Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  “Jesus,” Abe said. “That probably explains the Buick with Kansas plates, but how did the cops find out about the key?”

  “Jackson was a talker. He couldn’t help bragging about how he and his girlfriend were going to get rich once he was released and he got his hands on that key. Its existence was common knowledge among the prison population, but its whereabouts unknown.”

  “Why didn’t the cops find this here Marilu and get her to talk?” said Sally.

  “That’s part of the mystery. Marilu wasn’t anywhere around when the cops arrived, and the house had been ripped apart from top to bottom. They found her burned car in a ditch, but no body. Whoever had been there didn’t find the key either, because Jackson had it when he approached you at Clayton Lake. He must have known whoever had been to Marilu’s would be looking for him.”

  “Makes me want to know all the more why that doggone key is so important.” Sally held out her hand as the first spattering of raindrops smacked the dry earth. “Did the cops ever find the girlfriend?”

  “No trace of her. Her father claims he doesn’t know her whereabouts. She is officially classified as missing.”

  “They must have turned up some information on the key,” Abe said. “All I know is it was small and had a number on it.”

  “It could be the kind used to open a safe-deposit box, that’s what the State Police think, anyway, but it had no identifying marks other than a serial number and no way to tell what bank it’s from. The only identifiable prints were yours, Abe. Any other latent prints were too smudged to read. That scrap of paper is most likely a phone number—the first three digits are the area code for Arizona—possibly a contact number for Jackson’s buddy.”

  “This is huge news, Emily,” Abe said. “It means we have the right bait. We just aren’t sure what or who we are going to catch.”

  A black cloud moved in from the mountains and hovered directly above them, then opened up and spilled its contents. The downpour had everyone running toward the barn for cover. Sally kept going in the direction of the house, but Abe and Emily ducked inside the small wooden structure, a space barely large enough for three stables and a storage area for feed. It smelled of sweet hay and slightly pungent manure. Two stalls were obviously in use, housing the mule and the goat. Clean hay blanketed the floor of the empty stall, and an oiled saddle hung over the railing. The nameplate on the door said “Mariah.”

  Abe fingered the smooth leather. “Must have been Sally’s horse.”

  Emily let her hand glide over the saddle, pausing to trace the ingrained pattern of roses and vines. “Yes, Sally acts tough, but she is really a sentimental old girl.”

  When her fingertips brushed against Abe’s, they both jumped as if lightning had struck inside the barn. It had happened before, that night on the front step of her grandfather’s trailer, but this time they didn’t pull back. Abe held her face in his hands, tilting it so he could look down into her eyes, not worried about the rain, or Sally returning, or Patch watching with cocked head, or for the moment, his own conflicted past. He kissed her long and hard while she grasped the back of his hair, pulling him closer, returning his kiss with parted lips, their tongues meeting with unrestrained passion. He unbuttoned Emily’s blouse, revealing the dark areolae of her nipples on the small, firm breasts. As his hands caressed the contours of her body, he kissed her breasts and felt the wetness between her legs. Abe felt his growing hardness and moaned. He knew they both wanted, needed this, and when he entered her, Emily opened to him like a budding flower in early spring. They made love in a pile of alfalfa, with an urgent abandon neither had allowed themselves to acknowledge. The first time they both climaxed too quickly, so they made love again, more slowly, making it last. Afterward they shyly smiled and brushed the hay from their hair, straightened their clothes, avoiding each other’s eyes. Abe had not made love to a woman since Sharon had become ill, and hadn’t thought he could ever again. Now that he had been with Emily, his emotions ran the gamut between tenderness, relief, and guilt. Am I falling in love with her? Have I already betrayed Sharon?

  The thundercloud moved on, drenching some other dry spot of land and leaving them with a fresh patch of blue sky.

  “I’d like to ride to Mexican Springs with you,” Abe said as they walked toward the house, closer together now, almost touching. “And I don’t think Sally should be involved in this anymore.”

  For once, Emily agreed, at least regarding Sally. “I know, and she’s going to be hard to shake. Thinks she’s a regular Annie Oakley. But you should probably stay here and talk to Paco. I’ll give him a call before I leave.”

  Abe considered her words and decided she was right. “Think he’ll let us open the place, but stay away himself and keep the customers out?”

  “I’m sure he will. By the way, when is the last time you fired a gun? You may need to when everyone shows up for the party.”

  “I never had a gun, Emily. Never wanted to kill anything, still don’t.”

  “Sometimes it’s kill or be killed, Abe.”

  “I don’t want to believe that.” They were almost at the back door, but Abe wanted to keep her talking, as well as extend his time alone with her, so he steered her around to the front of the house. “You’re the cop, Emily. I’m dangling the bait. I don’t need a gun.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “Maybe if we’re lucky either Easy Jackson’s murderer or the ones who set off the explosion will bite our bait and be the only ones that show up. They’ll incriminate themselves in some way and we’ll have some answers. On the other hand, we may be dealing with the Mafia and Corazón with his band of hell-raisers, or even the Aryan Brotherhood. Emily paused to brush sprigs of hay from Abe’s shirt. “There’s more than one crime here and, I have a feeling, more than one criminal. A weapon would be simple self-protection. How’d you ever survive the mean streets of New Jersey without a gun?”

  “I played the piano—Schubert, Mozart, Bach, Haydn, but mostly Satie. Music is my weapon of choice.”

  Emily stopped to study him, looking at his face in a new way. “You’re full of surprises. Why did you leave your piano behind if you love music so much?”

  The question caught him off guard. He felt a wave of sadness and guilt as his mind flashed back to Sharon. “We all lose something, Em. After Sharon died I lost any desire to play the piano. We were so tied together with music that I felt I was half-dead myself when she was gone.”

  Emily appeared to take this information stoically. She didn’t ask questions, but she stopped him before they went inside. “Sometimes we don’t think we can go on—we don’t even want to. But life pulls us along, and we hang in there, kicking and screaming, fighting all the way. People say, ‘You need to move on, get over it,’ and you try. But you know in your heart that you will never get over it—everything has changed, the balance is skewed, and you are forever struggling not to go over the edge, fall into that black pit again.”

  Abe knew the words came from her heart, from her own suffering. He held her close and kissed her once more, a long, slow kiss, before he opened the door. “Thank you,” said Abe, pulling a final sprig of hay from her hair. “Tonight you made me feel whole.”

  Ignoring Sally’s raised eyebrows and her “What took you two so long?” Abe filled a glass of water from the kitchen faucet and sat down. “Hey there, Sally. Nice barn.”

  “I’m sure glad you found it comfortable,” she said with a twinkle. Excitement lit up Sally’s pale, washed-blue eyes. She rubbed her hands together. “Boy howdy this case is getting better and better. Mafia money, stolen loot, missing girl. What’s my job gonna be?”

  “You’ve done enough,” said Abe. “You’re out, Sally. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “The hell I am,” Sally bristled. With her hands on her hips and her reddened face puffed up, she looked like a Chihuahua with the balls to take on a pit bull. “Do you think I’m scared of those dipshit, lamebrained, drug-addled bozos? I’m ready for them.” />
  “Sorry, Sally. Abe’s right. You’ve been a great help, but . . .”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts from you either. You dragged me into this, and I invited you into my home, where you made yourself pretty damn comfortable, I might add. Now you want to kick me out before the fun starts, like I’m some old, useless, senile senior citizen. Well, it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Sally . . .” Abe began.

  She glared at them, looking like she knew what they had been up to and knew more than they did about life, or anything else for that matter. “I’m not out. My vacation isn’t over yet.”

  Abe and Emily both sighed in resignation. “Okay,” said Emily. “But you have to play by my rules, and no arguments.”

  Sally’s face crinkled into a broad smile. “I knew you two lovebirds would see it my way.”

  21

  The next day Emily left for Mexican Springs, promising to make it back before midnight. “You can’t have a quick visit to your clan’s house,” she explained. “I’ll have to stay for supper, probably mutton stew and fry bread, some family gossip.”

  Abe remained at the ranch with Sally and, since his truck was still in Paco’s garage, he relied on her to take him to Dick’s Hot Licks for the meeting Emily had set up.

  “No, you can’t drive Lizzie,” she said when he asked. “She don’t run right for anybody but me.”

  The rattletrap car rumbled down the road like a lawn mower on steroids. Abe hunkered low in the passenger seat, expecting the engine to give out after one final gasp, while Patch bounced along in the backseat, but they made it to downtown Bisbee without incident. Sally found Lizzie a shady parking spot in front of Dick’s, flanked on one side by a hot-pink motorcycle and on the other by a lavender van emblazoned with a rainbow arc and the words “Too Cute to Be Straight.” They rolled down the windows and climbed out, promising Patch they would not be long.

  “Have you ever been in here, Sally?”

  “What? Course not. Why would I? I always have been kind of curious about this here gay place, though.”

  “Well, here’s a chance to satisfy your curiosity.” He held the door open for her and they stepped inside the cool semidarkness.

  This time the patrons showed little interest in the pair entering their den, and acted as if it were routine for a young, long-haired guy to come to a bar with a salty-looking old gal. If the sight of two men holding hands and dancing together bothered her, Sally didn’t show it. Abe reasoned she had been around long enough to have seen it all.

  “Is Paco here?” Abe asked Dutch, the tow-headed, muscle-bound waiter. He had willed himself not to be offended by Dutch’s overt gayness and wondered now why he ever was. The voices of customers blended with the smoky, alcohol-infused air in the crowded bar. Abe scanned the dark room and spotted a man in a white apron berating a waiter. At the same time, Dutch inclined his head in that direction.

  “Paco’s busy right now, making sure the new guy doesn’t screw up again. It’s the lunch rush, and it’s so hard to get good help.” Dutch rolled his eyes as if it were a personal burden he had to bear. “Sure you two wouldn’t like a drink?”

  Sally ordered a root beer and Abe a Shiner. Dutch led them to two empty stools at the end of the bar and told them he would let Paco know they were here, and strutted off, first to his boss, then to take care of customers, the toothsome smile never leaving his face.

  “That boy knows his business. Good root beer, too.” Sally slurped on her drink and looked around. “Interesting place.”

  Paco glanced up and saw Abe. He held up his open hand, indicating he would be over in five minutes. Four minutes later he approached them at the bar, greeted Abe, and shook hands with both him and Sally. “What’s happening, Abe? How’s my buddy Will doing?”

  “Will’s coming along. He’ll make it. Is there someplace private we could talk?”

  “Sure. I have an office by the kitchen. Lunch is winding down, so the boys ought to be able to handle things. Let’s go on back.”

  Abe and Sally followed Paco through the well-organized, tidy kitchen. A couple of workers were busy, the chubby one chopping vegetables while the other loaded the dishwasher. Mexican music blasted from a small radio. Paco said something to them in Spanish and they nodded and kept working. Two huge pots, one of red chili, the other green, simmered on the stove, filling the room with a pungent, mouthwatering aroma. Paco led his visitors through a pantry, the shelves stacked with oversize canned goods and canisters of spices. Bins of onions, potatoes, and fresh produce sat near a large walk-in refrigerator. At the end of the pantry, he opened the door to a small but comfortable office. A fat orange cat with a proprietary look eyed them from the desktop.

  Paco indicated an overstuffed sofa facing the desk. “Have a seat.” He slid into his rolling desk chair and faced them. “Do you need another drink or something to eat?”

  Abe shook his head and settled onto the sofa with Sally sitting beside him sipping her root beer. “No thanks, we’re good.”

  While Paco stroked the cat, he looked directly at Abe. “Okay, what’s up, my friend? Bet you came for your truck.”

  “That, too,” Abe said. “I guess Emily called you.” He then tried to explain their plan. “So, we’ve set up a meeting, here at your place next Friday night, and we’re not sure who or how many are going to show up. Now that I’m talking about it, it sounds crazy.” He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath when he saw Paco’s eyes. “This little gathering is set to take place at nine o’clock. Look, I’m sorry, man. I know we should have gone over this with you before we set things up. If you don’t want to go along, I understand. We’ll do it someplace else.”

  Sally had kept her mouth shut till now. “It’s going to be a hell of a party,” she said.

  Paco’s eyes sparkled. “A hell of a party. I’m in. I’ll shut down after lunch—keep from permanently losing my customers.”

  “Look, this is no party, Paco. It’s a scheme to draw these thugs in so Emily can nail the assholes who set off the explosion that nearly killed Will. We are pretty sure the Kansas City Mafia had something to do with it based on a black Buick Will and I saw driving away from the fire. We’re also hoping to find out why Easy Jackson was murdered and who the killer was so I can clear my name. I’m a suspect in that murder and I had nothing to do with it.” Abe knew they were taking a big risk. Both Corazón and the Mafia might bring backup, and the Aryans were another thing. “Maybe we shouldn’t involve you, Paco. I don’t know what’s going to happen when and if they show.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s no way I’m not going to help my buddy Will. You think I can’t handle trouble? I’ve seen worse in Nam than those pansy-asses could ever deliver. I still have an M1 Carbine, and I’ll damn sure use it if the situation arises. Gotta keep an eye on my place, amigo, and yes, things are coming down here.” He stood up and paced across the room. “I’ve dealt with these types before, and I can call in a few friends to help out. We’ll stay out of the way. They won’t even know my boys are around.”

  “Are you sure?” Abe said.

  Paco stood with his arms crossed. “Dead sure.”

  Abe thought about it. It wasn’t a bad idea to have someone covering their backs in case of trouble, and Emily had objected to his suggestion they call in local lawmen. It seemed to Abe she reacted more with her heart than her head sometimes. To Emily, getting Corazón had become a personal vendetta. Sally liked the idea of having backup, so the three of them hashed it over.

  After the meeting Abe stood and shook hands with Paco. “It’s a deal then. We’ll come back with Emily tomorrow and go over the details.” Abe retrieved the keys to his truck and rescued his dog from the hot confines of Lizzie’s belly. He told Sally he’d see her back at the house and waited while Patch found a convenient fire hydrant to relieve himself on. Once the dog hopped back onto the seat, Abe rolled the windows down and pumped the gas pedal, waiting for the engine to kick in. The gas gauge registered near empty.r />
  While he filled his tank at the Shell station, he heard the thunder of motorcycles, and looked up to see a line of bikers streaming by. The words “Aryan Brotherhood” embellished their sleeveless denim jackets. “Jesus Christ. That’s all we need,” he muttered. Abe paid for the gas and pulled onto the highway, wondering how Emily would react to this new set of events.

  22

  Emily returned sometime after midnight. Evidently she had enjoyed the time spent with her kin, and she triumphantly showed Abe and Sally the sought-after key.

  “It’s the original. Mabel substituted a look-alike in the evidence room, so no one will ever know this one is missing. Sorry, Abe, but you are their only suspect. They can’t get a match on that other set of prints left on your knife, and even though there doesn’t appear to be a motive, you owned the weapon that killed Jackson. There was no registration card for a motorcycle in the campground that night. Basically, they’re left scratching their butts and looking at you.”

  “Well hell, that’s great news,” Abe said.

  They sat at the kitchen table while Abe went over the details concerning their earlier meeting with Paco. Emily nodded as he spoke, but when he mentioned the inclusion of some of Paco’s buddies, she jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth.