Funeral Hotdish (3 page)

How was she supposed to act at a time like this? Their relationship was so new. Maybe she could get his mind off his troubles? So she said, “Hey, did you see they caught that kid that tried to bomb Sheriff Arpaio?”

That’s when Rob exploded. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. That kid was set up by the sheriff’s office. It was a goddamned publicity stunt.”

Rob thrashed his arms, looking like he wanted to throw something. Joya finally realized why he was so mad.

“That kid was just a patsy so the sheriff could get some prime-time coverage on television. Where did they get their ‘undercover’ footage? A goddamned pool reporter from Channel 3. The sheriff’s office had a television crew hiding in the parking lot to catch all the action. And the idiots in the press fell for it.”

Joya was so shocked, she grabbed the hot handle of a copper pot on the stove. When she ran to the sink to douse her burnt hand in cold water, Rob didn’t even notice.

“And guess where the kid got the bomb material? The sheriff’s office bought it for him. They showed him how to build it. They drove him to the restaurant. That bearded guy—that’s a deputy! We’re so goddamned mad about this we can hardly stand it.”

Joya knew the “toughest sheriff in America” liked to prance and preen, but she never thought he’d go this far for a publicity stunt—entrap a kid into a bomb plot that wasn’t real. She knew damn well that the kid would spend the rest of his life in prison—what jury wouldn’t convict him? So the sheriff would steal a kid’s life? This was too outlandish. Too mean. Too horrible.

“What is Phoenix PD going to do?” she finally asked. “You can’t let him get away with this.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he sneered. “Your mighty media are convicting this kid on the evening news and you expect one law enforcement agency to rat out another? What planet do you live on?”

Rob was so angry, he begged off from dinner. “I gotta go. Think I’ll stay at my place tonight. No telling when I’ll be done.” He didn’t even bother with a peck goodbye.

Joya sat at her kitchen table, steaming and stewing and breathless with this secret knowledge.

Her first call was to Peter Roman. “Let’s get to that kid in jail and let him tell us what happened,” she ordered. Peter told her to hang on, he’d get with his contacts and call her back. But of course, he didn’t. He stole the story for himself, and their editor backed him up. Jimmy Saville told Peter just what Robbie had told her. So did the lawyer who rushed in to help out the hapless kid.

Pete’s story the next week said the only chance the poor kid had was for a jury to find that he’d been “entrapped” by the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.

That had never happened in an Arizona court and no defense attorney in Phoenix would bet on it happening now.

Rob went nuts when he found out Joya had shared his information with Peter Roman. “You can’t do that!” he spat at her. “I didn’t tell you that as a reporter. I told you as my girlfriend. God, I’m an idiot.”

He walked out that night, too, angry and disappointed. She fretted all night, worried that she’d screwed things up for good. But she knew she’d do the same thing again if she had to. If Peter hadn’t stolen the story, she would have pursued it on her own.

So if they were to have any chance, they had to make some rules. The Number One rule was No Shop Talk.

Of course, Peter Roman thought she was throwing away a great opportunity. “What good is it to bonk a detective if you aren’t going to get anything?”

“You do it your way, Peter, and I’ll do it mine. At least, I have some ethics.”

“Ethics. Shit on ethics.”

Peter Roman believed that. The SOB had once gotten his wife to cook a beautiful dinner for a politician “friend,” and then blindsided him, sneaking into the kitchen to take notes on the table talk that made City Hall look bad. Peter couldn’t see how that was an unethical betrayal of the first order.

Joya knew betrayal when she saw it. She also knew she’d never been happier than since she hooked up with Robbie. The no-tell rule was their best hope.

The exceptions were those things that neither saw as dangerous. If he had a cut-and-dried murder case, okay, but he didn’t discuss the controversial ones at home. She could discuss her exposés, as long as they didn’t touch the city or the police union.

But Sammy “the Bull” Gravano was a whole new category. Should she share her delicious discovery? What could it hurt? Phoenix PD had no reason to be interested in Sammy. Wouldn’t it be fun to spring this news? Tell Rob how she happened on Sammy, and they’d both get a chuckle out of it? Show off for her detective boyfriend that she was a good detective, too! She’d swear him to secrecy, because she sure didn’t want this getting out until she had her story in print.

Besides, maybe this one time she could ask him a favor. Could he run the plate and see who owned the Lexus? On the other hand—journalists are infamous for their on-other-hand thinking—maybe it was better to keep her mouth shut. She could always tell him the whole story later.

“I had that interview today about the ASU scandal.” She counted this as one of the non-dangerous things they could discuss.

“How’d it go?” He had only a casual interest, but was polite enough to seem to care.

“Oh, great. I got some really good stuff. My source says they’re scamming the Havasupai—you know, the tribe that lives in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. She calls it ‘genetic rape.’ How about you?”

Rob pretended there was nothing special about his day, even though they’d heard some tasty things on the wiretap, and he turned the conversation to the Kentucky Fried Chicken he’d picked up for dinner—original for him, baked for her.

“Great. Get me a side of green beans?” He assured her he had. “Say,” she asked in her most casual voice, “what do you know about the witness protection program?”

It never occurred to her that this wasn’t a safe question. Phoenix PD had nothing to do with the FBI’s squirrel-away program. She was unpleasantly surprised when Robbie slowly lowered his beer and peered at her with those beautiful brown eyes.

“What does that have to do with ASU?” He was using his “bad cop” voice, and it was that, more than his question, that alerted her something was up.

“Just wondering. You know how my mind jumps around.”

She quickly stood to mix herself a scotch and water, hoping she hadn’t tipped anything.
Damn, I shouldn’t have asked.

Ding, ding, ding, ding—Rob knew exactly how her mind worked and he didn’t like the neighborhood it was working right now. Six months ago, the question would have been received as innocently as it was asked, but that was six months ago, before they figured out the Lexus they were tailing was registered to a Jimmy Moran who was really Sammy the Bull.

She couldn’t possibly…What are the odds?
But he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. She’d gone to ASU for an interview and come back asking about the witness protection program. Damn, that’s hitting too close.

Rob followed her into the butler’s pantry off the kitchen where she kept her hootch, and leaned against the doorframe, blocking her way.

Oh, oh
, she thought.
What door did I just open?

“So tell me about your ASU interview.” He used his “good cop” voice. She almost laughed at how transparent that was—you can’t schmooze a schmoozer. She smiled up at him with her own beautiful brown eyes and punted.

“I think this girl is legit—I think she’s got the goods on ASU. You won’t believe how they’ve been exploiting the Indians. They’re taking their blood, saying they’re going to do research on diabetes—you know, the tribe has one of the highest rates in the nation—but they’re not doing that. They’re studying schizophrenia and in-breeding and something about the Bering Strait Theory that says Native Americans aren’t natives at all, but immigrants from Asia. They’re lying to the tribe. It breaks every rule of scientific research. It’s going to tear ASU apart when this comes out. I bet it’ll be a national story.”

Rob wasn’t really interested in this story, but Joya knew he was after something and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what. So she carried on all through dinner, giving him excruciating details about the fraud story, stalling.

“How was the lab?” he asked her, as she forked into her coleslaw.

“What lab?”

“Isn’t that where graduate students spilling the beans on research fraud hang out?”

Before she could stop herself she corrected him, “No, I interviewed her at the Goldbar Coffeehouse.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d given herself away. Robbie’s dismayed face confirmed it. Hell, she’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

They looked at each other and you could see the wheels turning.

Shit
, his eyes said.
She knows.

Damn
, her eyes said.
He knows I know, but how does he know?

She put down the plastic container of coleslaw and they ate in silence. He felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. She felt like a python was strangling her.

Her reporter’s mind ran through the possibilities—her homicide detective boyfriend knew about Sammy the Bull because he’d done yet another murder while hiding out here under the witness protection program, and Rob was trying to solve it. Okay, that could be it. Or he knew about Sammy because he was getting information from him about some other bad-ass who was murdering people in Phoenix. That could be it.

Rob had an easier job of it, since he knew all about the Goldbar and the “court” Sammy liked to hold there. Shit, she could ruin everything!

He took a deep breath. “So how is Sammy the Bull these days?”

“Just fine,” she sang as she got up to clear the table. Turning away from him, her heart raced and her face stretched into an “oh-my-God.” This was going to be interesting! She returned to the table with coffee for him and tea for her.

They regarded each other like matador and bull. This could get just that ugly if they weren’t careful.

God, I love this man
, Joya thought.

I don’t want to lose this woman
, Rob thought.

For certain, neither one could walk away from this.

“So tell me,” she said.

“You tell me.”

“No, you’re the one who knew about Sammy the Bull—remember, I’m the one who just now discovered he was in town—so I think it’s your turn.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “I’ve gotta hear how you stumbled on him. What, he walked in the coffeehouse and the piano player did the Mafia song?”

“Exactly,” she yelped and fessed up, sharing the whole story. He laughed appropriately at the “Mr. Bull” line.

“Your turn.” She pointed when she was done. “How did you know he was here? He’s being a bad boy? Don’t tell me his count is up to twenty or twenty-one?”

Maybe she was giddy because of her startling discovery, or maybe she was pleased as punch for uncovering something that impressed her boyfriend, but she truly expected Rob to share his story on finding out that Sammy the Bull was at home in the Grand Canyon State.

The fall was crushing. She listened with disbelief.

“Joya, I’ve never asked you this in the entire time we’ve been together.…” Rob started in his by-the-book police voice. Her mind’s eye saw him packing his clothes and walking out the door. “…but I’m asking you now. Forget this. I’m not kidding. You’ve got to. Please.”

Joya envisioned packing up his clothes and pushing him out the door.

Her strike back was immediate. “That’s not going to happen, and you know better than to ask.” She felt sick.

He looked into his coffee cup and wondered if he dared push—or if he was pushing himself out of her life—and knew the stakes were so high he
had
to push.

“Joya. This isn’t a story about a Mafia guy ending up in Arizona in the witness protection program. This is a story that will get people killed. Sammy at the top of that list. Do you know how many goons out there want to make their mark by whacking Sammy the Bull? His family is here now and they’ll go after them, too. He’s got a wife and a daughter and a son and every one of them are marked. You write a story telling the world Sammy the Bull is in Phoenix and what do you get—an award? An interview on Pat McMahon’s TV show? And what does Sammy and his family get? Gravestones. Do you want to get these people killed?”

Rob felt dirty, spreading it on so thick. He hoped she didn’t know enough about the Mafia to realize the family being marked was a lie. He hoped he’d touch the decency inside her. Six months of hard work depended on it. Six months of stakeouts and undercover surveillance and weeding through mountains of wiretaps.

He put his hand on her arm and she pulled away.

“I’m sorry. You’re nuts if you think I’d sit on this. Robbie, the goddamned piano player at the coffeehouse knows he’s Sammy the Bull. Those college students know he’s Sammy the Bull. Apparently, he’s important enough that the Phoenix PD knows he’s here. So why is it me that’s going to get him killed? It’s not, and you know it. That’s bullshit. This guy is strutting around ASU like he’s a rock star and all of a sudden, it’s ME who has to keep his secret to keep him alive? Don’t treat me like a fool. Now you can either help me with this story or you can get out of my way. It’s up to you.”

Joya had never spoken to Robbie like that before. Had she gone too far? Not that it wasn’t where she needed to go, but she knew this couldn’t be good for them.

Rob was taking his own measure. He’d failed to ward her off—hell, he hadn’t expected it to work in the first place—and now he had to decide how deceitful he could be and still keep her.

If he told her the whole story now—if he shared information she couldn’t even guess—he’d jeopardize the entire investigation. It wasn’t only the Phoenix PD with a stake in his next words. How about the Drug Enforcement Administration? How about Customs? Try telling them their sting was upset because your reporter girlfriend happened to be in a Tempe coffeehouse when Sammy waltzed through.

But when she found out the truth—when she discovered why it was so goddamned important not to announce that Sammy the Bull was in Phoenix until after they had him back in handcuffs—she’d leave him in anger.