Desert Wind (17 page)

My own partner had saved my life in just such an instance. Regardless of the danger to himself, he’d stayed beside me the day I was shot, using his own body to shield me from continuing gunfire. If I’d found out later that he beat his wife, would I have reported it to the higher-ups? I might first have urged him to get anger management counseling. If he’d shown up at work one more time with bruised knuckles, then, yeah, I’d have reported him.

Even if one officer filed a report against another, sometimes nothing came of it other than a ruined partnership. In all domestic abuse situations, there was an inequity of power, but in cop-against-spouse matters, that inequity strutted on steroids. A wife complaining of abuse was complaining about a man who not only carried a gun and knew how to use it, but someone who also knew how to sanitize a crime scene. Let’s say she looked past the possibility that the next crime scene might be her cooling body, and lodged a complaint, anyway. Not only would she have to testify against her husband in court, she would also have to go up against his cop friends, most of whom would empathize with the stress he endured on a daily basis. Their testimony would be slanted accordingly.

In spousal abuse situations, finances needed to be factored in, too. In many cases, the cop was the major bread-winner, and if convicted of battering, he would lose his job. His spouse knew that, which was another reason so many battered wives kept their mouths shut; they needed their husband’s paycheck to buy formula for the baby.

Barring a direct complaint from his wife against Officer Smiley Face, there was little either Jimmy or I could do to help her or her daughter, other than to tip off CPS to a possible child abuse case, which I’d do the moment I got back to my motel. Not that I thought much would come of it. Smiley Face’s genial “Sure-love-ya-folks-but-it’s-closin’-time” routine at the station house proved he was adept at disguising his dark heart.

As Jimmy and I walked through the shadows toward our cars, I thought of an often-used phrase, which when once used as a book title, rocketed the author onto the best-seller list. “Speaking truth to power,” sure sounded nice, but power almost always won.

Chapter Twelve

It’s easy to get lost in the desert at night. No lights, only a pale moon and even paler stars, no familiar landmarks, nothing to guide me other than the Trailblazer’s GPS unit. As I drove along the two-lane blacktop, wildlife dramas played themselves out in front of me. Why does the coyote cross the road? To chase the jackrabbit on the other side. I witnessed several of these chases, rooting, in turn, for the rabbit, then the coyote. One had to die in order that the other would live. My musings about Nature red in tooth and claw ended when I saw, standing in the middle of the road ahead, a particularly scrawny coyote looking down at a flattened rabbit. Road kill. As my rental approached, she turned toward me, eyes yellow-bright. Although I was quick on the brake, my car slid almost into the coyote’s side before it stopped. The coyote merely sat there. Didn’t move. Kept looking at me.

We long-time Arizonans know to beware of wildlife exhibiting atypical behavior. Coyotes are clever beasts who instinctively know humans aren’t their friends. Upon spotting us or even our vehicles, they usually make tracks into the brush, especially when carrying a kill. Another thing about coyotes: they don’t share. Except, of course, when it comes to their pups. As I stared at the coyote and she stared back, I saw her swollen teats. Another reason she shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road watching cars drive by. She should grab that road kill and run on home.

But she didn’t. We watched each other for a few more moments before I figured out what was wrong. She was salivating, and not from hunger. Foam rimmed her mouth, dripping onto the rabbit. When I studied her eyes more carefully, I realized how dazed they were. Flat, irises dilated, glowing with pain.

Rabies.

With one hand I lowered the automatic window six inches—she still didn’t move—while I reached into my carry-all with my other hand for my .38. Better a quick death than days of suffering. As for her pups, tomorrow I would search for them and deliver the same harsh mercy. They were doomed because they’d been drinking her milk.

“Over here, Mama,” I called. I poked the .38’s short barrel out the window. I hoped my voice would make her shift her position but she remained stationary. Knowing better than to step out of the car, I turned the steering wheel hard right and rolled the SUV to a position broadside to her thin flank. She still didn’t move, which was testament to how sick she was.

I aimed carefully, then fired.

The bullet hit her behind the left foreleg, a clean heart shot. She dropped straight down, her frothy muzzle resting on the road kill. A hind leg jerked twice, then stilled.

It would be irresponsible to leave a rabid animal on the road, lest some soul with more compassion than caution came blundering along and attempted to help, perhaps even rendering mouth-to-snout resuscitation. Such things have happened out here in the tourist-visited West, so I had to get her off the road. Trying to figure out how to keep my own hands untainted by her blood and saliva, I exited the car. A glance back at the coyote’s rapidly-filming eyes assured me she was dead, which made me feel both sad and safe, but I couldn’t see a way out of my quandary. If I’d been driving my Jeep, I would have everything I needed, from tool chest to tarp. But the rental had nothing, other than a….

…a jack.

It was an ugly business, but the jack worked. Once I’d used it to scoot the coyote’s body off the road, I performed the same task with the rabbit, then covered them both in dirt, brush and rocks. To make certain I could find the same spot the next morning—in daylight everything looked different—I stacked the rocks into a triangular cairn. The thought of going out to kill a litter of pups depressed me, but leaving them to die of rabies or slow starvation depressed me even more.

On that grim note, I climbed back into my rental and headed for the Emerald City.

***

Katherine had informed me that the mixer’s theme was One Night in the Wild West, so I wasn’t surprised when I entered the resort’s cavernous party room and saw scores of senior citizens dressed in Western drag: designer jeans, cowboy boots handmade in Italy, elaborately fringed shirts no real cowboy would be caught dead in, and an assortment of Stetsons sporting hatbands made of silver, turquoise, and feathers. At the far end of the room, ersatz cowboys and saloon girls were attempting to do the funky chicken to Old Sons of the Pioneers tunes played by a similarly dressed band.

The booze had been flowing for a couple of hours, and lips were already loose, which was good for me, since I’d already taken the precaution of slipping my digital recorder into my carry-all. Stray bits of gossip trailed after me as I hurried into the lady’s room to wash the dirt off my hands. When I emerged, Katherine was the first person I recognized. She and a handsome man were standing near a pair of sliding glass doors that opened onto a patio lit by Japanese lanterns. Clad in a high-necked Victorian dress with an enormous bustle, she should have looked ridiculous instead of more elegant than ever.

“Trent and I are delighted you could come,” she said, after introducing me to her husband. “We’ll do anything to help Ted.”

Standing approximately six-feet-two, Trent was black-haired, blue-eyed, with film star features, a blinding smile, and well developed pecs that strained against his tight gunfighter’s shirt. His handshake was firm without being aggressive, and his deep voice sounded as modulated as a diction coach’s. The only off-note was the crudely inked tattoo that edged out of his high collar. Mostly hidden, the visible black lines resembled the top half of a spider’s web. The last time I’d seen a similar tattoo had been on a lifer at Arizona State Prison.

“No costume?” Katherine said, interrupting my thoughts, as she handed me a nametag that already had my name printed on it. So much for anonymity.

“I see enough Western garb trolling the malls in Scottsdale.”

Trent smiled at my quip. Questionable tattoo aside, he really was dazzling, and it was easy to guess Katherine’s animus toward the voracious Mia Tosches. “Last week’s Mystery Night might have been more your style, Katherine tells me,” he said. “You could have come as Sherlock Holmes and figured out who killed our volunteer corpse. That was before Ike Donohue was killed, of course. If we’d known what was going to happen, we’d, uh, have picked a, uh, different theme. I mean…”

I rescued him from his discomfort. “Of course. Anyone figure out whodunit? At Mystery Night, I mean.”

“The successful detective came as quite a surprise,” Katherine said. “Mia Tosches, if you can believe it. She pegged the killer right away.”

“Maybe she watches TV mysteries in her spare time.”

Katherine gave me a pained smile. “Apparently so. After her big win, she told us she’s a big fan of
Law & Order
. And
Monk
and
Murder She Wrote
reruns. She reads, too. Even has a large collection of signed Agatha Christies. Made her husband buy them for Christmas.”

My, my. Quite the intellectual. After a few more pleasantries, I lowered my voice and told them about the rabid coyote. “You might want to warn the residents to avoid any animal acting strangely. You know how people are. They’ll bring home anything cute.”

“Animals are off limits at Sunset Canyon Lake,” Katherine said.

“The animals don’t know that,” her husband admonished. “Squirrels are always coming over the walls, and rabbits, well, they’re everywhere, aren’t they? They and the gophers play hell with the golf course. I’ve heard the maintenance men complaining.”

“Point taken,” Katherine said. “Trent, here’s what I suggest we do.” Giving me a quick nod, she ushered him away, leaving me alone to scan the room.

Mia Tosches, the youngest person in the room by far, flaunted her youth in a red saloon girl outfit, or part of one, anyway. Her dress’ neckline plunged almost to her navel and its hemline gave up the ghost a mere inch below her crotch, allowing her to show almost as much skin as she had earlier in her microscopic bikini. Roger Tosches, a paunchy Wyatt Earp with an age-spotted face and thinning hair, didn’t appear to mind his wife’s efforts to bare all. In fact, the Beast to his wife’s Beauty appeared to revel in the lusty glances several “cowboys” threw toward her. After all, she was his, wasn’t she? At least in a contemporary, loosey-goosey kind of way.

Attempting to look casual, I moved through the crowd until I found a close spot near them. Mia was discussing their last trip to Monaco, where they’d had a great time in the casino. Every now and then she threw in a dig about the huge amount of money he’d lost, and he kept changing the subject back to the upcoming mine opening.

“I know you’re bored by the whole thing, honey, but I’ve arranged for a very nice actual ribbon-cutting ceremony,” Tosches said. “You’ll be doing the honors instead of me. Photographers will be there, and your picture will run all over the state, maybe even nationally.”

Mia made a face. “I’ve never trusted the press. One day you’re best buddies, next day they’re snooping under your bed.”

“Not the
Journal-Gazette
. I’ve got them eating out of my hand.”

“Better watch it, Rog. You’re liable to wake up some morning and find your hand bit off. You seem to forget that the hag from the
Times
will be there, too. God knows what she might dig up on you. Or already has.”

“I can handle her.”

“Like you handled the mess in town today? Thugs with baseball bats?”

That Roger Tosches had sponsored the riot didn’t surprise me at all, but that his wife would discuss it so openly did. Cursing myself for not having it on already, I reached down into my carry-all and pressed the RECORD button on my digital recorder. I moved closer to the couple, but by then it was too late. Mia’s attention had been caught by a new arrival.

“Speak of the devil,” Mia said, her well-manicured finger pointing at Olivia Eames. “She looks like an Old West vampire.”

Not an unfair description. The reporter, who’d made straight for the drinks table, was a vision in black gunslinger attire, sporting two plastic six-guns slung from black holsters, black hat, black jeans, and a black Western shirt. Instead of black Reeboks like my own, her feet were shod in black pointy-toed boots with silver tips—the only non-black note on her costume. The get-up provided a shocking counterpoint to her papery white skin, which made her look as if she’d spent her entire life indoors with shades drawn against the sun.

Hoping Tosches and his wife would resume their conversation about the mine opening, I hovered nearby for a few more minutes but the topic had played itself out. Tosches began complaining about the numerous plumbing problems the condos at the Lakes had recently experienced.

“What’re they doing over there, flushing gophers down the toilets?” he grumped to his wife.

“They probably catch them on the fairway. By the way, when are you going to do something about that? I’m sick and tired of having my game disrupted by those filthy rodents.”

Her husband shot her an annoyed look. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Maybe your best isn’t good en…” Mia cut off her barb with a gasp. “What the hell is Nancy doing here? Shouldn’t she be home crying over Ike?”