by Lonni Lees
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Guardians
It was evening and the sky was still crying, washing its ocean of tears into the arroyos and gutters of Tucson. An occasional flash of lightning lit up the sky, accompanied by the reverberation of thunder. Intermittent gusts of wind slammed the rain against shuddering window panes. The year’s first rains had already done their job. Plants that had withered plumped and came to life. Water was the lifeblood of the desert and wild flowers had blossomed their thanks, adding an array of color to the sepia landscape. Their party dresses of yellows and oranges and purples covered the browns and tans and ochers of the parched ground and hillsides. This second rain washed dust from the saguaros and streets and tile rooftops. It trapped cars in flash floods and blocked roads and created more potholes. It puddled itself into every indentation and depression it could find to provide drink for the wildlife as well as breeding grounds for the mosquitos, plump with eggs.
And it erased evidence from an old, green Chevy.
Detective Maggie Reardon was packing it in for the day. She filed away papers and turned off the stubborn computer that had refused to give her answers. She stood, grabbed her bag and took a step towards the exit. She wanted to get to her car and light up a smoke. The ringing cell phone stopped her in her tracks. She was tempted to keep walking. Her day was done. But it kept ringing. She pulled it out of her purse and answered.
“Detective Reardon.”
“You could at least have given me a heads up,” said the voice at the other end.
It was a man’s voice. It was Rocco La Crosse.
What was he talking about?
“Maggie, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Barbara was released? She called me from jail. She was being let go and needed a ride home.”
Rocco was in a snit and Maggie was embarrassed.
She’d forgotten about him. And Barbara. A dead cop can be a distraction.
“Rocco, I forgot.”
“She’s free and that wasn’t important enough for a simple call? Good God, Maggie.”
Maggie reached into her bag and pulled out her Camels, slid a cigarette out and pressed it between two fingers. It posed there, impatiently waiting for a flame. She put the unlit cigarette in her mouth and inhaled on it, a pacifier while she tried to form the right words. She didn’t need Rocco’s anger to top the pile of crap the day had already dumped on her.
“Calm down and listen,” she said. “All hell broke loose here. In the confusion it slipped my mind.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
She took another drag from her unlit cigarette, pretending her lungs were filling with its lovely poison instead of the squad room’s stale air. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to play twenty questions.
“I’m fried and I don’t have time for this. Turn on the news.”
She disconnected him.
Then regretted it.
It was unfair to dump her frustration on him.
Within five minutes the phone rang again.
It was Rocco.
“Okay, I watched the news and it wasn’t good.”
“I shouldn’t have hung up.”
He ignored her half-apology.
“We can see each other now, right? Come over to Barbara’s and help us empty these wine bottles. Sounds like you could use it.”
“I want to go home, pour some Irish and call it a day.”
“Understood. I get you, Maggie Reardon. I know where I stand on your priority list.”
“So why bother?”
“I’m a masochist,” he said. “Put that in my plus column.”
“You’re crazy, Rocco.”
“Why else would I put up with you?”
“The only reason that makes sense, you unfortunate. Tell Barbara I’m happy for her. And I’m curious about something. How did your lawyer manage to get the attorney to drop the charges?”
“Let’s just say that if his wife knew what he was up to, his cash cow would divorce him, and quickly.”
“It’d serve him right, I’m sure. I’ve never liked the man. He doesn’t walk, he struts. He’s arrogant. But whatever he’s hiding he’s doing a good job of it.”
“If it ever surfaces he’ll lose a lot more than his wealthy wife. Listen, Maggie. I need to say this. You and I both have lives that are separate from the us. That’s healthy.”
“I don’t need or want somebody who sucks up all my oxygen.”
“Breathing space. There’s nothing sadder than couples glued together at the hip. They create a dual identity and the individuals vanish. Every sentence starts with we rather than I.”
“We’re more alike than I thought.”
Her sigh of relief whispered through the phone and into Rocco’s ear. He got it.
“How about tomorrow night for that Italian dinner?”
“Your place? Even artists and cops have to eat. I’m game if you are.”
“The game of what makes Maggie tick?”
“Good luck, I haven’t figured myself out yet.”
“Wait, before you haaaang up…” his words had begun to slur. He’d already started on her share of that wine. “We’ve been working our butts off on the next show. We’ll be celebrating a few new artists and Barb’s return. A real gala of thanks. Will you come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Maggie saw Aaron Iverson dragging himself into the squad room.
“Gotta go now,” she said.
“I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
She hung up and looked over at Aaron. His lily white skin sagged, accentuated by the dark circles under his tired, bloodshot eyes. Today had to be number one on his bad day list.
“Maggie, I’m glad you’re still here.”
She rose from her chair and walked over to where he was leaning against a wall.
The poor guy looked lost. They stood in awkward silence. The cop in her battled with her emotions. The cop lost. A death cut to the bone, unlike a skinned knee you could kiss and make better. The Captain’s words replayed in her head. Don’t go getting all touchy-feely on me. But he wasn’t here. A hug could be downright therapeutic and the kid looked like he needed one. It lowers the blood pressure. They were cops, sure, but that didn’t mean they weren’t human. So she played mama bear and hugged him. Not a good idea after all. It felt awkward.
“Dumb of me,” she said, “but…”
“My mom says a hug’s better than a bunch of words any day.”
Slightly embarrassed, she quickly changed the subject.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m handling it.”
“A pretty nasty initiation into the dirty underbelly of police work.”
“Yup. Don’t get much of that back home. Just bar fights, mostly. People like their beer and pretzels. Keeps us warm during cold winters, then kinda spills into the rest of the year.”
“Here the excuse is keeping cool in the summer heat.”
“People are people, even in the boondocks. We had a bank president who siphoned off some money. It shocked and hurt some folks but at least there was no blood.”
And Aaron’s day had leaked enough blood to fill a beer stein.
“How’d the obligatory visit with the shrink go?”
He shrugged.
“Thanks for keeping your promise,” he said.
“My promise?”
“About working with you. Between me, the Captain and the shrink I got the thumbs up, but I have to see her more. Just routine. They’re keeping me off the street. And away from the press. But they’re letting me assist you.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“If it weren’t for you I’d have high-tailed it out of here and n
ever looked back.”
“You handled things as well as any seasoned cop on the force.”
“My baptism by fire. You knew Jerry Montana was wrong in the head, didn’t you?”
“He was ten scoops of crazy on steroids.”
“I sensed he wasn’t right, but all I feel is sad. He didn’t have to go and do that.”
“Shooting that guy or himself?”
“Both, but mostly what he did to himself. Suicide’s a damn permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
“He’d have thought it through. Best case scenario, psych leave. Or turning in his badge. At worst he’d end up behind bars. In general population he’d get shived by an inmate faster than a pedophile.”
“Limited menu options.”
Maggie thought about the cops who’d eaten their guns. There were plenty. They had their reasons. Dealing with the dark side was depressing. There are images that etch themselves into your head and never go away. Murders, abused kids, domestic violence, overdoses. You name it. Unlike the sanitized stories one scans in the newspapers or watches on tv, a cop sees it up close and personal. The smell of death can numb your ability to step out from the shadows, to see that the sun still rises. The malignancy could wind around you so tight you couldn’t breathe. And there were career cops, who once they were retired, lost their identity. They were their badge and they didn’t know how to be anything else. Their gun was their friend, the bullet their solution. It beat rotting away as a night watchman. And then there was Jerry. He got rid of his demons with a pull of the trigger, and avoided paying the piper his due.
He was probably right.
She had no uplifting words for the rookie who stood before her. There were none.
“Are you up to starting first thing in the morning? I’ve got some research you can sink your teeth into. Our John Doe is a real mystery man.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Tomorrow then.”
Maggie headed out the door, ran through the rain to her car, got in and slammed the door. Before she shoved the key into the ignition she tried to light her rain soaked cigarette. She swore at it, threw it into the ashtray and pulled a dry one from the pack. She lit it, leaned back and inhaled deeply. It was almost as relaxing as that bottle of whiskey waiting for her at home.
* * * *
The storm refused to subside. The more seasoned travelers exited the freeway off-ramps seeking cover. Tucson was the last big stop for those heading north to Phoenix or the Grand Canyon, the last major town for those brave enough to head for the border to the south. Tucson’s motels and hotels quickly filled with those smart enough not to challenge heavy rains. The only time they were this busy was when the Gem and Mineral Show hit town. Vendors and buyers crossed state borders or descended from the skies, weary from long flights.
It was one week when Tucson raked in the big bucks.
Tonight the Pink Flamingo Motel on Miracle Mile filled to capacity, its parking lot full. The crumbling facade shadowed the nineteen-fifties, a decade when it was fresh and new and welcomed tourists with ironed cotton shirts and Bermuda shorts. A time when it was a destination rather than a stop-over. Now it barely managed to stay above water, depending on a clientele with enough pocket money for a single night’s stay. Or someone needing a bed for an hour, no questions asked.
The Flamingo was two steps up from flop-house or falling victim to the bulldozer. It held on like a fading movie star holds onto yesterday’s memories, long after beauty fades. The broken neon sign flickered in the dark, a reminder that a thick coat of make-up can hide only so much.
Behind the door to room twelve, the young woman tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He hadn’t yet returned. She wondered where he was. And when he would come back. Or if he ever would. Making decisions had always been his job, not hers. Would he want her to make one now or just wait? Her mind played over decisions and consequences and added to her confusion. Several times she’d worked up the courage to call 911, but she hung up every time she heard the voice at the other end. At three in the morning she hung up for the last time and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
* * * *
An hour later the phone rang, waking her.
No one knew she was there.
She could let it ring.
She could answer it.
Either decision could be the wrong one.
Her arm reached across the bed and picked up. It was the 911 operator. How could he have known that she was the caller? How could he have known where the call had come from? It frightened her but she fought to keep her voice calm. He said he wanted to be sure there was no problem. He asked if she could speak freely. He told her that if she was in danger to just say it was a wrong number and hang up and he’d send help. She had to think. Fast. The last thing she wanted was the mysterious gestapo coming for her.
“No, I’m okay,” she finally said. “It was a mistake.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“It was my little boy. You know how kids can be. He kept playing with the phone. It was an accident. I’m sorry I bothered you.” It surprised her that lying had come so easily.
She listened, then did her best to reassure him.
“I told him it was a bad thing to do. He’s asleep now. It won’t happen again.”
Her hands shook when she hung up.
Her heart thumped like a trapped rabbit.
Sleep was impossible.
With a trembling hand she picked up the remote and turned on the television so she wouldn’t be alone. She kept the volume low so as not to disturb anyone in the adjacent rooms. She watched the weather channel and waited for the darkness to ease its way into daylight.
Morning came, the rain stopped, the television droned.
She sat upright on the sagging mattress, frozen in a holding pattern of indecision.
The only motion she could manage was to switch from the weather channel to the early morning cartoons.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Room Twelve
“Good morning, Miss Maggie,” said Carlos when she came through the door. He lowered his head and stared at the cash register to avoid eye contact.
“You’re here,” she said. His nephew was gone and her friend was back. She was relieved to see him where he belonged. Right where he’d been standing for as long as she could remember.
“You really had me scared, Carlos. I thought something happened to you.”
“But Ramon said to you that I was fine. Just as I told him to.”
Carlos kept his head down, brown eyes peering up at her like a guilty child.
“But Carlos, I was worried.”
“I did not mean to worry you. But I have a surprise,” he said, his hand covering his mouth as he spoke.
“A good one, I hope. I’m could use a shot of good news.”
“Si, very good news.”
He removed his hand from in front of his mouth and held his chin high, wearing a big Cheshire cat grin. His discolored teeth were gone, replaced with white ones that shone in bright contrast to his dark complexion. He’d probably gone to one of those discount places, she thought, the kind that fixes you up with new choppers in a day. But they were pearly white, just as the commercials promised. Bargain basement or not, they’d done a great job. He stood taller and looked twenty years younger.
“What do you think, Miss Maggie?”
“I think you’re one handsome devil.”
“I thank Ramon. He is a good man.”
“He seems nice.”
“He is, although this was not always so. When he was younger he went loco and turned to the gangs. I talked to him like a father.‘No good can come from this,’ I told him. Think beyond actions. Think of consequences.’ I told him God gave him a brain and he should use it. ‘You have family,’ I said. ‘Is your gift to them going to be an i
nvitation to your funeral before you are twenty?’”
“Or life in a wheelchair with a bullet lodged in his spine,” she said. “Not the kind of wheels teenagers visualize for themselves.”
“He had never seen me so angry. It surprised him and he listened to his Uncle Carlos. He now has an honest job and I am proud. But recently he spoke to me like I used to speak to him. He told me my life should be more than this store, that I needed to be good to myself.”
He proudly flashed another smile, showing off his new teeth. “This is good, si?”
“This is good,” she said. “Antonio Banderas has got nothing on you. Now you need an excuse to show them off.”
“I smile for my customers.”
“Like Ramon said, the store shouldn’t be your life.”
“Like your job is to you?”
“I’m working on that.”
“And you have seen your new, young gentleman?”
Maggie could tell that her expression told him everything.
“Ah, I see,” he said with a wink.
“Let’s just say that he’s putting up with me. So far.”
Customers were filing into the store so Maggie filled her coffee cup, paid her friend and left. Tucson flew past her windshield as she headed for work. She drove past empty lots filled with weeds. Small casitas and new structures with well-manicured yards stood side by side. Shining high-rises loomed above small storefronts and brightly painted bodegas. The town was a patchwork of the old and new, stitched side by side like a poorly thought out crazy quilt.
The rain had stopped. The morning sun was working overtime to bake away what moisture hadn’t already sucked deep into the dry, hungry ground or run off into the gutters. The endless circle would continue and soon people would again be praying for the rain instead of cursing it.
* * * *
Maggie had a work space set up next to her own desk so that Aaron Iverson could get down to business. He settled into the chair next to her and turned on the computer, impatiently waiting for it to boot up so that he could get to work. He needed a distraction from the dark cloud that hovered over the room. Usually astir with activity and conversation it was eerily silent in the aftermath of yesterday’s events.