by Betty Webb
“The Zielsdorfs seem like nice people, too,” I said. “It was understanding of them to give you this time off. Especially at lunchtime, when they have company.”
“Nice people. Very understanding. Miss Armetta driving me to funeral, too.” Her dark brown eyes flickered back to the Praying Monk.
“That is nice. Is your room here nice?”
“Very nice. Very pretty.”
“Do you have a television set, like at the Camerons’?”
“Big TV. Very nice.”
Time to shift back to the subject. “Was little Alec Cameron nice?”
Her lower lip trembled. “Sweet boy. Very nice.”
“So Ali and Alec were both nice children.”
She nodded furiously. ‘Oh, yes, yes.”
“Neither of them ever gave you any trouble?”
“Mister Alec was a good boy. Smart, too. Wanted to be astronaut.” The tremble increased. She had loved Alec.
“How about Ali?”
The tremble stopped. “Nice girl. No trouble.”
Judging from her reaction, Alec had been the easier child. No big surprise there since Ali was fourteen, and subject to all the hormonal craziness that arrived with puberty.
“Did you ever see Ali hit her mother or father? Or Alec?”
Alarmed, she looked straight at me. “Miss Ali never hit anyone!”
“But there was some trouble, right?”
A pause, then a hesitant nod. “Over boy. Miss Alexandra wanted her not see boy so much. Said she was too young to be serious like that.”
I wondered if Alexandra had suspected the duo’s runaway plans. “Was there a fight? I mean, an argument?”
A hawk called out somewhere down in the canyon. Another answered back. Looking out from this vantage point, we could have been in the wilderness, but the steady sound of traffic on the street on the other side of the house gave the lie to that. We were in the middle of the city.
“Eldora? Was there an argument over that boy? Kyle?”
She looked back at the Praying Monk, as if pleading for him to save her, but he remained silent.
“Tell me, Eldora. I’m going to stay here until you do.” I hated bullying her, but Ali was my client, not Eldora.
The edge in my voice must have reached her because her thin shoulders slumped. She was getting tired of lying. Returning her gaze to me, she said, “Maybe Miss Ali yelled some. Girls do. That all. No fighting. No hitting. Just yelling.”
“How about Dr. Cameron? Did he yell at Ali when they talked about Kyle?”
A faint smile. “No. Dr. Cameron not care what she do. So no yelling.”
“Really?”
“Dr. Cameron not care what anybody do. Just so long they don’t scratch his pretty cars.”
My next question was a shot in the dark, but sometimes shots found their target. “Eldora, do you know who killed the Camerons?”
Her mouth began trembling again, then her hands, her shoulders. Then her attempt to control her emotions failed utterly. With tears streaking her cheeks, she lifted her face to the sky and wailed, “If I know who, I not wait for cops, I kill them myself!”
***
I spent the rest of the day at Desert Investigations digging through the case file again, studying the crime scene photos, rereading the detectives’ interviews, double-checking the autopsy report on the victims. Alexandra and Alec had died of massive blunt trauma, Dr. Cameron by gunshot. No semen had been found in or on Alexandra, and there was no sign of vaginal bruising; she hadn’t been raped. The stippling around Dr. Cameron’s wound showed that the gun had been fired approximately three inches from his head, a coup de grace, much like a hunter puts a wounded animal out of its misery.
During the autopsies, the M.E. found all three victims had small portions of partially digested almond chicken, moo goo gai pan, rice, and egg rolls in their stomachs. Based on those findings, and the fact that when the police arrived at 6:12 p.m., rigor mortis had already begun in the Camerons’ eyelids, necks, and jaws, the M.E. estimated their times of death as between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. The time was further narrowed by the statement of the delivery boy from the Chinese restaurant, who said he dropped off a takeout order to a still-living Alexandra Cameron a few minutes before noon. The Camerons managed to get small portions of the takeout into their stomachs before they were bound with duct tape and slowly tortured to death, which gave a more realistic timeline of death to somewhere between noon and three p.m. After flipping through more pages, I found a note saying that Ali and Kyle had arrived at the vet’s with the badly injured Misty at 3:02 p.m., as shown by the camera in his reception room. Given that the vet’s office was an approximate thirty-minute drive from the Cameron house, I condensed the timeline of the murders to between noon and 2:30.
I did find one other thing interesting. Tests found fibers from both Alexandra’s and Alec’s clothing on the back of Dr. Cameron’s sports shirt and slacks, leading me to believe that despite his seeming lack of warmth, he tried to protect his family from the killer. Or killers. Gun or no gun, I wasn’t convinced the damage I saw had been carried out by one person.
“How you doing over there?” Jimmy asked, turning away from his computer, where he had been busily working all day. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”
“Just a little light reading.”
Before I could cover them up, he glanced at the photographs laid out on my desk. “I don’t know how you can look at that stuff.”
“Just part of the job. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Right.”
“Tell you what, though. After all this sitting around and reading, I need to loosen up, so I think I’ll go to the gym.”
“Which one?”
For the past few years I’ve been a member of L.A. Fitness, but a couple of months ago I’d also been going to Scottsdale Fight Pro. The gym was only two blocks from Desert Investigations and offered, besides the usual workout machines and free weights, a wide choice of martial arts classes that included various styles of cage fighting, as well as other hand-to-hand combat techniques. Since my days with Scottsdale PD I’d been a practitioner of karate and jiu jitsu, but due to an ass-whopping I had been given during a recent case, I’d begun classes in Krav Maga, an Israeli armed forces discipline. Well, maybe “discipline” is the wrong word to use, considering that head-butting and eye-gouging are a big part of Krav. The point of Krav is, when you are shorter and lighter than your opponent, you need some sort of edge to deal with an attack, prevent the perp from hitting you again, then quickly neutralize him. Firearms work well, too, but lethal force isn’t always called for. And then there are those cases when, for one reason or another, you’re not armed.
“Fight Pro,” I told Jimmy, in answer to his question.
Being an L.A. Fitness fan himself, he frowned. “No accounting for taste.”
“No, there isn’t.” I repacked the case file box, ran it upstairs to my apartment, and grabbed my gym bag. I’d probably go through the file again tonight, but for now, I needed to get physical.
A wall of heat hit me when I ran down the stairs and stepped outside. The thermostat on the outside of Cactus Kitty’s, a new pseudo-cowboy bar across the street from Desert Investigations, informed me that the late afternoon temperature was one hundred and eighteen. Oh, joy. It was too hot for even the ever-present tourists, and Main Street was pretty much deserted. Maybe they were all huddled in the bar, since its sign proudly advertised ICE COLD BEER AND AIR-CONDITIONING. Despite the heat, I began to walk to the gym. The two-block distance wasn’t going to kill me. Besides, since Fight Pro had started resurfacing its parking lot, parking had become a problem, and chances were good that I wouldn’t be able to find a spot anyway.
It soon became apparent I’d made the right decision. Fight Pro’s lot was a mess. Several cars were circling the lot again and again, hopin
g that since their last pass, a space might have opened up. Wishing them luck, I hurried inside where the frigid air-conditioning immediately dried off my sweat.
Because of the mess outside, few of the other usual gym rats were there, just several people trying to outdo each other with free weights, so I had my pick of the equipment. After a brief warm-up on the treadmill, I cranked up the speed, pounding out one mile in ten minutes, forty-three seconds. Satisfied, I slacked off to a leisurely jog for another two miles, then stepped off the treadmill. Since there were no Krav Maga classes scheduled today, I walked over to the free weights area. I’m no competition bodybuilder like some of the women who frequent Fight Pro, but I am strong for my size, and can squat a hundred and forty-five on a regular basis. I was a bit off today—probably due to the heat—but I still managed a hundred and thirty. Then it was off to the bench press, where I redeemed myself by lifting one-sixty. Arms sore, I headed back to the treadmills, and finished my workout by running another three miles.
Before heading to the showers, I noted that one more regular had come in, a weirdly overdeveloped woman who seldom talked to anyone. Around thirty, at least six foot two, and a bad peroxide blonde, she was more or less normal from the waist up—normal for serious weight trainers, that is. But most of her workouts were dedicated to increasing the size of her massive thighs, each of which already appeared larger than her shoulder width. She was now so grotesquely disproportioned that the other gym rats had taken to calling her Monster Woman.
Right now, Monster Woman was in the grunt corner, doing squats with weights that drew admiring looks from everyone. From where I stood, I couldn’t see the markings on her weights, but from the size and number of them, it looked like she was hefting upwards of three hundred pounds. Surely that couldn’t be right?
Then again, maybe it was. A couple of months earlier, I had discussed her with Elena Muinsiere, another ex-cop involved in Krav Maga. A bodybuilder herself, although a sane one, she told me that during a rare conversation, Monster Woman bragged that her biceps measured eighteen inches, her quads forty-two. Each.
“A clear case of testosterone abuse,” Muinsiere had said. “It’s messed her head all up. Talk about ’roid rage! I’m no wimp, Lena, but I keep as far away from her as possible, and I suggest you do the same.”
I’d taken Muinsiere’s advice, so today I made a large detour around Monster Woman while heading to the showers. Whatever drama was being played out in the woman’s head, I didn’t want to become a part of it.
Chapter Eight
Friday morning I had a meeting with Dr. Bradley Teague, the dead man’s half-brother, who had checked into a Scottsdale resort hotel after his long flight from Kenya. He wasn’t what I expected.
Somewhat north of sixty, he sported a swollen jaw, a split lip, and a missing front tooth, injuries he’d received when trying to inoculate a Kenyan girl against polio. He also exhibited the behavior of a man who feared he would never sleep again, no matter how firmly he clutched at the crucifix dangling from his neck.
“The mother was willing but the local warlord wasn’t having any of it, and in that part of Kenya, the warlord is king,” he lisped. “Fortunately, I was able to inoculate most of the kids in the village, including the girl, before he hit me with the butt of his rifle. Where are their bodies?”
I was stymied for a moment, but Stephen Zellar, Ali’s attorney, answered without a blink. “Now that you’re here, the medical examiner is releasing them, and your brother, sister-in-law, and nephew will be transferred to your funeral home of choice today,” he said. “In the papers on file with his estate attorney, your brother was very specific about what he wanted, so everything should run relatively smoothly. The only thing you need to do now is choose a suitable reception hall for the after-funeral get-together.”
“Reception hall?”
“The Camerons, especially your sister-in-law, had many friends. He left instructions for them to gather at his house after the funeral, but after what happened there…” Zellar cleared his throat. “Any reception hall would do. What church did they attend?”
“None. That I know of, anyway. We weren’t close, so I, ah, I think we should skip the reception. Considering everything, the publicity and all, it doesn’t seem appropriate.”
Zellar raised his eyebrows.
Dr. Teague took the subtle hint to explain himself. “As I said, Arthur and I weren’t close. I was already in high school when my father married his mother, and shortly afterwards left for college. Then there was medical school, then the Army, then marriage, and well, you know how it goes. Life, and all that. When I set up my practice in Pasadena, that took an enormous amount of time and energy, and I was, well, to come right down to it, I had my own life. Sure, I visited Arthur and his family from time to time, sent Christmas and birthday presents to the kids, but…” He trailed off, and touched his crucifix, as if to make certain it was still there.
“I see,” Zellar said. “About the house, then. It remains rather, ah, disorganized, so do you want me to place a call to one of the companies that specialize in that sort of, er, cleanup?”
“Oh, God.” Dr. Teague let go of his crucifix for a moment and buried his ruined face in his hands. Then, as if he couldn’t bear his own touch, he jumped up and crossed the room to the sliding glass door that led to the suite’s balcony. He opened the door, took a deep breath, and immediately closed it again. But he remained there, his face pressed against the glass. “Yes. Get it cleaned up. Then sell it. At a loss, if necessary. The furniture, too, if there’s any left after…” He paused, then added, “But the portrait of Alexandra, I’ll take possession of that in the meantime, even if it needs repair. The painting was done by Max Trattner, and is quite valuable.” He paused again. “I’m the one who commissioned it, as a wedding present for Arthur.”
Every time he said “Alexandra,” the tone of his voice changed. I looked at Zellar to see if he’d noticed, too, but the attorney’s face remained expressionless.
It was the morning after my interview with Kyle’s foster mother, and we were sitting in Dr. Teague’s suite at the Scottsdale Valley Ho, a fashionable retro hotel located a few miles south of the Cameron house. Considering the subject matter of the past hour, the suite’s hipster fifties decor at first seemed wildly at odds with the conversation we were having. Then again, its very hipness might help ease Teague back into the twenty-first century and a country where children didn’t have to duck ignorant warlords in order to receive medical care.
For the last hour, Zellar had been explaining the intricacies of juvenile law. If Zellar couldn’t get Ali’s confession thrown out and the charges against her dropped, there was yet another fallback: a plea agreement.
“Failing that, we present our case to the Juvenile Court judge. If, at the end, he finds her guilty, her age will be taken into account during the sentencing phase, and the law is much more lenient when it comes to juveniles. She and Kyle Gibbs will be tried separately, and it should be relatively easy to shift the onus of guilt onto him, since he’s the actual killer.”
“Make that ‘alleged’ killer,” I corrected, ignoring the damning note I’d found in Kyle’s room. Maybe I would tell Zellar about it later, maybe not. “Innocent until proven guilty, and all that.”
Dr. Teague threw me a questioning look, but Zellar, merely pursed his lips. “Mr. Gibbs isn’t our concern.”
True enough, legally speaking. The sooner we finished here, the sooner I’d be able to talk to Dr. Teague alone. That moment arrived twenty minutes later, when Zellar called Dr. Teague away from his view of the hotel’s parking lot to sign some papers. After offering his condolences once again, he stuffed everything back into his massive briefcase and left.
Dr. Teague appeared surprised when I remained behind. “Is there something else, Ms. Jones? If so, make it quick. I have to get out of this room, take a walk, do anything but sit around here thinking.”
I smiled. “Come to think of it, I could do with a walk myself, and I’d be more than happy to keep you company.” Playing on his apparent familiarity with art, added, “The Main Street galleries are open, and it’s not all that hot yet. At least, not as much as yesterday.”
At first I thought he would turn down my offer, but he didn’t. “Anything’s better than staying cooped up in here.” He started toward the door. “Not that you’re just ‘anything,’ Ms. Jones. Sorry if it sounded that way.”
“No offense taken.”
“Not all that hot” is a relative term in Arizona. The temperature had already nudged past ninety, but in a climate this dry it was bearable, and Teague, used to the heat of Africa, had no problem with it. At first he strode briskly along as if disinclined to talk, but by the time we reached the Arts District he loosened up enough to discuss what was left of his family. Namely, Ali.
“I will help my niece, regardless of what she may have done,” he said.
“Regardless?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
He slowed, examined a fingernail. It looked fine to me. “Zellar says he can get her confession thrown out. What do you think, Ms. Jones?”
What I thought didn’t matter; it was what the judge thought that counted. “Zellar will make a strong argument that the arresting officers in Quartzsite strong-armed Ali, and since she’s only fourteen, it might work. But better cross your fingers. As Zellar told you, she repeated the same story, on videotape, when she was returned to Maricopa County.”
“Zellar says there was no attorney in the room at the time.”
“Which will work in her favor.”
It was early enough that Main Street was still fairly deserted, so we were able to talk freely. Not that anyone would have paid attention even if we’d been discussing an imminent alien invasion. The few tourists who were already out and about were more interested in window shopping than they were in us.
