Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

by Sinclair Browning

  I closed the book and handed it back to the attendant. “You'll need to put that video”—I pointed to the television set—“and this in a safe place.”

  He opened up the ledger and put it back on the counter. “This is our sign-in book,” he said smugly. “We don't put them away until they're filled and this one was only started in April.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “But that may become state's evidence.”

  Leaving him with a stunned look on his face and forty bucks in his pocket, I was out the door.

  42

  BY THE TIME I MADE THE TREK BACK TO MULLON'S HOUSE ON Third I found an empty Tucson police department black-and-white parked behind Priscilla. The officer was nowhere in sight.

  I gingerly slipped the key in the driver's door and opened my truck, using the bottom of my T-shirt as a hot pad. We do that in summer here, for the metal on our cars gets hot enough to burn. I turned the ignition key and hit the power windows to let the hot air out.

  Taking a healthy slug on my water, for I was drenched again with the heat and getting dehydrated, I pulled my registration out of the glove compartment and my driver's license out of my wallet. Then I sat on the parched grass under the shade of a palm tree and waited, for I was under no illusions that the police car had serendipitously appeared at the doctor's house.

  A few minutes later a young red-faced male cop appeared, an opened notebook in hand. He looked kind of cute, but it was hard to tell with the blue cap shading his face and his mirrored shades shielding his eyes. Still, he was probably young enough to be my son, if I'd had one. It really is true that cops are getting younger all the time. I liked it better when they made good fantasies. Hell, now even the police chief's too young.

  He hovered over me for a minute. “Why don't you stand up?”

  The thought had occurred to me, but for some reason I didn't like his suggesting it. “No, I'm fine.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “That your truck?” He pointed to Priscilla.

  “Yep.”

  He jotted something in his pad.

  “And you're …”

  I handed him the registration and my license. I was still sitting on the grass and he was hovering over me. I was reasonably comfortable with the trunk of the palm tree supporting my back so I stayed put.

  “Is this a moving violation?” I asked, immediately regretting my smart mouth.

  He said nothing as he recorded my information on his pad. It seemed a painfully slow process. I suspected he'd gotten As on the Silent Sam routine but hadn't aced his Documents Class.

  Finally done, he handed me back my paperwork. It was all bullshit since I was sure he'd already called in my plate. This was verified by his not returning to his car and radioing in my information.

  “Ma'am, are you aware that this is the site of a homicide?”

  Although death is not usually comic, he was entirely too serious. I read his badge number and name. George X. Houston.

  “What's the X stand for?”

  “What?”

  “That X in your name. What's it stand for?”

  Unless you're asking directions, cops usually don't like to be quizzed.

  “Are you aware that a homicide was committed here?” He ignored my question and repeated his own.

  “I didn't see any yellow tape like on TV.”

  “That's all over. A man was killed here. Right over there.” He pointed to the carport.

  I plucked dried grass off my shorts. “Samuel Mullon, July 6th, or maybe 5th.”

  “How do you know that?” I imagined his eyes narrowing behind the mirrored shades.

  “Public record. I read the papers.”

  “Yes, ma'am, a lot of people do just that, and then they break into the deceased's house.” The disgust was evident in his voice.

  “Do I look like a burglar?”

  “You'd be surprised what burglars look like. That truck of yours could hold a few things.” His head jerked toward the street.

  “Priscilla? Pilfered TVs and stereos?” I laughed.

  “What's so funny about that and who's Priscilla?”

  I stood up slowly and as I did so I realized he was about my height, five foot seven. I think he became aware of this at the same time and he took a couple of steps backward.

  “Priscilla's my truck.”

  “I see,” he said, although I was sure he didn't.

  It was really too hot to continue the interrogation, so I came clean. “I'm here on business. I wanted to see where Dr. Mullon was murdered.” I saw no reason to share with him that this was actually my second Third Street visit.

  “Business?” Maybe he did have a sense of humor after all because the way it came out sounded a little bit like I imagined a guffaw to be. “What do you mean?”

  “I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to look into Abigail Van Thiessen's death.”

  He didn't have to ask who she was.

  “Hired by who?” He was definitely taken in by either the horse worming T-shirt or my hippie sandals.

  “Hired by whom.”

  “What?”

  “Whom. It's hired by whom.”

  His response was to cross his thick arms across his chest. “Just answer the question, ma'am.”

  “I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say.” It was a deliberate taunt, but I didn't feel like sharing anything I didn't have to with him. I don't have anything against cops; I just didn't like this particular one.

  “I didn't see you around the house or the yard.”

  I said nothing.

  “So where were you?”

  This was getting ridiculous. Sometimes cops think they have to know everything we're doing. Unfortunately a lot of people give them this information gratuitously so they've become accustomed to getting it.

  “I went for a walk.”

  “In hundred and ten degree heat?”

  “I like to walk.” I shrugged and gave him a smile. When I got around to sharing what I had learned at the Mercado Hotel it wasn't going to be with some overzealous, bullying young beat cop.

  I took some satisfaction in watching trickles of sweat slither down his cropped sideburns onto his face. He had to be a lot hotter in his uniform, wearing a forty-pound belt with flashlight, gun, billy club and what-not attached to it and heavy black shoes, than I was in my shorts. Why not prolong it?

  “Do you like being a policeman?”

  He slammed his notebook closed and glared at me.

  “You're free to go.”

  “Thank you, officer,” I said sweetly as I headed back to my truck.

  43

  AS I DROVE BACK DOWN CAMPBELL I THOUGHT ABOUT PETER Van Thiessen's staying at the El Mercado Hotel. None of it made sense. First of all, with his money wouldn't he have opted for one of the tonier resorts around town— Ventana, La Paloma or the Arizona Inn? The El Mercado catered to people on lower-end budgets who were visiting the University of Arizona or the Cancer Center. It was also far from Abby's home so if visiting his sister was the goal of his visit, why stay in a hotel miles from his destination? There were similar accommodations a lot closer to Oracle. Unless he wanted to be anonymous. Then the El Mercado made sense.

  But why come in the weekend that Abby and J.B. were going to be gone? If he'd called his sister to suggest a visit, wouldn't she have told him their plans? Of course Peter could have told her he was staying at the El Mercado, but now with Abby dead, I'd never know. Still, if that was the case, why hadn't J.B. mentioned it? I'd get in touch with María López Zepeda and have her find out for me.

  Hadn't Peter also told me that he'd been competing in a marathon in Silver City that weekend? That would be easy enough to verify.

  But what if Peter hadn't told Abby about his visit to Tucson?

  While I wrestled with that possibility, I could only come up with two scenarios. Maybe he'd come in secretly to see Laurette Le Blanc.

  Or maybe he'd come to Tucson to murder his sister.

&nbs
p; Forty minutes later I was walking down a corridor in Northwest Hospital looking for the ICU. I rounded a corner and ran smack into my Uncle C.

  “Damn!” he said, wiping at the warm coffee that spilled onto his wrist.

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh hi, sweetie. God, I'm glad you're okay.”

  I felt guilty. I hadn't checked my messages since leaving home. I imagined that there had been a few from Aunt Josie and my cousin Bea once they'd heard the news.

  As Uncle C gave me a quick squeeze, my eyes caught the uniformed sheriff's deputy standing outside the intensive care unit. Cori Elena, dressed in the same clothes she'd left the ranch in earlier that morning, was doing her aren't-I-adorable? routine on the cop. He looked as though he was eating it up.

  My attention was not lost on my uncle.

  “He's coming around, but his only visitors are family for five minutes every two hours.”

  “I didn't know Jake had much family.”

  “His ex-wife's been in to see him, but she had to go to work. He has a son in the Coast Guard who's flying in later this afternoon and …” He jerked a thumb in Cori Elena's direction.

  “The damsel in distress gets in?”

  He nodded.

  “So I guess you haven't been able to talk to him?”

  “I didn't say that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I could use one since I was starting to run down from my lack of sleep.

  While waiting rooms at Northwest Hospital, unlike those at the Tucson and University medical centers, are not usually crowded, my uncle blocked the side view of my body with his own as we quickly passed an opened lounge door. “Goddamed reporters,” he growled, probably temporarily forgetting that his daughter, Bea, was one.

  We finally found an empty corner in a secluded waiting room. I helped myself to a Styrofoam cup of sludgy-looking coffee as Uncle C refilled his own.

  “You're sure you're okay?” he asked, settling his bulk into one of the metal-framed chairs.

  “Yeah, I'm fine. The bunkhouse's a mess, but I imagine Quinta will take care of it.”

  “And Martín?”

  “Shaken, but not surprised.” I sounded like I was giving the recipe for a James Bond martini.

  “He knew what was going on?”

  “Sure. He hoped she'd get over it.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence between us. It was finally broken by my uncle.

  “Cori says you knew about the Rafael Félix business.” He was trying to keep the accusation out of his voice, but I still heard it.

  I sipped the hot coffee and carefully considered my answer. “I only knew that there was a possibility of trouble from Mexico.”

  “But she told you that the Mexican authorities wanted to question her about her husband's murder and that Félix suspected her of taking his dough?”

  “We have no extradition with Mexico.”

  “We do on murder.”

  “But not on drug stuff. And we wouldn't have been interested in extraditing an American citizen just for questioning about a murder, right?”

  My uncle nodded wearily. “Still, you should have told me.”

  “Why? So you and Aunt Josie could stay up nights worrying about something that was probably never going to happen?”

  “Yeah, well, we've passed that bridge now, haven't we?” He swirled the coffee around in his cup.

  “What's the story on Jake?” I asked.

  “Punctured lung, shattered left arm, and he's got a bullet lodged near his spine.”

  “Oh God, will he—”

  “Yeah, yeah, he'll walk. No problem there. They're keeping him in ICU for a few days until he stabilizes. He was in shock and he lost a lot of blood.”

  “But you talked to him?”

  “A little. Cori Elena told him about Félix.”

  “You're not gonna tell me he was at the ranch last night guarding her?”

  He gave me a big grin. “Nope. Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Amazing the amount of trouble a man's pecker can get him into. He figured he could grab a few more minutes with Cori Elena since Martín was in La Cienega trying to get that old truck running. With them leaving, poor old Jake wanted to stretch out the time he had left with his sweetheart. But then all hell broke loose.”

  I could use another cup of coffee, but I stayed put, not wanting to interrupt my uncle's story.

  “He heard the guy work the lock. By the way, you need better ones. Think about upgrading to Schlages or something.”

  “We've never had a problem before. I'm surprised the bunkhouse was even locked.”

  “Cori Elena took care of that. She didn't want Martín walking in on them. The brand inspector figured that if it was Martín, he'd have a key.”

  Not likely since we rarely lock the doors on the ranch. With so many of us around, someone's usually always home to intercept potential burglars. Still, Jake Hatcher wouldn't have known that.

  “But he didn't want to call out, because if it was Martín, then he'd know that Jake was there, what they were doing. So he kept his mouth shut.”

  “And waited?”

  Uncle C gave me a disbelieving look. “We're talking seconds here. Sure Jake waited. For all he knew it was Martín coming home in the dark, and he didn't want to murder the guy whose wife he was screwing. I'll give him that.”

  I shuddered, thinking of Cori Elena and Jake waiting in the dark bedroom for Martín to turn on the light. I found myself wondering if Jake had shot Martín if that would have been self-defense under the Rafael Félix circumstances.

  “Once the guy was in, it didn't take him long to hit the bedroom. There's no lock on that door. He opened it slowly, stood to one side and fired. It was dark. When he saw Jake go down, he probably assumed he'd hit Cori Elena. That hesitation cost him.”

  “Lucky that Jake had a gun.”

  “His .357 was on the nightstand. Even down, he was able to grab it and fire.” There was something close to admiration in my uncle's voice. “He said he would have normally left the gun in his truck, but he was a little spooked because of the Félix business.”

  “I never saw his truck.”

  “He left it out near the shipping chutes and walked in. After all, he wasn't supposed to be there.”

  With all the commotion of the morning, the thought had never occurred to me to seek out Jake's pickup.

  “Is the guy dead?” I found myself hoping that he wasn't so his part in the story would come out.

  “Which one?”

  I choked on my coffee.

  “Yeah,” he grinned. “The Bunkhouse Bozo was DOA.”

  “Was there really another one?”

  “Parked in an old Impala down near the mailboxes. When the call came in, one of the guys from the SO was out patrolling near the cottonwoods so we caught him in a pincer movement. It was unplanned. We just got lucky.”

  “He's in jail?” It sounded too good to be true.

  “Oh yeah.” He shifted in his chair.

  “I'm waiting with bated breath.”

  “Pretty textbook, although stupider than most. The guys came up from Mexico three days ago to find Cori Elena for Rafael Félix. Fortunately, only one speaks English, the shooter, and he didn't read the papers so he missed the story on his boss.

  “The lucky thing for us was the radio on the Impala was shot and they couldn't even tune in a Mexican station.”

  “So they didn't know that Félix was dead?”

  “Yep. Wish they were all this easy.”

  I hadn't been aware that I'd been holding my breath, but a heavy sigh escaped me.

  Uncle C reached over and patted my knee. “I'm just glad they got the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Me too,” I said in a quiet voice that didn't sound quite like my own.

  After my uncle left to go back to work, I used the phone in the waiting room to call María López Zepeda. She was in court, so I left a message with her secr
etary asking her to check with J.B. about Peter's earlier visit to Tucson.

  I called my answering machine and checked messages. I'd been right about the one from Aunt Josie so I quickly returned her call. Uncle C had already been in touch with her so I didn't stay on the phone long. There were calls from reporters from the Arizona Daily Star and the Tucson Citizen, one from Emily Rose and one from Bea's television station, Channel 4, asking for an interview before the five o'clock news. I returned none of them.

  After hanging up, I grabbed another cup of rotten coffee and headed out of the hospital.

  It seemed a real anomaly to be taking a steaming cup of coffee out into a blast furnace, but I was hoping that the caffeine would keep me on my feet for at least a few more hours. Staying up all night never used to be a problem when I was younger. Now, over forty, every minute I was awake after midnight took a heavy toll. I was a lousy Cinderella. My eyes burned and in spite of my shower that morning, I felt used and dirty all over. My glass slippers seemed like concrete work boots as I trudged across the hot parking lot. In spite of my exhaustion, it was no trick to see the layers of heat rise from the sun-softened asphalt.

  While I'd thought about sharing what I'd learned at the El Mercado Hotel with Uncle C, I knew the information wasn't going anywhere and I wanted a little more time to explore my theory.

  A couple of things were bothering me about the scenario of Peter Van Thiessen in the starring role as Abby's murderer. First, if he really had killed Dr. Mullon, why would he stay in a hotel just blocks from where the murder took place? While it would have been convenient— he could have easily walked undetected to Mullon's house—it was also very risky. Could Peter Van Thiessen be that arrogant?

  And, if he was the murderer, how did he get out to the Baboquivaris? Had he driven in to Tucson and used his own car? If that was the case, it might be hard to prove he'd made the trip. But he would have had to show a picture ID if he'd flown and that would have left an easy trail to follow. Van Thiessen wasn't a stupid man. Maybe he had fake identification. What credit card and name had he used to check into the El Mercado?