Desert Run

by Betty Webb

  Now it all seemed so petty.

  ***

  Shortly before noon the phone rang, but it wasn’t a client. Since I was standing near the microwave eating my lunch of ramen noodles, Jimmy answered. After clicking on HOLD, he said, “It’s Warren.”

  I carried the ramen to my desk and picked up the extension. “Terrible morning, right? Have you figured out what to do about the final scene now that Ernst is, uh, not available?”

  Warren no longer sounded frantic, just sad. “Lindsey says a Frank Oberle interview can substitute for Ernst’s.” Oberle was a former prison guard at Camp Papago, the only one left who was spry enough to walk over the park’s rough terrain while yakking into a mike. “He can talk about the camaraderie that grew up between the Germans and the Americans, about how many of them became such close friends that they wrote to each other after the war. She think it’ll be effective.”

  It sounded saccharine to me, but I didn’t say so.

  “Listen, Lena, I didn’t call to talk about the project. I’ve been thinking about dinner yesterday. You seemed uneasy when, well…I’m sorry about that. No offense intended.”

  The apology should have made me happy. It didn’t.

  He wasn’t finished. “Still, I believe in being up front about these things, so I’ll come right out and say it. I’m attracted to you, but if you don’t feel the same tell me now and I’ll keep my distance. It’s all up to you.”

  Here it was. The invitation to an unformed future. I took a deep breath and told the truth. “I’m coming out of a bad relationship so I’m a little gun-shy.”

  “Aren’t we all? But we could take it slow, have dinner again. What do you say?”

  I closed my eyes and took a chance. “Okay. When?” My face felt as if it was on fire.

  “Tomorrow night at seven. I’ll pick you up at your place.” The director, directing.

  Thrown off balance, I almost changed my mind, but then remembered my safety net. After filming finished in a couple of weeks, Warren would return to California. Anyone, even me, could survive a two-week relationship. “Seven it is.”

  “I’m very pleased.” I expected him to hang up, but he didn’t. “Say, from the buzz going around after you took off this morning, the cops suspect Ernst was killed by someone who knew him. You’re the detective. Does that sound right to you?”

  This was more comfortable ground, but not being certain how much information he needed to have, I hedged. “Anything’s possible. Ernst wasn’t the world’s greatest guy, remember.”

  “He sure had a mouth on him. I was offended by the way he talked to what’s-his-name, the Ethiopian guy who takes care of him.”

  “You mean Rada Tesema.”

  “Yeah. One day last week when Lindsey was out on location, Tesema came to pick Ernst up, and I’ve got to tell you, having grown up in the film business I’ve seen some abusive types, but I never heard anything like Ernst before. He had Tesema almost in tears.”

  I frowned. “Do you remember why?”

  “Afraid not. We were having trouble with the boom and most of my attention was on that.”

  Maybe I was wrong about Tesema. Maybe he’d taken all the abuse from Ernst he was about to. Maybe he used his keys, crept into the house during the night, and beat his misery-maker to death. But there was another possible scenario. He could have arrived for work at his regular time, found Ernst’s body, and fled. What was Tesema’s immigration status? Probably green card. Permanent legal residents usually went to great lengths to avoid being caught up in police-type trouble, especially big police-type trouble like murder.

  Oblivious to my musings about Tesema, Warren continued, “Part of me wishes I felt more upset about the old guy, but I don’t, other than the fact that his death sure screwed up our shooting schedule. For that matter, what about that promise he made to give us some big revelation about the escape for our final scene? If he knew something, why didn’t he tell us last week, when the cameras were rolling? Why hold out until we were about to wrap?”

  I didn’t attempt to answer his flurry of questions. “Scottsdale PD will sort it all out.” I had a theory about the “revelation,” though. Ernst had impressed me as a man with a highly developed sense of self-importance, not above resorting to trickery and outright lies to increase his screen time in Escape Across the Desert. One of the sound men on the set told me that Ernst had even demanded screen silence from the German-speaking actor who portrayed him as a young U-boat captain, insisting that the only “Kapitan zur See Erik Ernst” voice heard in the film be his own. The actor had been furious, Ernst adamant, leaving Warren to negotiate his way through a minefield of egos.

  Warren appeared satisfied with my non-answer. “Let’s hope Scottsdale PD is better than LAPD, then. By the way, I couldn’t help but notice the dust-up this morning between you and Captain Kryzinski. Is that the bad relationship you were talking about?”

  I laughed. “Me and Kryzinski? Hardly. He’s my ex-boss from my days on the force. Since I opened up shop as a PI he’s helped me with some of my cases and I’ve helped him with some of his. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll find Ernst’s killer.”

  Which shows how badly I’d misread Kryzinski.

  ***

  While watching the local news as I dressed for work the next morning, I saw two Scottsdale PD detectives shoving a handcuffed Rada Tesema into their car. Although the grim-faced detectives refused comment and Tesema was too frightened to speak, the blond-on-blond newscaster filled in the blanks.

  “Yet another Hollywood tragedy unfolded yesterday, only this time in Scottsdale, where the filming of Oscar-winning documentarian Warren Quinn’s new project had to be shut down for the morning when it was discovered that one of its principals had been murdered during the night.” She took a deep breath, then continued. “Erik Ernst, who during World War II was held prisoner at the German POW camp in Papago Park and took part in the famous 1944 Christmas Eve escape, was found dead in his home yesterday morning. After a brief investigation, Scottsdale detectives arrested Rada Tesema, an Ethiopian national who served as Mr. Ernst’s care-giver. More at five.”

  She pasted a smile on her face. “In other news, little Holly Granger got the shock of her life when her Labrador Retriever, Slick, came home with…” I clicked off the TV.

  Brief investigation, indeed. What about the mysterious woman who brawled with Ernst in the middle of the night? Uneasy, I threw my clothes on and ran downstairs to the office, where Jimmy was already running more background checks for Southwest MicroSystems.

  “The police made an arrest in the Ernst case.”

  When he turned around, I noticed how tired he looked. “Let me guess. The Ethiopian.” At my nod, he gave me a cynical smile. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”

  Recently, Jimmy’s own cousin had narrowly escaped being tried for murder, so he could hardly be blamed for viewing the justice system with a jaundiced eye. I felt the same way, and wondered why the police hadn’t followed up on Ernst’s late-night visitor. Or perhaps they had, and found no connection to the crime. Ernst could have been a dirty old man and his visitor merely catering to his needs. As for the shouting the neighbor heard, sex could be a noisy number for some folks.

  For the next couple of hours, Jimmy and I concentrated on our separate tasks, avoiding any mention of his imminent departure. I finalized the paperwork on several cases and began sending out invoices. Despite the glamorous image of television PIs, most of a real private detective’s days verged on dull, entailing everything from skip-tracing deadbeats to background checks on errant or prospective spouses. For instance, Beth Osman, a wealthy Scottsdale widow descended from one of Arizona’s original copper mining families, had met Jack Sherwood, a shopping center developer who was relocating to Scottsdale from Mississippi. They had been dating for little more than a month but he was already talking marriage. Beth professed strong feelings for the man, but wanted Desert Investigations to give him a once-ove
r. We had, and found him clean—on paper, at least. No wants, no warrants.

  When I called to relate my preliminary findings, she sounded unsatisfied. “Lena, I…I just feel that there’s something…” Her voice caught. “He is from out of state.”

  “Unlike yourself, Beth, most people here are from out of state. People move here from other places. Of course, most go back to where they came from after their first Arizona summer.”

  “Ha ha.” Her laugh held little amusement. “You said, ‘on paper.’ What’s the next step up?”

  Remembering my own fear of commitment, I felt for her. “A more comprehensive investigation. I could run surveillance on him for a few days and check a few out-of-state-sources.”

  A trembly sigh. Obviously, she hated what she was doing. “Yes. Do what you have to. I’ll pay you for another ten, no, make that twenty hours. I want to make certain before I…”

  I could have finished her sentence for her. Before I fall so hard there’s no return. I simply reiterated my fee. “Plus expenses.”

  Another sigh. “Right.”

  In total sympathy with her relationship paranoia, I hung up. The first man in my life, a fellow student in the ASU Criminal Justice program, dumped me for another girl (“I need someone less complicated.”). A few years later, a fellow police officer in Scottsdale PD demanded I give up my career for him (“I want a wife, not a colleague.”). More recently, Dusty had vanished and reappeared in my life depending on his sobriety status, frequently trailed by the women he’d romanced while on his bender. One of them had tried to kill me.

  Considering everything, I was tempted to ask Jimmy to run a background check on Warren before tonight’s date, then decided against it. Anyone with Warren’s high profile would have little to hide.

  “Hey, Jimmy, I’ll be shadowing Jack Sherwood for the next few days, possibly longer. Would you mind holding down the fort?”

  “No problem.” He looked so relieved to have me out of the office that I figured his conscience had been bothering him. We had started Desert Investigations together and I’d been foolish enough to believe we’d continue running it together until…well, until. Now “until” was here.

  I rummaged through the supply closet for the items I’d need on the Sherwood surveillance. Camera with zoom lens, tape recorder with long-distance mike, two wigs: one brunette, one auburn. From past experience I knew that the wigs, along with the help of makeup, various sunglasses, and extreme wardrobe changes could make me look like three different women. I also needed to rent a couple of cars less noticeable than my customized Jeep. A Neon, perhaps, and some kind of generic Ford? No. Jack Sherwood was a high-flier and the places he frequented would call for something more upscale than Neon-and-Ford territory, such as a Beemer and a Lexus. As I picked up the phone to punch in the number for Hertz, it rang in my hand.

  “Desert Investigations. Good morning.” Unless the caller was a new client with a fat wallet, I was determined to get him—or her—off the line quickly.

  “Is Miss Lena Jones?” An Ethiopian accent, hollowed by the echoes of other men’s voices. In the background, one man cursed loudly while another wept.

  My stomach clenched. “Yes, Mr. Tesema, this is Lena Jones. But before you get started, I need to tell you that my fee…”

  He didn’t wait for me to finish. “I call you from jail. You will help me, please. I not murder Kapitan Ernst but they going to kill me for it anyway.”

  Kill him? Even if Tesema was eventually found guilty, why did he believe he’d wind up on Death Row? Sure, Arizona still had capital punishment, but only for extreme situations, such as the child rapist who had killed both his two-year-old victim and her mother, then dumped their bodies in a canal. “Oh, Mr. Tesema, that won’t hap…”

  “They stick needle in my arm and I die. Then my family starve. You help me, please.”

  Why wouldn’t he listen? “I’m sure your public defender…”

  “I have wife, four sons, two daughters back in Ethiopia. I make family’s only money. If I die, they starve. If I not work, they starve.”

  I knew little about current Ethiopian economic conditions and hoped they weren’t as extreme as Tesema painted them. But in the end his fear—which impressed me as being more for his family than himself—swayed me. Desert Investigations could at least look into his situation and perhaps steer him toward the appropriate government agencies to help his family while his case snailed its way through the court system. “I’ll come down to the jail this afternoon and we’ll talk. But I can’t make any promises.”

  “You are blessed woman.”

  Regardless of the extremity of Tesema’s situation, I smiled. Men had frequently used a “B” word to describe me, but “blessed” wasn’t it.

  Chapter Four

  “I not kill Kapitan.”

  The black-and-white-and-pink jumpsuit should have made Rada Tesema look foolish, as was its apparent intent, but Tesema’s innate dignity won out. While only of average height, his delicate features and straight carriage even in shackles lent him a nobility seldom seen in the Fourth Avenue Jail. He didn’t look like a murderer, but few murderers did.

  “My wife, my children…” He swallowed, then tried again. “You must help them!”

  A spate of cursing rang through the corridor outside, mingling with a woman’s answering please-baby-don’t-be-like-that-I-just-sucked-him-not-fucked-him. Although relatively new, the jail already reeked of damaged dreams and lost hope.

  Tesema didn’t belong here.

  I leaned across the table. “Mr. Tesema, did you or didn’t you show up at Ernst’s house yesterday morning? If you did, why didn’t you call the police immediately? And if you didn’t, why not?”

  A flicker in his eyes, a quick look away. Here came the lies. “I told police I busy with other Loving Care client that morning. I call Kapitan Ernst, say I come later in day. He say is fine.”

  “Loving Care?”

  “Name of agency I work for. Have many clients, not just Kapitan.”

  “Did you give the police the other client’s name?”

  He looked down at the floor. “Name not important.”

  There had been no other client. Maybe the police were right and Tesema had snapped. But when I recalled the murder scene, the duct tape tying Ernst to his wheelchair, it didn’t make sense. Tesema had a practical nurse’s well-developed arm muscles formed by lifting people in and out of beds and wheelchairs. He wouldn’t need to tape an old man down in order to beat him to death.

  A woman might, though.

  The cursing and crying outside started up again even worse than before, so I fired off my next question to get Tesema’s mind off it. “Did Ernst have any female visitors?”

  “Women?” He glanced at the door leading to the corridor. “He too helpless for…” A flush darkened his already ebony skin. Then he recovered himself. “The Kapitan once talk to me about crazy woman, how she bother him. But I never see her.”

  Could this have been the same woman Ernst’s neighbor saw banging on his door the night of the murder? “Did Ernst say why this ‘crazy woman’ was bothering him?”

  He started to spread his hands, but the shackles around his wrists prevented the I-don’t-know gesture. “He say she call and call. He very angry.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No. He just call her bad word.” Deeply uncomfortable, he looked away again, tried not to listen to the shrieks outside.

  Mrs. Hillman had described the woman as skimpily clad. “This bad word, was it ‘whore’?”

  Tesema seemed ready to faint from embarrassment. “You nice lady. Please not to talk like that.”

  “But was that the word he used?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, unable to meet my eyes.

  The woman finally stopped her caterwauling, but the man continued to curse. From what I could make out, he’d gutted the man they were arguing about. But at last Tesema had given me something concrete to go on. There would be a recor
d of the calls to and from Ernst’s house. In the meantime, Tesema was doing himself no favors by sticking to his improbable story.

  “If there was no other client, and if you did show up for your regular appointment at Ernst’s house yesterday morning, you probably got some of his blood on you. Innocently, of course.” As had I. Last night, when I undressed for bed, I discovered blood smears on my Reeboks. I threw them in the garbage with my bloodied shirt.

  Someone in the jail had been coaching him, because he admitted to nothing. “Police took shoes and all clothes I wear.”

  That didn’t sound good. It was my guess that he had arrived on schedule, found Ernst, checked to see if he was still alive—bloodying himself in the meantime—then fled. “Mr. Tesema, if there is one spot of blood anywhere on your clothes, they will be able to determine exactly whose it is through DNA typing. Do you understand?”

  “They can do this?” His words were little more than a mumble.

  Didn’t he have a television set? On most cop shows, which I couldn’t bear to watch, crime labs processed DNA samples within minutes. “Oh, yes. The police can also pull Ernst’s phone records to see who called him in the past few weeks. For instance, when he didn’t show up on set, Warren called him twice from his cell before asking me to check on him. There’ll be a record of those calls. If you, as you said you did, phoned to tell him you were too busy to show up for work, there’ll be a record of that call, too. If you didn’t…” Home care agencies preferred their care-givers to call them to report any cancellations, not the client: that way they could send out a replacement. His story stunk. “How long have you been Ernst’s care-giver?”

  “Seven…no, eight months. Man before me, he quit. Said Kapitan Ernst too mean.”