The Mosaic Murder

by Lonni Lees

  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY LONNI LEES

  Crawlspace and Other Dark Stories

  Deranged: A Novel of Horror

  The Mosaic Murder: A Maggie Reardon Mystery Novel

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2012 by Lonni Lees

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For all the cops at all the police stations

  who put their lives on the line every day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BURNING SKY

  Detective Maggie Reardon holstered her sidearm as she walked out of the locker room and into the hallway of the Tucson Arizona Police Department. Her short auburn hair spiked over her eyebrows threatening to stab her in the eyes, but trips to the beauty shop weren’t on her to-do list. There were more important things and a quick snip in front of the bathroom mirror served her just fine. It was quick, it was free, and it got the job done. Self-nurturing wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  A fellow cop passed her as she walked down the hall, accompanied by a young rookie she hadn’t seen before. He looked more like a high school kid than someone capable of protecting anyone, but looks could be deceiving. They could actually work to one’s advantage, giving an unexpected edge. The rookie gave her a double-take as they passed, turned and gave her a wink. She ignored him, but as they continued their walk in the other direction she overheard the seasoned cop comment to the kid under his breath.

  “Don’t let that cute turned-up nose and perfect mouth fool you. That little mick stings like a scorpion,” said Jerry Montana to the rookie beside him.

  “I can hear you, Jerry,” said Maggie.

  Hah, you reject one person’s advances and pretty soon they think they’ve got you pegged. She had her own rules and they served her well. No romantic involvement in the workplace, that was rule number one, especially with some married cop on the prowl like that jerk Jerry had been. At least he’d taken the hint and laid off. She gave him credit for that much, even if he had said some unkind things about her around the locker room. They were worse than teenagers. Well, let them think what they want. Life was complicated enough.

  She spat on her hand and shoved the unruly red spikes from her eyes as she exited the door and walked across the parking lot.

  It was going to be another triple-digit day.

  Maggie walked across the blistering pavement, opened the door to her car and slid in. The steering wheel was hot beneath her fingers and she took a deep breath. She wasn’t much for introspection, but it had been two years since her husband divorced her and two weeks since her last boyfriend, Marty, had yelled “uncle.” A part of her was relieved, but she still wondered how much of it was her own doing. She pushed the thought away. It was easier to focus on her job. And more satisfying. Maybe that was part of the problem. Her job came first and the men in her life came in second. A really bad second. If she wasn’t going to pamper herself she certainly wasn’t going to pamper some man. She wouldn’t baby-sit nor would she morph into the image of what they thought she should to be. If they didn’t get it, then they didn’t get it. And there were warning signs with her latest ex. Alarms rang that she’d refused to hear. Had she really been that desperate? Enough thinking on that subject, she thought with a dismissive shrug. Some people were meant to fly solo. She turned the key in the ignition, revved the engine, threw it into gear and edged her way into the traffic on Congress Street.

  Even in this heat things didn’t slow down. You’d think people would be too tired to raise hell but the escalating temperatures just shortened their tempers and quickened the speed of their trigger fingers. It didn’t take much to set them off, and with luck it just ended with a domestic disturbance call or a black eye and some bruises. Sometimes it ended with a dead body and a free ride to jail.

  The health nuts still rode their bikes up Gates Pass, slowing to a crawl the cars unable to pass them along the narrow road, oblivious to their surroundings and the honking horns. Hikers still challenged the burning desert, occasionally falling off a cliff or getting bitten by a rattler or stumbling over the corpse of an illegal. Sometimes one of those corpses might have a tell-tale bullet hole, but usually they just died of heat and exhaustion. Instead of reaching the promised land they ended up in the morgue, unclaimed and unidentified.

  * * * *

  Tall saguaro cacti stood like sentinels, arms reaching upward and outward, as if their prickly appendages protected their domain from the sun, the solitude, and the passage of time. The floor of the Arizona-Sonoran desert cringed under the late June blistering heat. It’s surface wore a myriad of cracks like the skin of an old Mexican woman, ravaged by time and indifference. As the late afternoon temperature rose to 108 degrees, lizards hid under rocks, snakes found refuge in stolen burrows, all was silent save for the whoosh and flap of vultures and hawks whose keen eyes scavenged the unforgiving landscape below for a scurrying rabbit or rodent. The desert was a brutal place that held little mercy, but the tough adapted, survived, and even flourished. Like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, come spring plants would flower and mesquite trees bloom, as would the blue palo verde trees before dropping their edible beans to the dry earth. If one took the time to stop and look, they would see that what, on the surface, appeared to be a long-forgotten graveyard teemed with life and promise.

  In the distance, the tall buildings of Tucson rose toward a smoke-filled sky. The ash from distance wild fires floated across the landscape, hiding the outline of the Catalina mountains to the north and the Rincon mountains to the east and covering the landscape like a dirty blanket of Los Angeles smog. The wind to the south stirred and spread the flames, devouring miles of brush and any buildings that stood in its path. Prayers for the welcome rains of the summer monsoon went unanswered.

  The Mosaic Gallery nestled among old Victorian houses and ramshackle commercial buildings in the heart of Tucson. The large, arched adobe entry that led to the gallery was a virtual canvas of tiles, some handmade by local artists, imbedded alongside shards of broken glass and ceramic and shiny little fragments of shattered dishes. The tiled archway was a group effort, anyone adding a found piece or two as the mood struck them. The result was both chaotic and beautiful. A woman in her forties squatted at the arch like a bullfrog, a small bucket of broken tiles at her side. One by one, she pressed them into the wet plaster with blistered hands. She wiped the perspiration from her face with the back of her arm and exhaled a disgruntled sigh. Adrian Velikson was a short woman, barely 5’ 2”, and nearly as wide as she was tall. She was masculine and sturdy and wore a determined scowl and a buzz-cut.

  Beyond the archway a cobbled walkway led to the building, crowned in Spanish tile, with a second story addition at the rear with a separate entrance to its private quarters. To the right of the walkway was a small area where two people stood holding their rakes, shaded from the scorching late afternoon sun by two gnarled mesquite trees. Rocco La Crosse cursed under his breath as he raked another huge pile of tiny leaves and lifted them into the trash barrel.

  “I swear, these things never stop dropping,” he complained as he raked around a large metal sculpture. “Those trees shed worse than a Dalmatian dog.” He raked around the foot of a statue that stood as tall as a full grown man, a welded hodgepodge of found metal, ranging from car parts to plumbing fixtures to an old metal bicycle wheel that served as its face. The sculpture was his handiwork, as hard and rough looking as Rocco himself. He was a large man, bulky arms tattooed from fingertips to shoulder, exposed by his wife beater sleeveless tee. A scruffy dark beard nearly hid his gentle smile while bushy eyebrows framed his twinkling eyes. His pot belly was hard as granite and jutted over the leather tooled belt that held up his
jeans. A silver earring dangled from one ear. His dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, damp from perspiration and matted with dust.

  “We’re almost done,” said Barbara Atwell. “It has to look good for tonight’s reception.”

  Trying to keep pace with Rocco was wearing her out, but this was her gallery and her responsibility. This was her life. She was thankful for the volunteers and artists who helped her keep things in order but she worked as hard or harder than all of them combined. Barbara stood a statuesque 5’ 9”, and carried herself with the grace of a runway model. Her legs were long and her lean body was crowned with silky blonde, shoulder-length hair. High cheekbones accentuated her straight nose and determined mouth and her natural beauty belied the fact that she was at the high end of her forties. Nature and genetics had been good to her.

  Barbara leaned against her rake and sighed, then continued raking the tiny leaves into piles and lifting them into the trash can.

  “Okay,” she said. “This will have to be good enough.”

  “Fine by me,” said Rocco. He wiped the gritty perspiration from his brow and threw his rake to the ground, looking around for any loose twigs they may have missed. It was an exercise in futility. By tomorrow morning hundreds more mesquite leaves would have fallen to replace those picked up today.

  “Adrian,” Barbara said. “It’s getting late, could you wind it up there?”

  “Hey, I’m on a roll here,” said Adrian as she lifted another broken shard from the bucket. “Three more tiles, just three more.”

  “Right. And then three more after that.”

  Rocco picked up the rakes and leaned them against the side of the building, then dragged the trash can beside them. He looked around and decided it was a job well done. He could feel the tension building between Adrian and Barbara, thickening like bad gravy in the hot air. He didn’t like tension or arguing or anything that edged its way in to disturb his inner calm. Whenever those things threatened to raise their ugly heads Rocco was the peacemaker, the one to smooth over hurt feelings and imagined slights and ease things back into his comfort zone.

  “C’mon Adrian,” he said. “We’ve got to get a move on.”

  “Don’t bug me.”

  “Put it away and I’ll give you a ride home,” he offered. He gave her a disapproving frown, with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head meant only for her eyes. She caught it and gave him a nod.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  Barbara looked at her watch and exhaled an impatient sigh. It was getting late and there was still no sign of her husband. She cleared her throat, then spoke: “I’m sorry guys, but could you stop by The Trader’s on the way and pick up some food for the reception? I’d really appreciate it.”

  Adrian pulled herself up from where she was squatting with a loud grunt and reached for the bucket of tiles.

  “Isn’t that Arrrrmando’s job?” she said with a sarcastic roll of the r in Armando.

  Barbara looked at her apologetically. “He hasn’t made it back from Nogales yet. I guess he got tied up at the border check again.”

  “He’s always got some excuse,” Adrian said. Then muttered under her breath, “Gullible.”

  Rocco walked over to where Adrian stood and put his arm around her broad shoulders. “Just let it go,” he whispered to her, in another attempt to diffuse the tension that mixed with the hot afternoon heat. “You know you’re just spitting in the wind, let it go.”

  She ignored him and went on. “Picking up more of those Mexican artifact rip-offs from across the border? He had to do it today? My God Barbara, how can you display that crap in the gallery? It’s....”

  “It sells.”

  “At what cost to your reputation? They’re worthless tchotchkes that belong in a 99 Cent store. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.”

  “It sells,” Barbara repeated.

  “Okay ladies, enough,” said Rocco. “We’ll gladly pick up the food, Barbara, won’t we Adrian?”

  “Nice to know how valuable we are when you need something,” Adrian muttered under her breath.

  Rocco shook his head and gave her another disapproving scowl. “I’ll get you a six-pack of those orange-cranberry scones, sweetness,” he said.

  Barbara went inside the gallery and returned with some petty cash. She handed it to Rocco and thanked him. He kissed her on the cheek, took Adrian by the arm and led her out to his parked van.

  “Where’s your Victory?” she asked.

  “Motorcycle’s in the shop,” he said, opening the door of the van for her, hinges creaking. “It’s getting Gatlin’ gun exhaust tips.”

  “You should spoil your women as much as you spoil that bike,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat.

  “If I could find one as charming as you I would,” he said with a wink.

  “Why Rocco, you keep up that flattery and I might be tempted to go straight.”

  “That’ll be the day,” he said with a hearty laugh.

  * * * *

  Detective Maggie Reardon pulled the dusty car into an empty space in front of the mini-mart. The heat was stifling and she wanted a cold drink. The day had been reasonably quiet and she felt more relaxed than she had in days. She turned off the key and slid out, feet touching the hot pavement as she slammed the car door and walked to the entrance. The leather from her gun belt squeaked in unison with her steps as she pushed her way inside. The bell above the door jingled, announcing her arrival.

  Carlos, a slightly-built elderly man, looked up from where he stood behind the counter by the cash register and gave her a smile. His yellow-toothed grin filled half his face and made his dark eyes sparkle. “Buenos Dias, Señorita Maggie,” he said. “You be out catching the bad boys, sí?”

  Maggie gave him a wink and a nod, then headed for the back of the store by the fountain drinks. She pulled out a cup, placed it under the spigot, and began filling it with ice and soda. She was the only customer in the store so decided she’d take a few minutes to chat with Carlos before heading back out. He was a kindly old soul and had been a permanent fixture by the cash register for as long as she could remember. He was there when she was a little girl who would come in for a bag of chips after school. He was the one who firmly told her no when she walked in as a teenager trying to buy her first pack of cigarettes. He consoled her when her parents died. And he was there to congratulate her when she walked in wearing her uniform for the first time, pride filling his eyes. Carlos was a second father to her, always knowing the right words to make her feel better when something in her life went haywire and always there to praise her when praise was due.

  After Maggie pressed the lid in place and shoved in a straw, she walked down the candy aisle in search of the sugar fix that would serve as today’s lunch. Not a good balance of the basic food groups, especially with a day that always began with four cups of black coffee and five cigarettes, but it would do. At least, she thought, I usually pick up a Mickey D or something during the day to get my protein and vegetables. She knelt down to check out the array of candy bars lined up along the bottom row of the aisle.

  The bell over the door jangled as a customer walked in and headed for the cold beer in the refrigerator case along the side wall. He was a wiry little guy, not much more than a teenager, with acned skin and a nervous twitch. He pulled out a six-pack, closed the refrigerator door with his skinny butt, did a quick look around the store and headed for the register. He plopped down the beer with a thud.

  “I have to see some identification, please sir,” said Carlos, eying him.

  “Ain’t got none,” said the kid.

  “I’m sorry, señor, but it’s the law,” Carlos shrugged.

  “Okay, okay,” said the kid as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, aiming it at Carlos with a shaky hand. “Here’s my identification, now open up the register and give me what you’ve got.”

  “Please, no problem, señor,” said Carlos holding out his palms in a ges
ture of defeat.

  “Hurry up.”

  Carlos opened the cash drawer, reached in, and filled his hands with bills. He held the money out, offering it to the skinny thug who held the gun.

  “I oughta shoot you for giving me a hard time, old man,” he said as he grabbed the cash with one hand and began shoving it in his pocket. “It’d serve you right.”

  The kid heard the click at the same instant he felt the gun shoved into his back.

  “It might be a good idea to drop that gun,” Maggie said from where she stood behind him. “And I mean right now, not next week. Drop it. Slowly.”

  The kid lowered him arm and placed the gun on the counter in front of Carlos. Then he spun around in an attempt to disarm his unknown assailant. Before he finished spinning he was hit with a knee in the groin that brought him to his knees. He groaned. Then a foot shoved him forward onto the floor and he felt someone’s full weight pressing into his back.

  “Put your hands behind your back. Now.”

  His head was spinning. Robbing the store seemed like a no-brainer yesterday when he’d come in and seen the old man alone behind the counter. All he had to do was wave a gun and it would be a done deal and he’d have enough money to pay his rent. Maybe even buy a little crack. But now, as he put his hands behind his back and heard the unwelcome click of the cold handcuffs as they wrapped around his wrists and secured him, he got a reality check. Things don’t always go as planned. Especially if you make plans when you’re stoned.

  “Stand up, punk,” Maggie said as she hoisted him to his feet and gave him a shove forward in the direction of the glass doors. She stopped and motioned to Carlos, who was still holding his breath, eyes wide.

  “Come on over here, Carlos.”

  He walked around the counter to where Maggie stood holding the kid, who was starting to squirm uncomfortably against her hold.

  “I think he’s got something in his pocket that belongs to you,” she said. “Let’s make life simple here, okay? Just reach in and take what belongs to you. We can fill out the report later. Hey, it might give us a chance for a more relaxed visit, right?”