Cool in Tucson (28 page)

“Sure.  Shall I let Denny sleep as long as she can?”

“Yes.  And when she does get up, maybe just…sit around, talk, read books?  A long hot bath and a nap would be good this afternoon, I think.  She was completely exhausted last night.”

“What if Janine shows up?”

“Ask her to stay for dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure.  I’ll bring home plenty of pork chops.  Just don’t let her leave with Denny, okay?  We’ve got to get a few things straightened out before Denny goes back over there.  I’m going to try to talk her into another go-round in detox.  You’ll back me up, won’t you?”

“You bet.  Not that she ever listens to me.”  She looked at Sarah, shrugged her desperation shrug and said, “Forget it, go to work.  I’ll take a broom to her if I have to.”

Sarah went in her bedroom, changed into work clothes, came out and stood by the counter adding watch, Glock, shield.  “Help yourself to breakfast, will you? You remember where everything is?” 

“I’ll muddle through.  And Denny will help me after she gets up.  Have you noticed how she always knows where everything is?”

“Yes.  She has the makings of a good detective, I think.”

“God forbid.”  Head on one side, Aggie produced one of her rare, beautiful  smiles of unmitigated pleasure.  “That’s a good outfit, blue’s really your color.  If I just don’t look at that miserable gun, you look very nice.”  Thirteen years of commendations and merit raises had done nothing to alter Aggie’s opinion of Sarah’s career choice. 

“You do know how to wreck a compliment, don’t you, Agnes Veronica?”  She repeated her father’s goading use of his wife’s full name, and was rewarded with a flash of blue-eyed irony over the top of the paper.  “Call my cell if you need anything.  The number’s—here, I’ll leave my card by the phone.”  She looked around.  “What else?  I’m sorry the best reading light’s by the chair in there where Denny’s sleeping, but—”

“Don’t worry about me, Babe.  Go to work; I’ll be fine.” 

Her phone buzzed as she backed out of the driveway.  Artie Mendoza, pleased with himself, said, “Hey, Sarah, we found your sister’s car last night.”

“You did?  Where?”

“Would you believe it was back in the ramp at the Roxy Theater?”

“You’re joking!  What’ve we got here, a car thief with a passion for movies?”

“Looks like it.  I almost didn’t look up there, it seemed too crazy, but then I was passing so—and there it was again.  I thought about searching in the theater—the bad guy was probably in there.  But all I had to go on was a brown-skinned guy with a silly smile, so…I just went ahead and had the car towed to East Impound.”

“Have you requested fingerprints yet?”

“You bet.  I got high priority status for ‘em, too, called him a suspected abuser.  I couldn’t very well claim kidnapping since we never turned it in.”

“Good thinking.  Hey, you’re good to call me.  Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Oh, in a few minutes.  I like to work out first.  See you, Sarah.”

So, the system had worked for her while she slept.  It was so gratifying when it felt big and effective, instead of just big and out of control
.  They could have a match on those prints by tonight.
     

Headquarters Station at 270 South Stone was noisy and crowded, with a tour and a class waiting.  The building served so many functions it was always busy.  People came there to be deposed, too, and to reclaim evidence after a case ended, so the reception desk hummed with traffic.  Sarah wedged into an elevator and went up to the evidence room, where she found Eisenstaat at the window, signing the checkout sheet for Ace Perkins’ computer.  “Morning, Harry.  How’re you coming with that thing?” 

“I only got a few minutes with it yesterday.  Give me another hour.”

“Fine.”  She checked out the small box of miscellaneous items from Perkins’ desk.  “I’m going to take another look at this desk diary and the stuff out of the drawers.”  They waited together through three full elevators before they got a ride back to third floor. 

“Hey, Sarah,” Ibarra said, without looking up from the mounds of paper on his desk, “I’m almost ready with the phone bills.” 

“Good.  Soon as I look at my messages—about ten minutes, okay?”  She was sorting messages at her desk when the phone rang.  Delaney said, “We caught a break on the victim’s car, Sarah.” 

Sarah opened her mouth to say, “No, no, that was my sister’s car,” but Delaney, oblivious to the personal problems that had swallowed her previous evening, went right on.  “A uniform named Morrissey, do you know him?”

“No.”

“Neither do I but he does nice work.  He got a call last night about an Excursion parked in an employee space behind the Fry’s store on Kolb Road.  Noticed fresh bolts on the plates so he checked the VIN, and it turned out to be Ace Perkins’ car.”

“Well, hoo-ray for Morrissey.  Where is it?” 

“Downtown impound.  Will you write up the requests for prints and DNA?”

“You bet.  Nobody’s looked at it yet?”

“No.  How’d you make out at the victim’s apartment?” 

She told him what they brought back.  “We’re going through records now.  We should know a lot more in a couple of hours.  I’ll try to get out and take a look at that SUV, too.” 

She hung up wondering about the odd coincidence, Ace’s SUV found at the Fry’s store at Kolb Road. 
Could there possibly
be any —
She
shook her head
.  Nah, come on.  Too weird.

           
Ibarra walked into her cubicle a few minutes later, chuckling over a thick folder.  “Ah, Sarah, some days I think I’d do this job for nothing.  Don’t quote me on that, now.”  He was grinning in the super-tickled way he had, round cheeks, dimples, gold tooth and pink ears all glowing. 

Sarah said, “I do like a man who can get his jollies off a stack of phone bills.”   

            “Well, when the phone’s owner was a pusher, there’s this nice odor of scandal that hangs over everything…” Ibarra demonstrated titillated sniffing as he pulled a chair around beside Sarah, plunked onto it and spread messy marked-up sheets of paper all over her desk.  “Just look at this—week after week, the same local calls over and over, all a minute or less.  Customer calls, see?  All business.”

“Ah.  And I bet you looked up some of the names.”

“Better believe it.  You ready for my list of frequent flyers?”  He pulled a hand-written sheet out of the stack and the two of them bent over it.

“My, my,” Sarah said, reading, “what a lot of stock brokers.”

Ibarra chuckled.  “Who knew they were such party types?”

“These down here are all lawyers, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Ibarra said.  “This one handled my cousin’s divorce.”

“Oh my God, these two are good customers of Andy’s,” Sarah said. “Shee, he’s fed plates and plates of pasta to these coke-heads.  They probably couldn’t even taste it.”

“Wanna see something disgusting?” Ibarra said.  “Here’s my wife’s periodontist.” 

“Now you know what those high fees are for.”

“Last powder he buys with my money,” Ibarra said, “I’m gonna get her pearly whites out of
his
office.”

Sarah tapped the paper, thinking.  “Our victim had a very high-end list of customers, didn’t he?  You suppose somebody got envious?”

“Ah, wouldn’t we like to have access to
that
kind of gossip.”

“Yeah, why don’t our undercover guys ever bring us the juicy stuff?  Oh, here’s something really shocking,” Sarah said, “a personal trainer!”

“Why is that so surprising?  They work under stress and charge ridiculous rates.”

“You’re right, that’s the classic combination, isn’t it?”

“Then there’s this one call,” Ibarra mused, “every day to the same unlisted number.”  Contemplating his trove, he massaged the back of one hand with the palm of the other, looking inscrutable and wise.  Sarah half expected him to start saying, “Think about it, Grasshopper.” 

“You called it?”

“Several times.  I get an answering machine that says…I
think
it says, ‘Swing.’  Something like that.”

“Just that one word?”

“Uh-huh.  Go ahead, try it.”

Sarah dialed the number.  A man’s voice, quiet and very fast, said one word.  She hung up and wrinkled her nose at the phone.  “He says, ‘Swing,’ or maybe, ‘Swain.’  A signal to leave a message, I guess.”

“Right.”  Ibarra flashed his devil-made-me-do-it smile.  “Wanna try leaving an order for a couple of eight-balls?” 

“Great idea,” Sarah said, “have ‘em delivered to Delaney’s office.” 

Ibarra turned pensive.  “I’ll pass that number along to narcotics, but how much longer do you think it’ll get answered?”

 “Couple of hours.  I might want to talk to some of these people.”

“For what?  Users don’t kill their suppliers.”

“Probably not, but somebody must have a name, a make of car…anything.”

“The Department doesn’t favor harassing taxpayers about their personal habits.”

“Until something else comes up.  I’m keeping this list.”

“Okay,” Ibarra said, “I’ll call my man at Verizon and get the skinny on this unlisted number.”

“For sure,” Sarah said. “And you asked them to monitor Perkins’ account, right?”

“Yeah…we didn’t find the phone yet, did we?”

“Sure didn’t.”

“So possibly the killer’s got it.”

“
Quite
possibly.  And a lot of dope, I suppose.  And some guns?”

“Oohh, yeah.”  Ibarra whistled softly through his front teeth, making a note.  “Three guesses and the first two don’t count: In which other country would we be likely to find Ace Perkins’s murderer residing at this moment?”

“You’re probably right, but let’s not give up on him yet.  What else have you got there?  Personal calls?”

“There aren’t any.”

“Aw, come on.  Everybody makes
some
personal calls.”

“You got any friends you talk to once a week for forty-five seconds?”

“Really, that’s all there is?”

“Really.”

“So he’s got another phone someplace.”

“There aren’t any other phone bills in those files we brought back.  Six months on this number, that’s it.  Ace Perkins sure kept his files neat.”

“Good, he gets A-plus for filing,” Sarah said.  “But what did he do for a
life
?  Have you been through the rest of his records?

“No.”

“Can you give ’em another hour or so?”

“I guess.  Looking for what?”

“A girl friend, a boy friend, a dear old Mom?  Something to put a face on this guy.  I’m going to go see what Harry’s got.”  She walked along the row of workstations to where Eisenstaat hunched over Ace Perkins’ laptop, his long hands crowding each other on the small keyboard.  “How’s it going?”  

“Damn toys, I hate ‘em.  You want to look at this now?”

“If you’re ready for me.”