by Lonni Lees
“But you have reason to dislike him. Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Barbara Atwell.”
“She’s my friend. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“And lovers?”
“That was a long time ago,” he said.
“Until Armando Salazar came along?”
“That certainly ended it where I was concerned. But don’t misunderstand. Our physical relationship was just that. Neither one of us saw it as more. It just added another dimension to a good friendship, that’s all.”
“And it continued after she married Armando?” So far, his attitude seemed to match up with the statements Mary Rose had given her but she had to dig deeper. “You remained lovers?”
“I don’t think that would have been fair to anyone concerned. Emotional drama is the last thing I want in my life, believe me. Life is complicated enough. When it was over, it was over. And it was easy for us to segue back to our original friendship.”
“Easy for Barbara too?”
“She had the love of her life as well as a good friend. It was the best of both worlds.”
“And how did Adrian Velikson see it?”
A look of guarded skepticism clouded Rocco’s expression. He shifted his weight and wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
“I don’t get where you’re going,” he finally said.
“Weren’t she and Barbara also lovers?”
He looked around, then lowered his voice to a near whisper. “They were soul mates and they always will be. Some bonds are stronger than any distraction, be it lovers or marriages or whatever life tries to throw in the way. I see nothing wrong with that, do you?”
“So, you’d say that Adrian was jealous?”
“Hurt. But jealous or bent on revenge? Emphatically no. It isn’t her style.”
“It would bother me. And how did she feel about having you in the picture?”
“I feel really bad about that. Call me naive, but it was awhile before I figured out their relationship. Both of them are dear to me, but once I knew about Adrian and her feelings it changed the whole dynamic for me. I’d had no idea the pain it was causing Adrian. Because of that I was ready to end things, even before Armando entered the picture.”
“Adrian must have hated you.”
“Surprisingly no. It’s complicated but let me try to explain. Once in a while lovers came between them, but the novelty always passed and they’d end up together again. Unlike Barbara, Adrian was always faithful, but Barbara’s attention could wander. Adrian knew it would pass. And it always did, until Armando came along. This time Barbara made the lover her husband. Sure, Adrian was hurt but she stood back and bade her time. She knew that eventually things would return to the way they were. She wasn’t comfortable being the lover on the side, but she accepted it.”
“Or maybe helped things along by eliminating the competition?”
“I know her better than that.”
Maggie heard footsteps clipping across the tiled hallway and turned. She had assumed that the two of them were alone in the house. Barbara Atwell entered the room, wearing a bathrobe and no make-up and gripping a coffee mug like it was a lifeline. Her eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d just woken up or had been crying. Maggie guessed the later. She was the grieving widow after all. But what was she doing here in Rocco’s house? He had just told her that there was nothing between them but it was obvious by her wardrobe that she’d spent the night. That made him a liar. She guessed now that the woman was available, she was fair game again in the romping under the covers sport. Nothing like some good, old-fashioned consolation to ease the pain. She imagined him wrapping those tattooed arms around Barbara, dishing out the solace like nobody’s business.
Maggie felt a slight pang of jealousy.
“I thought I heard voices,” Barbara said with a yawn. “Detective Reardon, what brings you here?”
Any thoughts Maggie had of a private talk with Rocco La Crosse flew out the door.
“Hello Mrs. Atwell,” she said. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as one could expect under the circumstances I suppose. And call me Barbara. Mrs. Atwell I’m not. And Mrs. Salazar I wasn’t. I told you I never took his name when we married, don’t you remember?”
Boy, was she testy. “Right,” was all Maggie could think to say. It struck her as an odd thing to be defensive about. So she never took his name, so what? Why make a point of it? She supposed a feminist attitude would be that in taking a husband’s name one loses any semblance of their own identity. Okay, makes sense to me, she thought. Her identity is important to her.
“Do you have any suspects yet?” Barbara Atwell asked, changing the subject.
“I’m working on it.”
“I want this resolved!” She burst into tears and left the room.
Rocco furrowed his brow and half rose from his chair, debating whether to follow Barbara out of the room. Then, after a lightning quick debate with himself, sat down again.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” he said. “She’s still having a hard time dealing with this whole mess.”
“Understandable,” said Maggie as she rose. “I might have more questions for you another time.” She looked around the room as she fished her keys from her purse.
“Your home is impressive,” she said. “I can see you’ve been very successful with your art. I understand that’s a rarity. Kind of like being an actor or a writer or anything else that reeks of creativity and imagination.”
Rocco laughed aloud as he rose from his chair.
“Creativity is under-appreciated and under-compensated for sure. If you think I got all this playing with my metal and blow-torches you’re sorely mistaken. I’m definitely not the exception to the rule.”
“How so?” she asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re a big time drug lord on the side.”
He laughed even louder. “No, nothing as exciting as that I’m afraid.” He lowered his voice and added: “Don’t spread the word Detective Reardon, but truth be known, I’m what’s so lovingly referred to as a trust-fund baby.”
“Seriously?”
“We all have our cross to bear,” he said with a wink.
La Crosse. Of course. That’s where she’d heard that name before. The La Crosses were one of the original families that settled the area. They’d first cashed in on the mining fever, not by digging in the dirt, but by furnishing supplies to the hordes inflicted with gold fever. And they spread out from there with a Midas touch, everything they touched turning to money and adding to their fortunes.
Mr. Rocco La Crosse was loaded and then some.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he offered.
When they approached her car, he touched her arm, shooting little darts of electricity through her. She couldn’t help but find herself attracted to him.
“As long as you’re here, could I ask a favor?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I really don’t think Barbara should be behind the wheel of anything right now. My motorcycle is ready to be picked up at Victory and I’ve been trying to figure out how to juggle transportation so I can pick it up without leaving something behind in its place.”
“So...?”
“Normally I wouldn’t ask, but would you mind giving me a ride?”
“Do I look like a taxi?”
“It never hurts to ask, right?”
Maggie thought, but it didn’t take much time to change her mind.
“Get in,” she said, motioning to the passenger door.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s just off Speedway but it’s tricky to find.”
“I know right where it is,” she said.
As he slid into the seat next to her, she could detect the faint smell of men’s cologne. The scent was unassuming and familiar. The guy could afford to spoil himself with the hundred dollar a bottle stuff but he was wearing Old Spice, and not too much of it either. He rode a motorcycle and drove an old beate
r, although he could probably afford a Maserati. It would appear that the only self-indulgence he afforded himself was his beautiful home.
And maybe Barbara Atwell.
They small talked as she drove. She was still trying to figure him out as she hung a left just after the freeway, turned onto Anita Avenue and pulled up in front of Arizona Victory.
Rocco La Crosse opened the car door and exited, then leaned back inside.
“Thanks again for the ride, Detective Reardon. You really saved the day.”
“It was on my way.”
He cleared his throat. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“I was just thinking, maybe we could get together for a cup of coffee sometime.”
“That would be ill-advised,” Maggie said, stumbling over her words. “I’m in the middle of an ongoing investigation and....“
She could see the disappointment in his eyes and hoped he couldn’t see what was in hers.
“Hey, it never hurts to ask,” he said.
She watched as he walked away and through the glass doors to retrieve his motorcycle.
CHAPTER NINE
PRIME SUSPECT
It was mid-afternoon and Maggie Reardon was still thinking about Rocco La Crosse when she pulled up in front of the run-down apartment building on the south side. It was quite the contrast to the palatial home she had been in just an hour earlier. She could feel the bass from the blasting boom box even before she heard the offensive lyrics. She walked towards the steps and passed an exterior wall decorated with graffiti and Spanish cuss words. Call Juanita for a good time was scrawled in Day-Glo orange spray paint. Some things never changed. A group of rough looking teenagers were scattered like cockroaches on the front steps, smoking cigarettes and flashing their gang signs as they swayed to the music. If you could call it music. The lyrics were spat out rather than sung, angry and hostile, like the looks on their sullen faces. They wore the kind of expressions you’d like to slap into the next county. If the children are our future we’re in deep trouble, she thought as she tried to push past them.
They stood their ground, blocking the steps and inundating her with cat calls and the sound of noisy, obscene kisses. One of them grinned at her, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth suggestively.
“Come here baby,” a young blaxican chided, motioning to his side with a slap on his hip.
“You’d best step aside,” Maggie said calmly.
“What’s your hurry, chiquita?” asked another. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but his grin exposed a serious case of meth-mouth, half his teeth already rotted or missing.
“You think you too good for us, gringa? I don’t think so.”
Like a pack of hungry coyotes, they formed a circle around her, one of them giving her a shove and spinning her around.
“You don’t know what you’re missing. Let me show you,” said the blaxican kid as he grabbed the crotch of his baggy pants.
“It doesn’t look like I’m missing much by the looks of it,” Maggie said.
The kid didn’t appreciate the laughter from his campadres.
“Oooh, baby,” one of them said as he hugged himself. “Apapachar, baby.”
“You gotta pay admission to go inside,” said the white kid of the group. “Maybe that necklace around your scrawny white neck.”
He reached over and pulled the chain from where it hung under her shirt. The police badge on the end of the chain glistened in the sunlight.
“Holy mother of God,” he said as he crossed himself and took two steps backwards, nearly losing his balance in the process.
“She’s a cop, you stupid pendejo!”
“How was I to know?”
“No harm, no problema, sí?” said one of the youths as he motioned her in the direction of the doorway. At least he had the sense to attempt diffusing the situation. One by one they stepped back, clearing the path for her.
“No harm?” Maggie said. “I oughtta haul in all your sorry asses. Assault and battery on a cop was pretty stupid, don’t you think?”
“Hey, how should we know? You ain’t got no uniform or nothing.”
“Our apologies,” the diffuser said, his eyes darting around nervously as he mumbled incoherently in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Mucho sorry.”
“How many of you punks have warrants? Think maybe I should check?”
One by one they slithered away.
The music was still blasting as she reached the top step. She looked down at the offending boom box, gave it a hard kick and sent it flying down the stairs. When it hit the cement the plastic shattered, sending pieces flying and the remaining punks scurrying.
Maggie welcomed the quiet.
Ordinarily she’d have taken them to the station just to teach them a lesson, but she figured they were slow learners and hardly worth the effort.
Besides, she had more important business.
The hallway smelled like last week’s rotting cilantro mixed with a hint of middle eastern curry. Latin music wafted under the doors and into the hallway. So much for peace and quiet. Babies cried and children screamed behind closed doors. Adults were trying to be heard over the salsa beat as they yelled undecipherable profanities at each other. This end of town was like crossing the border into another country. Several countries judging by the cooking aromas that filled the hallway. The foul aromas followed her as she walked along, seeking apartment number five. She’d smelled worse. She’d seen worse.
She knocked on the door.
It was time to pay Adrian Velikson a visit.
“You were the cop at the gallery,” Adrian said, opening the door. “Come on in.”
“You have quite the welcoming committee out there,” said Maggie.
“Oh, them? I knocked one of them on his butt my first week here. They haven’t bothered me since. They’re about as dangerous as a pack of wild dogs with no teeth.”
“You think? Just give them a year or two and they’ll be stabbing you for sport.”
Maggie sat down her briefcase and the two of them sat on a futon, the only piece of furniture in a room the size of a shoe box. A stove and sink below a makeshift cupboard stood against the back wall and an open door led to a small bathroom. A wooden TV tray served as an end table as well as the formal dining room. That was it. The entire apartment was the size of a closet. Adrian’s bulky form filled the remaining space. It was claustrophobic. Mustard yellow walls were unadorned except for a framed photograph that hung above the futon.
Maggie looked at the lovingly framed picture. Two college girls wearing University of Arizona sweatshirts stood with their arms wrapped around each other, smiling. A younger, even more beautiful Barbara Atwell, and a thinner Adrian.
They looked content.
“Happier days?” she asked.
“They don’t get any happier.”
“Why don’t you give me your spin on Armando Salazar.”
“I wasn’t fond of him.”
“I’ve gathered as much.”
“I’m probably not the person you want to ask. I’m sure my perception of the man is clouded by my personal feelings.”
“Feelings that might want to see him out of the picture?”
“Since day one.”
“Let’s just get to the point here, Adrian. Did you murder Armando Salazar?”
Adrian laughed, but it was a sad laugh. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Did you?” asked Maggie.
“I wouldn’t kill a mouse, let alone a rat like Armando.”
“You had every reason.”
“It’s obvious by your questions that you’re already aware of my relationship with Barbara but I can assure you that your conclusions are wrong.”
“Why is that?”
“Barbara and I have been lovers since college. Every once in awhile she strays to the other side. I stand back and wait for the novelty to pass, because she always comes back to me where she belongs. It’s just the way it is and if
that’s what I have to do to keep her, well....”
“But she never married one of them before, did she?”
“No, never. But it wasn’t her fault. He blinded her with his charm and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. It hurt, but I knew eventually she’d see the light and things would go back the way they were. The way they were meant to be. They always have.”
“Did you live with her before then? Before Armando entered the picture?”
“For years. But I moved out before they got married. I thought I’d just be in this little place a month or two but....”
“It would appear she was in the marriage for the long haul,” said Maggie, pouring salt on the wound. “She must have loved him very much to have turned away from you.”
“Again, you’re wrong.” Adrian took a breath and wiped her hand across her eyes. “Most things between us never changed. We were still lovers, that never stopped. I never liked having to share her but it was better than nothing.”
“Was Armando aware that you two were still lovers?”
“Sure. He had his own peccadillos.”
“If he was the chaser everyone says he was, why did he want to marry her?”
“That’s the mystery. It was like he came from nowhere and swooped right in. I don’t think even Barbara knows who he is...,” she corrected herself, “...was, really. I told her she should check up on him, find out who he was and where he came from. She didn’t want to know. As I said, she was blinded.”
“You’re telling me how close you two are, yet Barbara is camped out with Rocco La Crosse instead of here with you. Why do you figure that is?”
“Look around you, detective. There’s hardly room enough here for me let alone Barbara and all her things. We’ll be together at the gallery as soon as you rip that tape down. In the meantime, Rocco will take good care of her.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Maggie rose from the futon. “I might want to talk with you again,” she said as she headed for the door.
