“Anyone get a description? A license plate?”
DiMartini shook his head. We got several descriptions of the vehicle. All different. Some say late model, some say ten years old. Toyota. Ford, Dodge, you name it. The license plates were smeared with mud.”
“There’s a lot of kids here,” Rich said.
“Yeah,” DiMartini said. “You guys can help. We need to narrow down to the ones that might actually have something that’ll help us. Why don’t you start grabbing these kids and get statements?”
“Sure thing,” Boyce said. He started to turn away. “Before you get away, Boyce continued, “I want to ask you about something that may or may not be related.”
DiMartini looked at her.
“You remember a hooker named Cynthia Farwell?”
DiMartini looked at her blankly.
“Worked the Coliseum. Found strangled about seven years ago.”
“Oh yeah,” DiMartini said. “I remember that. Never could close it.”
“You remember Marcelino Torres?”
He nodded. “Sure, dirt bag I never could nail.”
“You ever hear of Emilio Garza?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
“Garza is a Capo with the Valdez group. Pretty high up. Garza says Torres might have info that could help with Livvy’s murder.”
DiMartini looked at her for a long moment. Boyce could see his eyes change. He started nodding. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” he said again. He looked around like he didn’t want anyone to hear. Rich was a few feet away. “We get cleaned up here,” DiMartini said, “we need to talk.”
He was looking at Boyce as he started to step toward her. There was the flat sounding crack of a distant high caliber rifle and DiMartini’s head snapped forward. Blood and brains sprayed Boyce and DiMartini slammed to the asphalt, face down. Everyone was frozen, then began screaming. Boyce instinctively crouched and without conscious thought her pistol was in her hand. She didn’t know where to point it.
15
All the kids were screaming. The policemen had their weapons drawn. But, like Boyce, they didn’t know where to point them. Boyce could feel the blood and gore covering her front. She leaned down to DiMartini and felt his neck, searching for a pulse. There was none. Boyce knew a dead man when she saw one. The bullet had entered the back of his head and exploded out his forehead. Boyce stood, shoulders hunched, waiting for the next shot. She looked at DiMartini, then across the street. The shot had to have come from there.
Across Bell Road, on the north side, was a Walgreens. It was surrounded by a parking lot. Next door to it, east, was a Jack in the Box that shared a common drive in from Bell Road. Next to the Jack in the Box was a Village Inn. All of it could be accessed from either Bell Road, or from the west from 40th Street behind the Walgreens. They all had four feet high stucco walls between the Bell Road sidewalk and the businesses. Boyce looked for movement. She saw nothing.
Boyce yelled at Danny Rich, “With me!” She pointed at the two closest patrolmen. “You two, with me!”
She started across the street in a half crouch. The cars on Bell were driving along, oblivious to what was happening. A couple of them honked at the audacious jaywalkers. Two other patrolmen ran out and began stopping traffic.
Boyce and Danny Rich reached the other side and vaulted the wall, the patrolmen right behind. The parking area in front of the Walgreens was open all the way across the Jack in the Box, across the Village Inn and on down to a KFC. On this side of the Walgreens was a drive through for the pharmacy.
Boyce kept moving, knowing that the shooter would need only seconds to get away. She paused just long enough to point the two patrolmen to go either way, one around the left of the Walgreens, one across the front of the Jack in the Box, then behind.
Danny Rich had moved ahead of her, running between the Walgreens and the Jack in the Box. He reached the part of the lot that was behind the Walgreens and Jack in the Box but fronted a whole strip of other businesses on the north side. He was looking back and forth. The parking was pretty open. Boyce stopped beside Danny, looking all around, desperately hoping to see something. There was nothing. She turned and looked back across the street at the Burger King. She stepped a couple of paces toward the Jack in the Box.
“Here,” she said. “He shot from here.”
“It’s wide open,” Danny said. “He would have been seen.”
Boyce looked to her right, at the entrance to the area from 40th street. She stood there, looking. She shook her head and holstered her pistol.
“The fucker’s gone,” she said. Rich looked at her.
She pointed at the driveway from 40th. “He pulled in here and stopped right here. He waited until DiMartini was in the right place, then he got out, laid his rifle across the hood and shot him. What is that? A hundred fifty yards maybe?”
“If that,” Danny Rich said.
She continued, “Not much of a shot for an experienced hunter with a scope. Got back in, did a quick u-turn and went out onto 40th and down to Union Hills. He was halfway to Union Hills before we got across the street. Down there he could jump on the 51 and in ten minutes be downtown. Or, if he goes north, in two minutes he’s on the 101 heading for Scottsdale. Or turn west to I17. Shit!”
“Or turn east on Union Hills and head for Desert Ridge,” Danny Rich said.
“Shit!” Boyce said again.
Danny Rich was walking in circles, searching the ground. He stopped and looked at Boyce. “No shell. Like you say, probably a bolt action deer rifle.”
A block away came the sound of a siren.
“That was quick,” Danny Rich said.
“Should be,” Boyce said. “Hospital is just across the street.”
The two patrolmen came up. Boyce said, “You guys secure this area. We think this is where the shooter was.”
It took no time for the parking area of the Burger King to be filled with law enforcement. Kill a cop and it’s personal. Boyce went back across the street and into the Burger King to use the bathroom to wash the gore from her face. The kids inside stared at her as she came and went.
When she came back out, Mendoza was talking to the watch commander beside DiMartini’s body. The streets had been shut down for a quarter mile each way. The parking lot was teeming with patrol cars, their lights flashing. The watch commander had sent a forensics team across the street. Danny Rich was standing beside Mendoza. He said something and the captain turned to look at her.
As she came up, he said, “You okay?”
She nodded. He looked her up and down.
“You’ll need to change. Don’t wash your clothes. Soon as you can, bag them and turn them over for evidence.”
“Probably find DiMartini’s DNA,” she said caustically.
Rich smiled and shook his head. Mendoza almost smiled. “Yeah, you’re okay,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Hard as it is to get my head around it, it looks like someone did this drive-by to draw us out.” She pointed across the street. “No evidence for it, but my gut says the shooter came in behind that Walgreens from 40th and parked back there between it and the Jack in the Box. I’ll bet they find DiMartini was shot with a deer rifle. Shooter was gone before Danny and I could get across Bell.”
Mendoza was looking where she was pointing. He moved around and stood behind DiMartini’s body, looking at the line of fire.
“Where were you standing?” he said.
She moved over. “About here,” she said.
“And DiMartini was here?” Mendoza said, pointing at the body.
Boyce thought about that. “Well, he was just right there,” she said pointing a couple of feet away from the body. “Was slightly to my left. He was moving when he was hit.”
“So he was here,” Mendoza said, pointing at the ground at his left. “Then moved this way and was hit.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was it.”
&nb
sp; Mendoza stood looking at the body of DiMartini, then across the street, then back. The forensics team was scouring the area around the Walgreens and the Jack in the Box.
He was frowning. He turned to Boyce. “Anything else?”
“I asked DiMartini about Cynthia Farwell and Marcelino Torres. He wanted to talk about it when we finished here. At first, he didn’t remember Farwell, then he did. Just said Torres was a dirtbag he couldn’t nail.”
“What do you think he wanted to talk about?”
Boyce shook her head. “Hell if I know.”
16
It was several hours before Danny Rich and Boyce were cleared to leave the scene. Then they came back to the station and spent another hour and a half filing their report. By the time Boyce made it home, she was bone tired and had developed a slight odor.
She stripped, placing her clothes in a garbage bag. One of those white ones with the red plastic drawstring. She turned on her shower full and hot. She stayed under the spray until it began to cool. She toweled off, then sat naked on her couch eating the whopper she had bought before leaving the crime scene. It was cold but she didn’t care and ate it anyway. She couldn’t make herself eat the cold fries. She poured a half glass of red wine and drank it down. She wrapped her hair in a towel and climbed between the covers. She was asleep in seconds.
The next morning, she delivered her bag of soiled clothes to forensics. Then Boyce’s immediate superior, Lieutenant Tubner, put her on administrative leave and told her she was to report to the department psychologist who would have to clear her before she returned to work. Boyce said it was horseshit and went to Mendoza who said his hands were tied. It’s not like she hadn’t seen some blood before, she tried to say.
“Detective Boyce,” Mendoza said. “His brains were all over you. Take a couple of days off,” he said. “Quit bitching.” As she turned in disgust Mendoza said firmly, “And don’t try to skip the psychologist. I’ll be watching.”
Boyce went down the stairs and out to the parking lot. She got in her Miata and drove to Esteban park. She hoped to find Spark. She wondered if Spark knew who Marcelino Torres was. Maybe where to find him. As she pulled within sight, there were two young men shooting hoops, otherwise the park was empty.
She parked and walked up to the basketball court. As she drew near, the boys stopped shooting and watched her.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she said.
They just looked at her.
“You guys know Spark?”
They still just looked at her.
Boyce pulled her jacket away from the badge on her belt.
“I’m going to ask you again. Do either of you know Spark?”
The older looking one of the two shook his head. “Never heard of her,” he said.
Boyce looked at him for a long minute. “Who said Spark was a her?” she said.
The guy didn’t know what to say. He just stood there. Again, Boyce looked at them for a long time. “When you see her, tell her Detective Boyce stopped by just to say hi. Just being friendly.”
They still just stared at her. She walked back to her car and got in without looking back. Just before she started the car, she heard the basketball clang off the rim. She drove away.
She drove back to her condo. She changed out of her work clothes and did a load of laundry. She vacuumed, she dusted, and made a grocery list. It was very short. She fixed a lunchmeat sandwich and ate it with a bottle of water. She turned on the TV. After a short time, she turned off the TV. She changed into running shorts, a sports bra with a tee shirt over it and went out for a run. By the time she returned she had worked up a good sweat.
She took a shower and toweled off and looked at the clock. It was just five o’clock. She stood naked, looking in the mirror. The same old flaws were still there. Her thighs and butt were too big. Her shoulders were too broad. Her knees were bony, and she had ugly feet. The white, puckered scar was there where the bullet had entered, and she knew there was one like it on her back where they had gone in to dig the lead out. She leaned forward and stared at her face. Her lips were too thin. Her eyes were nothing special and it looked like her ears were not level.
She put on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt without a bra. She poured a glass of Primal Root and sat on the couch, thumbing the TV on. She sat there for a long time until she realized she was seeing nothing, hearing nothing. She was thinking about Cynthia Farwell and DiMartini. She drained the wine.
A half hour later she was in one of the few summer dresses she owned. Her hair and make-up were in place. She grabbed the purse that had just enough room for her ID, her one credit card, what cash she had, her badge and her pistol. She went out, locking the door behind her and drove to the El Patron.
It was still early, so the parking lot was only half full. She didn’t see Jackson’s Mustang and was glad of it. She just wanted some down time. The retired cop, Ben, was already on duty at the front door.
“Afternoon Detective,” he said as she entered.
“Afternoon Ben,” she returned. There had been progress on the interior. To the right was now a large double door that opened into what she supposed was going to be the restaurant seating area. All the drywall was up and ready to paint.
She moved on down the hall past the country bar and into the main saloon. Jimmy and Nacho were behind the bar servicing the tail-end of the happy hour crowd. She walked across the floor to the rectangular bar, self-conscious in a dress. She hitched up on a stool.
Jimmy came down with a smile. “Well, hello there,” he said. “Is that your wedding dress?”
She laughed. “It could be if you’re ready?”
“I get off at one,” he said.
“Sorry, that’s past my bedtime. Besides that, Jimmy,” she said, “you’ll never be ready.”
Nacho came within earshot. “Ready for what?” he said.
“Jimmy and I are getting married,” Boyce said.
Nacho looked from one to the other, then he grinned at her. “Boy, are you robbing the cradle.”
“You could be Jimmy’s best man,” Boyce said.
“Already am,” he said, turning to deliver a drink.
A customer down the bar raised a finger to get Jimmy’s attention. He nodded at the customer, then turned back to Boyce. “What can I get you?”
“Gin and tonic,” Boyce said. He moved away.
Movement on the stairway that led to the upstairs caught her eye. She swiveled to look. Elena was coming down followed by a man. A very handsome man, Boyce noted. When Elena reached the bottom of the stairs, she caught sight of Boyce at the bar. Her face burst into a smile. With Elena, the word burst was appropriate.
She turned and took the man by the arm and led him over to Boyce. Boyce knew she was in for a big hug, so she slid off her stool.
“Sister, sister,” Elena said effusively, indeed taking Boyce into a big hug. When they disengaged, Elena turned to the man. “Gabe, this is the woman I was telling you about.”
The man smiled. “So, you are the heroic Detective Boyce?”
Boyce felt herself blush. “I’m not sure what to say to that,” she stammered.
“Boyce,” Elena continued with her big smile, “This is Gabriel Santos. Gabe is very famous. He does a radio show that everyone listens to.”
“Actually, it’s a podcast and not everyone listens.” He held out his hand, “I’m very pleased to meet you. She has told me about you being shot. She says you saved a man’s life.”
“Gabe is interviewing me for his show,” Elena went on before Boyce could say anything.
“What kind of show is it?” Boyce asked, for lack of something better to say.
Gabe smiled. “I talk about the lifestyles of people that live below the Salt River. Mostly the people of color, black and brown. I try to inform and entertain at the same time.”
Elena took his arm and literally shoved him toward the empty stool that was next to Boyce’s.
“Here, you kids talk, get acquain
ted. I have to go get ready for the show.”
Gabe sat on the stool, almost reluctantly.
Elena turned and hugged Boyce again then moved away and headed up stairs. Boyce slowly climbed back up on her stool. The musicians were gathering on the stage, plugging their equipment in.
Gabe was watching Elena, then turned to Boyce. “I can leave you alone if you’d rather.”
“No, not at all,” Boyce said as Jimmy sat her drink in front of her. He looked at Gabe.
“I just got my drink,” she continued. “Would you like one?”
“Sure,” he said.
“What’ll it be?” Jimmy said.
“Same as hers,” Gabe said.
Jimmy turned to get the drink. “She can be quite forceful,” Gabe said.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
When Jimmy brought his drink, he lifted it to her. They clinked their glasses.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” she returned.
Gabe took a drink and sat the glass on his napkin. “I’m curious about one thing,” he said.
“What one thing would that be?”
“Elena’s husband, Blackhawk. Rather unusual name. She wouldn’t offer much information about him.”
“Well, first of all, they aren’t married. At least in the conventional sense.”
“Not so unusual now days. But there’s something about him.”
“How so?”
“He just seems so removed. Removed and contained. Like he could sit in the corner for hours and never say a word.”
“He doesn’t talk a lot.”
“Which I find unusual for a bar owner. Usually, they are more, uh, gregarious.”
“No, you’re right. He doesn’t say a lot. But he doesn’t have to. He has Elena.”
He laughed. “Yes, you are right.” He took another drink. He looked at Boyce. “We were talking about something else. She mentioned her cousin got into trouble with some bad people. She made it sound like Blackhawk could be a very dangerous man if he needed to.”
The Darker Hours Page 6
