks from the traffic tie-up and resulting fistfight. The law offices of Edwins, Zellar, and Hurley were housed in a marble and glass building that sat uneasily between a Western clothier and a store specializing in turquoise Navajo jewelry. From the parking lot, if you squinted your eyes, you could see the edge of the Salt River Pima/Maricopa Indian Reservation, and beyond that, the Superstition Mountains. This struggle between sleek modernity and rustic simplicity furthered Scottsdale’s schizophrenic air, as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether to belong to the nineteenth century or the twenty-first.

Stephen Zellar, Esquire, however, very much belonged to the twenty-first. His office, furnished in cream-colored leather and polished chrome, was not so much welcoming as efficient. Same with Zellar himself, a middle-aged man as pale and gaunt as his furniture. Dispensing with the usual pleasantries, he slid a box file over his desk to me as soon as I sank into a chair.

“Here are copies of the discovery we’ve received so far,” he said. “Photos of the clothes the kids’ were wearing the day of the murders—DPS found them in the mother’s Lexus at a campsite in Quartzsite, by the way. We have the crime scene photos, autopsy reports, ballistics test, police interviews with the doctor’s coworkers, interviews with the kids’ teachers, friends, the live-in maid, who was, lucky for her, on vacation at the time of the murders, phone and computer readouts—you know, the usual. No DNA results yet. That’ll take a while.”

But I figured the disposition of this case wouldn’t take long. Given Ali’s and Kyle’s confessions, however ridiculous those were, there would probably be a quickie plea deal and that would be that. The kids would serve time in the juvenile corrections system until they turned eighteen. After they were released, the taint of the murder conviction would follow them for the rest of their lives.

“How about surveillance cameras? Neighborhoods like that frequently have them.”

He shook his head. “The Camerons had none, apparently believing that alarms were sufficient. Same for their two neighbors, unfortunately.”

Or fortunately, if cameras had shown two bloodied teens leaving the house. Before I opened the box, I asked, “Is there any chance I’ll be able to talk to Kyle Gibbs and get his version of events?”

“I doubt it,” Zellar said. “As I explained during our telephone conversation yesterday, he and Miss Cameron have been charged separately, therefore he has a different attorney.”

“Court-ordered attorney?”

A barely visible nod. His fingers began to drum on his glass-topped desk. “You may take the file back to your office. We’re keeping the originals, of course.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

Zellar stood. “The girl’s confession is nonsense, Ms. Jones, and I foresee no trouble in getting it thrown out. As to what happens with her case after that, well, I rely on you to come up with mitigating factors if we actually go to trial. Mental health issues, difficult home life, sexual abuse, you know the drill.”

Yep, the standard drill when it came to killer kids. “You’re not looking for a plea deal, then?”

“Depends on what we’re offered. Anyway, if there’s nothing else…”

A check of my Timex proved I’d been in Zellar’s office less than five minutes. Remaining seated, I said, “I was hoping to ask a few more questions.”

He glanced at his own watch, which appeared considerably more expensive than mine. “I have a luncheon appointment, so keep it brief.”

“How well do you know Congresswoman Thorsson?”

Still standing, he answered, “She’s an old family friend, but I’m not inclined to discuss the congresswoman further, other than to stress that this is the first time she has ever needed the services of a criminal defense attorney. Miss Thorsson has been an upstanding citizen all her life. Next question.”