There she is again! Cindy, Cindy, my little red-haired deserter Cindy, are you haunting me? The thoughts came to nothing, pushed away as the newscaster spoke other words, and other images appeared. He found himself pretending the newscaster could see him, was talking directly to him. For a moment, it worked. Then a flash of reality coupled with self-hatred extinguished the fantasy. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote back on the table. Fleeing down the hallway, he grabbed keys from the table and ran to the garage for his car.
He had enough composure left to drive carefully, yet without knowing his destination. Minutes later he felt a bit calmer, the emptiness at bay. He would drive another thirty minutes or so then go home. When a thirty foot tall neon sign appeared by the road side he realized with a bolt of lightning through his brain that he was at the casino. Shit!
He drove past, wide-eyed at the parking lot with all the tightly packed cars. He took a swift glimpse back and saw people passing through wide doors into a carousel of colored lights, movement and bursting sound. Shit! The bile of envy and hatred rose up in his throat. Damn. I can’t because I’m not one of them anymore! He couldn’t cruise slowly into the long, wide driveway, find the perfect spot to park and then stroll into the casino like one of them. He couldn’t join them because two years ago, he had put himself on the state-wide “Do Not Admit” list, the one touted by Gamblers’ Anonymous as the cure. He had done it himself, wary that the bad luck in Chicago that made him lose it and punch the dealer still shadowed him. But now if he tried to enter any casino in this state he would be stopped by the guards or be told to leave at the cashier’s window. It would get out. People would gossip. Everyone would know. Then, no city council.
He drove, shuddering at the crawly feel of sweat trickling from his arm pits down his sides. He swerved the car into a U-turn. Where can I go? Where are the people who can see me? What if I stop and get out of the car and pretend to read a road map? Or pretend to change a tire? Yes, as they drove past some unknown person would mirror him so he would know he was alive and whole. But no, eventually some pathetic fool would stop to help him, and that would not do, would not do to appear vulnerable, needy. Not for the future city council member. Hell, I’ll soon be the mayor or even, someday, the governor. He felt his heart again, against his shirt, trying to break through.
When an idea finally penetrated his panic he pulled the car off the dirt shoulder and onto the blacktop heading back in the other direction. His expectations and then his confidence increased exponentially with each mile. In the end, I’ll stop chasing my losses and win a big one.
A concert was in progress tonight at the convention center. The only parking space available was twelve rows back but the distance gave him time to mentally prepare as he walked toward the building. No one at the ticket window this late in the performance and when he pointed and mouthed “bathroom,” the rent-a-guard waved him through the open door. He walked down the hall hearing phrases of mariachi music from the concert that sounded thin and frantic. There was no door to the men’s room. The entrance and exit were at both ends of a half-circle which provided privacy for the apex of the arch, where there were three wide, handicapped-accessible stalls. The room was typically large, tiled, and fluorescent-lighted. He entered the center stall and propped open the door. He had just unzipped his pants when an old man in a motorized scooter came around the corner. Verbale turned and pointed his penis at the man, whose wrinkled face took on a pained, shocked expression. The man mumbled “excuse me” and barreled toward the exit.
Verbale looked after him for only a second before he zipped up, and allowed himself, for one anticlimactic moment, to wonder what unique and imaginative things a handicapped man might do to give sexual satisfaction to a virile, able-bodied man like himself. It was just another fantasy, and not a very exciting one. It didn’t help. It just wasn’t enough.
• • •
Chapter Thirteen
Kim had talked on the phone to Lon Raney twice since the day of the body recovery, but he had told her little about any progress on the case. Curious to the point of frustration, she surprised herself by asking him to come to her home for a Sunday afternoon of pretzels, beer and TV baseball. Her next thoughts were about their mutual physical attraction. Maybe they needed to keep their distance. Curiosity and determination won out. She had made a commitment to herself to help get justice for the murdered woman. She had to see it through, even if it involved a few challenging situations.
After her shower and while she dressed she pondered the indefinable elements of sexual attraction and emotional connection in relationships. Thus preoccupied she didn’t bother to dress for company, but drew on cotton bikini panties and a comfortable sports bra, yellow t-shirt and shorts in a burnt-orange color. A scarf around her banded pony tail completed her outfit but not her questioning.
Her attraction to Lon did not fit the stereotype of a woman’s attraction to a man similar to her father. Kim’s father was short, stocky, had dark brown eyes and black hair. The only thing about Lon comparable to her father was his thoughtful, deliberate silences and the intelligence in his eyes.
When she opened the door for him she hesitated, not knowing whether to shake his hand or give him a quick friend’s embrace. She sensed that he was uncomfortable with the situation too, and did neither.
It took less than five minutes to show him around the small house and the back yard where Zayd sometimes did his toilet and otherwise communed with nature. Their conversation sounded stilted in her ears and the brief silences unnatural rather than easy. When they returned to the living room she determined to relax and enjoy the day and her company as if it was nothing unusual. She kicked off her sandals and drew her legs up onto the sofa. They debated which baseball teams they would watch then began a friendly dispute about which one would win.
Kim soon decided that if Lon knew her reason for inviting him here, he wasn’t making it easy for her – not a word about the investigation. She felt she had waited long enough when she said, “I’m glad you were able to I.D. our murdered woman so quickly. You must have done it just a few days after you processed the crime scene.”
“Right, a lot easier than we thought it would be.”
“The TV news spot aired three days after I found her. But since then I haven’t seen anything or read anything about who killed her or why.”
Lon appeared to be considering her statement which was a question in disguise. He was perceptive enough to know she was pumping him and with that knowledge she suddenly felt both uncomfortable and guilty.
He turned toward her, bent his right knee and shifted his leg onto the sofa, laying his forearm along the back. Now they were facing each other. He might have been about to answer when Kim turned, distracted by the dog. Zayd had scrambled to his feet, ready to defend her when Lon moved closer. She smiled and reached down to pat him reassuringly. “Cool, it Dog.” She gave the hand signal “down.” He sank to the floor again with a sigh, ears lowered.
Lon looked from the dog to Kim, smiled, and reached for his beer. “Yes, our Jane Doe has a name now. Cindy Cameron. Although we aren’t sure if that’s her birth name, a married name or one she chose for herself. We didn’t find a birth certificate or a marriage license and we haven’t been able to contact anyone who admitted they were family. The only official record of any kind was her social security card.”
“That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”
“Very. At any rate, your friend Allie. . .Allie Davis is it? . . . called to report her missing the day you found her. A follow-up the day afterward with Allie and a few other people who knew her helped us nail down the I.D. It’s a good thing, too. The M.E. said the fingers were too decomposed to print and getting DNA results within six months was an iffy proposition at best.”
“You made the positive I.D. with dental records?”
“Had to. No one would have recognized her, looking at the face. She wore no jewelry, had no tats or identifying marks except for a few
tiny scars, the kind everyone gets when they’re alive for more than a year. It seems Cindy Cameron flew under the radar. No contact information for next of kin, just a list of massage clients. Her computer gave us the names of people she chatted with on-line about birding, but not much else. ”
He wiped the bottom of the beer glass with his palm then put it back on the coaster. His multi-hued eyes appeared calm but intense. “I’ve been thinking how interesting it is that Allie was a close friend of hers and you’re a close friend of Allie’s, but you didn’t know her.”
Kim hesitated. She had a choice to make. Here was a man who dealt with deception, dishonesty and more despicable forms of behavior every day. How would he react if he knew she had not been honest with him? And why did she care?
She took a deep breath, prepared for his displeasure at being deceived. “I did know her. Not very well. I recognized her body the day I found her but I wanted to stay on the search team, to be a part of it. I hated whoever did that to her and I wanted to help get them. I still do. And I knew you’d figure out who she was sooner or later.”
He nodded, apparently unsurprised. She detected no hint of reproach in his tone when he said, “That explains a lot. But it’s my job to get them – him – the perpetrator, not yours. Anything else about her we should know?”
“No. And I would tell you if there was something else.” She glanced at his hand and forearm on the back of the denim-colored sofa, within inches of her shoulder. He wore a tight, short-sleeved shirt that showed bare skin. It was tanned and warm-looking, muscles curved and hard, not bulging. A thrill of sexual excitement coursed through her body, a shock and a mystery. She had blocked so much from her mind and body but she was not as closed off and safe as she had thought. She folded her arms over her chest and willed the sensations away.
“You’re looking at my arm,” he said. “Is it the one you’re planning to break?” His lips betrayed only a hint of humor but his eyes were warm.
She continued as if she hadn’t heard. “You’ve questioned me and her co-workers at the massage clinic. Allie said she has no relatives – had no relatives – except her mother, who I guess is among the missing. Or maybe Cindy was among the missing. From what you’ve said, I don’t really know. And did you question her boyfriend, Winston Verbale?”
He said, “I know she wasn’t in touch with her parents.” He paused, and looked into her eyes, the slightest of smiles on his lips. “You’re persistent, Kim, but I know when you’re changing the subject. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I am not going to break your arm, but my karate training is still with me and my dog would eat your leg if I gave the command, so don’t provoke us.”
He laughed out loud, showing even white teeth.
Her mind raced with awareness of his mouth, of his body and her own. “There’s a murderer we need to catch. We have business to take care of before we think of – of ourselves.”
She heard the laughter in his voice and again saw warmth in his eyes. “Business before pleasure?”
She didn’t answer.
He smiled. “So back to Verbale. The first and most obvious suspect. But he turned up the proverbial airtight alibi. He says he was in Costa Rica and the flight and hotel records agree. We even checked the security cameras at the airports. The M.E. put the date of death sometime between morning of May 6 and May 7, eight days before you found her. He couldn’t be more exact because the body was exposed to the elements and animal activity. Verbale’s flight left on May 6 at 11:10 a.m.”
“Well, that might be cutting it close, but he still could have done it and caught the flight. It had to be someone she knew. It wasn’t just a random event or a spur of the moment thing.”
“Agreed.”
“Then I think you should look at Winston again. I know he appears to be an ordinary, clean-cut, thirty-something business man, but you know what they say about appearances.” She sipped her beer and searched his face for a response.
“If Verbale killed her he must have done it early, before he took the flight out that morning. We could take a closer look at him.” Then he hesitated and looked at her sideways. “Wait a second. You know this is all speculation. And you’re not a member of my team.”
Kim glanced at Zayd. “You’re not a member of my team either. It doesn’t mean we can’t share our findings.”
“At this point, I have no findings and no leads – just your hunch, the hunch of . . . of a friend. You know what I’m saying. Any future conversations we have about the case need to exit your head immediately and never be spoken of to anyone.”
Strangely, he was looking at her hair rather than at her face. She knew his thoughts as well as she knew hers at that moment. He longed to put his hand out, lift a lock of her hair and let his fingers slide smoothly down to its tip, caressing, teasing the ball of his thumb with the ends, then. . . For some reason, she held her breath.
“That’s right,” he said a little too loudly, clenching the hand on his lap into a fist. “You discuss the case with no one except me.”
Kim caught her breath. “Or Zayd,” she said, and smiled. The dog immediately lifted his head with a questioning look. “Got it,” she said, not looking at Lon. She winked at her dog.
The next hours went quickly. They watched the baseball game and spoke little. Lon prepared to leave by collecting the two beer glasses and the empty snack bowl, taking them to the kitchen with Kim at his elbow. She put the things in the dishwasher and leaned against the kitchen counter, smiling at him. She knew he wanted to say something even though the tentative expression on his face was new to her.
“I’ve been reading about the history of the Apache Tribe.”
She froze.
“I like the stuff about Lozen, the woman warrior.”
Kim was able to smile. “Yeah. Women in the military. Not a new thing at all.”
“True. The Amazons, the Israelis and now us, the U.S. But Lozen – only one photograph exists. It isn't very good. The writers say she was beautiful.”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“It doesn’t. And she was more than beautiful. I read she was an expert roper, could run faster than the men, shoot as well as they did. She even treated and cured wounds. A remarkable woman.”
“Right. You didn’t read about her paranormal abilities or who she fought with?”
“No. What else did I miss?”
“Lozen was the sister of a Chihenne chief named Vittorio.”
“I thought she was Apache.”
“The Chihenne were a separate band of Apaches, but Whites didn’t get the distinction and came to lump them with the Chiricahua Apaches of Southeastern Arizona – with all Apaches, for that matter. Vittorio was actually quoted in a book I read. I memorized what he said. He said, ‘Lozen is strong as a man, braver than most. . .cunning in strategy’.”
“High praise. You know a lot about her. Anything else you can tell me?”
Kim searched his face and found satisfaction that he was truly interested. She said, “The story I like most is about her and another woman, a very pregnant woman. They were being chased down on horseback by the cavalry, along with others in their band. The pregnant woman went into labor. Lozen stopped with her. They sent their horses on with the others and hid in the bushes. The cavalry passed within feet of them. Lozen delivered the woman’s baby. Then they went on alone.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“I believe most of the stories are true. But the one you really might not believe is that she had powers other than physical strength. She had paranormal power. She could locate an enemy when they were still miles away.”
“How? What? Like ESP?”
“You might call it that. She would chant a prayer to Ussen, the supreme being, the giver of life, and turn in a circle with her arms outstretched. From the feelings in her arms and palms she could tell which direction the enemy was approaching from, even how many there were. Other people saw her do it. They swore she did
it time after time.”
“If it’s true, it might be the one thing that made her great and kept her from getting killed by the soldiers.”
“Yeah. Too bad she didn’t die in battle.”
“How then?”
“She died of tuberculosis – on a reservation.”
“Damn!”
Kim said nothing.
• • •
Chapter Fourteen
By the first of June, Yuma’s weather forecasters were now admitting it was “hot” in this part of the Sonoran desert, rather than insulting the public by repeating, against human perception and all evidence, that the weather was “warm.” Accordingly, sane Yumans who determined to be physically active did it in the hours between sunset and sunrise, or more sensibly, at anytime and anyplace indoors with air conditioning.
On a Tuesday in the mid-week calm and cool of the shopping mall near Allie’s office, she and Kim met for lunch. They went directly to the food court then in different directions to order at their favorite fast-food vendors. They returned with their trays and sat at one of the absurdly small metal tables to eat. Between bites of salad, Allie said, “Our schedules just don’t mesh, do they, Kim? If we didn’t have lunch here occasionally, we’d almost never see each other. And thanks for picking me up today while my car is in the shop, damned thing.”
“No problem. You’d do it for me. This pizza is delicious, by the way. You should try it some time.”
“I have to make do with salad – currently combating the middle-aged spread.”
Finished with the meal, they strolled the bottom floor of the two-story mall. It seemed to be waiting quietly for cool weather, for holidays and shop-happy snow-birds from up north. The few errant shoppers and casual walkers like themselves made little impact in the vast space, except for the sound of footsteps rising from Saltillo tile floors to echo off the vaulted ceiling.
Fatal Refuge: a Mystery/Thriller (The Arizona Thriller Trilogy Book 2) Page 7
