POLICE SHOOT ALLEGED STALKER
AT HOME OF BILLIE WELCH, HOSTAGE FREED
Mills is just about done reading the Arizona Republic’s account of Gus Parker’s ordeal when he gets a call from the station lobby.
“You have a guest down here.”
“Who is it?”
“Man says his name is Robby Downs.”
“I don’t have any appointments.”
“He says he wants to talk to you about Joe Gaffing in Mexico.”
Robby Downs is probably the same age as Gaffing, looks midforties, with hazel eyes and male-pattern baldness. He has a firm, athletic handshake when Mills greets him.
“I heard you were asking about the registration list for the Kimberly Harrington group,” the man says.
“Why don’t we go up to my office and talk?”
Upstairs, Mills offers his guest a cup of coffee and Robby Downs accepts. Then Mills leads him into his office and shuts the door behind them. Downs sits and says, “I’m not sure if I can help you with your investigation, but Joe’s dad wanted me to try.”
“Mr. Gaffing?”
“Joe Senior, yes,” the man confirms. “I roomed with his son at the hotel in Mexico.”
“It was a long time ago,” Mills says. “Do you remember much about the trip?”
“It’s hard to forget,” Downs replies. “It might have been just an ordinary trip, but then Kimberly disappeared. You always remember something like that.”
“So do you remember anything unusual?”
“Not really. But Joe Senior told me you were asking about three guys who weren’t on our tour, and it got me thinking. . . .”
“About?”
“About the night Kimberly disappeared,” Downs says. “There were three guys who showed up in our room that night. I didn’t know who the hell they were, but Joey said he met them at a bar down the road. They were all going out to party some more, but I was sick. Had too much sun and booze at the beach all day. I was already throwing up, so I wasn’t about to go out and start drinking again.”
“And?”
“And, you know, Joey called me a big pussy, but I was like, ‘Fuck you, I’m not moving from this bed unless I have to puke again.’ And then they left. I was either half asleep or dreaming, but I think maybe Joey came back once, then left again. Anyway, I woke up the next morning, and he was lying in the next bed snoring his brains out.”
“What time was that?”
“I think it was almost eleven. It was late. Past breakfast.”
“No sign of the other three guys.”
“No.”
“Did you get their names?”
The man shakes his head. “Sorry. I remember being introduced, but I don’t remember their names. They said they weren’t with a tour group. I remember that because it was odd, you know. In those days, anyway, all the kids were with a tour group. But these guys said they were on their own. Rich kids, I think.”
“And they were staying at a different hotel?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember where, but yeah, not at our hotel.”
“Do you think you’d recognize them if I showed you a picture?”
“Maybe.”
Mills turns to his computer, guides the mouse, and opens the “Mexico” folder. He clicks on “beachphoto1.jpg” and turns the screen to his guest. “Is that them?” he asks.
He watches as Robby Downs peers at the photo and studies the smiling young men, their backs to the water, the jetty behind them. Downs begins to nod slowly, absorbing a memory, it seems. He squints at the men one last time and says, “That’s them. That has to be them.”
“Has to be?”
“It’s their stupid, drunken smiles,” Downs tells him. “The same stupid, drunken smiles that barged into my room that night.”
“But you were drunk, as well. Which could make your memory unreliable.”
Downs shakes his head. “No. I was drunk during the day. It had to be eleven o’clock that night when they showed up. I was still puking out the alcohol, but I was sober. Sober enough to know to stay in.”
Mills turns the screen back. Then he stares at the man, trying to assess veracity of character. The guy has a plain face, not homely, just plain and unburdened. Not a twitch in his eyes. Not a smile, not a frown, not a passing regret. “You gave a statement to the feds when they got down there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Downs replies. “But all they asked was what I was doing that night, where I was, who I was with.”
“Did they ask about your roommate?”
“Yep, but all I could tell them was that he went out with some guys. That’s it,” he says. “I still don’t know if there’s any connection. I kind of doubt it.”
“You do?”
“I’ve been working with Joe Junior ever since. Until, you know . . .”
“His death.”
“Right. And he did have a reputation as a partier, even as an adult, but I never got the feeling he was hiding anything. Except maybe his drug habit. All I can tell you is that those guys were in Cancun. They came to my room. And Joey left with them. I don’t know if that helps, but Joey’s dad wanted me to try.”
Mills is still skeptical of Downs’s twenty-five-year-old memory, but that’s enough for Mills. He shakes the guy’s hand, then escorts him back to the lobby. When he returns to his desk, Mills goes to the congressman’s website and checks Torento’s public calendar for tonight’s event. Called the Dick and Jane Ball, it’s a fundraiser for childhood literacy. It starts at seven o’clock at the Phoenician. Semi-formal attire. Mills suspects this is one of those bashes given by the well-heeled who tend to care more about being seen at bashes than the causes the bashes benefit. Childhood literacy, hunger and homelessness, juvenile diabetes—what’s the difference? There will be a five-course meal, an open bar, and a silent auction. There will be dancing. Mills guesses there will be plenty of Dicks on hand. Maybe not so many Janes. But plenty of Suzies and Buffys, the socialites of greater Phoenix who practically wet themselves at the opportunity to buy a new evening gown. Their selfies will shut down the internet. Your Pal Al is a keynote speaker. Mills can’t help but smile. The look on Torento’s face. It’s going to be priceless. He sends out an email to Preston, Powell, and Myers.
Reminder: We’re going undercover tonight at Torento’s fundraiser. Meet in Phoenician lobby at 6:30. Dress swanky. That means a suit, Morty.
He picks up his phone and dials his wife. Asks if she can meet for lunch. It’s the least he can do for screwing up her Friday night. For once, she says yes. Again, a smile consumes his face. But this time there’s no malice. It’s just fucking joy for Kelly Mills.
Miranda, Billie’s sister, serves them lunch in the courtyard of her modest Phoenix home. Billie paid for the place, so it’s certainly not average, but it’s also not palatial. It’s a large L-shape ranch with a pool in the back and a courtyard just steps from the kitchen. A typical bougainvillea with no self-control blooms on the property wall, shedding its flowers everywhere, including the breakfast table. A pink flower lands in Gus’s spinach omelet. He’s tempted to eat it because, why not? “Sorry about that,” Miranda says.
Beatrice plucks the flower from Gus’s plate and places it atop her ample bun.
Billie and her pup are staying here while her assistant arranges for the PV house to go on the market and for things to be shipped to LA or to storage. It’s happening. Gus senses the inevitability, but he’s still unsure where within the inevitability he fits. And he’s not melancholy. Just unsure. “I know you can’t stay,” Gus tells her. “I understand why.”
She’s picking mindlessly at a plate of fruit, a bowl of granola. “And I know you can’t leave,” Billie says. “But I’m going to change your mind.”
Miranda reaches for both of their hands. “Stop it, the two of you,”she chides them. “Don’t make rules. Don’t break rules. Can’t your boundaries overlap? Billie, you’ve got enough money to fly Gus to LA every week!”
“
That’s if he wants to be flown,” Billie says. “I can understand if he doesn’t.”
“I’m right here,” Gus reminds them. “Being flown is fine. I wish I could finance such a luxury myself, but I can’t.”
“And you don’t have to,” Billie says with dispassion. “And it doesn’t matter.”
“Does that mean I get to babysit Ivy every week?” Miranda asks.
Gus shakes his head. “Probably not. I think Ivy needs to go where I go.”
Beatrice raises her Bloody Mary. “Look at that! A decision made by committee! Let’s toast.”
They clink a variation of water (Gus), tea (Miranda), and Bloody Mary (Billie and Beatrice).
“To Gus and Billie,” Beatrice declares. “May their boundaries overlap forever.”
On his second trip into the kitchen during cleanup, Gus becomes aware of a television set murmuring in the adjacent family room, and, as he finely tunes his ear, he recognizes the typical inflections of a newscast (the strange sound effects, the roller-coaster narrations of a news anchor, the chitchat, all that). He leans over the kitchen counter and looks. It’s CNN.
“A strong line of tornadoes is expected to hit the central plains over the weekend,” the news anchor reports, “while flooding continues to plague the Southeast. We’ll be monitoring both situations closely.”
Billie’s arms come from behind. She grabs his waist and pulls him close. “You’re an amazing man,” she whispers in his ear. “I don’t tell you that enough. I assume you already know. But in case you don’t, you amaze me.”
He places his hands over hers, creating a sort of belt buckle of hands at his waist. Then he laughs. “Is it cliché to say the feeling is mutual?”
“Only if you’re writing a song,” she says, kissing his neck softly before drifting back to the courtyard.
“And today is the twenty-fifth anniversary of Kimberly Harrington’s disappearance. Harrington was the Arizona college student who vanished on a spring break trip to Mexico. A vigil will be held tonight in her hometown of Dearborn, Michigan. Her parents, who have never given up hope, will join us live in our next hour.”
Gus gets a vague stirring in his gut. He tries to infer, but this sudden alert fails to visualize, fails to fully articulate. The only thing he understands is that today is no coincidence.
37
Kelly convinced him to pack it in early. Lunch was perfect. They stopped at Whole Foods and grabbed a portable smorgasbord from the buffet, drove to Papago Park, and ate under a flawless sky with the kind of breezes the Chamber of Commerce should charge for. She complained of fatigue, but once he got her laughing she came alive and he pulled her close. He held her in his arms even while she ate. She had a good feeling about one of her cases. She believed in her client’s innocence, and she had a revelation about how she must argue in front of the jury. Mills cheered her on. They kissed long and hard out there surrounded by the prehistoric landscape, a world closer to Mars than Earth, the red buttes obviously the secret lodging for visiting extraterrestrials. She said, “Come home early. We can continue this make-out session before your stakeout tonight.”
That’s all he needed to hear.
Back at the station, he confirms with his team, suggests they go home around three, get some rest, and grab an early dinner. The response is unanimously happy and obliging. Mills assembles what he needs—some files and photos—stuffs the case material into his bag, and he’s out the door at three thirty. The drive home, itself, is charged with adrenaline. At home he checks his closet for the suit he’ll wear tonight. Not too much lint.
“Are you there to observe?” Kelly asks. “Or are you going to confront him?”
“Confront,” he replies. “Politely, calmly, as graciously as possible. Though he deserves none of the above.”
“Maybe he truly knows nothing.”
“Then why not just say so? We’ve reached out to him a million times.”
“He’s trying to avoid the spotlight,” Kelly says.
“He doesn’t get to decide where the spotlight lands.”
“He’s going to think you’re there to arrest him.”
“We don’t have enough to arrest him,” Mills replies. “You seem worried.”
She shakes her head, then shrugs. “Oh. I don’t know. Something just feels odd to me.”
“How about that make-out session you promised?”
She rolls onto the bed. “How about a nap first?”
He laughs. “Both sound equally seductive,” he says, lying down beside her. He sets his alarm and then pulls her close. She falls asleep first. It’s only a matter of minutes before Mills slips away and joins her. He’s in a deep, cave-like, almost mortuary sleep when his phone rings about an hour and a half later.
“Jesus,” he groans, groggy and disoriented.
“Ditto that,” Kelly whispers.
He reaches to the nightstand but knocks the phone to the floor. He lunges almost upside down from the side of the bed to retrieve it. “Hello?”
“Detective Mills?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Jennifer Torento. The congressman’s wife.”
Her voice is almost breathless.
“Is something wrong?” Mills asks.
“Yes,” she says. “I think so.”
He hears passing traffic and the wind-tunnel effect of a Bluetooth car connection. “Don’t you have a fundraiser to get ready for?” he asks.
“That’s just the thing,” the woman says. “We do. But Al took a call a few minutes ago, wouldn’t tell me who it was, said it was classified. Then he stormed out of here.”
“And where are you right now?”
“I’m following him.”
“You’re following him? Right now?”
“Yes, goddamnit, I’m following him. Is that a problem? Something just isn’t right, and I thought you’d like to know.”
Mills swings his legs over the bed, then jumps into a pair of jeans. “Uh, yes, of course. Don’t hang up, Mrs. Torento. I appreciate the call.”
He pulls on a shirt. He has no time for a suit. In his race to get out the door, he can’t even stop to explain to Kelly. But he does scribble a note: “I have to go—Emergency.” She follows him to the driveway and blows him a kiss.
“Classified, my ass. I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Jennifer Torento tells him. “Didn’t you say I should be on alert for strange phone calls?”
He climbs into his car. It’s a few minutes after five o’clock. “Yes. I did.”
“Oh, my God,” she cries. “You were right.”
“We don’t know that, Mrs. Torento. Not yet. I need you to tell me where you’re driving right now.”
“I’m heading east on Camelback. Almost at Twelfth Street. I had to run a few lights.”
“How close are you to him?”
“He’s four cars ahead of me,” she says.
“Call him right now.”
“I’ve tried. He won’t pick up,” she says. “This damn fundraiser starts in two hours! This is some bullshit, Detective. I’m going to kill him if someone doesn’t do it first.”
He listens to her fire off what sounds like a Spanish tirade of curses. But he can’t be sure. It’s not the Spanish music Gus has been hearing; that’s for certain.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
“Turning right on Sixteenth Street. Heading south.”
It’s a guess, but it’s not a guess. It’s a fair estimation that Torento is driving to the same neighborhood off Sixteenth associated with the whereabouts of Klink, Schultz, and Gaffing. Mysterious phone call, abrupt departure, unlikely neighborhood.
“Do not hang up,” he tells her. “I have to make another call, but don’t hang up.”
He picks up his personal cell and dials Powell, tells her there’s a change of plans, and instructs her to rouse the others and get them to the PetroGo station at Thomas and Sixteenth. “Immediately,” he orders.
This is a shitty time of day t
o be on the freeway, but he’s heading down the Squaw Peak and luckily most of the commute is heading in the opposite direction, so his general speed is eighty. He occasionally has to slam on the brakes because assholes don’t know how to drive and there’s always a bottleneck at this hour the closer you get to I-10 and the 202.
“Mrs. Torento, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Still driving south on Sixteenth. Not moving fast, you know, with the traffic.”
“Okay, stay calm,” he tells her because she sounds anything but. He can almost hear her frothing at the mouth, a mixture of anger and panic in her voice. A bad combination. “Can you see him?”
“He’s a ways ahead of me,” she replies. “Looks like he’s turning now.”
“Okay, keep your dist—”
“Oh, shit! I think I lost him.”
Mills sees trouble ahead on the Squaw, then exits at Indian School. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Please remain calm. If you can find him, great. If not, I’ll come meet you somewhere. I’m not far from you now.”
“No. There he is,” she says. “We’re sort of driving through a residential area. I have to slow down or he’s going to see me.” Then she adds, “What? Now he’s turning back on Sixteenth. I have no idea what this man’s doing.”
“What direction is he driving?”
“South again. We’re at a red light. About to cross Thomas.”
Mills heads west on Indian School toward Sixteenth. Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck (that’s how his rapid breathing sounds to him). The faintest beads of sweat line up across his forehead. There’s a pressure, like a fist, inside his gut. “That neighborhood is familiar to us,” he tells the woman.
“I see him turning. He’s taking a right turn now.”
“Tell me the street. Can you see the street sign?”
“Yes. Iris. East Iris,” she says. “I think we’re on a residential street again.”
East Iris rings a bell but not a specific bell. “Fine. Don’t get too close to him. I do not want you to confront him. I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“He’s pulling over in front of a house.”
Dig Your Grave Page 38
