Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (4 page)

“You don’t know why she’s taken a personal interest in this case?”

“As I said, I’m not inclined to comment on that.” A slight flicker in his eyes hinted that he might know about the biological relationship. It would be interesting to see how that played out if the case wound up in court.

But that was for later. “What are your impressions about your client?”

“Alison? Bearing in mind that impressions, as you call them, count for little except with juries—and there will be none here, just an unimpressionable judge—she appears to be a troubled young woman. Which, I remind you, will be part of our defense. If it’s needed.”

“Sounds to me like you’re preparing to go to trial, then.”

“Only a last resort. A good defense attorney always has a Plan B. As well as a Plan C and D. At this stage, anything can happen. Having a mental health evaluation in hand would be useful in either eventuality, so I’m arranging for a psych eval as we speak.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“Most definitely a psychiatrist, and a child psychologist, and a social worker who specializes in juvenile issues. We must never forget that Miss Cameron is a minor.”

“When you spoke with Ali, did she tell you she planned the killings?”

He looked with great interest at the far wall, which was painted a bald, glaring white. Nothing hung on it. A second glance revealed a large, white-on-white minimalist abstract bordered by a thin chrome frame. You could hardly tell it from the wall.

Zellar cleared his throat. “Given Miss Cameron’s age, anything she might have told me about that afternoon would be suspect. Adolescents can be overly imaginative, you understand.”

“Did she say anything about the short, blond, brown-eyed hit man she hired with her allowance money?”

Another glance at his watch. “You’re kidding me, right? Now, I’m afraid I must bring this meeting to a close. If there’s anything else you need to know, speak to my appointments secretary as you leave. I’ll always make time for you.”

Not much time, apparently.

“Before I leave, how about giving me the name of Kyle Gibb’s attorney?”

Zellar’s face grew even stiffer with disapproval. “He won’t say anything to you.”

“Just the same…”

A sigh. “Curtis Racine. Young, bit of a rebel, but savvy enough that he won’t let his client talk to you, so you’d just be wasting your time.” With that, Zellar walked over to the door and opened it. As I reluctantly rose from my chair, he said, “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Jones.”

After Zellar’s frigid office, the July heat felt good, so I drove the eight blocks to Desert Investigations as slowly as possible. I wasn’t eager to open the evidence file, having been warned in advance that it contained photographs of the murder scene. Seeing how two adults died is bad enough, but studying images of a dead ten-year-old was something even the most hardened detective dreads.

The trespassing Hummer had been nowhere around when I opened the office early this morning, but as I pulled into the parking lot, I found it parked diagonally across two of Desert Investigations’ parking places. Ordinarily I would have done something about that, but right now I wasn’t in the mood. In the face of tragedy, trespassing Hummers don’t rate.

Jimmy wasn’t in, so I had the office to myself, which turned out to be a good thing because the crime scene photos were among the worst I’d ever seen. The victims had been separated from each other by approximately eight feet, bound with duct tape. While they sat helpless, they were subjected to torture-by-battering with the Louisville Slugger found at the scene. A close-up of the bat showed it remained intact, which was surprising given the fury of the assaults. According to the medical examiner’s report, the torture had gone on for some time. First their legs were broken, then their arms, then their ribs. The fatal blows to Alec and his mother came only after earlier blows shattered their faces. For some reason, after being tortured, Dr. Cameron had died via a 9mm gunshot to the head. Odd, that.

The medical examiner believed that ten-year-old Alec died first, while his parents watched. Alexandra came next, then Dr. Cameron, but only after a round of torture even more extreme than his wife’s and son’s.

The office door opened just as I was closing the folder. “Jesus, Lena, what’s wrong?”

Jimmy. Carrying two Big Gulps from Circle K.

“Working on the Cameron case.”

“Examining the crime scene photos?”

“Yep.”

He thrust a Big Gulp at me. “Drink this, but slowly. Otherwise…”

I knew what “otherwise” meant so I didn’t gulp my Big Gulp, just sipped at it while eyeing the hall that led to the bathroom. If the worst happened, the run would be a straight shot, nothing in the way, thus sparing our carpet.

“Deep breaths, Lena.”

“Stop playing nursemaid, Almost Brother. I’m fine.”

“You always fall to pieces over the kids.”

“I’m not falling to pieces.”

“And I’m the Lord Mayor of London.”

“Then stop hovering, your lordship, and sit down.”

Jimmy and I often carried on like squabbling siblings, which was one of the reasons I often called him my “almost brother.” Despite our seemingly diverse backgrounds, we had much in common. After his parents died of diabetes, the Pima scourge, Jimmy had been adopted by a large Mormon family in Utah. When they relocated to a guest ranch in northern Arizona, he’d moved with them. Being in Arizona again awoke his indigenous spirit, and within his first year back in the state, he’d made telephone contact with his relatives on the Salt River Pima Indian Reservation. Then came the visits, followed by lessons in the Pima language, and finally, a rift from his adoptive family that took years to breach.

But he had been loved. Fiercely.

Me? Not so lucky. After being left to die on a Phoenix street, I began a grueling march through Arizona’s foster care system, which seldom offered the solace of love. Madeline. Reverend Giblin. Only in their homes did I discover that such a thing could exist in this dangerous world.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jimmy grumped, as he sat down at the computer station across from my desk.

“I’m not looking at you any way. Stop being so paranoid.”

“Pot calling the kettle black. Maybe you shouldn’t have taken this case.”

“Too late now. And you know something? I’m beginning to doubt the girl was involved.”

“Girls can be as vicious as boys.” He knew my history as well as I knew his.

“Given the right circumstances, anyone is capable of killing, but this?” I shook a crime scene photo at him. The sense that something was wrong was growing stronger by the minute.

“Don’t let the fact that she showed mercy to the dog fool you.”

“We all practice selective compassion, except for, maybe, the Dalai Lama. He pities everyone.” I looked at the photos again. “Besides, the crime scene techs only found Kyle’s fingerprints on the bat, not Ali’s.”

“So? From what I hear, she’s a bright girl. If she’d carried out the killings herself, she’d have been smart enough to wear gloves.”

I nodded. “No one believes she did the bat-swinging herself. According to the statement her boyfriend gave the police, he was the muscle.”

Jimmy twirled around his office chair once, something he frequently did when playing devil’s advocate. “Again, so? Under the law, if the girl planned the murders, she’s just as guilty. More so, in some situations, especially if the partner-in-crime is the first to cop a plea. Good thing Arizona no longer executes fourteen-year-olds.”

“Only because the Supreme Court won’t let us. But look. What’s puzzling me is the savagery of the attacks. This is Ali’s family, not Kyle’s, so if he murdered them, why so much rage? It wouldn’t have been personal with him.”

“The parents were probably trying to break them up.” Another chair twirl. “That could have set him off.”

“At her parents, but not at a ten-year-old child. Don’t forget the little boy. And the dog.”

“He’s crazy?”

“Then if his court-ordered attorney has any sense, he’ll plead insanity. I need to talk to Kyle’s attorney.” Although contact with an opposing attorney and/or his client could be a license-endangering offense, something about this case made me decide to risk it. “Even better, the kid himself.”

“Good luck on that,” Jimmy muttered. Finally halting the chair-twirling, he returned to work.

Curtis Racine, Kyle Gibbs’ attorney, was in. Not that it did me any good. Once he was on the phone, he immediately denied my request for an interview with his client. He did it politely, I’ll give him that.

“Ms. Jones, you’ve been in this business long enough to know that I could get in big trouble for even taking this phone call, let alone talking to another lawyer’s investigator.” But there was enough curiosity in his voice to make me forge ahead.

“Duly noted, Mr. Racine. But let me ask you this. If for some strange reason I eventually decide that Mr. Gibbs and Ms. Cameron are both innocent of the murders, where would be the best place for me to start looking for the evidence that might prop up my thesis?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he replied in a pleasant tenor. “And call me Curtis.” Another good sign. Despite ethics considerations that should have hamstrung us both, this guy really wanted to help. He was the type of attorney who would either go far, or get himself disbarred.

“Think I should interview Kyle’s family, Curtis?”

The attorney’s answer was a dark silence long enough for me to suspect Kyle might have family problems of his own.

“Okay, then. How about his friends?”

The pleasant tenor returned. “I can’t stop you from doing that, Miss Jones, but their families might. We’re talking minors here. And we really, really, really shouldn’t be having this conversation at all, should we? Come to think of it, we’re not talking at all.”

But he didn’t hang up, and from his chipper tone, I deduced that Kyle Gibbs didn’t run with a bad crowd, otherwise he wouldn’t sound so relaxed.

“How about Kyle’s teachers?”

A chuckle. “They’ll tell you less than I have.”

“Are there any leads you can give me that won’t conflict with client confidentiality?”

“Let me think.” I heard breathing, papers shuffling. A few moments later, he said, “Ah. There is one thing. Two, actually. As you must have heard by now, certainly not from me, that my client lived in a foster home.”

“Huh!?”

Ignoring my outburst, he continued. “Remember, we haven’t had this conversation at all. You never talked to me, I never talked to you. As to Mr. Gibbs’ living situation, I can’t give anyone the particulars on that, of course, especially not you, but word through the grapevine is that young Mr. Gibbs once owned a dog, a mixed breed of some sort. He had to give it up at some point, but it’s being taken care of by his aunt. She’s a nice woman, considering.”

Considering
? “Do you mean…?”

“A reminder. This conversation never happened. But, no, I don’t mean anything, just that Mrs. Daggett’s trailer out in Apache Junction seems awfully small for such a large dog. You know, Mrs. Edith Daggett, spelled with two g’s and two t’s, lives on Apache Trail in Whispering Pines Mobile Home Park, 2015 East Apache Trail…Oh, goodness, did I actually let all that slip? My, my, what a blabbermouth I am! Well, what you gonna do? When I don’t keep my guard up, all sorts of things come tumbling out of my mouth. It’s your fault, you being such a tough interviewer and all. Guess I’d better end this call before you manage to strong-arm even more information from me, such as the fact that I don’t believe a word young Kyle says, because that sweet kid wouldn’t hurt a fly. So
adios
, Miss Jones.
Hasta la vista
. Hope to see you around the courthouse sometime. And remember, we never had this conversation.”

Dial tone.

Never underestimate the eely slipperiness of an attorney. Although making a big noise about client confidentiality, Racine had made certain I would talk to Kyle Gibbs’ aunt, a Mrs. Edith Daggett, two g’s, two t’s, resident of an Apache Junction trailer park. Within seconds, Information supplied me with the woman’s phone number and address. An hour later, I was angling my Jeep into a visitor’s parking space at Whispering Pines Mobile Home Park.

Apache Junction is an oddball town in an oddball state. Hunkered down in the shadows of the Superstition Mountains, it’s a salty mix of old Arizona natives, new Minnesota retirees, prospectors looking for the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine, wranglers from nearby guest ranches, and a few pin-striped commuters who aren’t afraid to brave the snarled mess of I-60 all the way to downtown Phoenix. Because the bulk of its denizens live on fixed incomes, AJ is the state champ when it comes to mobile home parks. Most are country club-type RV resorts, but a goodly number play host to beat-up single-wides.

Mrs. Daggett’s was one of the latter, a down-at-the-heels place where ailing trailers go to die. After threading my way through a sea of rusting hulks, I finally found her fifties peach-and-turquoise single-wide. Concrete blocks had been pushed together in front to act as stairs. A sign taped to the rusty screen door warned BEWARE OF PIT BULL. Despite the sign, the door stood ajar.

Not taking any chances, I stayed off the ersatz staircase and banged a fist on the side of the trailer.

“Knock-knock, Mrs. Daggett! It’s Lena Jones. With Desert Investigations?”

“Well, don’t just stand there lettin’ everybody know our business. Get yourself in here!” creaked an elderly voice.

“Uh, the dog…?”

A cackle. “He ain’t gonna kill you.”

After slipping my hand into my carryall and grasping the handle of my .38, I started up the stairs. I like dogs, but I don’t like being bitten by them. Especially not the pit bull kind; they’re infamous for clamping those enormous teeth around you and not letting go.

The .38 turned out not to be necessary.

Greeting me at the door was a golden retriever mix so old he could have been one of the original canines on Noah’s ark. All but toothless, he snuffled and drooled all over my new black jeans.

“Pit Bull, leave that woman alone!” the woman yelled from the darkness inside.