by Lonni Lees
“Don’t shortchange yourself. And don’t let that jerk-off discourage you.”
“I’m ready to throw in the towel and go back to Minnesota. Maybe that’s where I belong. I look at Jerry and think if that’s what it does to somebody, if it turns me cold and hard like that…that’s not how I want to be.”
“No chance. Unlike Jerry, you have what it takes. You have brains and you have heart. A good cop needs both. And you’re proving to be a damn good cop, even if you are a bit wet behind the ears. Give it time.”
“When I saw that body this morning I damn near upchucked, like some sissy kid.”
“You handled it. And better than most. Would it help to know that my first body gave me a month of nightmares?”
“Still…”
“What if I spoke with the Captain? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can to get you a different partner. You shouldn’t have been paired with him in the first place. It’s a hard enough job without having him in the mix. In the meantime I’ll find some reasons to have you work closer with me.”
Aaron Iverson exhaled a loud sigh of relief.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Are you willing to hold out a little longer?”
“You betcha,” he smiled, “and thanks!”
* * * *
The City Attorney’s wife was lean and just attractive enough without being too pretty. Her demeanor was proper but appropriately gracious. The perfect arm candy for a man of political ambitions. The fact that she wore a simple gray sheath that accentuated her sharp hip bones, a string of baroque pearls and dress shoes didn’t escape him. At an hour when most people had on their slippers and robes, she maintained the aura her husband expected of her. The perfect facade. The appropriate partner. She escorted lawyer Macy Friedman through the door and into her husband’s study. The room was paneled in mahogany and law books lined the shelves next to leather bound copies of the classics. A row of classical cd’s were lined up next to the expensive sound system. The soft notes of Vivaldi blended with the aroma of sweet pipe tobacco. The attorney rose from where he sat behind his large desk and held out his hand for the obligatory weak handshake. He was dressed for business. If Friedman had been carrying a baby the man would have looked around for a camera, then kissed it sweetly on the forehead. Even in the privacy of his home he remained on stage, always on the alert.
“Do sit down,” he said, pointing to the leather chair that faced him from across the desk.
Friedman sat.
“Thank you,” he said to his wife, indicating the door. She retreated silently, closing the door behind her.
“This is a bit unusual, don’t you think?” said the attorney. “Isn’t this something that could have been discussed during business hours?”
“Some things are better discussed in private.”
He puffed on his pipe, then placed it in the Waterford crystal ashtray.
“Go on.”
“Are you familiar with Barbara Atwell?”
“I’ve looked through the report.”
“Seventy-two hours and she has to either be charged or let go.”
“I’m familiar with the law.”
“Time is running out.”
“Why would the La Crosse family’s firm be interested? You’re out of your league. Don’t you usually handle their financial issues?”
“I intend to represent her. The why is beside the point.”
“You’re nothing but a number cruncher, Friedman.” He sucked on his pipe, blowing the smoke across the desk and into Friedman’s face. “She’ll be formally charged in the morning.”
“A wiser man would reconsider.”
The attorney leaned back in his chair, reached over, and took another series of puffs from his carved Meerschaum pipe. Every item in the room was carefully placed to impress the visitor as well as himself. And he was definitely impressed with himself.
“Go on,” he said.
“This is one case you’d lose and I don’t think you’d be happy about it. You’ve got a good track record on convictions and I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way. I know your position is a mere stepping stone to grander ambitions.”
He nodded.
“Your point being what exactly? The woman murdered her husband. Period.”
His self-assurance was downright cocky. Friedman wanted to knock him down a peg or two.
“She’s a businesswoman in the community and has been for years. She’s never had as much as a parking ticket. She’s clean as a Windexed window, unlike her husband who was a drug trafficker of questionable origin. Convincing a jury of self defense is a no-brainer.” Then he added with a smirk, “Even for a number cruncher like me.”
The attorney stared into Friedman’s eyes and bristled.
“I’ll take you on any day of the week,” he said. “Let the games begin.”
“Again, I suggest you reconsider.”
There was a soft knock at the door and the wife peeked her perfectly coiffed head into the room.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, ever the gracious hostess. “I was wondering if you gentlemen would like some tea or, considering the hour, perhaps a cocktail?”
“Mr. Friedman is about to leave, thanks,” said the attorney, dismissing her.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” she said politely and closed the door.
“There’s nothing more to discuss,” he said to Friedman as he rose from his chair.
“Sit back down,” said Friedman. “I’m losing my patience here and you’ve obviously missed the point of this little visit.”
“I’ll sit when I feel like it.”
“Suit yourself,” he smiled. “I’ll spell it out for you. You wouldn’t have the position you have without La Crosse support. And the only reason you have their support is because they’re friends with your wife.”
“Your point being?”
“You’ll never reach your goals without La Crosse money and it’s the only reason you’ve gotten as far as you have. I’m the messenger and the message is this: I guarantee that if you don’t cooperate and drop this case your well will run dry and you can kiss your dream of living in the governor’s mansion goodbye.”
“Is that a threat?”
“The La Crosse family doesn’t need threats. They state facts.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under consideration,” he said. “We’re finished here.”
“Wise decision.” Friedman was ignored as he held out his hand. “And don’t think for a minute that I don’t know your dirty little secrets. How long do you think she’d stand quietly at your side if she knew what you were up to?”
“You can show yourself out,” said the attorney.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cold Margaritas and Hot Kisses
The young woman pulled back the curtain in the darkened room, slid open the window and looked up. The sky looked like an old torn mattress, it’s stuffing scattered across the ceiling. Twilight flirted with darkness and the air was thick with the aroma of approaching rain. The motel parking lot was nearly full. She read the out of state plates on the cars and held up her fingers, counting how many of those places they’d been through. Their travels were her geography lessons but there had been so many places that it was nothing but a blur of ever changing landscapes and generic motel rooms for as far back as she could remember. As hard as she tried, she was unable to take her memory back beyond the days they began traveling the roads and routes that led to no particular destination. Her eyes scanned the lot in search of his old green Chevy. He should have been back by now. Maybe he found a good job today that was running late. That would mean more money in their pocket but she missed him and needed him to fill the emptiness of the room.
Tracks of rain slid down the dusty window pane.
She c
losed the window and locked it.
She flicked on the light, turned back into the room, and ran her hand across the top of the television. It was no longer warm so he’d never know she’d been watching, not for sure. She still wore her tattered nightgown from the night before. What was the point of getting dressed when you had nowhere to go? Her stomach growled, interrupting her thoughts. She was hungry. She was tired of nibbling on dry cereal and even drier jerky. If he’d had a good day maybe he’d take her out to celebrate. Or bring home something special for them to eat in the room. She pulled the nightgown over her head and flung it across the room, exposing her thin, girlish figure. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, for a fleeting moment, she wondered who she was. At times she felt like a caged hamster, forgotten and alone.
But he’d come through the door and everything would be right again.
She walked to the pole that hung between the room and the bath that served as a makeshift closet and pulled her ragged prairie skirt from its hanger. She stepped into it and slipped it over her hips then reached up to the shelf and grabbed a mismatched top. If he was going to take her out she’d be ready. When she finished dressing she sat down in the middle of the bed, wrapping herself in the silence.
And waited.
Outside, hidden by the encroaching shadows of night, the tall young man also waited. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in eleven numbers, listened to the static as it reached across the country to his other world.
Someone picked up at the other end.
His voice quivered as he spoke.
“She’s been found.”
* * * *
The magic fingers of Dave Brubeck tickled the piano keys, the mellow tones flowing from the speakers and filling the house. Maggie Reardon placed the bowl of Prowler’s cat food onto the floor. He rubbed his thanks against her leg, then dug into it as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. She turned and headed for the bedroom.
“You’re on your own tonight,” she yelled back to him. “Mama’s got a date.”
She tightened the sash on her bathrobe, still damp from her shower, and stared into the closet. One long row of clothes looked back at her. She hadn’t a clue what to wear. All Rocco La Cross had told her was to come hungry. Were they going to a restaurant? Staying in? Did it even matter? Just keep it simple, she thought, pulling a pair of charcoal slacks from their hanger. Don’t look too anxious. And don’t look like you’re trying too hard. She took a plain beige blouse and tossed it onto the bed. Maggie opened a bureau drawer filled with undergarments and shook her head. A small stack of frayed but practical cotton briefs, the kind her mother had said not to be caught in should she get in an accident. Mothers said things like that. Well, she certainly didn’t want to get caught in them should things progress tonight with Rocco. If they did, she was ready. She fished around in the drawer and pulled lace trimmed black bikini panties from where they hid in the back with a matching girly bra, the sales tags still attached. She wondered why she’d ever bought them. It would take more than a bit of skimpy Victoria’s Secret to make herself irresistible. And even with the best effort, she’d never measure up to those beyond perfect models they used in their ads, with their long giraffe legs and perfect midriffs. Where the hell did they find them? In some junior high school? Nobody over eighteen could look that perfect. Skimpy undies weren’t her usual preference, cotton was definitely more comfortable, but tonight she wanted the right ammunition, loaded and ready.
Just in case.
She reached into the top drawer, took out a pair of cuticle scissors and snipped off the tags.
The thought of Rocco seeing her in those made her feel silly.
And apprehensive.
She put them on, looked in the mirror and shrugged. A boyish figure masked in lace was still a boyish figure. It was just wrapped prettier, like a gift from a discount store topped with a pretty bow that promised something special but failed to deliver. Hell, it is what it is and you work with the tools you’ve been given.
“Besides,” she said aloud, “it’s not like Rocco La Crosse has the physique of Charles Atlas.”
Prowler entered the room with his usual growl and looked up at her, beads of gravy dripping from his furry chin.
“No cop badge tonight,” she said.
She blew the dust from off the small jewelry box that sat on top of the bureau and lifted the lid. It held a few pieces that had belonged to her mother. Maggie chose a vintage piece and pinned it to her blouse. It was a large carved cameo, with smaller cameos at each side surrounded by fresh water pearls and brass scroll work.
“Thanks mom,” she said. “I remember how you glowed when you wore that.”
When she was five she’d asked her mother if she could have it when she died. Of course a child thinks their parents will live forever and never, ever die. The death of a dime store goldfish was enough for a child to handle. She had asked her mother why she wore it every day. She said Maggie’s father had bought it for her on their Italian honeymoon, in the small town of Caserta near Naples. And she wore it to remind herself how much they loved each other and to keep that love as fresh and wonderful as it was the day he’d bought it for her. Her mother had told her she was conceived on their honeymoon, but as bad as she was at math Maggie suspected she’d been in the oven before their wedding vows were ever spoken.
She missed them, but the aura of their love still filled the house and gave her comfort. She ran her fingers through her short hair and pulled up the spikes. The foundation almost hid the fading bruises under her eyes. She added a subtle touch of eye shadow. Her mouth was barely swollen now and it no longer hurt as she applied pale lipstick. A dab of perfume in the hollow of her neck finished the job.
“That’ll do,” she said. “With a bit of luck I’ll be home late.” Prowler released his muffled growl in response, then jumped onto the bed and settled onto her pillow. Half way out the door she stopped and turned back, returning to the living room. She grabbed a brown paper bag, picked up her pack of smokes and headed for her car.
* * * *
The young man held the cell phone to his ear, listening to the voice at the other end.
“It’s been a long time coming,” he said. “I’ll call back in a day or two and arrange for your flight.”
He disconnected, wiped the rain drops from the phone and shoved it into his pocket. The motel room curtain was lit from behind by a faint lamplight. He wondered what she was doing and how long it would take her to venture out by herself. He resisted the urge to knock on the door and finally face her.
What would he say? He’d practiced that moment over and over, but the right words still failed to come.
The timing had to be right, no matter how long he had to wait. If nothing else, the long search had taught him patience. How could his first face to face with her appear accidental? A light bulb went off in his head and he walked into the motel office and leaned his elbows onto the counter.
“I’d like a room,” he said to the clerk, a middle aged woman who looked like she drank too much and had an aversion to bath water. He leaned back from the faint aroma of stale perspiration and alcohol fumes and waited.
The clerk pulled up a screen on her computer and studied it.
“You’re in luck,” she finally said. “There’s one room left.”
He filled out the registration card and took the room key as she slid it across the counter. The run-down place was no Ritz-Carlton, but with luck the room would be cleaner than the desk clerk. He took the key and walked the long block to where his car was parked. He drove it into the motel parking lot, pulled a few belongings from the trunk and headed to the room. It was only two doors down from where the girl was staying. Luck was on his side. It would be easy to cross her path now, unsuspected.
* * * *
Maggie Reardon dodged the raindrops as she walked up the path that led
to Rocco La Crosse’s front door. She smiled at the metal statues along the way, his creations made of scrap metal and old plumbing fixtures and had to laugh at one with an upside-down water spigot welded between its legs like it was really glad to see her. It stood next to a female figure, breasts created from dented and corroded metal funnels. They weren’t offensive in any way, despite their saucy trimmings. They were whimsical and meant to evoke a smile. They succeeded.
She stood at the mammoth door of his pseudo-Spanish Colonial estate, juggling the items that filled her hands. Before she could free a hand to knock or ring the bell, the door opened. The aroma of garlic and cumin and cayenne greeted her, along with the faintest hint of Old Spice and a smiling Rocco. He had trimmed a bit of scruff from his beard and had his long hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck. Instead of his usual t-shirt he was wearing a bright red and white striped rugby shirt with long sleeves that covered his tattoo-etched arms. The shirt looked like it was fresh from the store and his un-faded jeans still held their original folds.
He had gone out of his way to look good for her.
Maggie looked behind her, taking in the million dollar view of the Santa Catalina mountains and the panoramic view of Tucson, it’s lights glistening through the rain and spreading like lake water beneath the carpet of murky sky.
“Let me help you with those,” he said, taking the heavy paper sack from her. “Don’t just stand there, come on in.”
She took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold.
“I hope you don’t mind us eating in,” he said as she sat her purse next to the hallway table where he had placed the paper sack. The table was heavily carved in the same style as the house’s architecture and appeared to be a true antique rather than a reproduction.