Arizona Heat

by Linda Lael Miller

  I gave a deep sigh, and it felt a lot like relief. Had I thought, on some level, all my protests to Jolie aside, that Greer had been the one to shoot her husband?

  “Who did?” I managed, that being the obvious next step.

  Alex studied me, long and hard. We’d never been buddies, and I suppose he was reluctant to trust me. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It will to the police,” I replied.

  “Suppose I’d rather keep my suspicions to myself?”

  “Then they’ll probably find a way to hang it on Greer. Or maybe Beverly.” My eyes went so wide, so suddenly, that they hurt. “Was it Beverly?”

  Alex chuckled, and the sound was bitter, unkind. Even scornful. “As much as Bev would have loved to reduce me to a chunk of Swiss cheese, she hasn’t been sober enough to draw a bead on a boxcar in over twenty years.”

  “You have to give me a name, Alex.”

  His straight shoulders slumped a little, and he stared down at the floor for several pulsing seconds. When he looked at me again, the expression in his eyes was bleak. “I can’t be sure—all I have is a suspicion or two. I was abducted in the underground garage at my office—I do remember that—knocked over the head from behind. Probably thrown into the trunk of a car. When I woke up, my hands were taped behind my back and there was a bag or something over my head, so I couldn’t see. Somebody dragged me to my feet, and the next thing I knew, I was shot. Unless I miss my guess, the ballistics people will trace the slugs they dug out of my chest to a gun registered to Greer.”

  Greer had owned a gun? Add that to the growing list of things I didn’t know about my foster sister.

  Alex must have read the question in my face, because he answered as surely as if I’d asked it out loud. With a rueful little smile and a shake of his head, he said, “Yes—45 caliber automatic, hollow-point bullets. If you think the entrance wounds are bad, you should see my back.”

  “Spare me,” I said. It wasn’t that I wasn’t sympathetic—Alex’s story was horrible, and it chilled me to the marrow. I just wasn’t up for gore, especially before breakfast. I hoped he wouldn’t leave stains—or worse—on the back of the chair he was sitting in.

  “Greer was always paranoid,” Alex said. “She’s being blackmailed, you know.”

  “I know,” I said with a partial nod. “She won’t tell me who’s putting the squeeze on her, or what she did to put herself in this position.”

  Alex arched an eyebrow. “And you call yourself a detective? She’s from a little town in Montana—a place called Shiloh. Start there.”

  “Can’t you just tell me, since you’re obviously a few steps ahead?”

  “Honey, I’m miles ahead. Aeons. Light-years. Six months after Greer and I were married, my accountant clued me in that she was taking out credit cards in my name and maxing them out with cash advances. Obviously she was paying somebody off.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her? Put your foot down? Go to the police?”

  Another bitter smile. “I loved her,” he said. “I didn’t want her arrested—or killed. I made discreet arrangements—money wired offshore, and all that—to pay the blackmailer off permanently. Half a million in cash. For a long time nothing happened. I thought it was over. Then Greer started acting out again—hocking jewelry, running up credit cards, even hitting up friends of mine for loans. The bastards tried to abduct her just last week, if you’ll remember, and broke her arm in the process. If Jolie hadn’t rescued her, she’d be six feet under by now.”

  I didn’t miss the derision couched in the phrase “if you’ll remember,” but I didn’t comment on it, either. I was sick to my stomach, and not just because there was a dead man in my kitchen. I’d known Greer was in mortal danger, but Alex’s words had driven the fact home in a new way.

  “You never found out who the blackmailer was?”

  Alex shook his head. “Somebody in Shiloh, and more than one person, I think, unless they hired a thug to do their dirty work and muscle Greer into that van. I went to Montana a couple of times—trust me, that place is strange—trying to find out, and I’ve had some of the highest-priced private security firms in the business on the case. Nothing. Whoever this is, they’re pretty professional.”

  Bile scalded the back of my throat. “If you dealt with all these security firms, why didn’t you hire bodyguards for Greer?” I made myself glance at the bullet holes. “Or for yourself?”

  “I did. Until the money ran out.”

  “You’re broke?”

  “I’ve wired something like three million dollars into various numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands. By the time my estate is settled, Greer will have to move in over Bad-Ass Bert’s, with you. She could earn her keep as a cocktail waitress, if you ever decide to open the bar for business. And Bev isn’t going to be in much better financial straits.”

  I stared at him, speechless. I could deal with a lot of things—I’d proven that. Much as I loved her, rooming with Greer on a long-term basis didn’t happen to be one of them.

  “I hope I don’t sound cold,” Alex said coldly.

  I wanted to shut my eyes, but I was afraid to. Afraid Alex would be standing directly in front of me when I opened them. “Are you going to haunt me until all this is over?” I asked, my voice a lot smaller than I would have liked.

  Alex grinned. “I wish I could. I think it would be entertaining, if a bit tiresome at times.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Alas, I’m due back at the train station in less than half an hour. Now that I’ve done the right thing, they’ll punch my ticket and I can catch the midnight express to glory.”

  I gulped. Nick, my dead ex-husband, had mentioned a train station, too, while he was haunting me. “No shit?” I murmured. In moments like that one, it’s hard to be eloquent. “There’s really a depot?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “By the way, your ex figuratively wrote your name on the men’s-room wall. ‘If you need help, haunt Mojo.’ You can pretty much expect a steady stream of ghosts and ghoulies from now on.”

  “Great,” I said. “I need the numbers for those Cayman Island accounts, if you have them.”

  “On my computer,” he said. “In a file marked ‘Tropical Vacation.’ The password is Surgeon-Guy.” With that, Alex stood, and I was no longer afraid he was going to touch me. Much as I wanted him to leave, I needed to know who’d killed him, for Greer’s sake. I had to have a name—something—to give Tucker. It was his case, and I was more than willing to hand over the information and stay out of it.

  I’d get into Alex’s computer first chance I got.

  “Tell me,” I insisted. “Who did it, Alex? Who murdered you? You said it yourself—there’s someone you suspect.”

  Alex gave the dearly departed equivalent of a sigh, all motion and no breath. He shoved a hand through his expensively trimmed hair. “My son, Jack,” he said after a long time. If a ghost can be haunted, Alex Pennington surely was. His eyes were shadowed with despair, and seemed to sink deeper into his head. “We ran a real estate development firm together—it was just a tax shelter to me, but to Jack it was everything. He was unhappy, to say the least, when he found out the current cash flow problem was likely to be permanent.”

  “So he shot you? Your own son?”

  “I’m not sure—it’s only a theory. Jack was angry. There was life insurance. He needs the money to sustain his lifestyle.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. It’s bad enough to die violently, obviously, but when the killer might be someone you love and trust, it has to be—well—murder. “But if Jack killed you, then he should be the one to take the fall for it, not Greer.”

  “Jack’s never taken responsibility for anything in his life. That’s the problem.” Alex chuckled, and like the grins that had gone before it, the sound was sour as vomit. “I actually thought he loved me, though. So
mewhere, deep down inside. I was wrong.” He paused, looked me squarely in the eye. “Jack’s dangerous, Mojo. And he’s smart. Do a little digging, though, and you’ll get the goods on him.”

  “You loved her,” I said, marveling. “Greer, I mean. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. If you cared enough to bankrupt yourself trying to keep her safe, why did you cheat on her?”

  Alex was beginning to fade, cell by cell. I knew when he vanished, it would be permanent. “Because I was starved,” he said quietly. “I gave until I literally bled. I needed something—anything—back. And Greer didn’t have it to give. I’m—I was—a surgeon, not a shrink, but if I had to hazard a diagnosis, I’d say she’s a borderline sociopath.”

  More fading.

  “She can’t be.” Was I in denial? My analysis of Alex Pennington’s character had been off the mark; maybe I was wrong about Greer, too.

  No.

  “I know you want to help her, Mojo. I do, too, obviously. But she’s damaged, and if I were you, I’d watch my back. Greer talks a good game, but if it’s her or you, she’ll throw you to the wolves. Remember that.”

  I took a step toward him. “Alex, don’t—”

  He was gone. Fade-out complete.

  “Shit,” I said, rubbing my eyes so hard that my mascara probably smeared. I was going to have to do a touch-up job before I went to see Justin’s mother.

  I stood there for a long time, hating my life. Then I went to the phone. My palm made the receiver slippery. I thumbed in the speed-dial number for Tucker’s cell phone.

  “Darroch,” he said. His voice was clipped, and I knew he was into something heavy, and not alone. If that hadn’t been the case, he’d have seen my number on his caller ID panel and probably made some comment about my missing panties.

  “I think I know who killed Alex,” I blurted.

  “Whoa,” Tucker rasped. “How?”

  “Never mind how. ‘Who?’ is the pertinent question.”

  “Oh, I’ve got about a hundred of those. Who, then?”

  “Jack Pennington. Alex’s son. He probably used a .45 registered to Greer, but that part’s conjecture.”

  “And you came by this information how, as if I didn’t know?” He definitely didn’t sound like the Tucker who’d gone down on me in the backseat of an SUV in the shadowy privacy of his garage and subsequently brought me to one soul-shattering orgasm after another. Just one more reason for keeping the black hole buttoned up tight.

  Tucker could compartmentalize; I couldn’t.

  “Alex told me,” I said miserably. I would share what I’d learned about Greer later, when he was more receptive. As in that night, after the headboard of my bed had pounded through the stucco on the wall behind it.

  “Well, hell,” Tucker retorted dryly, “how could the D.A. ask for anything more?”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what your problem is, but take it out on somebody else, okay?” I was about to hang up when he sighed.

  “Moje, wait,” he said.

  “You’re with Allison,” I said.

  “I’m at work,” he answered. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

  I broke the connection with a jab of my thumb.

  The phone rang almost immediately.

  I looked at the ID panel, on the off chance the caller was somebody I wanted to talk to.

  Nope. Tucker Darroch.

  I marched into the bathroom and reapplied my mascara.

  I knew he’d try my cell phone next, but it was still charging. He’d get my voice mail, and be frustrated.

  Modern technology, annoying as it was, was not without its compensations.

  After leaving the guesthouse, I debated stopping by the mansion on the other side of the pool to look in on Greer. Nothing Alex had said had changed the fact that she was my sister, but when I saw Jolie’s Pathfinder parked out front, I used that as an excuse to skip the visit.

  At the moment I needed to focus on one problem at a time.

  I drove to Justin’s house, after swinging by McDonald’s for a sausage biscuit, consumed en route.

  I probably should have called first—after all, I was a stranger to Mrs. Braydaven, and she worked out of her house. She would have pegged me for a crazy if I had, though, and told me to take a flying leap. Since she was probably going to do that anyway, I figured it might as well be in person instead of over the phone.

  I climbed the front steps, drew a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

  The door creaked open, but the glass security door remained fastened. Mrs. Braydaven peered at me, Pepper at her side. It was the grizzled old dog that gave me the courage to stand my ground, instead of murmuring some excuse about having the wrong address and bolting for the Volvo.

  “Mrs. Braydaven,” I began bravely, trying to look as if I wasn’t selling anything, taking a survey, stumping for votes or trying to convert the heathen, “my name is Mojo Sheepshanks, and I’m—”

  I’m what?

  A ghost whisperer?

  A detective?

  A concerned bystander?

  “I’m here about Justin,” I finished lamely.

  She’d been a pretty woman once, I saw, through the thick glass of the security door. The deep lines in her face testified to years of grief, and considerable anger. Her hair was gray, and the cut was so bad, I figured she must have done it herself. Blindfolded.

  “Justin is dead,” she said after a long silence, during which I fully expected her to slam the door in my face. “Are you a social worker? A cop? Some kind of church lady?”

  “None of the above,” I said gently. “Let me come in. Please.”

  She didn’t open the door. The dog looked up at her and whimpered.

  “What do you want?” she demanded after another extended silence.

  “Do you believe in an afterlife, Mrs. Braydaven?”

  Definite mistake. Such questions are usually followed by a religious tract and a hasty spiel about the Last Days, complete with lakes of fire and rivers of blood. Her face hardened, and she started to shut the door.

  “The dog’s name is Pepper,” I said quickly. “Justin had a bad case of mono when he was fourteen, Pepper stayed with him night and day. You had to bring kibble and water to Justin’s room.”

  Mrs. Braydaven’s eyes widened slightly. She stopped closing the door. Stared at me in furious confusion. I could almost read her thoughts.

  I couldn’t have gotten that information off the internet; it hadn’t been made public. While she was probably about a furlong short of convinced, I’d caught her interest.

  She let me in without a word. Turned and led the way into the living room. The shrine Justin had mentioned flickered eerily on the mantel over the fireplace, and the tabletops gleamed. The tile floor was spotless, and there was no clutter, anywhere. Obviously, when Mrs. Braydaven wasn’t mourning or doing credit card billings in her home office, she cleaned. Frenetically.

  “I saw you on TV,” she said. “You’re that little girl who was kidnapped down in Cactus Bend, after your parents were murdered.”

  I wasn’t a little girl by anybody’s standards, of course. Semantics. I merely nodded.

  “It must have been awful,” Mrs. Braydaven said.

  Our separate tragedies gave us common ground. “It was,” I agreed softly. My gaze drifted to the candlelight dancing on the mantel, amid framed photographs of Justin, taken at various stages of his boyhood. The Scout badges were displayed on a velvet backing, protected by glass. “But no worse than losing your only child.”

  Tears filled Mrs. Braydaven’s eyes. “Sit down,” she said.

  I sat. Pepper laid his muzzle on my lap, and I stroked his graying head with a light hand.

  “Would you like some bottled water, or maybe a cup of c
offee?” Mrs. Braydaven asked. I knew she needed a moment alone, out of sight in her kitchen, maybe to force back the tears, maybe just to catch her breath.

  “Water would be nice, thanks,” I replied. When she was gone, I looked down into Pepper’s limpid brown eyes. “I’ll do my best,” I whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  IT’S PECULIAR, HOW you can avoid the truth all your life, not because you’re a liar, but because it’s just too painful, and then suddenly find yourself in a position where nothing else will work.

  Mrs. Braydaven handed me a bottle of cold water, then took a seat in one of her living-room chairs, near where I was sitting, but not too close. Pepper still rested his head in my lap.

  I realized the blinds were drawn, and felt a craving for sunlight.

  “I’ve seen Justin,” I said bluntly.

  I couldn’t read her expression. “Ms. Sheepshire—”

  “Sheepshanks,” I corrected politely. “Please call me Mojo, Mrs. Braydaven.”

  “Angela,” she said with a distracted nod. “My name is Angela.” She leaned slightly forward in her chair, studying the dog, then raised her gaze to my face. She looked skeptical—no surprise there—but not frightened. “What do you mean, you’ve seen Justin? He was killed six years ago.”

  “I know,” I said carefully. “In a drive-by shooting, after a concert.”

  “That’s public information,” Angela said. “Anyone could find that out in five minutes, just by going online and running a search.”

  I glanced down at the dog, stroked his head again, very lightly, trying to convey by touch what I couldn’t say aloud—that it was okay to let go and follow Justin.

  In the instant after I looked up again, Justin appeared, standing behind his mother’s chair. Watching me with an expression of desperate hope.

  I made eye contact without thinking, and Angela turned to see what I was looking at. I knew by the sag in her shoulders that she didn’t see Justin, but she might have sensed his presence, because she gave just the tiniest shiver, not afraid, but suddenly alert.

  “But I couldn’t have known about the mono,” I said.