“You're just decelerating right now. You had a good ride, you're in one piece.” J.B. slapped him on the shoulder. “Now cowboy up.”
“Fuck cowboy up, fuck the bulls and fuck you!” Fred said as he stomped off.
J.B. laughed as he watched him walk across the arena.
I couldn't resist asking, “Another happy camper?”
“That's the first one I've had. Guess he blames me for his being stupid enough to climb on the back of a bucking bull,” he said with a wink in my direction.
“Where's Jodie?” I asked, for she was nowhere in sight.
“Migraine. She's taking the afternoon off.”
Paulo Moraes, the Brazilian, was the last to ride. He not only rode a tough Brahma with the unlikely name of Charley Horse, but he was also able to use his dull roweled spurs in a great effort that didn't hurt the bull. This one was tougher than the others I'd seen this afternoon and Paulo was relaxed as he made his ride. He also made his eight seconds. I knew that a lot of Brazilians were doing very well in the Professional Bull Riders standings, and from what I'd seen, Paulo Moraes could soon be joining their ranks.
After congratulating Paulo and dismissing the class, J.B. stepped into his office and retrieved a couple of Cokes out of his refrigerator. He handed one to me, popped the tab on the other and took a healthy pull on the can.
Then he stepped over to his desk, opened a bottom drawer and retrieved a fifth of Jack Daniel's and a funnel. Placing the mouth of the funnel into the can's slot he poured some of the whiskey in, replacing the Coke he'd drained from it. The operation went smoothly and I suspected that he'd had a lot of practice doing it.
While I knew that bull riders were known for their flashy dress, big spending, heavy gambling and hard drinking, it seemed to me that J.B. was overdoing the drinking part. I wondered if this was his first doctored Coke of the day.
He held the bottle up to me with a questioning look. I shook my head.
“Well then, let's walk,” he said.
Neither of us said anything as we walked up the graveled path.
We finally ended up at Double Indemnity's corral and settled onto the wrought iron chairs with the mesh table between us.
“We'll have more privacy here. It's quiet,” J.B. said.
“I've been talking to a few people,” I said. “I haven't typed up your weekly report yet.” I neglected to mention my terror at the thought of tackling my new computer.
“No rush.”
“Well, it's my office policy to give clients a weekly written report. Yours is just a little late, that's all.”
“Trade, I don't give a goddamn about any written report. I hired you to find out what happened to Abby and to clear me.”
“Easy, J.B., I know.” Why was he so testy? “Have the police been back?”
“No. And I've already paid María López Zepeda a small fortune in case I need her.”
“Money well spent.”
“Do you know something?” He gave me a wild look and ran his fingers through his lush dark hair.
“Not about that. I've been talking to a few people, though, and I've got some tough questions for you.”
“Shoot.” He took a deep slug of his Coke.
“Were you having an affair with Jodie Austin?” I hit him with one of the big ones first, but he didn't flinch.
“Not exactly an affair.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I wasn't in love with her, or anything like that.”
“But you're sleeping with her.”
“Slept.”
“You slept with her?”
“I just said that, didn't I?”
“And Abby found out about it?”
“Yep.” He was staring off in Double Indemnity's direction.
“J.B., it would be helpful if you could elaborate a little more on these answers.”
When he turned back to me I was surprised to see that his eyes were damp.
“Trade, I ain't no angel. Never have been and I told Abby that before we were married.” He turned the Coke can round and round in his rough hands. “Yeah, Jodie and I tumbled around a bit, but I loved Abby, and that's the God's truth.”
He swiped at his nose, and I suspected that it was running.
“Was she going to leave you, J.B.?”
“Leave me?” He looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. “No, she wasn't going to leave me.”
“But she was a very jealous woman.”
He smiled. “Passionate.”
“And you fought about it.”
“A little. But that was over before Jodie left the first time.”
“I was told that Abby didn't want her to return.”
“No, she didn't. And we did have a big fight over that. It was over between us, though. But Abby still didn't want her back. To me Jodie was just another student with big bucks to spend on lessons. I've never lived with hen tracks on my back and I wasn't about to start.”
I was disgusted with his choice of words, but hid it. While I really wanted to get into the ketamine, I couldn't for the same reasons that I hadn't brought it up in my conversation with Peter Van Thiessen. Emily Rose gives me information knowing that I will never betray her, and in spite of J.B.'s having hired me, in spite of my wanting to get at the truth, there was no way I could say the K word. Until it was public knowledge, or at least until the police had braced J.B. with it, I had to keep silent, so I went in another direction.
I took a deep breath and then asked, “Did you ever hit Abby?”
He gave me a startled look, and then drained his Coke.
“No.”
“You never laid a hand on her, never even pushed her accidentally?” I was giving him a nice way around the question.
“Never. The police asked me that when they first questioned me. I know about the autopsy.”
Not all of it, I thought.
“The bruises. Hell, she fell off her horse with great regularity,” he said.
“Did she in the Baboquivaris?” This was a test question, for I knew that the bruises were old.
“No.” He chuckled. “We rode hard, but mostly only walked and climbed and she somehow managed to stay on.” He stood up, threw his can to the ground and stomped it flat with his cowboy boot, then picked it up.
“Let's go back to the office.”
I figured he was after some more of his medicinal Coke so we walked quietly back.
Inside, he went straight to the desk drawer, brought out the bottle, put it to his lips and took another healthy swig of booze. I guess he was tired of Coke. Finished, he brushed flecks of the golden liquor off of his dark handle-bar mustache.
“I was talking to José earlier and Ramona mentioned that Abby was dropping things.”
“Ramona's an idiot,” J.B. said, tapping his head.
“So you didn't notice that Abby was dropping things?” He shrugged. “Not to where I thought it was a problem if that's what you mean. Sure, she dropped a drink glass occasionally, or her mascara, stuff like that, but I didn't think anything about it.”
I did. I couldn't remember the last time I'd dropped a drink glass or my mascara.
“So she wasn't dropping things excessively?”
“Not that I noticed.”
While I couldn't bring up the ketamine, I could waltz around it. “You and Abby ate dinner both nights at the camp, right?”
He settled into his chair and nodded as I perched on the corner of his desk.
“Where'd that food come from?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you stop at the grocery store on the way down, or bring it from home? Where'd it come from?”
“Gloria packed it for us. Abby gave her a list of what we needed and then right before the trip I picked up the cardboard boxes and ice chests in the kitchen and packed them in the truck.”
“So Gloria Covarrubias packed all the food?”
“Hell, it wasn't all that much, Trade. We were only planning on bei
ng out for two nights.”
“Did you eat anything at that place in Arivaca?”
“La Gitana? Nah. Maybe a handful of popcorn, but we had those steaks before we left camp.”
“But you drank at La Gitana?” I was going over old ground, but kept at it.
“Oh yeah.”
“Did you have any booze in camp?”
He gave me a suspicious look.
“Look, J.B.,” I explained. “I really don't care how much you drink. What I do need to know is what you guys ate and drank and where you ate and drank it.”
“You know something.”
“No,” I lied. “I'm just building a diary here, a record of what happened in the days before Abby died. It may or may not be important.”
He nodded and kicked the desk drawer with the toe of his boot. “We took a couple of bottles from the bar here. Some red wine, a bottle of Jack and Baileys.”
“You drank Baileys?”
He made a face. “God, no. That stuff is pig swill. Abby liked it though, said it made her sleep better.”
“You mentioned that when you got back from Arivaca you were both so tired that you fell into bed with your clothes on.”
“That's right.”
“But you took your boots off?”
“Hell, sure, I wasn't that drunk.”
“Did Abby take hers off?”
“Yeah. She didn't have them on when I found her.”
“But she kept her socks on?”
J.B.'s forehead furrowed as though he was trying hard to think up the correct answer. “Yeah, she had her socks on.”
We talked for a while longer and then he began hitting the Jack Daniel's again.
As I said my goodbyes, he offered to walk me to the car, but I left him alone with his demons and his Jack.
24
I WAS SURPRISED TO SEE JODIE AUSTIN STANDING BY MY pickup when I got back to the parking lot. Her eyes were red, as though she'd been crying, and her cheeks were blotchy. She didn't look quite as glamorous as she had on my earlier visits.
“Is your migraine better?”
“I've got to talk to you.” She clasped a hand over her mouth as though she was going to throw up.
“Okay.”
“I'm really scared.”
“About what?”
“What you're gonna find out.” She chewed on her cuticle for a moment, took a deep breath and then said, “I slept with J.B.”
“I know.”
“But I'm not sleeping with him now, I swear it.”
“That's what I heard.”
“God, Trade.” She grabbed my arm. “You've got to believe me. I'm not sleeping with him now.”
“It's okay, Jodie, I believe you.”
“If my fiancé finds out about this, I don't know what he'll do.”
Fiancé? Jodie Austin slept with J.B., but she had a fiancé? Things were definitely getting interesting.
“He's a lawyer in New York. With Sullivan and Cromwell. We're supposed to get married next May. I don't know why I did it. God.” She burst into tears. “J.B. doesn't mean a thing to me. Charles can't find out, he just can't.”
After finding out about their affair, Jodie had been on my list. Admittedly, not in a very high position, since there were so many ahead of her that stood to gain real money. In order for Jodie to do that she'd have to marry J.B. once the smoke cleared. A possibility, but almost too obvious to seriously consider.
The sun was down by the time I pulled into the Vaca Grande. I was surprised to see my cousin Top Dog's old green pickup with the rusted camper shell sitting near the pond. As far as I knew he was still on the San Carlos Reservation.
As I stepped out of Priscilla I heard a car running, or at least trying to, the engine punctuated by a terrible knocking noise.
Mrs. Fierce, Blue and Petunia the pig were all overjoyed to see me. I suspected partly because they had not yet been fed.
The horses had. When I walked out to the corral Dream and Gray had their heads buried in their feed bins, munching their alfalfa. Chapo, Martín's roan horse, was doing the same in one of the pipe corrals. I was surprised to see his right rear leg bandaged with fluorescent pink Vet Wrap.
It didn't take a brilliant detective to figure out where the noise was coming from. Martín's battered old Dodge was sitting under the barn light, hood up, with Top Dog and Martín hunkered under it. Under normal circumstances this would not have been good news, but the way I felt about Martín's leaving, I viewed it as no less than a sign from God.
I walked over to the car. “Everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep enthusiasm out of my voice.
“Hey, Trade.” Top Dog ducked out from under the hood long enough to give me a quick hug.
“Rod,” Martín said.
“You threw a rod?” We sure weren't having much luck in the rod department. Just a few months ago Martín had replaced all of them on the old tractor.
“Sounds that way,” Top Dog offered.
“That sounds expensive.”
Martín shrugged and wiped his greasy hands on a dirty towel.
“At least it didn't go through the block,” Top Dog said.
“Hey.” Martín slapped my cousin playfully with the greasy towel. “Do I look like a tonto? I'm just old, not deaf, I heard the pinche.”
“How'd you get home?” I asked.
“Curly towed me.”
“Can you fix it?”
He shook his head. “I don't have the tools.”
“You'll probably want to pull the block, maybe get a new one.” Top Dog was full of helpful information. A pulled block, how long could that take?
Martín slammed the hood of the truck down. “I'll see if I can get Prego,” he said.
“What's with Chapo?” I nodded toward the corral.
“He came in from the pasture with a nasty cut on that leg.”
“And no clue, I'll bet.” If there was a way for one of the horses to get hurt, they'd usually find it and leave us with the mystery of how they did it.
“None at all, chiquita,” Martín said as he walked off.
I turned to Top Dog. “So how long does it take to put in a new block?”
“Couple of days. You've got to get one first.”
I crossed my fingers that Prego, a guy we all went to high school with who was now a mechanic working out of his home in La Cienega, would be overworked and unable to get to Martín's truck for a while.
We were walking back to the house when I asked,
“What are you doing down here? Aren't you at the height of your season?”
Top Dog, in addition to being a triathlete, is also a member of the Geronimo Hotshots, an elite Apache firefighting unit based in San Carlos. Arizona is hell for firefighters since June can be brutal when it comes to wildfires.
“Someone had to come to town for supplies. I volunteered.”
“Let's go get some dinner.”
Since a lot of our fair-weather friends, the snowbirds, had cleared out, we didn't have to wait for a table at Rainbow's. Rainbow Dancer herself—formerly Rebecca Liebowitz from New York—waited on us.
We both ordered hamburgers and then got caught up on the family news. Top Dog had seen Aunt Josie and talked to Cousin Bea this trip, but his father had been tied up on a homicide case.
“Was it the Van Thiessen thing?” I asked.
“Who? Oh that rich lady that got killed?”
I nodded.
“Nah, he didn't say.”
I'd have to call Uncle C. I'd like to know if they were going to bust J.B. Calendar for murdering his wife.
“Lonnie Victor used to work for her,” I said.
“Lonnie Victor? No shit?”
“He helped out around the place, did some gardening, and I think helped J.B. a little with the bull riding school.”
“Gardening?”
“Doesn't sound like the Lonnie we knew, does it?”
Rainbow came and put the hamburgers down. Top Dog flipped his bun back
and poked his patty with a knife. “Come on, Rainbow,” he said, “I wanted it rare.”
“Doesn't matter,” she said. “It's all well done nowadays. Can't afford to take chances.”
I groaned. I knew what she was talking about. It was an epidemic that was taking over the country, begun a few years ago when everyone started getting prissy about letting people ride mules into the Grand Canyon. That segued into caveats on water sports and skiing. Now it was our food. I'd been to a wedding reception a while back at the Arizona Inn and asked the bartender for a Ramos Gin Fizz and was told they couldn't serve me one because they weren't allowed to put egg whites in the drinks. Something about salmonella. The cover your ass syndrome was epidemic thanks to trial lawyers everywhere.
“Well, why'd you ask me how I wanted it then?” He asked good-naturedly.
“Makes you feel better, as though you're part of the process,” Rainbow said, patting him on the back as she drifted off to another table.
“I come here because I don't want to be part of cooking my food!” I yelled to her back.
We ate in silence for a few minutes and then I came back to Lonnie Victor. “He left the Brave Bull right after Abby was killed. He may have gone back to San Carlos.”
“Haven't seen him, but that doesn't mean he's not there.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be living?”
Top Dog squirted a healthy dollop of catsup on his fries. “Probably under a rock somewhere.”
“Oh come on, he must have family.” Everyone in San Carlos had family, or was somehow related.
“I'll ask around if you want me to. But offhand I'd say that if Lonnie was working for some rich woman, he's probably reached the peak of his career.”
“He must have friends.”
“Slugs, rodents, snakes.” In spite of his beef being too well done, Top Dog was wasting no time attacking it.
“Glad to hear you're so fond of him.”
Top Dog grunted and continued eating.
We had finished and I was paying the bill when my cousin remembered something.
“You know, Lonnie used to ride bulls, maybe he still does.”
I'd neglected the paperwork on the Van Thiessen case too long so the next morning found me in my stage stop office, my rolltop desk littered with paper.
Abby's appointment book was in front of me. This one was just for the current year so I only had six months of penciled entries and erasure marks to sift through. Of course there was a good chance there might be clues in the preceding years, but for now, my headlights were on January to the date of her death, June 6.
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 14
