Deadly Intersections (6 page)

He snorted. “This was my wife’s. She insisted we buy that monstrosity,” he said, pointing at the piano, “and then she never played. After she left I’d thought about turning the place into a game room, but I’m rarely home.”

Lorraine shook her head. “That’s too bad. I’m sure you could use the relaxation. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to run a grocery store chain.”

“I’ve always got to stay ahead,” he said as they moved back down the hall.  

Ari lingered in the solarium a moment longer, gazing at the piano. She crossed the living room and entered the den which reeked of macho man. A plasma TV covered one wall and animal heads stared at each other from around the room. A poker table sat in a corner and Ari could smell the faint odor of cigars. She blinked twice before she understood the setup in the opposite corner. Parquet flooring and stage lighting illuminated a long slender pole that extended from ceiling to floor.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered in disgust.

Of course the room wouldn’t be complete without a fancy bar—the array of liquor suggested Wertz could create any drink ordered. She noticed a decorative shelf lining the top of the bar. He’d chosen to display a collection of antique bottles and flasks, and she noticed one that looked quite similar to the silver flask found inside Warren Edgington’s car.

“Ari, where are you?” Lorraine called. “We’re going upstairs.”

She tore her gaze away from the flasks and found them at the base of a winding staircase. They climbed to an open loft that Ari thought would be a great office space. The two second floor bedrooms were contemporary, painted in rich earth tones with deep rust accents around the windows. The floors had been redone in bamboo, her favorite look. By the time they returned to the living room, she was in love with the home and wondered how she could afford a seven-figure price tag.

“So how much can you get for my house?” he asked.

“We can do well, Stan. I know you want top dollar, but the house must appraise,” she said plainly. “I’ve done a comparative market analysis, and I’m sure we could get over a million.”

Ari listened as Lorraine explained the role of the seller’s agent, keeping her eyes squarely on her boss. She knew he was staring at her despite Lorraine’s efforts to engage him in conversation. He interrupted twice to ask questions, but when she presented the contract to him, he signed and initialed at the appropriate places, not bothering to read the ten pages of small print.

“So, now what?” he asked.

“I’ll put it in the listing system as soon as we get back to the office,” she assured him. “I imagine that you’ll have an offer soon.”

“I hope so. I’m dying to get rid of this place. I’ve fallen in love with golf, and I’ve got my eye on Desert Mountain.”

She joined in his enthusiasm, clearly sensing an opportunity to help him find his next home. “Without a doubt that’s the premier spot,” she agreed. “Have you played Verde Lobo?”

He nodded, a huge grin spreading across his face, the expression of a golf junkie.  “My favorite is Desert Vista.”

She laughed. “Johnny Wilson, the club manager, is a personal friend so let me know if you ever need a favor. I’d be happy to look up listings for you as well.”

His eyes shifted to Ari. “Actually, Lorraine, I want you to devote your entire attention to removing this albatross from my back. I was hoping Ari would act as my buyer’s agent. What do you say, Ari?”

“Sure,” she replied slowly. 

Although he was incredibly distasteful, the paycheck would be worth enduring several hours with him as they drove around in her SUV previewing houses. She’d investigate the area thoroughly and hopefully they would find something quickly.

He walked them to the door and took her hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you. Both of you,” he quickly added for Lorraine’s benefit.

Ari nodded weakly before he closed the enormous front door. 

“I think I need a shower,” she murmured.

Molly motored through the most depressed residential area of the city. Once the urban center of the valley, South Phoenix harbored the most notorious gangs, served as the epicenter for crack houses and sheltered the city’s poor, the majority of whom were Hispanic. Most Phoenicians only saw South Phoenix from the inside of their cars as they motored down I-10 or SR-202, gaining a bird’s eye view of the decrepit houses and rundown backyards that stretched across the landscape to the base of South Mountain.

She handed a steaming cup of coffee to Andre, who pored over her spreadsheets looking for the answer to mystery of 6815. Since he had a minor in finance he stood the best chance of finding the answer.

“I’ve checked out at least fifty of the addresses and nothing jumps out. They all seem legit.” He tossed the spreadsheets onto the floor and sipped the coffee. “You know, Mol, I’m happy to help, but you need to realize that if these numbers are an address, whoever owns the place has probably hidden it really well behind shell corporations and false names. We may look right past the answer and not know it.”

She nodded. “I get that. But the idea of a dirty cop makes my stomach turn.”

“I hear ya.”

She slowed as she passed a group of children playing in one of the dirt front yards. No foliage grew anywhere, the residents unable to squander precious water on landscaping. Large trees planted after the Depression once inhabited all of the yards, but when the neighborhoods spiraled downward, the trees like everything else went untended and eventually met a whirring chainsaw. The owners passed the ramshackle places from heir to heir, each one caught on the economic downslide and unable to make any improvements to the property.

“Reminds me of Philly,” Andre said. “We had a ton of neighborhoods like this.”

“It makes me want to cry,” Molly added. 

She turned right on Eighth Street and entered a media circus. TV vans lined the sides of the road while reporters and cameramen clustered in front of a drab house and searched for the best shot. The muted green paint had faded from the masonry block, revealing patches of a dusty rose underneath.
Probably the original color from sixty years ago
.

She pulled up in front of a fire hydrant, something a news crew wouldn’t dare do. A strip of red against the house caught her eye. It was one of those festive flags people hung on their porch that celebrated or honored nothing but proclaimed cheerfulness about the owners. Emblazoned with a yellow daisy, the banner wasn’t the only noticeable difference that separated this house from those of its neighbors. Someone had attempted to create order from chaos—all of the toys and bikes were lined up neatly near the porch.

“What do we know about the family?” she asked.

He scanned the information clipped inside the brown folder. “Mother is Juanita Perez. Father unknown. Two younger siblings… Whoa. Mol, her older brother is Franco Perez, the leader of Westside Knights.”

“Isn’t that the gang involved in the big rivalry?”

“Oh, yeah. The Knights are in a turf war with Mayhem Locos, the gang led by Hector Cervantes. These are bad guys, and they’ll be happy to die for this little bit of area.”

Andre closed the file and reached for the door handle. “That’s just great. We’re probably in the middle of a gang shooting. Ready to meet the press?”

Molly snorted and kept her eyes focused on the front door, ignoring the microphones and bellowing voices of the reporters. They approached the solid security screen door that kept the Perez’s safely between their home and the street. Wrought iron bars covered all of the windows and three gold deadbolts shone against the worn wooden door. 

“These people are serious about protecting themselves,” he said as he pressed the old buzzer.

“If you lived in this neighborhood, wouldn’t you be?”

He shrugged. “There’s crime everywhere, not just where poor people live.”

She remained silent. She knew he’d grown up in the Philadelphia projects while she’d spent her whole life in the suburbs of predominantly white Phoenix. She kept quiet about racial issues and poverty, and he knew not to expound upon gay rights.  They each respected the other’s area of expertise.

The door swung open and Molly found herself staring at a silhouette, unable to discern any physical features of the person inside. She held out her shield and hoped she was staring into the woman’s eyes.

“Mrs. Perez? I’m Detective Nelson and this is Detective Williams. We’re here to talk to you about Maria.”

“I’ve already talked to the police.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to ask you these questions again, but we’re the lead detectives on the case,” Andre explained. “We’ll try to be fast. We really want to hear all of the details from you.”

“It’s very important that we get to know Maria,” Molly added.

“Come in,” she said wearily.

She opened the door and stepped aside. No toys were strewn around the carpet and although the sofa and matching chair were quite worn, they were free of stains and holes. A few family photos dotted the walls but it was evident their money didn’t go toward home décor. Yet there was not a speck of obvious dust anywhere.

“We’re so sorry about what happened,” Molly said. 

Mrs. Perez nodded, her lips pursed, as if she was trying not to cry. She motioned to the sofa. She was a large woman who looked much older than her listed age of thirty-seven. This could be me, Molly thought, as her thirty-seventh birthday loomed around the corner. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be so tired, and she certainly couldn’t fathom how anyone could deal with the death of a child. 

The sofa faced an old television console. Perched on top were two pictures, a framed school photo of Maria and a candid shot of a teenage boy holding a pre-school aged Maria in his arms and tickling her. The picture conveyed the love of a brother and a sister, the protectiveness of an older sibling toward a younger one. Molly’s gaze drifted back to the school photo. Maria wore a blue polo knit shirt and hair in pigtails, but Molly’s attention was drawn to the girl’s eyes, full of fire and strength. Her broad smile minus a few teeth suggested a mischievous nature. No doubt she was a handful. 

As if reading her mind, Andre pointed at the photo. “Is that recent, Ma’am?”

Mrs. Perez rose as if it were the greatest of chores and retrieved the picture. She sat back down and lovingly stroked the sides of the frame. “This was taken last spring at the end of fourth grade. She hated that school uniform. Said that people shouldn’t have to dress alike if they didn’t want to.” Her hands tightened around the cheap wooden border, and she began to sob. “She was only ten years old! How could anyone shoot a child in cold blood?”

Molly waited for her to compose herself before she said, “Let’s start with where she was found, the playground at Washington School. Did she go there often?”

“All the kids went there. I don’t know what this ridiculous city was thinking. They leave an old empty school standing, but they don’t take away the swings and the monkey bars? That’s just an invitation to children. And once the neighborhood junkies cut a hole in the fence anyone could get inside.”

“So a lot of people come and go?” Andre asked.

Mrs. Perez huffed, “That place is like a motel. It’s always open. The cops can’t keep the junkies from hiding in the classrooms and doing their drugs while the kids play outside. What’s worse is that nobody can tear it down because it’s
historic.
” 

Molly noted the sarcasm in her voice. “Have the police ever intervened?” 

She found it hard to believe that the beat cops would tolerate such blatant disregard for the law.

“Oh, they’re always driving by, but it’s not like anyone’s standing outside holding up their crack cocaine for inspection.”

Molly made a note to contact the nearby precinct. “Did you worry about Maria going over there?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re thinking. What kind of mother would let her child hang out with druggies? Believe it or not there was never a problem. It’s the only place that’s close, and the playground was in the far field away from the main building. No one ever bothered the kids, at least not until now.” She started to sob quietly while they waited patiently. Finally she raised her blurry eyes and nodded. “Go on.”

“Why don’t you tell us about that day,” Molly suggested. “Start with when you last saw your daughter.” 

“She left about eleven. Since it was Sunday she didn’t have many chores after church so when she asked if she could go to the playground, I let her.”

“And that was around eleven?” Andre confirmed.

“Yes.” Her eyes flooded with tears that she willed away. “I never saw her again.  All I remember was that little voice saying, ‘Adios, Mama, see you in an hour.’”

Molly touched her arm. “I only have a few more questions. I just need to know if you can think of anyone who might want to harm Maria or if she’d talked about having problems with anybody.”

She shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. “She was stubborn, always questioning authority. If she didn’t like the explanation then she’d do what she pleased. I’ve got two other children, but Maria gave me all of my gray hair.” 

She sighed deeply and melted into the sofa. Molly was looking at a broken woman.