by Betty Webb
As I stuffed my cell back into my carryall, Jimmy said, “We have an appointment to meet with an arson investigator from Scottsdale PD and a representative from Scottsdale Restore at three. The insurance guy’s going to be there, too. And, oh joy, the owner of the building. Have you had lunch yet?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
He frowned. “Thou shalt not fib.”
“Who says I’m fibbing?”
“Your growling stomach. Why don’t you let me fix us something? Or we can head over to Denny’s. It’s on the way.”
“You cook?”
“Iron Chef is one of my favorite TV shows. You’d be amazed at what I’ve picked up.”
Soon we were lunching on chicken salad crunched up with slivered almonds, served on a mixture of Bibb lettuce, heirloom tomatoes, and alfalfa sprouts. The Parmesan whole wheat muffins he’d baked himself were pretty good, too.
“You keep surprising me,” I said, licking herbed butter off my fingers.
“Maybe you should pay closer attention.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get a move on. Want to ride over in my nice air-conditioned truck?”
I briefly considered it. Yes, I needed to talk to Kyle’s foster mother, which I could easily accomplish by cell, but an in-person visit to Ali was definitely in the cards, and as soon as possible. If the interview with Ali proved as successful as I hoped, I would need to talk to the Honorable Juliana Thorsson, too.
“Separate cars,” I answered.
Thirty minutes later we were touring what was left of Desert Investigations. Percy Simms, the building’s owner, looked near-suicidal until a consultation with the insurance agent lifted his spirits. After that, he drove off without saying a word to me.
The conversation with Detective Howard Lopez was brief, too. “Other than this Terry Jardine person, do you have any other known enemies?” he asked.
This made Jimmy grin. “Would you like the list in alphabetical order or by date of threat?”
“Terry Jardine’s vehicle matches an eye-witness’ account,” I said, heading off the long recital of people Desert Investigations had helped jail. “We had Ms. Jardine’s vehicle towed for continually parking in our private space, which I doubt she was happy about. Besides that, there are indications she might have drug issues. As well as, ah, other personal problems.”
Such as a history of being romantically attracted to homicidal maniacs like Kenny Dean Hopper.
After jotting down the names of other grudge-holders Jimmy so merrily supplied, Detective Lopez left, and Gavin Biddle, our insurance agent, took over.
“It could be worse,” he said, ever the optimist. “The office will have to be rebuilt, although the contents of your fireproof cabinets may be salvageable. Still, the computers and furniture were totaled, as were the carpets and paneling. The good news is that the flames didn’t reach your upstairs apartment. The bad news? Some water damage, plus the smoke odor permeates everything: walls, carpet, furniture, mattress, linens, clothing, et cetera. But Scottsdale Restoration will take care of that for you, no problem.”
“How soon before I can move back in?”
“The apartment or the office?”
“Apartment.”
“Two weeks, maybe. The office, well, that’s going to take longer, because essentially, you’ll be building a new one. What with the construction boom we’re having now…” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
Oh, great. Not only was I homeless, but I would continue officeless for ages, stuck in that damned motel, driving back and forth from Jimmy’s frigid computer room.
Unless…
I thought of chicken salad with almonds. Home-baked Parmesan muffins.
Then I thought of Desert Investigations’ case files accessible at a mere keystroke. As long as Jimmy kept coffee or iced tea coming, I could put up with the temperature.
“Does your offer still hold?” I asked Jimmy after Biddle and Detective Lopez drove away.
“What offer?” He wiped some soot off his hands with a clean white handkerchief.
“To let me crash at your place.”
He looked up. “Of course it still holds.”
“You’re not worried your relatives will talk?”
“No problem. Pimas aren’t big on gossip.”
“Then how about your girlfriend, what’s-her-name. How will she feel about me staying at your trailer?”
When he raised his eyebrows, the tribal tattoo on his temple moved upwards a quarter of an inch. “You mean Cynthia? Also no problem. She’s back in jail for violating parole. Been there three months, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh.”
Jimmy’s love life was even more dysfunctional than mine. Whereas I tend to choose partners who are emotionally unavailable, Jimmy is a born fixer-upper. In the same way he fixes abandoned trailers, he tries to fix crazy women. The trailers work out. The women don’t.
“I really am sorry, Jimmy. I thought you two…”
“You think too much.” He put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “How about coq au vin?”
“Huh?”
“For dinner.”
“Sounds delicious.”
He flashed white teeth. “Take care of what you have to, then, and I’ll see you when I see you. Dinner will be simmering on the stove.” With that, he got back into his pickup and drove off.
As his truck turned the corner, my cell rang. It was Kyle’s foster mother. To get out of the merciless sun, I moved down the street a few feet and into the shadowed entrance to Hugo White Feather’s Indian Jewelry, where the temperature was a few degrees cooler.
“Glen and I just returned from seeing Kyle,” Fiona Etheridge said, her voiced teary. “He’s not doing well at all, just keeps saying he’s sorry about everything and wants to come home. But when I asked him if he’d recant his confession, he refused. He’s still protecting Ali. I know I shouldn’t hate that poor girl but I think I’m starting to.”
“Did you ask the question I told you to ask?”
“The one about why he tried to kill the dog?”
“Yes. That one.”
Behind me, the door opened, and a whoosh of air-conditioning rushed out, followed by the store’s owner.
“Lena, either come in here or go stand in someone else’s doorway,” Hugo White Feather pleaded. “You’re scaring away my customers.”
“Hold on,” I said to Fiona. Turning to Hugo, I asked, “What customers? There’s not a soul on the street. Too hot.”
“Shows how much you’re aware of your surroundings these days,” Hugo answered. “A man and a woman almost came in a minute ago, then they took one look at the expression on your face and crossed the street. Just get in here and out of the doorway, okay? For old time’s sake? Oh, and I’m sorry about your office. If you need any help cleaning up, let me know. I’ve got a big mop and an industrial-size vacuum cleaner.”
Grateful for a respite from the heat, I followed Hugo into the store and stood by the counter. Indian chants were playing over the sound system—Pawnee, I think—but not loudly enough to interfere with my conversation.
“The question, Fiona. Did you ask it?”
She didn’t answer right away because she had to blow her nose first. “Yes, yes, I asked.”
“Did he answer? I need to know.”
“In…in a way, I guess he did, but…but it didn’t make sense, considering what I’ve heard about what…what happened at that house.”
I took a deep breath to calm my frustration. “Just tell me what Kyle said. I don’t care how nonsensical it sounds.”
“Well, when I asked, he got even more upset and said that we should know him better than to believe he’d ever hurt an animal. After that, he refused to talk anymore. At least the guards let us hug him. That’s when I started crying, which I swore I wouldn’t do.”
I let out my breath.
To my right, Hugo was rearranging a black velvet tray filled with turquoise and silver rings. One of them had two large, rough-cut ovals of turquoise embraced by fat squash leaves. It wasn’t dainty, but it was beautiful.
“There may be good news for you soon,” I told Fiona. “Just give me a couple of days. In the meantime, keep visiting and hugging.”
A sniff. “As if Glen and I would do anything else.”
When we said our good-byes, I stashed the cell into my carryall and walked over to the turquoise ring display. I pointed a ringless finger.
“Hugo, can I try on that two-stone job?”
Time to celebrate.
***
Two hundred and thirty dollars and seventy-six cents poorer, but a whole lot more optimistic, I stopped by Zellar’s office and picked up the new case file. Not taking any chances, I drove it straight to Jimmy’s trailer—he was already working away—and stowed it in the guest bedroom. Then I took off for the juvenile detention center.
Since it wasn’t normal visiting hours there was no wait, and within minutes a middle-aged corrections officer who seriously needed to diet showed me to an antiseptic-smelling interview room furnished with only chairs and a metal table. Almost as soon as I sat down, another corrections officer, this one a woman wearing magazine-cover makeup, ushered in a fierce-looking Alison Cameron and directed her to sit. She did, but she didn’t look happy about it. Her arms crossed in defiance and the frown on her face appeared deeper than when we last met. A tic at the corner of her right eye was the only clue to her true condition. It ticced so hard that as she scowled across the table at me, she appeared to be winking.
“You again.” She sounded hoarse. Did she cry at night, when no one was around?
“Yep, it’s me again, your friendly pay-per-diem private investigator.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smart ass?”
“Plenty of people, plenty of times. But I come bearing good news if—and it’s a big if, Ali—you answer my questions truthfully. For a change.”
Now she looked wary, as if concerned I was about to play a trick on her, which I was. “I’m not telling you anything, bitch.”
“Doesn’t take long in juvie to toughen a girl up, does it?”
The scowl deepened.
“Anyway, you might change your mind about things when you hear what I have to say.”
“As if.”
“Right. So let’s get to it. As I’m certain your attorney has told you, we’ve received copies of your unwise statements to the arresting officers, and Mr. Zellar is at present trying to get your ‘confession’ thrown out. Should be a slam dunk, he says, since you’re under age and the arresting officers didn’t properly Mirandize you. And when…”
“Doesn’t matter,” she sulked. “I still did it.”
“Don’t interrupt. As I was about to say, when you were arrested, you and Kyle were together and you were covered in blood. Kyle, not so much. But know what? The lab tests are back and as it turns out, most of that blood on you was dog blood, probably Misty’s. But just one small smear of human blood, and that was from your mother. Considering the violence of the crimes and the state of the house, that’s an interesting detail. But here’s the really fascinating part, Ali. Kyle claims he never hurt Misty, that he never laid a finger or a baseball bat on her. If he didn’t, who did?”
“But…He said…he said…” She stammered to a halt, looking confused.
When I slammed my hand down on the metal table, my new silver-and-turquoise ring clanged like a hammer on an anvil. “Kyle said what?!”
Eyes wide in alarm, she responded, “He asked…he asked if I wanted him to put her out of her misery. But I told him no, that we should take her to the vet.”
“When he asked you that, did he have the bat in his hands?”
She nodded.
“Which is how his fingerprints wound up on the murder weapon. Not because he’d killed anyone with it. Or clubbed Misty.”
“Of course not! Didn’t I tell you he didn’t kill anyone? I told you! Again and again! I told them all! But nobody listens to me!”
She yelled so loud the corrections officer stationed outside looked in, concerned. I told her everything was fine and waved her back out.
“Calm down. Ever think that no one believed you because of that cockamamie story about hiring a hit man with your allowance money? Here’s another thing. I searched Kyle’s room, and guess what I found? A big pack of love letters from you. In one of them, you wrote that you wished your parents were dead and suggested he kill them.”
Her face resumed its former hostility, but her fingers dug so deeply into her crossed arms they’d undoubtedly leave bruises. “I changed my mind and hired a hit man.”
One of the best tactics when interviewing a hostile witness is to switch subjects for a while, then circle back. That’s what I did. “Who were you closest to, your mother or your father?”
She blinked several times. “Why’s it matter?”
“Because now that your Uncle Bradley’s in town to claim the bodies, the funeral can start. Want to attend? If you do, there’s a chance your attorney can work out the arrangements.”
More blinking. “I…I…”
“I’ve heard you were scared of your father, so maybe not.”
A lone tear escaped all that blinking. Her tough façade was crumbling.
Once your subject’s true self emerges, a certain amount of emotional cruelty is another effective interview tactic. Although I hated what I was about to do, Ali needed one more shock to complete the deconstruction process. Of course, I’d be taking a physical risk if I was wrong about her, but such was the reality of my job.
Watching her body language carefully, I sat back in my chair, increasing the distance between us, preparing myself for what I hoped would be the last necessary stab in the heart. Steeling myself, I vented a long, theatrical sigh.
“Oh, I get it. You were scared of them both, weren’t you? Your father and your mother. No surprise there. Hell, the neighbors tell me both your parents beat you and your brother every day. What a nasty, dysfunctional family you had, your poor little thing. But how’s this? Go ahead and attend, but keep your eyes and ears closed until they start talking about your brother. Then when burying time comes, it’ll go by faster, his grave being half the size of your parents’.”
She turned so white I feared she might come across the table at me. But I’d been right: the brave, loyal little fool didn’t have a violent bone in her body. She just sat there wounded, lower lip trembling, a curtain of tears joining that first slippage.
Time to circle back around.
I softened my voice and said my first true words. “You really loved your parents, didn’t you, Ali?”
Her breath came in short, sharp hitches. “They…they’re lying.”
“Who’s lying?” Would I ever get over hating myself for this?
“The neighbors who…who said that…that ugly stuff about my parents.”
“Your parents didn’t beat you?”
“Never. They never ever hit me. Or Alec.”
“You’re saying they were good parents? The both of them?”
She looked at the ceiling. Gulped.
I sat there silently, giving her more time to recover from my unforgivable cruelty.
Finally she was ready. Staring red-eyed across the table at me, she wept, “They…they were the best mom and dad ever. I would never ever hurt them. And Alec? I loved that little kid so much!”
I handed her a fat wad of tissues, let her wipe her face and blow her nose. Then I allowed the compassion I actually felt to slip into my voice. “I know they were good parents, Ali. And I know something else, too. Kyle did not kill your family. He only said he did to protect you. Just like you’ve been shoulderin
g the blame to protect him.”
She glanced across warily, not yet ready to trust me. Smart of her, really.
“What makes you think that, Miss Know-It-All?” The old Ali spirit was back.
I crossed my heart in the global I’m-telling-the-truth gesture. “Because I think I know who killed them, but the police won’t follow up as long as you keep saying you did it. The minute you stop copping to the murders, Kyle will stop playing hit man. Tell the truth and save him, as well as your own silly ass.”
The scowl returned. “You bitch.”
What spirit! For a fleeting moment I regretted not having a daughter.
With a smile, I said, “An astute observation, but this bitch is going to get you and your boyfriend out of juvie. Now, are you willing to meet with your attorney and formally retract your confession?”
She gave me a surly nod.
“Excellent. Then my work here is done.”
I stood and headed for the door. The sooner I got out of this depressing place, the better.
“Wait!”
I turned. “Yes, Ali?”
In the seconds it had taken me to reach the door, she had deflated from woman to child. Her voice was so small I could hardly hear here when she mumbled, “You better catch who did it before I do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ali
I hate that Lena person, saying those awful things about Mom and Dad, even if she did say it just to make me talk. That my parents would, like, beat me? As if! Dad never hurt anybody, he saved their lives, and Mom, God, what didn’t she do for people, especially kids?
Mom was the only adult any of them could talk to if something was wrong, and they did. They told Mom everything, even if it would cause trouble. When Elena told her what was going on at home, Mom called Child Protective Services on that awful guy who was messing with her and got him arrested, even though they had to let him out again when Elena took it all back and then told him who she told—Mom. Boy, was he mad! He came over and told her he’d get even with her no matter what. I wonder if he, like, did it. Just because he moved his family to Alaska doesn’t mean he didn’t, like, get on a plane and fly back.
