The man scowls. Do-it-yourself graves, apparently, are not good for business. “It’s a good thing we don’t have any services scheduled for today.”
“Burials?”
“Interments,” the man says. “We don’t like to say ‘burials.’”
“Because the mounds of dirt and the holes in the ground don’t give it away?”
Ronald recoils. “Because we do more than burials here, Detective. We have mausoleums. We have a crematory. We have vaults.”
Mills is aware of the offerings. He’s just fucking with the guy. He’s not proud of himself for doing it, but there’s something about the Tony Soprano loafers with the diamond studs instead of tassels that Mills finds offensive around dead people.
“You got video cameras on the property?” he asks the man.
“No. I’m afraid we don’t.”
“I find that surprising, given the value of some of these gravestones,” Mills says, his arm sweeping the surrounding plots.
“We call them ornaments.”
Mills just looks at the guy, the sarcasm that dares not escape his mouth lodged in his eyes instead. He lets the non-ornamental look sink in and then says, “Is the place locked and gated at night?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea how someone could have gotten in here?”
“Maybe on foot. But that’s your job, Detective,” the man says with a snarky grin. This is my fucking Saturday, Mills is thinking. This man is not my wife. This fucking graveyard is not Starbucks. You asshole.
Mills smiles back. “Who locks up? Who’s the last to leave?”
“Usually maintenance. They leave an hour after closing.”
“Security?”
“We don’t have patrols, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean.”
The man twirls nervously at the diamond ring, looks past Mills to the crime scene. “Do I need a lawyer?”
Mills was not expecting that question. “Not unless you’ve done anything criminal.”
Ronald laughs out loud. “Well, of course I haven’t. But I wonder if the business here could be liable for something.”
Mills shakes his head. “Your price per square foot may be obscene, but it’s not a crime.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the man says.
“I will.”
Back at John Doe’s grave, Mills finds the techs meticulously measuring the hole in the ground. They’re entering data into an iPad. Though he’s supposed to be using a tablet, as well, he’s still not parted ways with the pen and paper. He’s old school that way. So is the squad, for the most part; Powell, his scene investigator, is younger but not the digital type, it would seem. She’s a no-nonsense former lacrosse player who owns three dogs. She never wears sun block, which explains the perpetual ruddiness, the freckles, and the peeling skin of her nose. Detective Ken Preston is older, a lot older, early sixties, and probably has stored more knowledge about murder in his brain than all of the RAM in the world could house. While the iPad is a strain on his eyes, Preston will use it if for no other reason than to be a good sport. Detective Morton Myers, however, is still figuring out how it works. He’s the doughy one, a rare guy who wears the extra poundage well because it’s the kind of doughiness that obscures his age. He’s thirty-seven or so, with a big, happy, Gerber Baby face. Myers is not a stupid guy. He’s surgically thorough and can be alarmingly imaginative with theories when others are stumped. He’s geeky for computers, but old habits, like keyboards, like pen and paper, die hard. Mills asks Myers to inspect the gate with one of the techs. Then he drifts toward the grave, where he squats.
So, John Doe, you’re missing, but no one misses you.
If you have a wife and kids, you never made it home to them last night.
Come on, J. D., who the fuck are you?
Mills tries to assemble the story. It’s an odd way of doing things, the story before the clues, but so often you have to think big before you know the details. Sometimes you have to make the story fit the crime, rather than the other way around, because sometimes you have no choice. Like now. Obviously it’s a revenge crime. John Doe fucked somebody over. He cheated someone. Owed a drug debt. Had an affair. The killer was angry, full of fury; Mills sees it in the tattered earth. He sees it in the dented skull. And nowhere is it more pronounced, better articulated, than on the grave marker. That’s a humiliation. He’s guessing the killer had forced the victim to etch a final statement of contrition, and if that’s not revenge, Detective Alex Mills does not know what is. He tells the tech to get hair and blood samples and to check the teeth to see if dental records will help. The usual. The tech looks at him as if she just received a bucket of obvious.
Two hours later, Mills and his squad flank Detective Sergeant Jacob Woods as Woods and a public information officer field questions from the media.
“Were there any witnesses?”
“We’re guessing most witnesses in this neighborhood were asleep, eternally, at the time of the murder,” Woods replies.
Woods is the kind of boss you work for, not the kind of boss you befriend. A clean-cut guy who looks as if he moonlights on a box of Wheaties, Jacob Woods is far more a bureaucratic administrator than a crime fighter. But, if it’s possible, he suffers even fewer fools than Mills is inclined to suffer, and that’s something to be admired, especially now, when a press conference is heading into overtime.
“When will the body be removed?” a reporter asks.
“In other words, when will you be getting the money shot you’re waiting for,” Woods replies. The gaggle of reporters rewards the sergeant with a brief round of self-deprecating laughter. “Actually, I can’t answer that question. That’s up to the Office of the Medical Examiner. Thanks for coming. We’ll send out a press release when we have more information.”
With that, Detective Alex Mills is done for the day. On the drive home he listens to a message from Gus Parker about dinner plans, but now, searching the dusky horizon through his windshield, at the premature stars trying to beat the darkness, he considers his lazy Saturday stolen by the ghosts of Valley Vista, and he realizes he’s not up to socializing tonight.
“Maybe I should cancel Mills tonight,” Gus says to Billie. “You probably don’t feel much like going out after the day we’ve had.”
“Is that a psychic vibe, or just a vibe?”
“Just a vibe. I’m human, too,” he says.
She smiles. Billie calls this room her “inner sanctum.” It’s an entirely round room of white stucco walls at the very center of the house. A full-size fireplace, also round, like an indoor chiminea, dominates the middle of the room. A fire is lit. It was a warm day, but it’s still winter in early March, and this is what Phoenicians do. After all, Gus checked the forecast, and lows could dip into the sixties tonight. Having moved to Phoenix from Seattle via Los Angeles, Gus has always found the paucity of Phoenician blood amusing. Pillows of all origins cover the floor. Billie and her band have traveled the world, and she has, over the years, developed an admiration for handcrafted pillows that reflect the cultures she’s visited. She collects them, obsessively if you ask Gus. There are the beaded ones from India, the Alpaca ones from Peru, silks from China, wools from New Zealand, Aboriginal designs from Australia, and the list goes on. It’s a United Nations of pillows. Also here are the two custom-made chaises she brought home from Thailand, their bases carved from native wood, the cushioning intricately embroidered to illustrate a march of sacred elephants. The “inner sanctum” is her hippie hangout, the idea stolen, she confesses, from a spa in Sedona. Sometimes she meditates here. More often she sips wine, which is what she’s doing now upon one of the chaises.
“Actually, I think we should stick to the plan, Gus,” she tells him. “Maybe Alex can figure this out. You know, another set of eyes besides the cops from PV.”
He’s sitting below her on the floor, his butt on Japan, his feet on Brazil. “That’s fine,” he says.
It’s only a f
ew minutes later, just as Gus rises to inspect the fire, when Alex calls. There are no phones allowed in the “inner sanctum,” so when his phone jovially rings, Billie eyes him with consternation.
“It’s Alex,” Gus whispers. And then, he answers his phone. “Hey, buddy, what’s happening?”
“Gus, I have bad news. I don’t think we can make it to dinner tonight.”
Gus lowers himself again to Japan (Kyoto, to be specific). “Aw, really. That sucks.”
“Long day, man. Don’t know if you watched the news.”
“Nope. Can’t say we have.”
“I had a murder. Lost my entire day,” Mills explains. “I’m just really beat. How about a rain check?”
Gus turns to Billie, shakes his head, and shrugs. “Sure. That’ll work. But, if you have a sec . . . well, never mind. A rain check is fine.”
“Never mind what?”
“Oh, nothing. It can wait.”
“C’mon, Gus, you know I have no patience when people withhold information,” Alex says in his Law & Order voice. “Don’t make me interrogate you.”
“We think we had an intruder today.”
“You think?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Where?”
“Here at Billie’s.”
“Shit. Anyone come out?”
“Paradise Valley PD.”
“Lemme call over there.”
“Don’t know if it’ll do any good.”
“That bad?”
“I wasn’t overly impressed.”
“Say no more, bud. See you at seven.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
At 7:03 p.m. Gus rolls into the parking lot of Tapatio Steakhouse with Billie sitting shotgun in his SUV. Alex and his wife, Kelly, are waiting inside. “I love your dress,” Billie says to Kelly, who beams at the compliment. Gus has never seen someone have such a beneficent effect on people; Billie innately shifts the attention away from herself, out of her spotlight, and onto others around her, making them feel like the only stars in the room. She once told Gus that while fame has heavenly perks, fame is often embarrassing and gauche. That may be true, but it follows her wherever she goes. Wherever they go. It’s obvious, in fact, that when the hostess sees Billie Welch she sees nothing and no one else. The woman tosses her reservation book aside, excuses herself, and returns with the manager.
“We had you all seated in the main dining room tonight,” the manager says. “But if you’d like a private room, we can make that happen if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”
Gus loves every inch of Billie when she’s the one to speak up and say, “The main dining room is fine. But very nice, very sweet of you to offer an option.”
Alex nudges Gus. “Aw, come on, can’t we poach a little of your luxury?”
Over dinner in the main dining room, a moody place of dark mahogany with candles everywhere and a live jazz quartet playing in the corner, Gus tells Alex about the intruder.
“They say it was probably random.”
“I wouldn’t say probably random,” Alex tells them. “I’d say fifty-fifty.”
“I don’t know that I like those odds,” Billie says.
Alex smiles. “I understand. But there’s little evidence either way. It’s not like someone broke in and specifically targeted your guitars or your recording equipment.”
“Or her demo reels,” Gus suggests.
Billie laughs. “Gus wants to turn this into some kind of music caper.”
“No, I don’t. I’m just saying anything is possible.”
“And you, the resident psychic, have no hunches about this?” Alex asks him.
“Not yet. It all happened so fast. And then we drank some wine, which tends to limit my visions.”
“Kind of like driving,” Kelly says. “Channeling under the influence?”
“Not recommended,” Gus says.
Alex offers to come out to Paradise Valley and check the place for vulnerabilities.
“I thought that’s what the guys from PV were supposed to do today,” Billie says.
“Hence our dinner with Alex tonight,” Gus reminds her.
“Are you worried, Billie?” Kelly asks her.
Billie shrugs, adjusts her shawl, and says, “I really don’t know. When I’m on the road I have security staff, but when I’m at home, you know, I’m at home and I’m never thinking about that. Maybe I should, but I don’t. I don’t think fear should intrude, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Kelly says. “I’m married to a cop. You have to make peace with your fear. It’s probably not the same thing, but it’s about protecting your normal life.”
“It is the same thing,” Billie says with a gentle smile.
A waiter wheels over a dessert cart.
They say no to the crème brûlée, likewise the white chocolate mousse and the raspberry-kiwi torte, and they say hell no to the seven-story deep fudge and dark chocolate cascade cake.
“I don’t think we’ll be having dessert,” Gus tells the waiter. “But coffee would be great.”
Billie nods emphatically. Gus recognizes the nod. It’s the nod that says, “Bring me the caffeine so I can stay up until four in the morning to write music.” Then Billie turns to Kelly, leans in, and confesses something about getting older, and the women giggle like little girls. Gus is smitten all over again. As the coffee arrives, somebody’s phone dings.
“Aw shit,” Alex says. “Fuck.”
Kelly winces. “Watch your language,” she tells her husband, pointing to their dinner companions.
“Oh, please, I’ve been around rock ’n’ roll boys my whole life,” Billie tells her. “And I’ve out-cursed them all.”
Alex rises from the table. “I’m sorry, everybody,” he says, “it’s a text from the PD. Something’s come up from this morning’s case. I have to run.”
“Need help?” Gus asks.
“Help?”
“Yeah, Alex, you know, an extra set of eyes.”
“Your eyes or your psychic eyes?”
“My psychic eyes.”
“You volunteering? So quickly?”
“I don’t know anything about your case, but maybe you can bring me up to speed.”
“What are we going to do with them?” Alex asks him, pointing to the women.
“The women can take care of themselves,” Kelly says with a roll of her eyes. “Take Gus’s car and leave me yours, honey,” she tells her husband. “I’ll drop Billie off later.”
But Gus hesitates. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” he says. “I don’t want Billie going home to an empty house.”
“I’m not going home to an empty house,” she informs the group. “I’m checking into the Desert Charm.”
Eyebrows lift all around. The Desert Charm is an exclusive resort, famous for its famous clientele, in Paradise Valley. It offers secluded and quiet luxury, a private collection of bungalows where no one knows quite what happens behind its convent-like walls. And no one talks. The Desert Charm doesn’t have a website.
“When did you decide that?” Gus asks.
“Just now,” Billie says.
“What about clothes and stuff?”
“I’ll have my sister bring them over.”
“Why don’t you just stay with her?”
Alex pushes his chair in. “Uh, guys. I really have to get moving.”
“Go on, take Gus,” Billie says. “I’ll be fine in my little hideaway.”
Gus is behind the wheel, listening to Alex’s navigator recite directions.
“I never told you this, but I had a crush on Billie Welch when I was seventeen,” Alex says.
“Everybody did.”
“And yet she settled for you. . . .”
“Thanks, man.”
Alex describes the John Doe murder, fills Gus in with the details.
“Wow. I think you’re right about revenge,” Gus tells him. “It sounds personal and angry.”
/> “We’re not going to find another body tonight,” Alex says.
“We’re not?”
“No. The call came in as an empty grave. No mention of a body. But apparently someone left us a message—”
Alex is interrupted by the dulcet tones of the woman inside his navigator.
“In three hundred feet,” she says, “your destination will be on the right.”
4
Mills can still hear the high-velocity static of the highway, but he assumes the traffic noise doesn’t disturb the neighbors here at All Faiths Destiny Park. Here they are under the palms, monuments lined up in rows and columns, like a spreadsheet of death imposed on an unnaturally green template of grass. Their names, their birthdates, their expiration dates, and whom they loved are engraved into slabs of stone. Under the light of a full moon and aided by a team of lampposts, he can see everything. So orderly. So perfect. Until row 33, column 9. That’s where Mills finds a crudely dug hole in the ground. The hole is not truly deep enough for a body, which might explain the absence of a body and the cardboard sign that says, “Who’s Next?”
Mills shakes his head. “Aw, shit,” he says to no one.
A woman, standing opposite him on the other side of the hole, is talking on her cell phone when she hears him. She ends her conversation abruptly, adjusts her navy blue business suit, and makes the short walk over to his side. “Are you the detective?”
“Alex Mills.” He extends a hand, and she shakes it firmly.
“They told me you’d be coming,” she says. “Is that your partner?”
Mills remembers Gus is behind him, pivots, and says, “No, just a friend. We were out to dinner when the call came in.”
Gus waves. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Gus Parker.”
“Oh, I didn’t formally introduce myself,” she says. “Please understand. I’m a bit shaken up. I’m Crystal Levenworth. I manage All Faiths.”
Mills lifts his head, looking at her. Everything about her is tight. The bun on top of her head, the business suit, the smile. She’s blond, smart-looking in tortoise shell glasses, probably in her early forties. “Did you call this in?” he inquires.
Dig Your Grave Page 3