Scottsdale Heat: a romantic light-hearted murder mystery (Laura Black Mysteries Book 1)

by B A Trimmer

  I got in my Honda and headed north on Scottsdale Road to the blonde’s house at Gainey Ranch. When I got there, Alex’s car was still in the driveway.

  “Yes!” I said, pumping my fist up and down. I felt so smug. Hah, I thought, I love getting it right. It’s these small victories that keep me going.

  I drove to the end of the street, but didn’t see an inconspicuous place to park. Even worse, there were people out. Some were working in their gardens and some were walking their dogs. What kind of place was this? Didn’t these people have jobs?

  I drove around the neighborhood for twenty minutes, passing the blonde’s house every few minutes. I knew I couldn’t keep this up for long. Eventually one of these nosy citizens would notice something amiss and I didn’t feel like explaining myself to the police. Besides, I really had to go to the bathroom. The pot of coffee had gone right through me.

  I pulled out of the neighborhood and drove to a convenience store about two miles away on Hayden. Ten minutes later, feeling much relieved, I headed back to the blonde’s. I turned her corner and my heart sank. No black Jaguar.

  “Damn it!” I yelled.

  Well, there was only one way he would have gone, probably. I peeled out and headed west down Doubletree Ranch Road. When I was about a hundred yards away from the intersection with Scottsdale Road, I had to make a decision. I could go straight into a residential area, south toward downtown, or north toward the golf resorts. I mentally flipped a coin and pulled into the southbound turn lane then waited for the turn arrow. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I sat behind four other cars at the light.

  “Come on, come on,” I told the turn signal. Finally, I got the turn arrow and the line began to move. I had just cleared a truck in the middle lane, when I saw the Jaguar in the far right hand lane, turning north.

  “Damn it!” I shouted again.

  God, please don’t let there be a cop nearby.

  I got to the front of the left turn-lane and did a hard right. I cut across two lanes of waiting traffic and headed north on Scottsdale Road. This clever maneuver was greeted with a chorus of blaring horns and rude gestures, but fortunately, no police.

  ~~~~

  I followed Alex north on Scottsdale to Shea Boulevard. From there, we went west to 32nd Street, just inside the Phoenix city limits. He turned north on 32nd and went a mile, or so, up the road. He stopped at a strip mall that was tucked behind a gas station.

  The strip mall had seen better days. There was a take-out pizza joint, a beauty shop, a jewelry store, a bar, and a dollar store with a broken and taped window. Alex pulled into an open parking space in front of the jeweler. He got out of his car and entered the store.

  I parked at the gas station where I could get a clear viewing angle and took a closer look at the store. On the glass of the picture window, behind thick burglar bars, was stenciled: Meyer’s Jewelry. From what I could see, Meyer’s Jewelry handled mostly low-end items. The shop consisted of small display cases containing watches, gold and silver rings, necklaces, and earrings.

  I could only see one person behind the counter; a man about seventy years old with thick black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt. His black and gray hair was slicked straight back, giving him the look of a hoodlum from the 1950’s. All he needed was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his shirtsleeve and the hoodlum look would have been complete.

  Alex and the man talked for about two minutes. Alex then pulled what looked like small black pouch out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. The man looked into the bag then walked to the front door and locked it. Hanging in the window was a sign that read Open. The man flipped it over to Closed. Both men then disappeared into the back of the shop.

  Ten minutes later, the old man unlocked the door and let Alex out. Alex got into his car, backed out, and then pulled away. Alex drove back to Scottsdale Road, then down to the entrance of the Scottsdale Tropical Paradise Resort.

  Built in the early eighties, the Tropical Paradise was one of the first of Scottsdale’s mega golf resorts. Back then, this part of north Scottsdale was nothing but saguaro cactus and tumbleweeds. Now, the Tropical Paradise boasted two of the finest golf courses in Arizona. Surrounding the resort was some of the most expensive and desired real estate to be found in the city. It was the kind of place where someone would buy a beautiful two million dollar home, tear it down, and then put a four million dollar home on the same piece of land.

  Alex turned into the main entrance and drove past the resort’s huge tropical fountain. He then wound up the hill to the ornate building containing the main lobby, shops, restaurants, and day spa. He pulled into a no-parking space in front of the lobby’s main entrance. He hopped out of his car and walked in.

  I’ve noticed when you have a nice car, the resorts don’t care where you park. Park in the lobby, park in the pool, they don’t care. If you have something flashy like a Ferrari, they almost insist the car be displayed near the front entrance. If I had tried that with my Honda, it would have been towed, crushed, and melted.

  THREE

  I parked on a side lot, a little way down the hill from the main building. I walked up the steep sidewalk to the pool area. Yet another chance to exercise, I thought. Ahead was a gate with a sign on it saying something about the pool only being for registered guests and all visitors needed to sign in at the lobby.

  I opened a gate and went in. Still breathing hard from the climb, I was thinking maybe I should keep my new exercise routine down to once a day or maybe once every other day.

  It was a beautiful Arizona winter day, warm without a cloud in the sky. Only the lightest breeze was ruffling the fronds on the dozens of queen palms and royal palms planted around the pool. The area was packed with tourists, all paying big money to sunbathe while their friends were at home, no doubt digging out of the latest blizzard.

  I wound my way around bronze women in bikinis and packs of running children. To the left, I saw a tropical pool bar with a knot of tanned middle aged men, all laughing at some joke one of them had just told.

  I found a back entrance to the main lobby behind a high rock waterfall. I went in and started looking for Alex. I searched a cocktail lounge, a souvenir store, and a high-end jewelry shop. All without luck.

  I was crossing the lobby to look in the main restaurant when I spotted him. He was looking at some paintings and sculptures in an art gallery located just off the main lobby. The gallery was strictly high-end. I doubted there was a piece in the place less than $10,000.

  From what I can tell, Scottsdale resorts never actually sell any of the art in these galleries. I think they just have them in the lobbies to give the resorts an air of sophistication. If they occasionally do sell a piece of overpriced art, it probably surprises even them.

  The wall between the gallery and the lobby was made entirely of glass. This was so people walking through the lobby had a chance to admire the art without actually having to go in. I could see only one person in the gallery besides Alex, a woman.

  She was perhaps forty-five years old. She wore a black wool pants suit, a white button-down blouse, and black flats. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, held in place with black chopsticks. Her pinched face made it look like she was having a permanently bad day. To make things worse, she was wearing black cat-eye shaped glasses. The whole effect combined to give her a slightly sinister librarian look.

  After fussing with a couple of paintings, she sat down behind a large wooden desk and made a phone call. When she hung up, Alex went over to where she was sitting and they began to talk.

  Alex and the woman had been talking for about ten minutes when another man came into the gallery. He was medium height and thin, maybe sixty years old. He had a receding hairline and short blond-going-to-gray hair. He had a trimmed gray beard and moustache.

  Now maybe it was just a bad first impression, but he gave me the creeps. He looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to baby-sit your kids, assuming y
ou had some. The thing that bothered me most about him were his eyes. They were red-rimmed, watery, and looked a little insane.

  The creepy man shook hands with Alex and then they both went into the gallery’s back room, closing the door behind them. The woman walked to the gallery’s front door, then closed and locked it. From the desk she took out a small sign that had a picture of a clock on it, along with the message: Back in Ten Minutes. She hung the sign on a hook next to the door so the sign was visible through the glass.

  Instead of joining the men in the back she went to the desk, picked up the phone, and punched in a number. She spoke into the phone for about half a minute. While she spoke, she got a twisted smile on her sour face that gave me goose-bumps down both arms. She hung up, and then she too disappeared into the room in the back of the shop.

  I parked myself on a couch in the lobby across from the gallery. Fifteen minutes later, the woman unlocked the door and let Alex out.

  Walking with purpose, Alex went through the lobby toward the front entrance. I saw he would be to his car in less than a minute. I did an about-face and power walked out to the pool area, through the sunbathers, past the screaming kids, down the sidewalk, and then into the side parking lot.

  Since I knew Alex couldn’t see me from this angle, I sprinted the last thirty yards to my car. I hopped in and cranked the engine. It caught and I took off after him.

  Alex was at the light at the entrance of the resort, turning south on Scottsdale Road, about a hundred years ahead. I was speeding up to catch him when a black Lincoln Town Car pulled out from a side lot. I had to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting it. I expected a finger, but the driver ignored me.

  Maybe it was just my Honda has anti-lock brakes and I hadn’t made a lot of noise skidding the tires, but for some reason, the lack of a finger gave me a bad feeling about the black car. I drifted back and let it stay between Alex and me. The Lincoln first pulled in tight behind Alex then backed off a few car lengths. Two men were visible in the car and after a few minutes it was clear they were also following Alex.

  I followed both cars. Both my curiosity and my confusion had raised several notches. Who were these men? What had Alex been doing in the art gallery? What had he been doing in the beat-up jewelry shop? He appeared to be fencing something small enough to fit in a small black bag. Was this the source of his money? Was any of this drug related?

  Help!

  With these questions nipping at me, I continued tailing both Alex and the Lincoln. We all drove south on Scottsdale Road, passing through downtown and then into south Scottsdale. Alex was almost to the Loop 202 highway when he pulled into the parking lot of Jennie’s Cabaret.

  ~~~~

  Jennie’s is the Cadillac of the many Scottsdale strip clubs. From the outside, the building appears to be a small Vegas casino. Fountains, landscaping, and lighting all mingle to give an affluent and elegant appearance. I looked around and saw there were about forty cars in the lot. Not bad for a Tuesday lunch.

  Alex parked and went in. The Lincoln drove to the back of the lot and the two men got out. Now I was able to get a look at them, I saw one was tall, one was short, and they both looked cranky. They followed Alex into the club.

  I parked, waited two minutes, and then walked to the entrance. Standing on either side of the doorway, like immovable towers of stone, were two doormen. Each was huge, efficient, and formally attired in a black coat with tails and a black bow tie. Now, the way I look at it, the nicer a bouncer dresses the meaner he looks, and these two looked sharp. They looked me up and down, and then let me in.

  ~~~~

  It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the low lighting as I paid the cover and entered the cavernous room. Every time I go into one of these places, I’m amazed at what an industry is built around men watching women dance.

  The first thing that caught my attention was the music. It was loud and hard classic rock. What struck me was the pounding bass line seeming to accompany every song. It was a type of tribal drumming, evoking a raw sexual response.

  The room had a deep red carpet. The walls were royal blue with metallic silver stars. The ceiling was black, as were the tables and chairs. The club smelled of beer and sweat.

  As I looked around, I saw the room had five stages. The main stage was attached to a long catwalk that came out from a backstage area against the back wall. The catwalk itself was six feet across and twenty feet long, leading to a circular stage maybe twelve feet across. The catwalk and stage were both lacquered a smooth glossy black. Near the end of the catwalk was a brass pole. It was bolted to the floor and rose up to the ceiling. Small tables and chairs, mostly occupied, crowded against both the runway and stage.

  The other stages were similar, but without a catwalk, and were not being used. I guessed the lunch crowd wasn’t big enough to support more than one dancer at a time. I could only imagine the throng that would appear here on a Friday night. There were half a dozen cocktail waitresses milling about, serving drinks, and chatting with the customers. There was also a sleepy looking DJ in a booth in the corner, spinning out the dance tunes.

  An area against the far corner of the room had been set aside for lap dances. I saw an old man sitting back on a red leather love seat while a nearly naked young woman straddled his lap, her hips thrusting to the beat of the music. A look of joy was on the old man’s face as the woman rhythmically ground her privates against his. Actually, it looked like the perfect date for a premature ejaculator.

  A dozen men and four women were seated at the bar, which ran the entire length of one wall. Alex was near the end of the bar, drinking a beer, and occasionally glancing up at the girl on stage. The two big guys from the Lincoln were at a booth near the bar. Looking closer, they didn’t act like police or trained professionals, more like hired thugs.

  I went to a booth against the far wall. Looking down at it in the dim light, I silently hoped it had been wiped down recently.

  ~~~~

  In less than a minute, a waitress appeared. She was in her early twenties, had olive skin, brown eyes, and loose black hair hanging well below her shoulders. Her eyes were gunked up with too much make-up, but perhaps that had more to do with her stage act than anything else. She was dressed in a string bikini top and a pair of red leather hot pants. I ordered a ginger ale and asked her if they served any food.

  “There’s a full menu starting at 4:00, mostly steaks and seafood, some of the best around,” she said in a wistful Betty Boop voice. “This time of day we have salads that come out of a bag. We also have what I like to call the Heart Attack Special. That’s a platter of deep fried onion rings, deep-fried zucchini, and deep fried mushrooms – along with a bowl of ranch to dip them in. Or, we have a hot dog and chips for three dollars. We sell a lot of those. Can I get you one?”

  “Umm, sure,” I said, not exactly wanting a hot dog, but the energy bars had stopped keeping the hunger away some time ago and I needed something. I was starting to get light-headed.

  The girl on stage had just finished dancing and another girl came on, a tall reedy redhead. The pulsing rock music started again and she began to swing her long hair, thrust her hips, and dance to the beat of the music. Men lined up against the stage for the chance to slip a dollar into her garter.

  The waitress came back with the pop and the hot dog. I glanced over and made sure Alex was still at the bar. He was on his second beer but otherwise hadn’t moved. I had a bite of the hot dog and it wasn’t bad. I took a sip of the ginger ale and my mouth puckered. It had a strong taste of plastic from whatever bucket they’d just dipped it out of.

  The music from one song had died down and another one started up. As soon as it started, there was a general yell of excitement from the crowd and several additional men walked toward the stage. The music was apparently a cue for something special the regulars knew was about to happen.

  I looked over to the stage and did a double take. There were seven or eight guys standing against the stage with thei
r stiff Johnnies poking out of their pants. The guys were holding them proudly and everyone was laughing and smiling.

  As the music pounded out, the girl on stage beckoned for one man to come closer. As he came against the stage, she got down on her belly, hung her head over the side, and started go down on the man. The girl clearly knew what she was doing and the guy was clearly enjoying it. After she had performed four or five long slow strokes on the guy, she bit off the end of his pecker and spit it into the crowd. This act of genital mutilation was greeted with cheers and applause.

  What the hell?

  The girl on stage called for another man. He approached and she began to go down on him too. I looked again and noticed a woman was standing against the stage. Like the men, she was standing there with a stiff pecker in her hand.

  Then the truth dawned on me. They weren’t holding trouser snakes in their hands. They were holding hot dogs. I looked down at my half-eaten lunch and my stomach gave an involuntary twist.

  ~~~~

  The hot dog girl finished her act and scampered behind the curtain. I looked over at Alex, now on his third beer. The music started up again. Alex’s face brightened and he began to clap. The next girl was apparently the headliner because the DJ got on the mike and introduced her.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” he called out. “Jeannie’s Cabaret is pleased to introduce Player Magazine’s Miss November, Scottsdale’s own -- Miss Danica Taylor.”

  The announcement was met with scattered applause and whistles. I looked to the stage where the new girl had just come out. Realization hit me in an instant. She was the same girl that had gone out with Alex the night before. The same girl he had spent the night with.

  I watched as she began her first dance. Last night she has seemed merely beautiful and athletic, but today every move she made seemed to be an invitation for the men in the room to come and indulge in her pleasures. From the looks on the faces of the men, all of them would have been glad to take her up on her offer. Several men went up to the stage to offer her money, just so she would spend a few seconds looking intently at them while she danced.