I could hear Cori Elena whispering in Spanish. Love words, telling Martín to hold on, to stay with her, that she loved him.
About a foot in front of the man on the floor was a sleek chrome-plated automatic, its barrel pointed at the open bedroom door. I stepped gingerly around the man, taking care not to place my bare feet in his blood as I knelt down and retrieved his weapon. Now, with a gun in each hand aimed at the middle of his back, I nudged the intruder hard with the ball of my bare foot. There was no response, although his blood continued pooling.
I reached into the bedroom and groped for the light switch along the inside wall, finally found it, flipped it and flooded the bedroom with light.
And got a real surprise.
Cori Elena, stark naked, was attempting to stanch his bleeding by holding a pillow over his stomach. Her hands were covered with blood and tears ran down her cheeks.
“Trade, for the love of Diós, do something!”
I could tell by looking that it was bad. I dashed back to the kitchen counter, grabbed the phone and dialed 911. As I quickly gave them the situation and directions to the ranch, I was dimly aware of someone pounding on the front door of the bunkhouse.
Hanging up the phone, I yelled to the portal. “We're all okay. Just a minute!”
Stepping back inside the bedroom, I took another look at the man on the floor with the pillow.
Jake Hatcher's color didn't look all that good. His face was pale, almost the color of his gray-haired chest that until now, I had never seen before. Wearing only plaid boxer shorts, his eyes fluttered and he tried to raise a finger in greeting. I suppose it was a good sign that he recognized me.
“I'll hold that,” I squatted next to Cori Elena and put pressure against the thin pillow that was now turning pink. The blood had seeped clear through it. “You better put some clothes on. Your daughter's at the door.”
41
THE LAST SHERIFF'S CAR LEFT THE VACA GRANDE AT DAWN, just as Martín roared in in Prego's Land Rover. The ignition was barely off when he flew out of the vehicle.
“What the hell's …”
“It's okay, Martín. Everyone's okay.” As I hugged him, I could feel him trembling and his body slumped with relief.
Quinta came up. “We're fine, Dad. Really.”
Martín let go of me and embraced his daughter in a huge bear hug. “Freddy Brown was at the Circle K when he heard there were a lot of cops down here.” He looked around. “Where's Dad?”
“Asleep,” I answered. “Your dad slept through the whole thing and I couldn't see any reason to wake him up.”
“Cori Elena?” Martín released Quinta and headed for the bunkhouse, which was surrounded by yellow police tape.
I grabbed his arm. “She's not here and you can't go in there until they're through with their investigation.”
“She's at the hospital,” Quinta answered the question on her father's face. “With Jake Hatcher.”
Martín looked from one to the other of us for an explanation.
“It's a little complicated,” I said. “Maybe we better talk over a cup of coffee.”
Quinta left us alone and although it was painful for Martín and not particularly pleasant for me, I went through the whole bunkhouse scenario beginning with the shots I had heard and ending with the last sheriff's detective leaving the ranch.
“I knew chiquita. But I thought it was something she'd get over,” he finally confessed. “With Quinta here, I didn't want to think about it.”
“Upsetting the apple cart?”
“Something like that. I thought if we could get away, maybe things would be better between the two of us.” He got up from the scarred wooden table and retrieved the Mr. Coffee, refilling both our cups. “I guess I was just a coward.”
“You're not a coward, Martín.”
“Only when it comes to women,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I guess he's her hero now.”
“Well,” I chose my words carefully, “I don't think there's any denying that if he hadn't been here, with you at Prego's, that it would have been a different scenario out there tonight.”
He nodded. “And I'm grateful to him for that. For stopping whoever that was from hurting any of you.”
“Probably he was just after Cori Elena for Rafael Félix's money.”
“We'll never know that, will we?” In spite of the grim discoveries, Martín was actually sounding cheerful.
“Cori Elena told me Félix was dead and the detectives verified that so I'm wondering where the guy came from.”
“Los muertos no hablan.”
“I know. Dead men tell no tales,” I said as I drained my coffee.
Although I'd been up for most of the night, I knew I wasn't going to have much luck sleeping during the day so I headed into town. I stopped at the stage stop and grabbed the picture of Abby and Peter that I had taken from her bedside table.
Although the business with Jake Hatcher and Cori Elena had derailed a lot of my thinking about the Abigail Van Thiessen case, still something had been nagging me, tickling the back of my mind. I was sure that the death of Samuel Mullon was somehow connected to her drowning. It was too much to buy into the coincidence of Abby's doctor's being randomly murdered the same day that she drowned. The deaths had to be related. But how? And who was next?
I headed into town, back to the university area. As I drove south on Campbell toward Third, a taxicab, unusual for Tucson, pulled sharply in front of me causing me to slam on my brakes. It then turned into the El Mercado Hotel just past the corner of Campbell and Speedway. As I gripped my steering wheel hard with both hands, the tickle in my head blossomed into a full-fledged theory.
I turned on Third and a half a block later parked in front of Dr. Mullon's house. Nothing had changed except the drought-stressed lawn and trees were now even more desperate for water. The zinnias were beyond salvation.
I grabbed my Circle K jug, which was half full of water and a few surviving ice cubes, locked the cab and headed out.
Since the living room draperies were still closed and there was no hint of human habitation, I dispensed with the doorbell formalities.
I didn't linger long where Mullon had been shot, preferring to take the small brick walkway next to the patio wall. Neglect was apparent here too as weeds struggled to peek through the used bricks.
This time I picked the area closest to the carport and flattened my back against the wall, feeling the scorching heat of the masonry through my thin T-shirt. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how Mullon's killer could have stood in the exact same spot, in the dark, waiting for the doctor to get home. It wasn't much of a stretch as the scenario played out in my mind.
It was too hot to stay against the wall for long, so once the image was set, I walked slowly north along the path until it spilled out into a back alley that ran the length of the block. The battle-scarred garbage cans that I'd seen earlier were gone—either taken in by someone or stolen.
The alley was open, not sheltered by oleanders or walls or homes, and the noise from the traffic on Campbell was louder here. When I'd been here before I'd envisioned an easy getaway by the killer. He could have easily parked in the alley, hovered along the patio wall until Mullon returned home, shot him and then jumped into his car and taken the alley either down to Campbell Avenue or up to Tucson Boulevard.
That scenario had been incubating for a while and now, perhaps prodded by my near miss with the taxicab at the corner, I found myself exploring a different theory.
Instead of walking either east or west in the alley, I crossed it and walked between two houses that fronted on Second Street. I crossed Second and repeated the process until I was on the last alley before Speedway, the one just north of First Street.
Now I had no choice. The neighborhood had ended and only a chain link fence separated me from the conference center of the El Mercado Hotel and its parking lot.
Sweat was pouring off me as I took a long drink of water and took the alley down to
Campbell Avenue. Once there, I hit the sidewalk and walked the short distance to the hotel.
Stepping into the refrigerated lobby was like entering a walk-in freezer. I headed to the ladies' room where I splashed cold water on my heat-flushed face and refilled my water jug.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror I knew that I didn't look like an official anything—not a cop, a reporter or even a private eye. In deference to the heat I'd piled my long hair on top of my head, but sweat-soaked tendrils had escaped and long, wet ringlets framed my face. At least my mascara hadn't melted into raccoon eyes.
I was wearing a Zimectrin horse wormer T-shirt, a pair of old denim shorts and last year's Birkenstocks. Hell, I didn't even look like a dirty-shirt cowgirl. I just looked hot.
Back in the lobby I skipped the registration desk entirely. I knew that even if they had the information I was looking for, they'd be unlikely to share it with a private investigator. Maybe Charley Bell would have luck with his sources. If not, eventually the Pima County sheriff's office would come snooping around and the guest register would then miraculously open. Even if that information became available I knew that the name I was looking for would probably not be found on the guest log.
I picked up a brochure touting the amenities of the El Mercado and found what I expected. Jumping on an elevator I rode up to the fourth floor.
Once there, I headed to the end of the hall and let myself through the glass door welcoming me to the EL MERCADO FITNESS CLUB. It was nearly empty this morning with an overweight man doing very little damage to a stationary bicycle and an anorexic Japanese girl doing some stair step thing.
I approached the counter, which was bare except for a plastic box with brochures advertising the fitness club and a sign-in ledger that was opened flat.
A bored young man with a shaved head and a diamond stud in his left ear sat behind the desk. As the door closed behind me he looked up from his Ironman magazine. A television set behind him showed a group of string-bikini-clad young women doing something with beach balls to jazzy, upbeat music. He reached over and put the set in mute mode so the straining women were all prancing to inaudible music.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” I gave him my most engaging grin, a heat-rumpled card and thirty seconds to assimilate the information on it. Then I pulled a copy of the picture of Abby and Peter out of my hip pocket and slid it across the desk. “I'm wondering if this man”—I talked very quietly so the two guests couldn't hear me, and pointed to Peter Van Thiessen—“has used your facilities in the last thirty days or so.”
“I'm sorry, I can't help you.” He didn't even bother looking at the picture. “We aren't allowed to give out our guests' names.”
“Oh I don't need his name,” I assured him. “I just need to know if you've seen him.”
“I'm not sure I should do that,” he said dubiously. “It's pretty close to giving out a name.”
I retrieved the photograph. “Gosh, I was really hoping you could help me with this. See, he's my uncle and I think he was in town recently to surprise me and I was gone, and now I want to surprise him.” I was talking fast and fumbling in my pocket for two wrinkled twenties. He watched with interest as I folded the bills back into the picture. “But I don't want to do it if he didn't do it, ya know?” What I was saying didn't make any sense at all, but was the best I could come up with on short notice. I was counting on the twenties to distract him from my gibberish. “Are you sure you can't take another look?” I held the photograph out again.
He hesitated, but finally took my offering. Placing the picture under his desk light he studied it for a moment before handing it back, along with the twenties. “I'm sorry, but he sure doesn't look familiar.” Regret was genuine in his voice.
It was a dead end, but hunches frequently are.
I thanked him for his time and started to leave. My hand was on the door when he said, “Wait!”
I turned back as he motioned me over to the desk, not eager to draw attention to his indiscretion. “Is there any chance he would have used the club after hours?”
I thought about this for a minute and then nodded my head. “Sure, I suppose so.”
“Do you have any dates?”
“Somewhere around June 5th or 6th.”
He opened the cabinet doors on the video console behind him and thumbed through a string of videotapes, finally withdrawing one. After checking the date on the spine, he turned back to the television set, withdrew the beach ball bunnies and slipped the console tape into the VCR.
“We have the video on when the club isn't staffed, from eight to eleven at night,” he said in a low voice. “For security and liability reasons.”
In spite of the refrigeration, my heart began beating a little faster.
Glancing at the television monitor I was now looking at an empty fitness club. Other than a scroll across the bottom of the tape with the date and time on it, there was no one in the health facility, no moving machine, and not a hint of life.
“It's empty,” I whispered.
“The recorder's triggered by the front door. It keeps track of entries and exits, and it's supposed to go off when the last guest leaves the facility, but there's a little bit of a delay so you may get some empty space.” He held up a remote control. “This one's the fast forward,” he pointed to a black button toward the bottom of the controller. “Stop. Pause. If someone comes in, be sure you hit stop immediately.”
“Got it,” I said, taking custody of the clicker.
He went back to his magazine and I started in on the video. I was surprised at how many people were using the El Mercado's fitness facilities after hours. It was a slow process for me since I had to check every newcomer. Then I'd try to fast-forward so I wouldn't have to witness their workouts, but another person would come into the picture and I'd have to hit the rewind button and then move slowly forward again.
I watched a strange assortment of people—all colors, ages and sizes—sweat and struggle with the machines, adjust their jock straps, pick their noses and scratch themselves. My viewing reminded me to always keep in mind that someone might be watching what I was doing and I made a silent vow to never readjust my underwear in an empty elevator again.
My video sleuthing was interrupted several times as I managed to hit the stop button right before Young Blood grabbed the remote control. Two women had now captured the fat man's bicycle and one other and a trim black man was on the Nautilus. Miss Japan was still doing her stair thing.
Finally after thirty minutes or so of video juggling, I hit the jackpot.
“Yes!” I whispered.
“Ssh.” My earringed friend looked up from his magazine to admonish me and then looked at the television set. “Is that your uncle?”
He pointed to a tall, thin man with a deep tan and a shiny silver crew cut. The lighting picked up his uncommonly high, chiseled cheekbones and the sunken hollows beneath them.
I nodded and watched as Peter Van Thiessen, dressed in white gym shorts and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, signed the logbook. Across the bottom of the screen snowy white letters read “June 6, 10:21 P.M.” Now his back was to the camera as he scanned the room for a suitable piece of exercise equipment.
Peter was a runner so I was pretty sure what he would choose. I smiled as he selected the treadmill, but my elation quickly evaporated when I realized that the equipment was not in good camera range. It was in the far corner of the room and the only thing I could now identify was the fact that there was someone walking on the damned thing. Someone. Not a man or a woman. Just someone. While I was disappointed, I knew that with the proper equipment the video could easily be magnified and enhanced.
I sat through Peter's entire workout and then watched as he stepped off the treadmill and wiped his face and neck with a white terry cloth towel. He threw it in a bin in the center of the room, walked straight for the camera and disappeared.
I didn't have to rewind the tape to know what I'd seen. For altho
ugh his time on camera hadn't amounted to much in the scheme of things, it was enough. There was no doubt in my mind that Peter Van Thiessen had been in the El Mercado Hotel Fitness Center on the night that Dr. Samuel Mullon had been killed. The same night that his sister, Abigail, had drowned in a remote stock tank in the Baboquivaris.
The other thing I was sure of was that Peter had neglected to share his early Tucson visit with anyone. Not with me. Not with the cops.
I hit the stop button.
“You have a log that they sign in? That thing he signed?”
The young man let out a deep, resigned sigh.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said, giving him a wink.
He reached for the ledger on top of the counter and shoved it over to me, hitting my elbow with the edge of it. He didn't apologize. “You know, I could lose my job over this.”
“Hey you're doing your civic duty,” I said, not eager to give him more than forty dollars. Besides, the police would be here soon enough and they'd get the information for free.
I thumbed through the ledger until I found June 6. Everyone who had used the fitness center that day had presumably signed the book. I ran down the list of sign-in times until I got to 10:21 P.M. Written to the left of it was a scribbled scrawl that would put most doctors' prescription orders to shame. I studied the writing for a minute, but could not make out a capital P, V or T. The place for the room number was left conveniently blank. Somehow, Van Thiessen had neglected to sign himself out.
Clever. Not only was the name he'd signed illegible and the room number missing, but other than whatever name he'd registered in under downstairs, there would have been no way to trace him on paper to the El Mercado Hotel. Except for the videotape.
He'd had no clue that his exercise session had been recorded. Still, the scrawled name could have meant he was covering his bases. Otherwise, why would he have bothered to sign in at all? Could he have been afraid that an employee would have come in and notice his oversight and remember him for it? Or was it a CYA move in case he had been traced to the El Mercado? Of course I was there, he'd say, after all I signed in at the Fitness Club. Why would I do that if I was a murderer?
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 28
