Desert Wind (29 page)

If you’ve seen one county sheriff’s office, you’ve pretty much seen them all—U.S. and Arizona flags bracketing the piled-high desk, photographs of the sheriff shaking hands with politicians, a montage of criminal science degrees, civic awards, and I’m-a-Bigger-Deal-Than-You-Are plaques. Sheriff Wiley Alcott’s office set itself apart by including several hunting trophies mounted on the walls: the heads of an elk, a sixteen-point buck, and two pronghorn antelope. On the long credenza behind his desk stood an entire stuffed mountain lion, its fangs bared. The lion looked like it wanted to bite someone—the sheriff, probably, for killing it. I’m no fan of using dead animals as decorations, but I tried my best to keep the distaste off my face. This was neither the time nor place for an animal rights discussion.

The sheriff was younger than I expected. Like most county sheriffs these days, he wore a suit and tie but there was no mistaking him for a civilian. Somewhere in his thirties, Alcott’s face bore the studious expression of an academic, but with his bull neck, broad shoulders and Arnold Schwarzenegger build, the rest of him looked like a professional wrestler, albeit one that had taken time to get a professional manicure.

“I hear you have a complaint about one of my deputies,” he said, as I settled myself into a leather visitor’s chair.

“Deputy Ronald Stark beats his wife. And maybe his daughter.”

He looked down at his desk, picked up a silver Montegrappa pen and began tapping it on the blotter. “Your proof?”

I described the scene in the park across the street. “My partner saw it, too. James Sisiwan, Hank Olmstead’s son.”

“Would that be the same James Sisiwan we recently charged with suborning perjury?”

“Jimmy’s a big guy and with that facial tattoo of his he can look pretty scary. The entire suborning perjury thing is a misunderstanding.”

The tapping stopped and he gave me a hint of a smile. “That’s what they all say. But you can relax because we’ve dropped the charge. We’re not Neanderthals here.” The smile vanished and the pen-tapping began again. “Back to Deputy Stark. What makes you so certain you didn’t misinterpret the events at the park? From the way you described what was going on, you didn’t actually see Deputy Stark hit his wife or hear him threaten her in any way.”

“No, but she looks beat up and her daughter has a broken arm.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I realized how flimsy they sounded.

“Both could have been the results of falls.” Sheriff Alcott put his pen down, aligning it carefully with a six-inch high stack of blue-covered legal papers. “Here’s how it works, Miss Jones. I’ve heard the rumors about Deputy Stark. Yes, that’s right. Rumors
.
In the months since I was elected sheriff, there’ve been numerous people trooping in here with their suspicions about him, but every time I ask for proof of the abuse I get none, just different versions of ‘I think’ and ‘I guess’ and ‘It sure looks like abuse to me.’ Those aren’t the kinds of statements that will hold up in court. He’ll sue for reinstatement and damages if I fire him, and this county has neither the time or the funds to dick around in court for something like that. As for the alleged victim, yes, I have to say
alleged
, because when I brought her in here last week, she denied everything again. She may be walking around with a black eye now, but she still hasn’t voiced one word of complaint to me, to CPS, or anyone else. Neither has the child. That might change when the little girl starts school next year and irregularities are noticed by a school counselor, but until then, what am I supposed to do, waterboard Deputy Stark to find out the truth?”

I understood his frustration because I’d felt it myself many times before. But that didn’t mean he should simply sit there and fret. “There must be something you can do.”

“I hear you’re a former police officer. Scottsdale PD.”

It came as no surprise to learn he’d checked me out. In his position, I’d have done the same. “That’s right, for ten years.”

“Tell me, former Officer Jones, while you were on the job how many times did you encounter a situation like ours, and what did you do about it when the woman refused to press charges?”

He already knew the answer: nothing. So I remained silent.

“The French have a phrase for it,” he said. “
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ Understand?”

Unfortunately, I did.

“Just so you know,” he added, “A couple of volunteers from a local group named Haven called on her, but they had no more luck than I did. She told them she was accident-prone.”

With nothing more to be said on that topic, I switched gears. “I probably already know the answer to this, but why didn’t you dispatch some deputies to oversee the anti-mining demonstration?”

“Good question, easy answer. Ten minutes before they were to be dispatched, there was a seven-car pileup on Route 47. Two fatalities. All this carnage caused by a couple of teenagers who out of high spirits tore down a stock fence and released forty-six steers onto the road, eight of which are now hamburger. Compared to that catastrophe, a demonstration by the heretofore non-violent members of Victims of Uranium Mining didn’t make a blip on the Richter scale. I’m sure someone’s told you about the budget cuts we’ve had around here. This town doesn’t even have a police force anymore, so the sheriff’s department is left covering everything that happens not only in the county—and it’s a big county with a lot of runaway steers—but in town, too. Bar fights up the wazoo every weekend. Now, if that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m very busy and you have a nice day, hear?”

More Walapai Flats politeness. “One more thing. Why did your detectives question Hank Olmstead about the Roger Tosches killing?”

“Oh, for God’s sa…. Standard procedure, Miss Jones, nothing to be alarmed about. But the killing did take place on his property and right around the time Mr. Olmstead was driving down the road where the death occurred. We’d be remiss if we didn’t follow up.”

Pointedly, he looked at his watch. From this angle, I couldn’t see it all that well, but it appeared to be a Rolex. Arizona sheriffs made decent salaries, but nowhere in the Rolex range. He was also the first sheriff I’d met who spoke French, and unless I was mistaken, his suit was an Armani.

“Anything else, Miss Jones? I’m expected at a county commissioner’s meeting in a few minutes.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. What can you tell me about that cook who supposedly confessed to Donohue’s murder?” I was curious as to why an eighty-year-old would kill someone.

His face closed in. “We’re still looking into his story. Now, if you’re finished…”

I held up my hand. “Another thing. Did Deputy Stark turn in an incident report on a shooting yesterday?”

“A report that identified you as the alleged target? Yes, he did. He also turned in a couple of Baggies that smelled like tuna fish. One had slugs in it, the other had casings. We sent then them to the crime lab.”

“Anything back on them yet?”

He pointed his expensive Montegrappa pen at me accusingly. “Miss Jones, while we here in Walapai County may not be as backwards as you think we are, we’re still not as slick as Scottsdale. Depending on the workload, ballistics testing can take days, maybe even weeks, especially on a random shooting that didn’t hurt anyone. But rest assured that I’ll be in contact if anything interesting pops up.”

“Fair enough.” I thanked him for his time and rose from my chair.

As I headed for the door, he called after me, “Oh, and these hunting trophies you’re so pissed off about? They belonged to one of my predecessors, who just happened to be my grandfather. If I took them down, he’d rise up from his grave and shoot me.”

***

Once back in the Trailblazer, I checked the gas gauge. It was still half-full, but since I planned to leave Walapai Flats tomorrow at sunrise, I decided to top off now. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the Gas-N-Go.

The temperatures had cooled. A merciful breeze blew in from California, rolling a vagrant tumbleweed down John Wayne Boulevard. In fact, the weather was so pleasant that for a moment I was tempted to drive one of the back roads leading out of town to the Grand Canyon. Whenever I’d visited the Canyon before, it had usually been to the more popular South Rim, so the opportunity to see it from the other side was tempting. But what point would there be in visiting the Grand Canyon for a mere couple of hours? It would only remind me of how fragmented my life had become.

The temptation was great, though, so I pulled to the side of the road, killed the engine, closed my eyes, and remembered. Canyons within canyons, mesas thrusting up from the mile-deep Abyss—Vishnu Temple, Wotan’s Throne—the names of ancient gods superimposed upon rock formations that were here long before those gods were called into being, before the dinosaurs, even. A two hundred mile long gorge painted in red, pink, orange, yellow, purple, black, gray, white, impossible beauty in a place that couldn’t possibly exist—but did.

I wanted to see it again, oh, how I wanted to. But I was here to work, not enjoy myself. Blinking the memory of beauty away, I fired up the ignition and headed for the Gas-N-Go.

The Trailblazer was still slurping down fuel when a familiar truck pulled up to the tank on the other side of the island. I waved hello when its driver hopped out. Monty looked somewhat worse for wear, with a fat lip and a scrape on his forehead. He was wearing a shirt so ancient and grease-stained the Salvation Army would have rejected it.

“My, my, if it isn’t the truck killer,” the farrier quipped, sliding a credit card into the pump.

“Unlike Roger Tosches, your truck’s not dead.”

The genial look left his face. “You heard about that?”

“Also that you were the one that found him. Do you mind filling me in?”

At first I thought he’d clam up, but he didn’t. Even horseshoers talk to humans every now and then.

“Talk about your day from hell, and it’s only half over. What’s next? The plague? Locusts? First I find Tosches gurgling his life away, then the cops take my shirt and I have to wear my oil rag, then I get stomped by a twelve-year-old mare that should have known better. When I retire I’m goin’ some place there ain’t no horses. New York City, maybe. Nope, they’ve still got them police horses. My luck, one of them would bite me on the ass while I was crossin’ the street. Anyways, I was supposed to shoe a coupla horses at Olmstead’s, but when I turned down the ranch road, there was Tosches, sprawled out next to that big black Mercedes of his. Worst thing I seen since that poor colt over by…” He stopped. “Guess you don’t need to hear ’bout that.”

“I heard he was still alive when you found him,” I prompted.

“More or less.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in.”

“Try me.”

“Nothing but gobbledy-gook, mostly stuff I couldn’t understand, except for one word, which might have been ‘bitch.’”

As in,
Life’s a bitch and then you die
? Or,
The damn bitch shot me
? “I take it he didn’t name names.”

“That would be awful nice for the sheriff, but naw, he didn’t. He didn’t recite no Gettysburg Address, neither. The man was too busy dying.”

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

A harsh laugh. “Better question would be, who didn’t want to kill him? Tosches wasn’t exactly loved around here, but if you want to play guessing games, I’d say maybe his wife. She’s coming in for a pile of cash, and she’s as nasty as a rattlesnake in heat, so I wouldn’t put it past her. Half the people around here gonna be thankin’ the Almighty when they find out he’s dead, ’specially relatives of them men hurt in the Moccasin Peak Mine, and there’s more of them around here than you’d think. They’ve been wantin’ to pop him one for a long time. Even me. I lost a good friend over there before it shut down.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Or it could a been one of them ecology folks shot Tosches. Talk about raping the desert! You been out to that mess they call Sunset Canyon Lakes?”

“I’ve had the dubious pleasure, yes.”

“Then you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“We’re in agreement there. But back to the crime scene, Monty. Were any shell casings left lying around?”

“Like the ones we found when that asshole took potshots at you? No such luck.”

“Tell me about the car. Were the doors open?”

“Driver’s side was. And before you ask, nah, there wasn’t any bullet holes in the windows, so I’d say he was outside standing next to his car when he got shot. Why the idiot would get out of that cushy thing to stand in the dust is anybody’s guess. If it’d been someone else, I’d guess they stopped to admire the scenery, but not Tosches. He wouldn’t know pretty if sat on his eyeballs.”

“Sounds like he stopped to have a conversation with someone.” I heard a click from the direction of the Trailblazer’s gas tank, alerting me that the tank was full. As I returned the gas nozzle to the pump, I said, “By the way, Monty, I talked to the sheriff about Deputy Stark this morning.”

“Didn’t get anywhere, did you?”

“Nope.”

He spat on the ground. “Sheriff Alcott is Ronnie’s cousin on his momma’s side.”