Desert Noir (9781615952236)

by Webb, Betty

  While I was still laughing over the newspaper, Jimmy arrived complaining about the washed-out roads on the rez, but after a glass of cactus juice he settled down and he ran a quick check on George Haozous. What he found surprised neither of us.

  Haozous had been arrested several times, each time for assault. The worst incident happened in 1993 when he’d served a short stint in the Madison Street Jail for beating up a bouncer at a Phoenix bar. Nothing since then. Presumably, after the barroom incident he’d taken an anger management course—or joined A.A.

  Jimmy handed me the print-out. “Told you those Apaches were rough guys.”

  “That’s a racist statement.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not racist when you say it about your own people.”

  “You’re Pima. George is Apache. Not exactly the same, is it?”

  He gave me a sly smile. “Pimas are non-violent, always have been. You can’t say that about the Apaches.”

  I thought about Geronimo, Cochise, and Naiche, all the old gang that raised hell across the Arizona territory. “They were just defending their own,” I finally said.

  “Yeah, like the Crips and the Bloods. You sound like one of those knee-jerk liberals.”

  “And you sound like a nineteenth-century Mormon.” Now that both of us were offended, I studied Haozous’s rap sheet, taking careful note of how severe some of those beatings had been and what triggered them. Then I noticed something that set my mind at ease.

  “Jimmy, all of these assaults were against men.”

  “So?” Not appreciating my reference to his Mormon upbring-ing, he was still sulking.

  And I was still feeling guilty because I knew what a good job the Mormons had done with him. I gentled my voice as I said, “I don’t see any mention here of Haozous ever hitting a woman.”

  “He probably beats his wife. And like most wives, she doesn’t turn him in.”

  I remembered Haozous’s wife, her unmarked, friendly face peering out the trailer door, her almost humorous attitude towards her husband’s temper. She hadn’t acted like any battering victim I’d ever encountered.

  But then, neither had Clarice.

  “Point taken,” I said to Jimmy. Then I sat down at my desk and thought for a while.

  While I still needed to talk to Clarice’s brother and sister, I remained dissatisfied with my interview with her parents. There seemed to be no point in talking to Stephen Hyath again—he was as close as a clam with lockjaw—but I had a sneaking suspicion that his wife, if I got her alone and sober, might be more forthcoming. Eleanor Kobe hated her daughter, and I knew from experience that hatred loosened the tongue even more than love. She had no desire to protect her daughter’s reputation, no reason to lie for her. I made a mental note to find out about Stephen Hyath’s schedule and then try the house again. I doubted that Eleanor went out much. Before I made the trip back up the mountain to Castle Hyath, though, I needed to talk to Clarice’s sister and brother, whoever and wherever they were.

  A quick call to the Violent Crimes Unit resulted in the information I needed. Confirming what Stephen Hyath had told me, Kryzinski said that Serena Hyath-Allesandro was a partner in Hyath Construction, but that neither Clarice nor Serena bothered much with the day-to-day running of the business. Didn’t want to get their manicured hands dirty, he snickered. Where Clarice had concentrated on her gallery, Serena was written up in the society columns because of her affiliation with the Arizona Kidney Foundation, the Arizona Heart Institute, the Arizona Opera League, and the Scottsdale Symphony Guild. She had, however, been relatively inactive in those organizations for the past year and there had been rumors of health problems.

  “I know the way your twisted little mind works, kid, but we’ve already checked out bubba and sis,” Kryzinski said. “Ain’t none of the Hyaths ever been arrested for anythin’. Sterling citizens, bless their black hearts.”

  I took down the telephone numbers and addresses Kryzinski gave me, delivered a big, smacking kiss over the phone, and hung up. Then I dialed Serena Hyath-Allesandro’s number.

  To my surprise, she immediately agreed to see me. I left Jimmy sulking over his keyboard and went out to the Jeep.

  Last night’s monsoon hadn’t done too much damage and only a few stray palm fronds littered the parking lot. As I drove along Scottsdale Road towards the Boulders, the exclusive golf resort near which Clarice’s sister lived, I could see that the storm hadn’t been quite so benign north of Old Town Scottsdale. At several points, Scottsdale Road lay submerged under several feet of water and traffic had been diverted onto side streets where huge eucalyptus trees lay felled by the wind. L.L. Bean-clad residents hauled debris out of muddy pools, while others took chainsaws to collapsed palms. Judging from some of the arguments I overheard between the casually clad L.L. Bean contingent and some more formally dressed men, the insurance adjusters were out in full force—and they didn’t want to fork over one thin dime.

  I had good memories of this section of the Valley. After one of my foster fathers had been sent to prison for raping me, I’d been turned over to a Baptist minister and his family. Every Friday night, weather permitting, we had driven out into the desert somewhere around here where we’d pitched a roomy tent and built a big bonfire. The pastor had read Scripture to us as we roasted marshmallows over the fire, and while I’d eventually re-belled against the family’s hyper-religiosity, I’d enjoyed the close contact with nature. Besides Scripture, the family had taught me the desert was my friend—if I remembered to respect it.

  As I drove along, I was gratified to see that the desert had changed little since those relatively happy days. Brittle-brush and catclaw clung to gently sloping ridges. Purple salsify and vetch added bright spots of color. The sky was alive with life. Yellow warblers and cardinals winged their way through the sentinel saguaros, while above them, a kestrel glided along the updrafts.

  Perhaps the desert had taken to its heels further south, but up here it remained triumphant.

  The temperature had risen to 108 degrees and it was as humid as a swamp when I pulled up near the top of the ridge that harbored Serena Hyath-Allesandro’s luxurious spread. I was happy to see the still-intact cottonwood trees lining the driveway that led to her Territorial adobe. Although the house was obviously not a true 1880’s Territorial—increasingly rare in the Valley—I didn’t mind these copies as much as I minded the pseudo-Mediterranean stuccos that plagued the Arizona landscape. At least the Territorials were a part of the Southwest’s heritage. And god knows, those three-feet-thick adobe walls could keep out the heat and the monsoon’s humidity.

  The only untraditional touches on the property were the sign out front which warned, “Protected by Winchester Security Services,” the closed steel shutters blocking the windows, and the steel-fortified front door desperately pretending to be oak. It didn’t fool me.

  The steel door swung open as I started up the paved tile walk and a vicious-looking Doberman pinscher peered out.

  “Good dog,” I said, stopping in the middle of the walk.

  Good dog’s upper lip lifted away, exposing pointy teeth. His growl sounded like a bear with catarrh.

  “Back, Hans,” a reedy female voice whispered, as I saw a long-fingered hand snatch at his collar. “It’s nobody.”

  I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.

  “Mrs. Hyath-Allesandro?” I called. I was still yards from the door, not certain if I wanted to get any closer. Hans still stood framed in the doorway, lip curled. Now he was drooling.

  Then Hans disappeared as a dark-haired woman looked out. “Please call me Serena. And I take it you’re Lena Jones.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  I told her she took it right and advanced up the walkway, ready to sprint back to the Jeep at the first sign of a pointy black nose.

  “Hans won’t bite you now.” She continued to whisper, as if talking too loud might attract undue attention. Opening the door wider, she ushered me in, and together we c
lattered across the Saltillo tiles into a room as vast and dark as a cavern. The shutters were closed here, too, obscuring whatever view might have existed outside the three glass walls. “Once I’ve tugged at his collar he goes off guard until I alert him again.”

  Comforting. Especially since Hans heeled at her side, not taking his eyes off me. Like most Germans, he probably liked blondes—for lunch.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see her better. She was tall, almost six feet, alarmingly thin, and her yellowish skin was little more than a covering for a ragtag collection of bones. Her brittle black hair reminded me of that I’d once seen on a chemotherapy patient, and dandruff flaked the shoulders of the dark sundress that hung on her like a blanket on a clothesline. Cancer? AIDS? Anorexia?

  From a certain angle, I could see an echo of Clarice, but only that. Where Clarice’s face had been a perfect, smooth oval, Serena’s was sharp and angular, with jutting cheekbones creating smudge-colored shadows below. The large, razor-sharp nose that jutted above her thin lips bore testimony to Eleanor Kobe’s catty remark about Clarice’s plastic surgery. Serena had obviously elected to stay clear of the knife. She wasn’t an attractive woman, but at least the pink-rimmed eyes that stared out at me from the dark hollows in her caved-in face revealed that she’d been crying. Over Clarice, I hoped. It was about time someone in her family grieved for her.

  Serena ordered Hans into a corner, where he sat watching me, eyes alert. “You wanted to talk to me about my sister, right?”

  Almost repeating the hand gesture she’d used with her dog, she motioned me towards the large, putty-colored suede sectional that wrapped around a living room the size of the Phoenix Suns’ basketball court. Maybe she’d been able to afford it all by skimp-ing on her electric bill. Besides being dark, the room was uncomfortably hot. Three-foot-thick walls or not, it was over 100 degrees outside.

  “Um, it’s awful dark in here and since I want to take some notes do you think you might…?”

  She frowned, and for a moment I thought she might refuse to open the shutters or even turn on a light, but she surprised me and moved across the room to the windows. She pressed a button and the shutters slid up, revealing a view that took my breath away.

  Thousands of acres of virgin desert rolled unimpeded towards the saw-toothed ridge of the McDowell Mountains. The rain had also cleared away the smog and the McDowells glimmered in a Cezanne-like pastiche of lavenders and mauves.

  “That’s all government-protected land,” Serena said proudly, noting my awed expression. “Nobody can build on it.”

  An ironic boast, coming from a member of the family which was almost single-handedly responsible for destroying any remaining desert within the Phoenix and Scottsdale city limits. But then again, it was doubtful if Serena looked at it that way. She probably used the word most developers used when they defended their actions—they didn’t destroy the desert, they “improved” it.

  “I’m cold,” she complained, although the room was even warmer with the shutters open. “Wait here until I get a sweater. Don’t make any sudden moves, because Hans is very alert.” With those comforting words she abandoned me to Hans’ mercies, but not before I spotted the marks running up the insides of her arms. They weren’t as bad as the needle tracks I’d seen on some heroin addicts, but they were getting there.

  Keeping a watchful eye on Hans, I settled myself onto the deep sofa, which was as comfortable as it was beautiful. The living room was the antithesis of her parents’—all suede, glass, and tile. There were no knickknacks lying around, no wall hangings, no sculpture, no paintings, no books, no photographs. The room was stripped to the bare bone, like the woman who lived in it.

  She finally returned wearing a white cashmere sweater and carrying a silver tray weighted down with a pitcher of tea, two Bass Ales, two Diet Cokes, and two empty glasses. “I’ve given the maid the day off, so I’m fending for myself. I hope I’ve brought something you like. If you want coffee, I can go back and make you some.”

  I wanted the tea but told her I preferred the Diet Coke instead, afraid that if she picked up the heavy-looking pitcher, her skeletal wrist would snap.

  Coke poured and her hostess duties satisfactorily performed, Serena appeared to relax. “You wanted to know about Clarice,” she whispered, finally raising her eyes to mine.

  The sunlight streaming in from the newly opened shutters fell on my face and for the first time she could see me clearly. She gasped, a reaction I was not unfamiliar with. Then to my surprise, she leaned forward, and with a trembling forefinger, gently traced the scar on my forehead.

  “Did it hurt? I… I have the name of a plastic surgeon who is wonderful with this sort of scar tissue. If you don’t have the money to get it taken care of, I’m the head of a foundation which can cover the cost. Please let me help.”

  Despite my usual cynicism, I was touched. I’d met women like her before. They could be bleeding from a dozen wounds, but the old scars of others caused them greater pain. It was easy to make fun of such do-gooders, but the fact remained that unlike certain other human beings I could mention, they at least did have hearts.

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine with it,” I said, pushing her hand away from my face as carefully as I could. “Honestly.”

  Her lower lip trembled and for a moment, I thought she would weep at her inability to help me. Instead, she collected herself and said, “I’m sorry. My manners… Please. What do you want to know about my sister?”

  Considering her condition, the question was a cruelty, but it needed to be asked. “Do you think Jay Kobe killed her?”

  Serena shuddered, then in a voice strengthened by anger, she answered, “Of course I do. Who else would kill her? I always told her she was a fool for staying with him.”

  When I pointed out that Clarice had finally left Jay, she nodded. “I’m on the board of Safe Haven, a home for battered women, and I can tell you that most women killed by their abusers are killed when they try to leave.”

  I granted her that but pointed out that Clarice had left Jay months earlier and there had been no indication that he had ever stalked her. Instead, he had simply moved in with his girlfriend and transferred his heavy-handed affections to her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Serena said, throwing a look towards Hans, who thumped his stubby tail at her in gratitude. “These controlling men, they can’t let go.”

  Behind her, framed in the huge glass expanse, a hawk plum-meted out of the sky. There was a flurry of dust on the desert floor, then the hawk rose again with something struggling desperately in its talons.

  The gooseflesh popped out on my arms as I wished the hawk had given its prey a quicker death. “You ever have any problems with controlling men, Serena?”

  She shuddered again, then her face closed off. “What makes you think that?”

  “Just a thought.” I switched to what was obviously a more comfortable topic: Clarice’s death. “Kobe’s out on bail, you know. And he says he has an alibi.”

  Her bitter laugh made Hans prick up his ears. “Men like that always have alibis.”

  That made me wonder about her own marriage. Something was destroying this woman from the inside out. But her vulnerability gave me an idea. I’d test a theory on her that I had developed over the past few days.

  “Um, Serena, Jay’s alibi still looks pretty good, but I’ve been wondering about something. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I wanted to kill a woman but was afraid I’d fall under suspicion. It would be nice and handy, wouldn’t it, if my intended victim was known to have an abusive husband?” I didn’t mention the traces of latex the police lab had found on Clarice’s face or the indication that there had been another murder weapon besides the killer’s fists.

  An expression of disbelief replaced the vulnerability. “That sounds like something out of a cheap detective novel.”

  “Sometimes life is like a cheap detective novel. Can you think of anyone else—besides Jay—who woul
d benefit from Clarice’s death?”

  Tears finally sprang to her eyes. When one spilled out and trickled down her gaunt cheek, she didn’t even bother to wipe it away. “The divorce wasn’t final so Jay gets her money and the house. What better benefit could there be?”

  I thought about that for a while, then decided there was no point in not asking the question. “How well do, uh, did you all get along?”

  Now she wiped the tear away and gave me a trembling smile. “We got along like brothers and sisters.”

  “Well, I’m an only child, so tell me how that is.”

  The smile faded, became wistful. “You’ve met my parents?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you know how…” She paused, took a few deep breaths, then began again, so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. “We… Uh, the three of us didn’t have the easiest childhood. Like a lot of children from, well I guess you’d call them dysfunctional families, we, uh, tended to band together against our parents. Not anything overt, you understand. We just thought we needed…” She stopped and took another deep breath. “Protection.”

  Judging from the house’s over-the-top security system, Serena thought she still needed it. But I’d never thought of Clarice as the paranoid type. “You think Clarice needed protection?”

  Serena looked over at Hans, who scrambled to his feet. “Sit,” she whispered to him. Disappointed, he sat back down. “I thought she needed less protection than my brother or myself, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

  For a few moments she stared out at the beautiful, savage desert and seemed to draw strength from that. Then she turned back to me.