Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (33 page)

It took him a moment, but when he spoke again, he had worked through his feelings. “Deal. For now, though, let’s forget the past. Too depressing. Tell me about Kyle. Bet his family was happy to have him back.”

I licked the last bit of ice cream off my spoon. “Oh, they were.”

Once I finished recapping the interview, Jimmy said, “Maybe that van will show up on some surveillance camera, but that would be almost too easy, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was probably stolen.”

I groaned, for two reasons. Jimmy was right: the possibility that the van had been stolen had occurred to me, too. And now, notwithstanding the ice cream therapy, my headache was back.

“If the van was stolen,” I said, trying not to think about the pain in my head, “the killer probably dumped it long before now. Still, I’ll keep bugging Scottsdale PD until they track the thing down. Maybe you could check with your buddies in the tribal police since the rez is such a popular dumping ground. Bodies, stolen cars, the usual. Even the most careful killer can screw up and leave something behind, especially in a vehicle. A scrape of DNA on a door latch, a hair on the floor…Speaking of DNA, it works with dogs, too. The dog feces on the Camerons’ walls? Evidence. Let’s not forget the case in Tennessee, where a man was convicted of murder based on a lone cat hair transferred from the victim to him.”

“That conviction’s being appealed, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m an ex-cop, remember, which means I live on hope. Oh, look.” I pointed to the sky, where one of the bright dots appeared to be moving, albeit very, very slowly. “Is that a comet? And if you wish on a comet, does your wish come true?”

“It’s probably just another communications satellite. But go ahead and wish. Can’t hurt.”

So I did.

And it worked.

Chapter Thirty

I had just finished the Spanish omelet Jimmy had whipped up and was savoring my second cup of coffee when my cell rang. Up until then, he’d been cross-examining me on the state of my health, especially the part that concerned my sore head.

On the phone, Detective Sylvie Perrins sounded excited. “Couple of weeks ago, Phoenix cops found an ’78 Ford Econoline van abandoned in the lot at Papago Park and had it towed to the impound lot. I just called over there and the manager said that, yeah, it’s white. Techs are on their way as we speak. Thanks for the phone tip.”

Before I could cheer, she added, “I already ran the VIN and it’s registered to one Reuben Alvarez, of Buckeye. Reported stolen from the Pebble Creek Club House parking lot, where he was doing some yard work. Guy’s a gardener.”

“That’s clear on the other side of Phoenix. He have any connection to the Camerons?”

“We’re checking it out. Him being a yard man, there’s no telling where-all he works. Or admits to working. These guys, they do a lot of under-the-table jobs. Maybe the whole car theft story’s one big lie and he once did some work for the Camerons, got stiffed, and took his sweet revenge.”

Anything was possible, but it didn’t feel right, so I asked, “He have a sheet?”

“Couple of traffic tickets. Otherwise, no wants, no warrants. No history of domestics, either.”

A man’s propensity to violence often announces itself in a string of domestic violence calls, yet that didn’t seem the case here. Then again, women don’t always report the abuse. Alvarez could have been beating his wife, if he had a wife, black and blue for years and there could still be no record.

Sylvie knew that, too, so there was no point in mentioning it. “What happens now?”

“Since the van might be connected to a high-profile case, the techs’ prelim report could reach us tomorrow. Or maybe early next week. Then we sit around and wait to see if there’s a DNA match to anything from the Cameron house. Hey, even dog shit DNA! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“A laugh riot. What’s the lab’s back-up these days?”

“Oh, around fifty, sixty other cases, the usual. But, and don’t tell anyone I said this, you know how it works, some cases have higher priority than others. We got us bunch of dead transients with no ID. Heatstroke, of course. Got around twenty, twenty-five illegals down by the border, thirst, more heatstroke, then we got that serial rapist working south Phoenix—he’s still doing his thing—a couple of drive-by fatals in Maryvale, and a decomposed female some hiker’s dog dug up in the Superstitions last week. The lab’s overwhelmed.”

These days, with violent crime on the increase and lab workers being laid off willy-nilly because of county budget cuts, DNA tests often took months to complete. In many states, the back-up ran into years. But as Sylvie pointed out, some cases had higher priority than others. DNA connected to the torture/murders of one physician’s family rated higher than a host of dead illegals and transients. Death, as in life, had its own caste system.

Sylvie was being so helpful I almost hated to ask the next question. “What about the possibility of surveillance cameras near Shetland and Appaloosa? You do anything about that yet?”

She vented a string of expletives for a while, then calmed down enough to snap, “What?! You think Scottsdale PD’s got nothing better to do than do your footwork for you? Send me a list of addresses and I’ll get to them when I can!”

She hung up.

Jimmy stared at me. “Sounds like a rough call. By the way, you look worse than yesterday. If you ask me, you’d better take it easy.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

He shrugged. “Just making an observation. That was Sylvie, I take it. I could tell by the squabbling. She get anything on the DNA yet?”

“Nope.” Ignoring my headache—worse than yesterday’s—I grabbed my carryall and headed for the door. “I’d help with the dishes, but I need to look at some houses.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Not to purchase, right?”

“Oh, sure. I’m going to buy me a tract home in Scottsdale, join the local women’s club, and live happily ever after.”

As I left, I heard him mutter, “Stranger things have happened, although in your case, probably not.”

***

At the intersection of Shetland and Indian Bend, I found two houses with security cameras. The good news was that they were situated kitty-corner from each other, thus able to videotape the murder van from different angles. The bad news? One camera looked old enough to have been used on Noah’s ark. I phoned in the addresses to Sylvie, who accepted them with nary a thank you. Police work sure played hell with a person’s manners.

Deciding I could use another cup of coffee to chase away my growing fatigue—so early in the day?—I headed for the Starbucks I’d passed on the way over. The crowd was thin enough that I was able to get an iced Frappuccino in what seemed like seconds, and after a couple of quick glances at my black eye, I was ignored. Frapp in hand, I made my way to an isolated seat in the corner, the better in which to think.

I felt certain that when the DNA results came in, the van in the impound yard would be turn out to be the murder van, and the surveillance cameras—if working that day—would give a jury something to look at. But the real question was this: did the killer leave any DNA of his own in the van? And if so, would that DNA match up with any already on file? Unless it did, the DNA wouldn’t be that much help in finding the killer, only in convicting him when he arrived in court.

It occurred to me that I might do some DNA collecting of my own, at least as far as doggie-do was concerned. With the exception of Felix Phelps, each of the people I’d interviewed owned at least one dog. From the sound of its barks, Monster Woman had something big, the Hoppers owned a German shepherd mix, the white trash Hoyts’ property was overrun by a whole pack of ravenous mutts, the Youngs owned those two black something-or-others, and Carl DuCharme had a prize-winning boxer. I doubted if Mr. Hopper or his grieving wife would let me anywhere near their shepherd mix, and if I dropped by the Hoyts asking to borrow a cup of dog feces, I’d be lucky to get off their property alive. If I asked the Youngs for a sample of their dogs’ doggie-do, Janeese would call the nut squad on me. And Carl DuCharme? He’d probably dropkick me into a vat of molten chocolate.

However, now that Dr. Bradley Teague had been proven to be in Africa at the time of the killings, and the nurse Dr. Cameron had fired was pretty much ruled out, too, I considered the prime suspects to be the Hoyts, with Monster Woman a close runner-up. The entire Hoyt family was vicious, and one of them liked to swing a baseball bat. As for Monster Woman, aka Terry Jardine, she was crazy-mean enough to do anything. At least the judge had raised her bail to five hundred thousand, so I might be able to gather her dog’s feces in peace.

Frustrated by the incongruity of collecting dog poop, I decided to do something more pleasant: see how Ali was getting along. A call to her uncle elicited the fact that the girl had spent yesterday afternoon clothes shopping with Juliana.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

“Why would you think I’m kidding, Miss Jones? The girl couldn’t keep wearing the clothes they gave her at her release, and she certainly doesn’t want to go back into that house…” He paused for a moment, then continued. “…back in her house for her other things. Later, maybe, but not now.”

“I meant that you had to be kidding, letting her leave with Juliana.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He probably didn’t know Juliana was Ali’s biological mother, which might explain his obtuseness. But I remembered the way Juliana had stared at Ali during her family’s funeral, the hunger in her eyes. Would the ice queen be sensitive to the girl’s needs? I doubted it. Ali needed someone warm, not a senatorial candidate.

“There’s nothing actually
wrong
, Dr. Teague, just that, considering everything, getting those two together could wind up being problematical in several ways. Leaving that aside, tell me how they got along?”

“Fine, I guess, because they’re shopping again today. Miss Thorsson’s already picked her up for another trip to Scottsdale Fashion Square.”

I let that sink in for a moment. “Um, I’m curious, Dr. Teague. How much do you actually know about Ms. Thorsson?”

“Enough to know she’s probably going to make a run for the U.S. Senate. We had a nice discussion about politics and there’s a lot of agreement there. I found her quite refreshing.”

“Oh, for…” In these cynical days, when politicians smoked crack and texted pictures of their penises, Juliana’s being a politician might make a more cautious person think twice about handing an impressionable young teen over to her care for a carefree day at the mall. But not Ali’s uncle, who had the sensitivity of a doorknob. “You mean, based on the fact that she’s a senatorial candidate, you turned your niece over to a woman you’ve just met?”

“Well, that and the fact that she’s Ali’s biological mother.”

“Thorsson told you?!”
I yelled so loudly, that everyone in Starbucks, baristas included, turned to look at me. After mouthing “Sorry” at them, I lowered my voice. “She actually said that?”

Dr. Teague sounded surprised by my surprise. “Why wouldn’t she? And she didn’t just tell me, she showed me her copy of the contract she’d signed with my brother and Alexandra.”

So Juliana had kept it all these years. Interesting. I forced myself to calm down. “Has she told Ali yet?”

I could almost hear his shrug. “I didn’t ask.”

The man was emotionally tone-deaf, so I ended the call as civilly as possible. Compared to Teague, Juliana Thorsson was a heaving mass of unrestrained emotion, but I wanted to make certain she treated Ali with more sensitivity than he did. Given the death of the girl’s family, followed by a three-week stint in the corrections system, she had been traumatized enough. The last person she needed to be around was someone who knew diddly-squat about kids. It was one thing to experience a brief yearning for your biological child, another thing entirely to care for her. During my twelve-year stint in Child Protective Services, I’d lived in two foster homes where the people had loved the idea of children, but wound up hating the reality. As a result, they took their disappointment out on their foster kids. In some cases, the kids fought back.

Remembering the gun cabinets in Juliana’s condo, I hit Thorsson’s number on speed dial. She picked up right away, sounding hurried. From the bits of bad canned music I heard on the other end, they were already in the mall. “What do you want, Lena? I’m busy right now.”

“Yeah, shopping with Ali.”

A sniff. “You talked to Dr. Teague, I take it.”

“Yep.”

“Then that’s one conversation we don’t need to have.”

With a feeling of dread I realized how much the woman took for granted. We could turn back time, and as some high-toned medieval philosopher once exulted, all would be well, and all would be well, and all would always be well. Except when it wasn’t. Careful not to let my frustration show, I said, “Although technically you are my client, I’m as concerned about Ali’s welfare as I am yours, so I’m just checking in to see how she’s doing.”

“She’s doing fine.” A hint of amusement.

“You haven’t already told Ali about your, ah, relationship, have you?”

The frost returned. “Give me credit for some common sense.”

Common sense? When she was out in public with a young teen who looked just like her? When I mentioned that, she laughed.

“It’s common knowledge I have a sister and niece, but so far, no one’s said anything about the resemblance. If and when they do, I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, say hi to Ali. She’s been asking about you.”

Rustling sounds, then a new voice. Lighter. Warmer. “Lena! Guess what? I’m out of juvie!” For the first time since I’d met her, she actually sounded like a fourteen-year-old.

“That’s great, kiddo. I hear you’re at the mall.”

“Yep. I got new jeans, new tops, new skirts, a couple necklaces, and a bracelet. Oh. And shoes and underwear.”

I remembered she was going through a Goth stage. “All black?”

Her tone sobered. “I’ll never wear colors again.” The way she said it, I knew it wasn’t a reference to style. “Anyway, Julie showed me this new color, Arctic Black. It looks black, but in certain lights, it’s bluish-gray.”

Julie
? “Sounds pretty. I’ll have to look that up for myself. Now pass the phone back to, ah, Julie.”

“Told you so,” Juliana said, as soon as she was on the line.

“Well, don’t rush things.”

The note of amusement returned. “Says the expert on teenage girls. Oh, well, since you’re so concerned, why don’t you drop by my place around five? We should be finished shopping by then, and you can check out Ali’s emotional health in person. I’ll make us some more iced tea.”

I’d thought more along the line of going back to Jimmy’s trailer for a nap after my next two stops, but I didn’t want to pass up this chance. “Sounds good. Uh, just as a warning, I got into a bit of a scrape the other day…”
when a lunatic tried to kill me
“…so I’m sporting a shiner and a few other cuts and bruises. Better prepare her for that.”

“She’s seen worse.”

I remembered the photographs of the Cameron crime scene. “Yes, she has.”

It was only after the dial tone that I wondered how long Ali’s visit with Juliana would last. Surely Dr. Teague wouldn’t let her spend the night with a woman he’d just met. Then again, given the man’s utter cluelessness, he might.

The crowd in Starbucks had thinned out by the time I stashed my cell back into my carryall, so I walked up to the counter and ordered a venti to go. No fancy flavors or froths, just twenty ounces of high-test straight stuff. Thus fortified for my next appointment, I went back to my Jeep.

***

Monster Woman’s roommate was happy to see me. Due to a misunderstanding I hadn’t bothered to correct when we spoke on the phone, she thought Terry Jardine and I were friends. Like Terry, Phoebe MacIntosh was a bodybuilder, although I’d never seen her around Scottsdale Fight Pro. But unlike Jardine, Phoebe wasn’t insane. Her pink Spandex workout clothes revealed her body; she’d stopped at the apex of terrific.