by Lonni Lees
There was one solution but he didn’t want to go there. He loved her. He always had. And she loved him, so killing her was out of the question. Somehow he’d have to reel her back in, make her realize again that he was always right and knew what was best for them both.
Her total submission was essential for their survival.
“You belong with me. Aren’t I your best friend? Haven’t I always looked out for you?”
“You always have,” she said. There was a passiveness to her voice, a weary undertone as if she’d said those words a thousand times before.
The man looked behind him one more time before they continued to walk into the night. The stranger stepped out from his hiding place, careful to stay a safe distance behind them. He watched as they turned the corner onto Miracle Mile, a misnamed street filled with run-down motels. A human graffiti of derelicts, losers and addicts marred the landscape, crawling along the broken sidewalk like rats, leaving a trail of defeat in their wake.
Long and lean, the man in the shadows continued to tail them and watched as they turned into a cheap motel. A glaring neon flamingo left over from the 1950’s sputtered and buzzed overhead. He watched as the man pulled the motel key from his jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock. He watched as they entered and closed the gaudy pink door to room twelve behind them.
The tall man turned and walked away. He had to be sure. He’d been searching for a very long time and he had to be absolutely sure. He turned up the side street to where his car was parked, got in and drove back, parking across the street from the run-down motel. And waited.
* * * *
Detective Maggie Reardon and Rocco La Crosse sat comfortably on the couch listening to the mellow jazz and soft rainfall and the purring cat. He still wore her bathrobe. They drained their glasses in unison and sat them on the coffee table.
“Refill?” Maggie asked.
“I’d better stop,” he said. “I’m getting buzzed.”
“Works better than Valium,” she said. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time.”
“I hope it’s from the company and not the liquid courage.”
She looked at the nearly empty bottle and in her best imitation of an Irish brogue said: “Aye, Mr. La Crosse, just call it a weakness.”
“I think we’re both a bit nervous tonight,” he said. “Getting to know each other better is the hard part, but Maggie, first time I laid eyes on you I felt something. It’s hard to explain really. You were standing there wearing that gun belt with your disheveled hair and serious demeanor and all I could think was…”
“You’ve got a thing for girls with guns? You must have loved Helen Mirren in Red.”
“Totally hot,” he said.
The bong, bong, bong of the mantle clock interrupted his thoughts as it slowly announced the midnight hour. Nearly in unison, the dryer buzzed. His clothes were dry.
“Saved by the bells,” said Maggie.
“It can wait.”
Rocco reached across the cat to get closer to her. He wrapped an arm across her shoulder and she instinctively leaned toward him. Prowler let out a soft growl as Maggie elbowed him onto the floor.
“He thinks he’s our chaperone,” she said.
“You don’t need protection. Not from me.”
And she believed him.
Rocco held a hand softly against her cheek and tilted her face toward his. Their lips met.
Maggie jerked away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m moving too fast.”
“No,” she said, groaning as she held a hand to her swollen lip. “It’s just that—that my mouth still hurts and it felt like I was kissing a prickly pear cactus!”
Rocco looked at her bruises and felt foolish. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I got caught up in the moment. I wasn’t thinking. It’s hard to think straight when I’m around you.”
“Our timing hasn’t been so hot, has it?”
“An exercise in obstacles.”
“Maybe it’s an omen.”
“Awe, c’mon Maggie. You sound so…Irish. It’s not like the banshee is wailing outside the window.”
She stiffened. “I didn’t know the arrogant French knew about banshees.”
“I read a lot.”
“So I’ve observed,” she said, thinking of the bursting bookshelves in his home up in the foothills.
“Hey, are you looking to start a war or what?”
“Is your next crack going to be about a quick Irish temper?”
“Maggie, Maggie, just relax.”
“I’m nervous. And I hurt.”
“That s.o.b. really did a number on you.”
“And I’m sorry that you’re taking the brunt of it. It’s just that between you and me and the murder and Barbara and everything else it’s so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Besides, some things are worth waiting for.”
Maggie rose from the couch and went to the laundry room, returning with an armful of warm, dry clothes and handing them to Rocco. He trotted down the hall and into the bathroom, Prancer following close behind and bolting into the room before he could close him out.
He returned the peach bathrobe to the hook on the door and dressed. When he returned to the living room Maggie was standing by the front door.
“The rain’s let up and it’s getting late. We should call it a night.”
At times she’s so abrupt and blunt, he thought, and other times she’s impossible to read.
“You’re right,” he said as he walked over and stood next to her.
“About that kiss…” she said.
“Out of line, I know.”
“No,” she said, moving closer to him. “What I wanted to say was, that if you’re game, I’d like to give it another try.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“When the time is right,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
Messing Up Paradise
“Why can’t I go out?” the girl pleaded, closing the motel room draperies to block out the morning sun and anything else that might want to peer in. “I just want to go for a walk.”
“We can walk together when I get back.”
There was no sense arguing with him. Even when she disagreed with him, he always knew what was best.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I need to find a big box store, some building supply place, and look for day work.”
“I could come.”
“And stand out there with the illegals and junkies? It could be dangerous.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s why it’s important I do the thinking for both of us. I’m your husband and it’s my job to protect you. And right now I need work to pay the front desk.”
“It’d be nice if you found a real job. You know, so we can settle down.”
“This is cash in pocket, no questions asked.”
The man opened the door and looked back at her. She was soft and pretty with chestnut brown hair, but those pale blue eyes never stopped reminding him of a time and place best forgotten. He’d succeeded in keeping her innocent of the outside world. She had no world beyond him, but it was getting increasingly difficult as she grew older.
“And don’t turn on the tv. It’s the devil’s box of lies and deceptions.”
“I promise.”
He couldn’t be with her every minute, so he suspected there were times that she did turn it on. Because somehow, no matter how careful he was, she saw things that made her ask questions. So he lied and she believed him. The only truth she knew was what he told her and he needed to keep it that way. She was his world and he was hers and that was how it had to be.
And that was how it needed to remain.
S
o far he’d been successful in keeping them both safe, even if it did mean endless moves from place to place. Maybe some day he could grant her wish and settle somewhere, but not yet.
Not until that uneasy feeling went away.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said. He walked back to where she stood and hugged her. “Everything will be fine. And I promise we’ll take a nice walk when I get back, okay?”
When he left she locked the door just as she was told.
“No tv,” she mumbled to herself as she walked across the room.
The tall, young man watched from across the street as the man in the plaid flannel shirt exited the motel room and got into his old green Chevy. He followed at a safe distance and pulled over, waiting, when the man stopped to gas up. When the man pulled into the lot of the building supply, the man parked a few rows behind him and watched as he walked across the parking lot and joined a small group of men standing at the far corner. He waited a long time, watching, as one by one the men would get into cars or trucks. A red pick-up, it’s back filled with lumber, pulled up and he watched as the man walked over and spoke with the person behind the wheel. After a short exchange, the man in the worn flannel shirt got in and they drove away.
The young man returned to his car. Weary from another sleepless night, he stretched out across the front seat and slept. It had been a long journey and he’d learned patience. He would wait for as long as it took for the man to return to his car.
He would wait as long as need be to figure things out.
To be sure.
To be absolutely certain.
* * * *
“Normal? How can you expect me to act like things are normal? There’s nothing about this whole situation that’s normal!”
At The Mosaic Gallery, Adrian Velikson questioned Rocco La Crosse as he sat across the desk from her.
“I talked to Friedman first thing this morning and the wheels are turning. He didn’t appreciate my waking him out of a dead sleep, but that’s what he’s getting paid for.”
“Okay, so you can flex those money muscles when you have to, but he’ll need to be one hell of a lawyer to get Barbara out of this mess.”
“You know I don’t like using the La Cross family’s clout. I’ve never been comfortable there, not even as a kid. I was born the black sheep with the silver spoon. But our law firm is the best in Tucson. Hell, it’s the best in Arizona. The time has come to put my feelings aside so I can help.”
“But still.”
“At a time like this having the right connections comes in handy.”
“I can’t be so positive.” She pushed her chair back and rose, placing her fists stubbornly on her broad hips. “How can you see sunshine when I see disaster? You’re not realistic.”
“I’d like to pretend we live in a magnanimous world, but we don’t. It’s corrupt and it’s tainted. That’s realistic. Our Mosaic family is the closest we’ll come to how we’d like the world to be, but even that falls short.”
“But we try.”
“And we’ll keep on trying, but people aren’t perfect. We accept them as they are, but sometimes we’re forced to play hardball and this is one of those times.”
“What do you mean?” Adrian sat back down in her chair with a thud.
“I’m not a lawyer and I can’t fight this alone. Listen Adrian, Friedman owes me. That’s how things work in the real world. Your burning incense and singing Kumbayah all day long won’t change that. You’d be surprised what gets accomplished on the golf course or what indiscretions are spilled over a few martinis at the 19th hole.”
“Or behind closed doors? I’ve never seen you like this, Rocco.”
“Like what?”
“Angry. It’s out of character. What’s eating you?”
Rocco leaned back in his chair, slowly counting the cracks in the ceiling. His anger choked him like a tight collar. Adrian was right that it wasn’t like him. So, what exactly was bothering him?
“Didn’t it go well last night with Detective Reardon?” she asked.
“No, that’s not it,” he said, trying to pinpoint what was gnawing at him. Things with Maggie were heading in the right direction, albeit at a snail’s pace.
“Well?”
“I think it’s Barbara. Aside from her love for you, I thought I was her best friend.”
“You are. And mine too.”
“Then why didn’t she confide in me? I had her in my house for days after the murder and she never said a word.”
“Rocco, it’s because you are her friend that she didn’t tell you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“She didn’t want to put you in that position.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“She didn’t want you to have to make the choice between being a loyal friend or doing the right thing. And she didn’t tell me because she thought she was protecting me.”
“Barbara shouldn’t have carried that burden alone.”
“She thought she was doing the right thing. It’s done. And now you say we have to play dirty and I don’t know how.”
“The rules have changed. Macy Friedman is going to see Barbara this morning. Then he’s going to have a one on one with the City Attorney. Everybody owes somebody and I’ll bet he’s no exception.”
“I’ve always hated politics, but I’m starting warm. Is that contradictory? Hating something unless it’s working to my own advantage?”
“Human nature.”
The tears were starting to well in Adrian’s eyes again.
“Stop crying and wipe the fairy dust from your eyes. It’s out of our hands. You need to be strong and work on what we can control. And we’re in control of saving the gallery.”
“I’ll try. I promise.”
“I’m sorry for being so rough on you, Adrian. I’ve been taking it out on you, but the gallery’s survival is up to the two of us. At least for now. It’s the one thing we can still do for Barbara.”
“I just want her home where she belongs, the sooner the better.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes.”
“But I called the jail this morning and they won’t even let me visit her.”
“Patience.” He looked around at the gallery walls, still filled with artwork from the last show. Calypso’s wild, colorful collages filled one wall and Paloma Blanca’s jewelry sat safely behind glass. Mary Rose’s traditional landscapes hung in contrast to the washed-out white on white abstracts by Misty Waters. Rocco’s own metal sculptures stood like naughty Easter Island sentinels waiting for him to carry them home. Belinda Blume’s Gaia sculpture was absent. The beautiful goddess was nothing but broken shards covered in blood. What remained of it sat in the evidence room at the police department. The gallery felt empty and abandoned. A place of joy and beauty and refuge was now sullied by the reality of death.
He needed to bring it back to life. Saving The Mosaic Gallery was as important as saving Barbara. They were one and the same.
“We need to focus. Start calling the artist’s to pick up their work.”
“The show certainly came to an abrupt end. A dead body can do that,” she smiled and it felt good. There wasn’t much to smile about except getting in this one last dig at the man who’d shared her lover. “That was wicked of me, I know, but I don’t miss Armando one bit.”
“Nor do I,” he admitted as he pushed the address book across the desk. “We need to prepare for a new show before we become another failed gallery. Make some calls and we’ll get the group together. They need to pick up their art and we need to fill them in and discuss the future. We’ll see how things play out and proceed from there. I’ll be damned if Armando’s ghost will pull this place into the grave with him.”
“Barbara may have signed off on the deed, but I don’t feel like The Mosaic is ours.”
Adrian agreed, opened the address book and picked up the phone.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” she said.
Rocco got up and walked to her side of the desk, took the receiver from her hand and sat it back into its cradle. He grasped her hands and lifted her from her chair. She rose with a grunt.
“There’s one thing we need to do first,” Rocco said.
He walked her through the front door and across the side yard and the two of them sat on the bench under the shade of the gnarled mesquite tree. The warm air hung onto the humidity from last night’s rain as a few stray clouds streaked across the brilliant aquamarine sky.
“We need to clear our negativity,” he said.
They closed their eyes, inhaled deeply, and held their palms upward.
All was silent but for the garbled chatter of a quail family as they trotted single file across the yard and into the brush and the occasional mesquite leaf that softly whispered as it fluttered to the damp ground.
* * * *
As was her usual routine, Maggie Reardon stopped at the mini-mart on her way to headquarters. More important than stocking up on quick snacks were her daily visits with Carlos. He’d been behind the counter since she was a child and he always greeted her with a wide smile and a kind word. She noticed that he’d picked up the habit, consciously or otherwise, of covering his mouth when he smiled, hiding the teeth that were only a few shades lighter than his leathered Mexican skin. In his broken English, he had praised the school work she’d shared with him when she came in for candy after school. He gave her non-judgmental advice through her rebellious teens. He was prouder still as she blossomed into a strong, young woman. He treated her like a daughter and was happy to fill the role of surrogate father when disaster struck. He helped fill the void when her parents were killed on the highway and helped the devastated girl through the worst of times.
