Desert Run

by Betty Webb

  Which begged the question of why Tesema was still hanging around. “During your time with him, how often did you miss your regular appointment?”

  When he looked back up at me, his eyes were filled with outrage. “Never! I not do that! He need my help!”

  I gave him a grim smile. “Do you see, Mr. Tesema, how easy it is to find out if a person is lying? You told the police that you were ‘too busy’ to show up yesterday, but you just admitted to me that you never missed an appointment.”

  He hung his head. “I not kill Kapitan Ernst.”

  That part I believed, not that my opinion made any difference. Tesema’s utter transparency made him a prosecutor’s wet dream. He needed a good criminal defense attorney, but with his lack of funds would probably wind up with the usual public defender: young, inexperienced, overwhelmed. “My advice is to stop listening to your cell mates and tell your lawyer the truth. That’s the only way he can help you.”

  “Only rich men have lawyer.”

  “This is America, Mr. Tesema. The court will appoint one for you.”

  Tesema shook his head. “Cell mates, they tell me about these free lawyers. They say I be lucky if lawyer remembers my name.”

  Having observed the often less-than-scintillating performances of some public defenders, I didn’t argue his point. Still, I tried to sound optimistic. “Don’t give up so fast. For all we know, you might get lucky and draw someone good.”

  “I not that lucky.”

  Another sad truth. “Have you called your wife yet? Does she know about your situation?”

  The visiting room was close and muggy, but the large drop of moisture on his cheek resembled a tear more than it did perspiration. “I try, but jail not allow call to Addis Ababa. Cousin there have phone, not wife.”

  I wondered if there was an Ethiopian consulate in Arizona. Probably not, and for the same reason we didn’t have a Chad consulate nor a Moravian one: not enough Chads or Moravians in town to make the cost outlay worthwhile. We used to have what passed for a Swedish consulate down at the Volvo dealership, but the car salesman/diplomat moved to Oregon after suffering through his first one-hundred-and-fifteen-degree Scottsdale summer.

  “I’ll call the Ethiopian consulate in New York, Mr. Tesema, and see what they can do for you. And I’ll…” I would what? Make sure his wife and children were fed? “I’ll talk to someone about her situation and find out how much she needs…” I trailed off. Why was talking about money so embarrassing?

  Not for Tesema. “She need my money. I get paycheck yesterday but not wire home before police arrest me. Paycheck in my room, on dresser. It already signed. Roommates show you where I keep. You cash and send to her, but not to tell her I in jail. That make her worry.”

  “I can’t cash your check!”

  “Then my babies starve.”

  Getting my hands on his check might be more of a problem than Tesema realized, since the police had probably sealed off his room during their search for evidence. It was a good thing I still had contacts at Scottsdale PD. With a growing sense of unease, I took down the address of Tesema’s apartment, where he lived with three other Ethiopian nationals, as well as instructions on how to wire money to his wife in Addis Ababa. “Write a note authorizing me to act on your behalf and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That mean I your client now?”

  I fought off the impulse to pull out my hair. With Jimmy leaving, I needed clients with money, not sad stories. But then the woman down the corridor started up again, screaming that I-loved-him-more-than-your-lazy-ass-and-he-was-bigger-than-you-anyway, and for some reason, when I opened my mouth to tell Tesema no, the word that emerged was, “Yes.”

  His gloom vanished and he gave me a blinding smile. “You an OK woman.”

  First he’d called me blessed, now I was just OK. At least he was becoming more realistic.

  ***

  Upon my arrival back at Desert Investigations, I called Reverend Melvin Giblin, my ninth or tenth foster father—I’d had so many during my childhood I’d lost count—and after the usual how-are-you’s, told him about Tesema’s situation and his family’s needs. As soon as the Rev promised to look into the matter, I thanked him and rang off. Then, switching over to the Beth Osmon/Jack Sherwood case, I phoned Hertz and reserved a BMW for tomorrow, a Lexus for the next day. That accomplished, I punched in the number for Scottsdale PD and left a message on Captain Kryzinski’s voice mail. Then I stared at my partner’s back and tried to figure out what I could say to keep him from leaving me.

  To my relief, Kryzinski returned my call immediately and asked me to come to the station. Happy to escape from the tension in my own office, I jumped into my Jeep and headed up Hayden Road for Scottsdale North.

  T. S. Eliot might have said April was the cruelest month, but he didn’t live here. For us desert rats, April is by far the kindest month, the last breezy, balmy time before the temperature began its inexorable climb into triple digits. In appreciation of this perfect day, I had stripped off the Jeep’s bikini top and drove no more than ten miles over the speed limit. The landscaping bracketing Hayden Road was a riot of color, with pink oleander blooming alongside Mojave goldenbush. Sage and honeysuckle scented the air, which was only slightly tainted by the exhaust of the big, fat Hummer ahead of me which bore the bumper sticker, admit it—you’re jealous.

  Fighting down the urge to ram the Hummer, I concentrated on the problem at hand, which was to pump as much information as possible out of Kryzinski. Perhaps he would tell me why his detectives zeroed in on Tesema so soon, ignoring Mrs. Hillman’s statement about a big-bazookaed redhead.

  By the time I arrived at Scottsdale North, I had inhaled enough carbon monoxide to make me queasy so I did little more than wave to the officer at the front desk, an old friend. He buzzed me through and I rode the elevator up to the third floor, where Captain Kryzinski sat in his glassed-in office, wearing a gray suit as subdued as his face. The new police chief had swept the department clean of all expressions of style or originality, such as the Western-cut suits Kryzinski had once flaunted, and I knew that most of the cops were unhappy with the changes. So I paid little attention to Kryzinski’s dour expression.

  I didn’t bother with the basic pleasantries, but started right in, careful to keep my voice down so that passing brass couldn’t hear me. “Okay, so Rada Tesema lied about his whereabouts. Big deal. What makes you think he’s a good candidate for the Ernst murder? Why not Ms. Big Tits? You know, the silicone sister who showed up in the middle of the night and screamed the house down?”

  Usually Kryzinski kept his voice low, too, but not today. As if unconcerned who heard him, he fairly boomed his answers. “You must be talking about MaryEllen Bollinger, that’s B-O-L-L-I-N-G-E-R, lives in Scottsdale at 8175 East El Cordobes, Unit 220-A. For starters, her alibi’s a lot tighter than Tesema’s. At the time Ernst was getting his brains bashed in, she caught a speeding ticket way the hell up in Anthem, that planned-up-the-ass community off I-17, where she was headed to see her boyfriend. The DPS officer who wrote her up said she didn’t have a speck of blood anywhere on her, and considering the way she was dressed, he could see pretty much everything. Oh, and we found a neighbor—not your adorable Mrs. Hillman—who heard Ernst yelling at her when she ran back out to her car and took off like a bat out of hell. So he was still alive when she left.”

  “Who is this neighbor?”

  “Guy on the other side of Ernst’s house. A deacon in the Scottsdale Baptist Chuch.”

  I bared my teeth at him. “And deacons never lie.”

  “Don’t start. But your friend Tesema? He’s a whole different story. First, our same witness saw that old blue car of his pull into Ernst’s driveway not long after Ms. Bollinger left. And regardless of what Tesema may have told you, he spent a good deal of time in the house, too. Secondly, we matched Tesema’s shoes to some bloody footprints in Ernst’s bedroom. That and the kitchen both looked like they had been ransacked. And guess whose bloody f
ingerprints we found on all the drawers?”

  He didn’t give me time to answer. “Your precious Mr. Tesema’s, that’s whose. Thirdly, MaryEllen Bollinger, the ‘silicon sister’ you’re so snippy about, wasn’t the only person known to have had a screaming fight with Ernst. Our witness told the detectives that Tesema and Ernst went at it a couple of days ago, too, with Ernst yelling ‘You Schwarzer’ this and ‘You Schwarzer’ that.”

  “Schwarzer?” I knew what it meant but wanted to see how he’d say it.

  Kryzinski’s face twisted in distaste. “The German equivalent of the ‘N’ word. Nice guy, your Mr. Ernst. Anyway, according to the neighbor, Mr. Tesema didn’t take the insult kindly and yelled back something to the effect that if Ernst kept using the ‘S’ word, he, Tesema, that is, would cut out Ernst’s tongue and feed it to the jackals. I guess he hasn’t been here long enough to learn that we don’t have jackals, just pit bulls and coyotes.”

  “That’s one bright spot for my guy, then. Ernst was beaten to death, not cut.”

  “Maybe Tesema was so pissed off he didn’t bother to choose the right cutlery.”

  It was my turn to scowl. “You’re saying he was in too big a hurry to grab a knife, but took time to gag and hogtie his victim?”

  “C’mon, Lena. You know as well as I do that most murderers are irrational, otherwise they’d figure some way out of their problem that doesn’t entail prison time.”

  True, but Tesema had never struck me as irrational, just a stranger in a strange land. Yet his behavior when he discovered Ernst’s body was troublesome. Why had he gone through Ernst’s drawers? I didn’t want to believe he was a thief, but with a whole family to feed back home, he might have been tempted to supplement his Loving Care paycheck by a little pilfering. And if the unforgiving Ernst caught him…“Was anything missing from Ernst’s house? Money? Jewelry? Credit cards?”

  Kryzinski shook his head. “Not that we know of. His wallet was still in his pants, along with a full complement of plastic and forty-two dollars in cash. As to jewelry, he was wearing a watch and one ring, a clunky-looking thing with an Iron Cross. Before you ask, we didn’t find a cache of diamonds and rubies anywhere, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have them and that they weren’t stolen.”

  “Just because Tesema’s prints were all over the house doesn’t mean he was the person who tossed the place.”

  A chuckle from Kryzinski. “Maybe it was elves.”

  “Why would Tesema steal from his employer? If caught, he’d lose his job.” The minute the question was out of my mouth, I realized how silly it sounded. It wasn’t all that unusual for hired help to filch from employers they hated.

  But Kryzinski took the question seriously. “Tesema admitted that Ernst had cut back on his hours, so maybe he felt he had nothing to lose.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Ernst had cut back on his care-giver’s hours? It didn’t seem sensible to me that an elderly amputee wouldn’t take advantage of all the health care he could afford. Ernst wasn’t poverty-stricken, because his house, while not quite Architectural Digest cover material, was stuffed with the standard Scottsdale luxuries. On my way into the kitchen, I’d seen a Bose stereo system, a big-screen plasma TV, and a salt-water aquarium that took up most of one wall. Even the car Ernst no longer drove, yet which remained parked in his garage for Tesema to chauffeur him around in, was upscale: a Mercedes-Benz S Class retrofitted for hand controls, about ten years old.

  Since there was nothing else to learn, Kryzinski and I spent the next few minutes commiserating over what had happened to the Arizona Diamondbacks, but the team’s fall from grace didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did me. Which was odd, because he was the bigger fan. In fact, nothing much did seem to interest him, not even my news that his favorite Western wear shop had gone out of business. “You feeling all right, Captain?” His ruddy complexion was wan, and he’d lost weight. And all that gray hair…

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “I’ve just got a lot on my mind these days. Look, I’m due at a meeting in just a couple of minutes, so if you’re done…”

  “I can take a hint.” Before leaving, I showed him the note Tesema had written granting me permission to retrieve his paycheck. After a phone call to smooth my way, he said, “The detectives have finished going over Tesema’s room. I advise picking up his check as soon as possible. After that, you never know. I might not always be here to run interference.”

  I started to ask what he’d meant by that, but before I could, he hustled me out the door and closed it between us.

  ***

  Tesema’s apartment was in Mesa, a city of approximately a half-million people. To get there from Scottsdale, you have two choices: the always crowded freeway or down Pima Road to McDowell, the recently widened six-lane highway through the narrow end of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Reservation. The day being so beautiful, I opted for the latter.

  Although the reservation did not share Scottsdale’s manicured elegance, the wild, wide-open spaces were a respite from the city’s ever-increasing skyline. Thanks to the casinos that opened several years back, the Pima Indians, whose fortunes hovered near the poverty line for decades, were enjoying boom times. Houses had replaced the old shacks, and new pickup trucks sat in their driveways. The raven-haired children who played in front of the day care center wore new clothing emblazoned with the logos of rap groups and action film stars, but horses still grazed under the mesquite trees and wild javelina still drank from the irrigation canals. There was little traffic along McDowell other than a few gravel trucks from the local quarries. Once, out of habit, I mistakenly took the dirt turn-off toward Jimmy’s trailer, the one he’d bought when he moved back from Utah five years earlier in search of his Native American roots. I realized my error as I pulled into the gravel drive.

  I had always liked Jimmy’s trailer, an old Airstream. His uncle, who owned a body shop, had decorated its exterior with paintings of Earth Doctor, the father-god who had created the world and everything in it; and his adversary, Elder Brother, from whom he’d fled into a labyrinth beneath the earth. Between them, Spider Woman tried to make peace. Strife was a constant, the trailer told me. In your time here, walk gently upon the earth, respect the animals, and leave your descendants a name that can be spoken with pride.

  In the back, rooting around the prayer lodge Jimmy had constructed out of mesquite branches and native grasses, were a javelina sow and her three piglets. I watched them for a while, enjoying the wind as it swept across the mesquite-dappled fields, listening to the piglets’ grunts as they dug in the soil for tasty roots. When the little family finally moved away, annoyed by the two laughing Pima teenagers who galloped their horses through the brush toward them, I turned the Jeep around.

  How could Jimmy could abandon such riches?

  ***

  The Ethiopians lived near the Mormon Temple in a one-bedroom apartment so decrepit it should have been condemned. The walls looked like they hadn’t been painted since Ernst was a U-boat captain, but layers of paint still managed to cement the windows shut so that the small living room was hot and stuffy. Cheap linoleum designed to look like bricks covered the floor, but was so thin in some areas you could see the black backing. The few pieces of furniture were limited to a wobbly kitchen table and chairs, and a ratty brown sofa the men had probably recycled from a nearby alley. The apartment wasn’t completely bleak. Rada and his roommates had livened up the place by thumb-tacking brightly colored African folk art posters on one wall and several hand-carved crosses to the other.

  A man introducing himself as Goula Hadaradi, the only Ethiopian not yet at work, greeted me with a polite gravity. After I showed him Rada’s note, he led me into a tiny bedroom and gestured toward the bottom level of one of the two bunk beds. “This where Rada sleep.” Then he tapped on a plastic storage container pushed against the opposite wall. “This where he keep clothing.” He crossed the room to a scuffed chest and
opened one of the drawers. “This is drawer for his papers. When police take him, I put paycheck here, keep safe.” Before handing the check over, he read Rada’s note again. “Yes, he says to give to you. That Rada’s signing, I recognize from back of check. So I give. But you send to wife. She need.”

  The passion in his voice hinted of yet another family left behind, so I assured him I would wire the money to Addis Ababa immediately. “By the way, Mr. Hadaradi, why didn’t Rada bring his family with him when he immigrated?”

  Hadaradi looked away for a brief moment, but not before I saw sadness slip over his face. “Like rest of us, Rada only have money for one person to come. Before coming, we all move families from north, where is still fighting, and now we save up to bring families over.”

  “Fighting?”

  Anger replaced sadness. “Is big war over border. Many die. My father, my uncle, two brothers, all dead. Like Rada’s father and brothers.”

  I vaguely remembered a CNN report about Ethiopia’s border war with Eritrea. Not being personally affected by other than a brief stab of pity for everyone concerned, it had then slipped from my mind. “You guys are political refugees?”

  “U.S. not worry about our war. We win lottery for green cards. Now all make big money. Can afford to bring family soon, be happy. Family is life. Without family, life is nothing.”

  Not being able to remember my own family, I wouldn’t know. But “big money”? Judging from the looks of the Ethiopians’ apartment, they didn’t even make medium money, and what little they did, they never spent on themselves. But that’s the immigrant life. Years of toil and sacrifice for their children, who, when they grew up, were ashamed of their parents’ accents. I wondered about my own family and what they might have sacrificed for me. But whatever they had done or not done was blurred forever behind the scar tissue on my forehead. My parents only emerged at night, in pieces of memory-nightmares.

  I wondered if all the Ethiopians had immigrated together. “Mr. Hadaradi, did you know Rada in Addis Ababa?”