by Hester Young
“Probably just some dick with too much testosterone,” he says, but he keeps an eye on the guy all the same. We’re both relieved when the pair take off and, apart from the range master, we’re the only people remaining.
I’ve all but forgotten the officers when I dash off to use the bathroom fifteen minutes later, but as I pass through the retail store on my way back, I see them. The white guy stands in front of the metal door to the range, arms crossed, blocking my reentrance. His friend leans casually against the counter. They’re waiting for me.
I look to Redbeard for some help, but he’s on the phone, paying no attention.
“Hey.” The white guy meets my eyes with an unblinking blue gaze. “You know Jasmine Cassell?”
I exhale. So that’s what this is about. He must have heard Noah mention Jasmine and Donna before. “No,” I say. “No, I don’t know her. Why? Are you guys working her case?”
His body tenses. “You do know her. If you’ve got any information—”
“Dude.” The smaller Latino cop steps in, placing one hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Lighten up, huh? You’re getting a little scary there.” He gives me a winning smile. “I’m Sanchez, and this is McCullough. We didn’t mean to eavesdrop, just overheard your boyfriend earlier—”
I put up both hands. “I’ve never even met Jasmine, okay? Supposedly, she’s my sister, but I had no idea she existed until a few days ago.”
Sanchez’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. You’re the sister?” He punches McCullough in the arm to make sure he’s getting this. “Charlotte, right? Your name’s Charlotte?”
I nod. “Charlotte Cates.”
“Vargas told me they found a sister.” Sanchez bounces on the balls of his feet. “So crazy. Jasmine didn’t know about you, either. Friggin’ Donna.”
McCullough says nothing but stares me down with his chilly eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Have you been assigned to Jasmine and Donna’s case?” Sanchez sounds awfully familiar with the victims to be involved in their investigation.
“No, no, we’re not Homicide.” He shoos McCullough away from the door so that I’m now free to return to Noah. “Me and Mac here work on the Aggravated Assault Unit. Jasmine was Mac’s girlfriend.”
At the mention of their relationship, McCullough turns away. He rakes a hand through his hair and makes a weird gulping sound.
“My God, I didn’t realize.” It makes sense; Pam said Jasmine’s boyfriend was a cop.
“Mac has been a little on edge after everything that went down,” Sanchez explains in a low voice. “He heard you guys talking about Jasmine and he didn’t recognize you, so he thought . . . you know. Maybe you knew something.”
“Nothing at all,” I say ruefully. “Everything I know about Jasmine I got from Pam Soto.” I can’t resist throwing Pam’s name in there to see what kind of reaction I get, but Sanchez only grins.
“You talked to Pam, huh? I bet you got an earful. She and Jazz can’t stand each other.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.”
“Listen, I don’t know what Pam told you, but Jazz was a good person. She had a really rough time growing up because of her mom—your mom.” He shakes his head, startled at the idea. “Anyway, don’t believe everything Pam says.”
“Was Pam really a cop?” I figure it can’t hurt to verify her story.
“Oh yeah,” Sanchez says. “She headed the Homicide Unit for a while. That woman’s got balls of steel. You’d have to, making lieutenant when you’re a woman and an Indian.”
“What the hell are you saying, Sanchez?” McCullough demands.
“Nothing, man.” Sanchez remains unruffled. “Not saying TPD is racist or sexist or whatever. Just, you know . . . there’s not a lot of Indian women working there.”
McCullough rolls his eyes. “Please. Being female, Indian, and a dyke is the only reason Soto made it anywhere. She lights up every little diversity box they gotta check off.”
“Dude.” Sanchez closes his eyes. “Don’t be like that. Seriously.”
I have a few choice words of my own for McCullough, but I know better than to tell off a volatile policeman in a gun range. “When you say Indian, do you mean Native American?”
“Yeah, she’s Tohono O’odham, I think. Grew up on one of their reservations.” Sanchez chuckles. “She won’t talk about it, though, unless she’s three sheets to the wind.”
Our conversation is cut short by the creaking door of the shooting range. Noah emerges, removing his glasses and ear protection with a frown. “I was wonderin’ what happened to you. Everything okay?”
I make some quick introductions and then decide it’s a good time to head out. “I think we’re gonna take off now, but glad to meet you both,” I tell the guys. “I’m . . . very sorry for your loss.”
As I pass by McCullough, he grabs my arm. “Wait.”
I don’t like his hand on me, don’t like the darkness flickering through his pale eyes. Beside me, I see Noah stiffen, ready to clock McCullough if he doesn’t let go of me in a hurry.
“You wouldn’t know where I could find Ruben Ramos, would you?”
The question takes me by surprise. What’s McCullough want with Micky’s dad? “No idea.”
He studies me a few seconds, searching for traces of dishonesty, and then releases my arm. There’s an awkward silence as Noah, Sanchez, and I all stare at him, and then McCullough disappears back into the shooting range.
Shaken, I turn to Sanchez. “What’s his deal?”
Sanchez sighs, apologetic. “Somebody said something about Ruben and Jasmine recently that got Mac a little paranoid, that’s all. I keep telling him, Ruben lives in Mexico, chill out, but—I guess he heard some stuff. Listen, you gotta excuse him. He’s a little crazed right now. I took him over here to blow off steam.”
I smother a smile. Excellent idea, Sanchez. Give the crazy guy a gun. That always turns out well.
But, of course, McCullough is a cop. He already had one.
• • •
I WAIT UNTIL NOAH AND I are buckling ourselves into the car before I let loose with my theories. “I don’t know about you, but that McCullough guy gives me the creeps. His girlfriend just died, and what’s he doing? Trying to track down some guy he thinks she slept with. There’s something off about that, don’t you—”
Noah cuts me off. “Stop. The police are handlin’ this.”
“Are they?” I’m so fired up, even the heat can’t subdue me. “He’s one of them. You really think they’re giving him a thorough look?”
“I really think you need to let ’em do their job. Not your monkeys, not your circus, remember?” He pulls out onto the street, his face unreadable beneath his sunglasses. “Anyhow, bein’ an asshole doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“It could. Domestic violence is a leading cause of death for—”
“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want you to think it. Honest to God, Charlie, you gotta stay out of this mess.”
“But what if he—”
“All the more reason for you not to get involved! He’s a goddamn cop.” The harshness in his voice is not anger, I realize, but fear. He’s scared for me.
“We need to find Micky’s dad,” I say, figuring we can at least agree on that point. “It sounds like Ruben Ramos might still be in the picture.”
“Don’t you go sniffin’ out trouble now, droppin’ us in the middle a some love triangle.” Noah knows me too well. “Your only job these next few weeks is to keep you and our baby safe, you understand?”
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re right.”
And he is right. But that doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.
Seven
The next morning, the morning of Donna and Jasmine’s memorial, we oversleep—a frustrating mistake, given my usual propensity for insomnia. A
fter a frantic scramble to dress and tame my hair and Noah cussing his way through Tucson’s numerous traffic lights, we make it to the Remembrance Funeral Home exactly two minutes after the service is slated to begin. They’re running late, thank goodness. I am not the jackass who was late to her own mother’s funeral.
An usher hands us a program and directs us to the appropriate room. It’s a large, sober-looking space with dark wood and an abundance of burgundy. At the front of the room, a pair of framed photographs, lit candles, flowers, and a string of rosary beads honor the deceased. I’m a bit puzzled by the rosary beads. I know my mother was raised Catholic—probably a significant factor in her choosing to have an unwanted child at nineteen—but according to my aunt Suzie, she’d emphatically renounced the Church by the time she left my father and me. Maybe she rekindled her relationship with God in a twelve-step program?
“Lotta people turned out,” Noah murmurs, sliding into a bench at the rear of the room.
I nod, glad to see well over a hundred people have shown up. There’s nothing more pitiful than the poorly attended funeral of one who died too young, and I know that firsthand. When my father died in a drunk-driving accident—just thirty-seven years old—few people came. I understood why, even at fourteen. He’d been drinking too long, burned too many bridges. To most of the people who’d once cared about him, he was already dead.
I’m happy to see that Jasmine’s and Donna’s lives still meant something to a great many people. In their own little corner of this sprawling desert city, they mattered.
The service comes to a start as a man with thinning hair, identified in the program as the director of the funeral home, parks himself at the lectern. He welcomes everyone briefly and then reminds us of our purpose. “Today, we remember the lives of Donna DeRossi and her daughter Jasmine Cassell. As we mourn their untimely departure, so too do we celebrate their passing on to a better world.”
I look around the room. No one seems particularly celebratory.
He reminds us of the Kingdom of Heaven, which these women now occupy; leads us in a quick prayer; and then launches into the most generic of Bible readings: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I wonder about Pam’s choice to avoid a traditional Catholic mass, whether she was representing the wishes of Donna and Jasmine or simply doing what seemed easiest. This service is hardly irreligious; there’s a lot of talk of Jesus Christ, Our Lord, and seeking comfort in God.
They never talk about your anger, these funerals. Don’t feed me the same old line about eternal peace, I think. What about the living?
I want outrage. This is not the funeral of some ninety-year-old grandpa. Donna and Jasmine had responsibilities in this world, a child who depended on them. A child who will spend the rest of her life waiting for people to leave, distrusting anything that looks too stable.
I would know.
When I look down at my own hands, I realize my knuckles are white.
Finally, the funeral director steps aside, making way for the young woman chosen to deliver Jasmine’s eulogy. I lean forward in my seat as a hesitant blonde accepts the lectern and begins, haltingly, to speak about Jasmine. They were best friends, she says, ever since their job at the mall. They did everything together. Jasmine was so full of life. The blonde’s words are stilted and unoriginal, and her eyes remain glued to her speech throughout, a trembling finger marking her place on the index card as she reads. Once, she loses her place, and the entire room fills with silence, then shuffling, a cough, as we wait for her to get sorted. In the end, the blonde mentions Micky only in passing, noting that Jasmine “tried really hard to be a good mom,” and concludes with the observation “Her life was cut way too short, and I know we’ll all miss her forever.”
This lackluster tribute to the life of a murdered twenty-seven-year-old depresses me. Is that it? All that Jasmine’s short life amounts to? I watch the blonde scurry back to her seat, her cheeks flaming, and glance at the program to see who is speaking on Donna’s behalf. Teresa King. I guess Pam doesn’t like public speaking.
I don’t know what I’m expecting from this Teresa character, but it’s certainly not the poised, sophisticated woman who now appears. She looks a few years older than I am. Large doe eyes, a small nose, and a bow-shaped mouth. Her hair is styled in long, dark waves with the kind of subtle red highlights that require a good salon and a lot of money. The charcoal short-sleeve skirt suit and slim gold crucifix around her neck render her both professional and pious, and when she stands before the congregation and begins to speak, no notes in hand, it’s obvious she’s an ace.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” she begins in the clear, unaccented English of a stage actor, “I’m Teresa King, founder of Sonora Hope. For the last eight years, I had the privilege of working with Donna DeRossi, who we remember here today.” She pauses, gazes earnestly at her listeners. “All of us here to honor Donna possessed a unique relationship with her. You shared moments of joy and laughter, faced struggles together, or else supported one another in small but significant ways. I can’t speak to the side of her that you knew, but I can tell you about the Donna that I knew, a compassionate and giving woman who began as an employee but ultimately became a dear friend.”
This woman should go into politics, I think. She’s got this down.
“For those of you unfamiliar with Sonora Hope,” Teresa continues, “we’re an organization that assists impoverished women living in border towns in the Sonoran region of Mexico. Through the generous contributions of our donors, we can offer these women the skills needed to financially support themselves and their families.” She moves quickly past this little plug for her charity. “The most difficult part of our work is finding and gaining the trust of women who are used to receiving the worst that life can give. And it was in that area that Donna excelled.” Her voice rises, swelling with emotion.
“Donna had a knack for identifying women in need,” Teresa marvels. “Women in abusive relationships. Women forced by economic necessity into the degrading work of prostitution. Women raising their children in the garbage dump of Tirabichi because they could not afford housing. Donna found these women, she befriended them, and she changed their lives.”
Though she doesn’t belabor Donna’s struggles with addiction, Teresa does mention them as obstacles Donna overcame. To hear Teresa tell it, my mother’s dark years were the foundation of a deep compassion for those in need and a crucial part of her ability to connect with downtrodden women. The story has all the right ingredients for a Lifetime movie: sin, repentance, and redemption.
By the time Teresa’s eulogy has reached its conclusion, there’s not a dry eye in the place. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, annoyed with myself for having succumbed to such pathos.
“That woman can talk,” Noah whispers, blinking away a few tears of his own. “Who could top that act?”
I feel a twinge of sympathy for Jasmine’s bumbling blond friend, her speech seeming even more mediocre in the wake of this rock star. Poor blondie. You did your best.
• • •
AFTER THE SERVICE, people linger awkwardly. Some hunt Pam down to offer their condolences; others thank the funeral director, quietly greet friends, or drift wordlessly out. It’s an eclectic group of mourners, ranging from those dressed quite formally despite the sweltering heat to one young man who drifts about in shorts and flip-flops. There are a few older children present, but for the most part, people seem to have decided that the funeral of two killed in a bloody double homicide is not a child-friendly occasion. I guess Vonda was right to keep Micky home.
Through the shifting crowds of people, I spot Sanchez in a group of able-bodied young men whose oozing testosterone and collective physique suggest that, regardless of relationship status, their first love is the gym. McCullough, I note, is not among them.
Surely he wouldn’t skip Jasmine’s funeral?
; But then I find him standing against one of the back walls, brooding and handsome in a tie. His murky gaze flickers back and forth between the two exits, observing people as they leave, and I imagine that he’s searching for someone who does not belong, someone who might have been involved in his girlfriend’s death. Or else keeping an eye out for the mysterious Ruben Ramos. I’m so intent on watching McCullough that I fail to see Pam come up behind me.
“Good-looking guy, if you like that sort of thing.”
I whirl quickly around. “Pam. Hi. I was just—”
“Admirin’ the view?” Noah says mildly, and I flush, hoping neither of them actually misinterpreted my staring as lustful.
“Glad you two made it out this morning.” Pam appears far more composed today than when we last saw her. I notice the woman at her side, spiky gray hair and a neck tattoo, and wonder if it’s her good influence. When battling grief, friends go a long way.
“It was a nice service,” I say. “And so many people.”
“That was quite a eulogy from Teresa King,” Noah adds.
Pam gives him a sour look. “I knew what I’d get when I asked Teresa to speak.”
“You don’t look real impressed,” Noah says, stumped. “I thought she really brought Donna to life. Maybe even got a few people interested in her charity.”
“Only thing she’s ever after.”
“Really?” Noah’s disappointed, and I can see that Teresa struck a chord with him. He wants to believe in her and her cause. “She seemed like she really cared about Donna. And all those women, wow.”
“You sound like Donna.” Pam rolls her eyes. “Everyone has their faults, trust me. Even Teresa King. I’d like to see Vargas banging down her door.”
Pam’s friend pats her on the shoulder, reeling her in. “Pammy here’s been listening to Donna fawn over that woman for years,” she says by way of explanation. “It gets a little old, that’s all.”
Pam nods. “You know what the women called her in Nogales? Mother Teresa. Like she’s a goddamn saint.” She snorts. “Donna always had a little crush on her. All the people working there do. And Teresa, well, she gets off on having groupies.”
