Desert Wind (12 page)

Just as I thought the winding road would continue forever, it dead-ended at a metal barrier that kept me from driving straight into the canyon. After setting my emergency brake I stepped out and looked into the distance. Grand Canyon National Park lay twenty miles to the south. A million or so years ago the Virgin River Gorge had been formed by the seasonal runoff that fed into the Colorado, but while the gorge itself was no Grand Canyon, it was no mere arroyo, either. The sides presented a sheer drop of more than twelve hundred feet. At the bottom, the river surged along the rock walls like a silver snake, carving the canyon ever larger and deeper.

What a great place to dispose of a body.

However, as the fluttering remains of yellow police tape proved, Donohue had become snagged on a cactus-studded outcrop ten feet below the ledge I stood on. Easy pickings for scavengers, not so easy for law enforcement. The bad news was that the sheriff had been forced to call for an expert rock-climbing team to retrieve the body. The good news was that whoever dumped Donohue hadn’t been able to climb down to tumble him off the outcropping into the river below. Otherwise, the victim might have floated all the way to the Gulf of California and then onto the shoreline of Mexico.

A mishmash of tire tracks criss-crossed the ground. Somewhere among them would be the tread of the killer’s tires, now covered by dozens of others: SUVs, sheriff’s office vehicles, and looky-loos who were always attracted to scenes of violent death. No matter. I’d already learned what I needed to know. It wouldn’t have taken a strong man to heave Donohue off Sunset Point. The spot where he’d gone over was less than three yards from the metal safety barrier, and the ground sloped sharply toward the drop-off. A woman could easily have rolled his body in, no problem.

Satisfied, I climbed back into my rental and headed to Walapai Flats.

The drive was uneventful until I neared the cutoff to Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, where I spotted the same line of horseback riders I’d seen earlier in the morning. Morning trail ride completed, they were headed back to the ranch. This time, Dusty and the blue-eyed dog brought up the rear, watching out for stragglers.

We don’t always love the right people. By “right people,” I mean the people who are good for us, who even as they encourage us to grow, watch our backs as we stumble and fall through life. Loving the unlovable can be a saintly thing—Mother Teresa thought so, anyway—but for most of us mortals, loving the dysfunctional can be dangerous.

Dusty’s love affair with alcohol had almost killed me. True, I’d almost been killed before: as a child, as a cop, as a private investigator. Three strikes and you’re out, right? Not in my case, but I was no fool and knew my lucky streak wouldn’t last forever. Walking away from a man I still loved had been painful, but at least I remained alive to tell the tale. The nights, though…

Those long, lonely nights without Dusty lying next to me, nights without the feel of his hands, his lips…Even now, watching his easy sway in the saddle, I wanted to open the car door and run after him, screaming his name. I imagined my hands on his back, pulling him closer to me, smelling his sweat…

Jesus, Lena, what the hell are you thinking?

As Dusty rode by, I turned my head away, but he was so busy riding herd on the dudes that he didn’t once glance into my car.

***

Despite my concern about being late, I arrived at Ma’s Kitchen five minutes early. A wall of sound enveloped me as I opened the door. Customers chatting and laughing, cutlery clinking, meat sizzling on a grill somewhere. The restaurant’s decor furthered its homey name via wooden chairs, scarred wooden tables, and little pink doilies decorating every available surface. I stood in the reception area for a moment, worrying that we might not find a seat, but then I spotted Jimmy waiting for me in a back booth. A waitress was flirting with him: another moth attracted to his flame.

He waved. “Hey, Lena! Meet my new friend Tara.”

Tara, a waifish brunette with eyes that took up half her face, scowled when she saw me. She probably thought Jimmy and I were on a “date” date.

“Nice to meet you, Tara,” I said, as I slid into the booth across from him. “What’s today’s special?”

“Liver and onions,” Tara said, trying hard to smile at me. “Or spaghetti marinara.”

Interviews with possible suspects were tough enough without adding onion breath into the mix, so I chose the spaghetti, hoping it wouldn’t be too garlicky. Jimmy followed suit. Once Tara disappeared with our orders, he informed me that Anderson Behar, Ted’s attorney, had not only officially brought Desert Investigations on board, but that he had already begun to share information. The nice thing about busy restaurants, especially when you’re sitting in a back booth, is that your own conversation disappears into the rest of the noise.

“I drove over to your dad’s ranch this morning,” I said, studying Jimmy’s face for his reaction.

“Really?” He pretended to be fascinated by the pink doily on our table. “Learn anything interesting?”

“Very much so.”

He caressed the doily, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “My mother used to make things like this. My adoptive mother, that is. Crocheting can be time consuming, but she said it relaxed her. Ranch living…”

“I saw Dusty.”

His fingers froze.

“On the way over here, I figured everything out. Your disappearing act. The scene at the motel. When Dusty left rehab, you got him the job at your father’s ranch, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t want me involved in this case, because you knew I’d come up here and see him. You were forgiving enough to get him a job, but you didn’t want me to start up with him again, did you?”

When his eyes met mine, I saw a depth of anger I didn’t know my peaceful partner was capable of. “He almost got you killed, Lena.”

I wanted to argue that the woman who shot up my apartment wasn’t Dusty’s fault, but my commitment to the truth wouldn’t let me. It
had
been Dusty’s fault. If he hadn’t disappeared to Vegas on a week-long bender, he wouldn’t have wound up married to the crazy bitch, and she wouldn’t have followed him back to Scottsdale toting a loaded gun. I was alive only because she was a lousy shot.

“You could have told me Dusty was here, you know.” Giving up the blame game, I added, “Oh, Jimmy, did you really think I would allow him back into my life?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

I started to protest, then stopped. Jimmy was right. Warren Quinn had happened, a Hollywood film director every bit as wrong for me as Dusty had been. But Warren was now in my past, too. For better or for worse, I was alone and would always be alone. Better lonely than dead.

Noticing my hesitation, Jimmy began to relax. “Can we talk about the case, instead?”

Safer territory, to be sure. “Sounds good to me. I recorded a couple of interesting conversations today. You want to transcribe them or should I?”

“I’ll let you do the honors.”

Although I typed thirty words a minute and Jimmy something like eighty, I agreed as a peace offering. “Fine. What did Ted’s attorney have to say.”

Over the restaurant’s din, I learned that Anderson Behar had already received a copy of the preliminary autopsy report on Donohue, which estimated the time of death between nine and midnight last Thursday night. Ballistics tests revealed the murder weapon to be a .38. A handgun, then. He’d been shot from approximately five feet away, and the angle of the wound—a straight-on projectory—further proved suicide unlikely.

“Jimmy, did you ever find out what kind of firearm killed Kimama?”

“The slug they dug out of her was a thirty-ought-six. Ballistics never matched it to anything, but they suspect it was fired from a low-velocity carbine. Anything larger would have gone right through her and the car she was sitting in. And kept on going after that.”

Two different murder weapons: a carbine and a pistol. It didn’t necessarily mean two different killers. “What else?”

“Ted’s fingerprints were on Donohue’s belt and watch. Considering that, I’m surprised the prosecuting attorney hasn’t already filed charges.”

“Not really, Jimmy. Remember, when Donohue started to fall, Ted tried to catch him.” As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

“But Behar also said that Mia Tosches told a sheriff’s deputy that Ted threatened to kill the guy.”

“Does that sound like your brother to you?”

He shrugged. “Ted always had a temper, but whether he would threaten to kill someone, I don’t see it. He’s been working at the guest ranch too long. Dad impressed on all us kids that the ranch would lose business if we went around saying what we were thinking. Especially about the guests.”

Learning to control your mouth was a prerequisite for working with the public, especially the wealthy or semi-wealthy public. If you insulted guests, they would never return, and neither would their friends. My own experience had taught me that workplace guardedness tended to bleed into other areas of life as well, so I found it inconceivable that Ted would run around town shouting threats at people, especially cash cows from Sunset Canyon Lakes.

“Let’s see if I have this right,” I said, thinking aloud. “So far, the only thing the sheriff has to go on is based on his altercation with Donohue, a fingerprint match, and some threat he may or may not have uttered at the Walapai Gas-N-Go. Pretty weak, if you ask me. A good attorney should make mincemeat out of it. How sharp did Behar seem to you?”

Jimmy waggled his hand, a gesture that usually means so-so. “The guy’s not even a criminal defense attorney. Dad hired him because he used him in a real estate transaction a few years ago over in Silver Ridge. The guy’s licensed in three states.”

Which Behar would almost have to be in this area, where cases frequently slopped across the state lines of Arizona, Nevada, and Utah. But a real estate attorney? “Are he and your dad friends from way back?”

“Since dinosaurs walked the earth.”

Friendship is all well and good, but when faced with a criminal case, it accounted for little. Ted needed an experienced criminal attorney, not a buddy.

“Check Behar out, just to be safe. The last thing Ted wants now is a real estate attorney who’s in over his head, so try to talk your dad into hiring someone who knows what he’s doing. Oh, and check out V.U.M., Victims of…

“Victims of Uranium Mining,” he finished for me. “They’ve been giving the Black Basin Mine advocates a lot of grief.”

“Rightly so, from what I hear about what happened with that other uranium mine Roger Tosches used to run.” I recounted everything I’d learned during my visit to Sunset Canyon Lakes.

When I finished, Jimmy gave me an admiring look. “Consider me impressed. The Nancy Donohue woman would never have let me in her house, let alone talked to me. I’ll start working up backgrounders on her, Katherine Dysart, and Olivia what’s-her-face…How do you spell that reporter’s last name?”

“E-A-M-E-S. She works on a New York newspaper, but I’m not sure which one.
The Village Voice
, probably. She’s vacationing—she says—at a timeshare over there, but I can’t help but wonder why. Doesn’t look the type, if you know what I mean. Tattoos. Black nail polish. Less than eighty years old. I want to know more about Ike Donohue, too. Before he moved here, he did PR for some tobacco company in North Carolina, and at the time of death, was doing the same for the Black Basin Mine. His choice of employers sorta piques my interest.”

Jimmy made a face. “First the guy fronts for tobacco, claims it doesn’t have anything to do with lung cancer, emphysema, strokes, or heart attacks, then he fronts for a man whose other uranium mine killed dozens of people. How could he do that?”

“No conscience, no problem. Which leads me to something else. Check into the first Mrs. Donohue. The current Mrs. Donohue said her predecessor is alive and kicking, but I’d like to make sure.”

“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“In this business, trusting people can get you killed. Another heads up. Nancy Donohue is a hunter.” As well as being a cold-hearted bitch. “See whatever firearms are registered under her name. Make sure you do a down-and-dirty on Roger Tosches, who as it turns out not only owns uranium mines, but Sunset Canyon Lakes as well. Look into Mia Tosches, too. I’m curious as to why she was so quick to point the finger at Ted. See if there are any skeletons doing the funky chicken in her closet. If there are, I want their names and addresses.”

“Are we talking a May-December marriage?” he asked.

“In spades.”

He winked. “Girl’s gotta make a living, Lena.”

“Don’t we all.”

Our lunches arrived, and for a while we ate silently. I decided that Ma was Italian, because the marinara sauce was spiked with enough fresh basil to start a basil ranch. Ma hadn’t gone easy on the garlic, either. So much for my concerns about the liver and onions special.

When Tara collected our empty plates, Jimmy ordered apple pie à la mode. I went for the pie, too, but virtuously skipped the ice cream. While Tara fetched our dessert, I brought up another sore subject. “Why aren’t you staying at Sunset Trails? Why the Desert View Motel? I saw the place when I passed through town and it looked pretty seedy.”

“Where I stay is my own business.” He fingered the pink doily again.