by Dianne Emley
Kissick recalled a comment Alex Caspers would sometimes make when he saw a woman past her prime: “She had her day.” Meaning she’d been hot at some point. Kissick didn’t believe that Jenkins had ever had her day.
“I’m sorry for upsetting your dogs. My buddy’s getting gas, and I had to come over and check out this beautiful Triumph. I used to own one when I was in college, and I’ve wanted to buy another one ever since I sold it.”
Kissick had never owned such a vehicle, but he had a buddy who had.
“They’re starting up again.” Jenkins pointed toward the mountains.
He turned to see a spectacular light show across the darkening desert sky from the Chocolate Mountains live bombing area. Explosions shook the ground and echoed through the peaks.
“That’s enough to rattle your teeth,” he said.
“Don’t I know it? Sometimes I spend half the night putting stuff back on the shelves. Pretty though, isn’t it?”
They both looked at the sky scarred by slashes of light turning blue and violet.
Kissick now understood why the airplane and movie theater seats were facing the mountains. He also guessed at the source of the abundant scrap metal for the sculptures. Someone had ventured onto the restricted area to gather it.
Kissick held out his hand. “I’m Jim Crockett.” He cribbed the surname from one of the Miami Vice detectives, one of his all-time favorite TV shows.
“Connie Jenkins. Good to meetcha.” Her handshake was firm.
“I’d like to make an offer on this car. Are you the owner?”
“Belongs to my son. You’ll have to talk to him.”
“Think he’d be interested in selling it?”
“I doubt it. He’s had offers before.”
“Is he around?”
“Not right now. I don’t know where he is.”
“Is there some way I can get in touch with him?”
“Gimme your number. Maybe he should call you.”
“Sure.” Kissick felt his pockets. “I don’t have a business card.” He didn’t want her to see the spiral pad and pen he was carrying, fearing it would raise her suspicions.
“Let’s go inside the store.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Jack. Jack Jenkins. That’s his given name.”
“Does he go by a nickname?”
“Yeah. You don’t want to get into that.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
The dogs began whining as she departed.
Passing the firepit, Kissick stopped when he saw a partially burned book atop a pile of charred wood. It was Razored Soul. He commented, “Someone’s not a fan of literature.”
She harrumphed. “Jack. Said it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Said he got it free anyway. I told him he could have sold it on eBay.”
They walked to the store. Near the door was an old-fashioned pickle barrel. Kissick opened the screen door for Jenkins. She went inside and gave Arnold a hard look; he was holding open the door to a refrigerated case. He grabbed a Red Bull and took it to the counter.
Jenkins cursed as she restacked bottles of aspirin that the explosions had sent tumbling to the floor. “They’ve been doing that half the day. About to rattle my dentures out.”
Kissick checked out the place. There were two rows of low shelves. Along the back wall were refrigerated cases. The hard liquor was stored on shelves behind the counter. An open door off the back led to what appeared to be a storeroom. Taped to the ancient cash register was a dollar bill, probably the first dollar the business had taken in. There were no other photos or mementos. A small TV behind the counter broadcasted a Law & Order episode. There was a desk chair with wheels. A glass ashtray was filled with cigarette butts. An open package of Kools and a matchbook was beside it.
Jenkins pushed buttons on the cash register. There was a “ding” when the drawer slid open. “That’ll be thirty-two dollars and seventy-six cents for the gas and the soda.”
While Arnold got cash from his wallet, Jenkins set a pad of paper and a pen on the counter. “Write your phone number down. I’ll give it to my son.”
Kissick wrote down the number for his personal cell phone. “You here all alone?”
“Why? You gonna rob me?”
“You’re not afraid?”
Jenkins looked from Kissick to Arnold, her big grin revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m not alone.” From behind the counter, she took out a shotgun. “I’ve got Betsy to keep me company.”
TWENTY-THREE
A cab dropped Vining in front of the Tucson police department just as the bells of St. Augustine Cathedral a block away chimed seven o’clock.
The police headquarters was a low-slung postmodern structure of bare cement, wooden beams, and glass and had stood in for a fictional city’s police department in an eighties TV detective series.
Standing on the walkway outside, Vining announced her business to an officer behind a bulletproof window and slid her shield into a pull drawer. As she waited to be let inside, she watched a young officer wand a well-dressed, middle-aged woman for weapons.
The lobby was airy, with a flagstone-and-glass staircase in the middle. A sitting area had couches, chairs, and large vases of silk flowers. Despite the sunny atmosphere, the place had an institutional tension, like a hospital where the most skillful interior decorating is always foiled by anxiety.
Antique police equipment filled a display case. In another, Vining took in the collection of weapons confiscated from the Dillinger gang when they were captured in Tucson in the 1930s.
Her mind kept returning to the lies she’d told Kissick. She’d lied about the significance of Nitro’s necklace and about why she had had to leave early. They weren’t huge lies, but lies were lies. If she could link Johnna Alwin’s murder to the assault on herself, she would reveal everything. Then they’d go to Sergeant Early and up the chain it would go. The brass might call in the FBI, the G-men with their college degrees and suits who just had to know more and know better than the local cops. A full-blown investigation would ensue and her role would shrink. The battle with T. B. Mann would become others’ to fight even though she was the one who bore his scars.
The thought stuck in Vining’s throat like a slender fish bone. She felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach as if she was about to give away an heirloom that she knew the new owner would never hold as dear.
A tall man approached her as she gazed at the display cases.
“Detective Vining? Lieutenant Owen Donahue.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Call me Owen.”
“Nan.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers but she felt him sizing her up. She did the same. She found him attractive. His closely shorn brown hair was liberally sprinkled with silver. He was fit and had a slight tan, suggesting that he participated in outdoor sports, but it may have been a side effect of desert life as it was for beach life. Tans happened. His attitude was polite but standoffish and rightfully so. He’d closed a grisly murder of one of the TPD’s own. Vining’s visit suggested he’d made a mistake.
Vining understood how it could have happened and didn’t fault him. A likely perpetrator fell into his lap and Donahue went for him. Investigators bring a single-minded focus to a case. One has to act quickly and sometimes take a leap of faith before analyzing all the evidence. Time is the investigator’s worst enemy. Haste can leave loose ends. Vining suspected her call out of the blue made Donahue recall such loose ends.
She walked with him to the elevators. On a nearby wall was a tribute to TPD officers killed in the line of duty, with photos above short descriptions of the circumstances. The first had occurred in 1892. Johnna Alwin’s was the most recent.
Vining had seen this photo of Alwin on the TPD’s Web site. It was her official portrait in uniform in front of the U.S. flag. She was not smiling, and her dark eyes were somber. Vining could not detect the essence of the woman fr
om this uninspired representation on paper.
In the elevator, Donahue made no attempt at small talk and neither did she. They exited and walked down a narrow hallway decorated with large photos of Tucson’s historic buildings.
Behind the counter in Evidence, a banker’s box was waiting for him. He signed for it and carried it back to the elevator, which they took to the third floor.
At the end of a corridor, they reached a windowed door. A plaque beside it said CRIMES AGAINST PERSONS DIVISION. Donahue unlocked the door by flashing a Smart Card over the reader. They entered a large room divided into cubicles, the waist-high walls allowing full view across them, unlike the cubicles at the PPD. Most were empty. In the occupied ones, no one looked up as Vining followed Donahue.
A wall displayed a collection of patches from different police departments around the country. Detectives with cubicles on the perimeter had appropriated the extra wall space to post personal items and collages of snapshots. A banner pinned to one cubicle said “Remember. We work for God.”
It was the homicide detective’s maxim. They were the last resort in this life to find the bad guys and mete out justice.
Donahue stopped at a table laden with two coffeepots, a coffee grinder, and an assortment of coffee, from gourmet beans to a can of Maxwell House.
He set down the box and raised an index finger and thumb toward a pot that was nearly empty. “Coffee?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Donahue filled a Styrofoam cup and left the brew black. He returned the empty pot to the burner, flipping the switch to shut off the heat. He balanced his cup on the box, declining Vining’s offer of assistance. They crossed the room to enter an area separated by tall partitions on three sides, the open side facing a wall of windows. Too many shabby rolling chairs were crowded around a conference table. A large map of Tucson was tacked to a fabric wall. On the table were two storage boxes with perforated holes for handles. Written on the short side of each in black marker was “Donahue.” Beneath it was a “V” in a circle followed by “Johnna Alwin.” There was a date and what Vining assumed was the case number. The “V” she knew stood for “victim.”
He set the evidence box on the table beside the other two and raised his hand toward them, signaling Vining to have at it.
She opened the case file box labeled “1 of 2.” On top were small manila envelopes that held audiotapes of interviews. File folders were beneath.
She found the folder that held the crime scene photos.
Donahue pulled over a rolling chair and sat at the opposite end of the table. He sipped coffee and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling window that gave a view of the cathedral down the street. His aloof attitude conveyed that he didn’t consider her business worth his attention.
Vining reviewed the photos. The first one was of Alwin’s bloody body, crumpled in a storeroom.
“Why do you think the murder attempt you’re investigating is related to this homicide?” Donahue asked the question without looking at her.
Vining ignored him. “Was Alwin stabbed in the storeroom or was her body moved there?”
Donahue talked over his shoulder to her. “She was stabbed there. I figure her informant, Jesse Cuba, told her he had something he wanted her to see inside the storeroom. Stolen medical equipment or a cache of drugs.”
Vining studied a close-up of Alwin. Beneath the open neck of her blouse, she spied a strand of pearls. The necklace was not in full view as depicted in Nitro’s drawing. But his rendition of how her body was positioned and the clothes she was wearing was correct, down to her slingback shoes. Nitro had either seen the crime scene or the photos or an eyewitness had recounted the details to him—an eyewitness who had lovingly recollected the minutiae. In Nitro’s drawing, the necklace had been emphasized. The necklace was important.
She made quick work of the rest of the photos, pausing at the corpse of Cuba lying on an unmade bed in a threadbare room, a length of rubber hose still tied around his heavily track-marked upper arm, the needle of a syringe dangling from his skin.
“Why did you conclude that Cuba’s death was accidental?” she asked. “He was a longtime heroin user. He knew what he was doing.”
“The dope we found on him was purer than the stuff that’s cut for sale around here.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Who knows? Who cares? He’s dead.”
Vining flipped through the remaining folders, replaced the lid on the box, and slid it aside. She started on the second box.
Donahue swiveled to face her, set his empty cup on the table, and casually leaned back, clasping his hands across his middle. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She didn’t look up from the report she was reading. “What question was that?”
She’d heard his question. She suspected he knew this.
He repeated, “Why do you think the murder attempt you’re investigating is related to this homicide?”
She set a couple of reports aside and closed the file. Pointedly meeting his eyes, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. She’d worn it down on purpose, even though it was twelve degrees hotter here than in L.A. She arched her neck and watched with satisfaction as his attitude evolved from cynical to commiserative when he took in the ugly scar.
“I was ambushed a year ago. The murder attempt I’m investigating is my own. The circumstances were similar to the Alwin homicide, but I saw the man who did it, and he was not Jesse Cuba.”
She had planned that moment. Had devised it to throw him off-base, shake his conceit that he knew all about her and what she was up to. It worked. It worked great.
She’d saved the box of physical evidence for last. She’d asked to see many more items than she cared about to disguise the fact that there was just one thing she coveted. Donning latex gloves, she methodically removed items of Alwin’s clothing from their protective envelopes and feigned interest in examining them. She took digital photos of the evidence.
Donahue had not left her alone with the materials, maintaining the proper chain of custody. Once she’d explained who she was and where she was coming from, his rancor toward her had faded. He’d turned off the catlike attention with which he’d observed everything while feigning apathy.
From the physical evidence box, Vining picked up a small manila envelope. The contents shifted seductively in just the right way. Her heart began to race even before she read the description on the evidence control form: “Pearl Necklace.” The necklace that Johnna’s husband had left behind when he recovered her personal belongings.
She upended the envelope onto her yellow pad. The necklace spilled out. She arranged it, moving the pendant to the center. Some of the pearls were flecked with blood. It was identical to her necklace except that the pendant had a large reddish stone surrounded by small glittering stones that she guessed were cubic zirconia, like hers.
“Is that a ruby?” Vining asked about the gem, knowing the answer.
“Garnet.”
“Any significance?”
He shrugged.
“Was it her birthstone?”
“No.”
Alwin had been murdered in January. In January the year before her murder, she had fatally shot a mob associate in an incident that had earned her fifteen minutes of fame. Garnet was the gem for January. Alwin’s death stone. It was so obvious, Donahue hadn’t seen it. Vining couldn’t blame him. It had taken the pure instincts of her own daughter to connect the dots between the pearl pendant in her necklace and the date of Vining’s spilled blood. She had shot the rock star in June. T. B. Mann had ambushed her in June. Pearl was the gem for June.
She took photos of the necklace and replaced the materials inside the evidence box.
When Donahue saw she had finished, he ended his phone call with a buddy about an upcoming fishing trip to Mexico.
“You’re right,” she told him. “The Alwin case is closed.”
Waiting for her flight at the airport, Vining didn’t flip through
her magazine or make phone calls. She stared at a spot on the floor without seeing it. She realized she was smiling.
Once, she had tried to purge her life of the necklace by throwing it away. All she was really doing was trying to rid herself of what she had become. Returning the necklace to her home, to her life, was acceptance. T. B. Mann had changed her. Made her. She was his creation in more ways than she wanted to admit. He had colored her decision to lie to her boss and her partner, to come to Tucson, to do what she had done here, and what she was about to do. If someone had told her a year ago, even six months ago, that this is where she would be, she would have told that person he was nuts. T. B. Mann had sent her to the edge of infinity and she had crawled back, trailing dust from the dark side of the moon.
The T. B. Mann saga had become like a nightmare from which she’d awakened sweat-drenched and trembling. Trying to describe it, exposing it to the light of day in an attempt for others to understand, would only drain all its vivid colors. It would evaporate, the closer she drew, as if she was chasing a rainbow.
Other people would only muck it up. She was the one who had survived T. B. Mann. He had sent Nitro to provoke her. To show that he was in charge. Was T. B. Mann as obsessed with her as she was with him? If she belonged to him, he belonged to her in equal measure. Her and no other. He was hers.
She took out the slip of paper on which she’d written Richard Alwin’s contact information when he’d called her three months ago. She caught him on his cell phone on his way home from work.
“Mr. Alwin, I’ve just gone through Johnna’s case files with Lieutenant Donahue. I wanted to follow up on the similarities you spotted between your wife’s murder and my attempted murder. Good news. They got the right guy. Jesse Cuba murdered Johnna. The fact that Johnna and I were given similar necklaces is just a coincidence. There are a lot of cop groupies out there.”
She ended the call, confident she’d buried Richard Alwin’s nascent serial-killer theory. Sometimes an investigator had to tell a small lie to get to a larger truth. While she was sitting at that table across from Donahue, holding Johnna Alwin’s blouse, touching blood spilled by T. B. Mann, Vining knew she was prepared to do more than lie to get him. She knew she had it in her to pull off what she’d come to Tucson to do.
