by J. A. Jance
I’ve survived a good portion of my career in the fuzzy world of affirmative action. Years of departmental consciousness-raising seminars have taught me better manners than to call women girls, especially not the ladies who make their way up through the law enforcement ranks and land on their feet in detective divisions.
The female detectives with the Seattle police are women who definitely carry their own weight. Although I can’t say the trail-blazers have always been welcomed with open arms, they’ve done all right for themselves and for the department as well, because the ones who really make it in a man’s world, quotas notwithstanding, have to be smart and capable both.
Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales seemed to qualify on both counts. She was only about five six, slim and olive-skinned, but I sensed tensile strength packed in that slender body. Lustrous ebony curls were pulled away from her face while silver earrings dangled from each delicate earlobe. She was far and away the prettiest and most exotic detective I’ve ever seen, but there was nothing frivolous about her dignified carriage. Her brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and purpose.
Delcia Reyes-Gonzales inclined her head and held out her hand, acknowledging Nina’s introduction. She smiled slightly, revealing a row of straight white teeth.
“Sorry to disturb your session,” she said. “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I was getting a little antsy in there. Can I do anything to help?”
“We’d like to go through your cabin, if you don’t mind, since it belonged to you as well as the deceased. We’ll need to search your vehicle as well since presumably he was in it shorty before he died.
“I have someone standing by in Prescott ready to obtain search warrants if necessary, but that will take several hours. In the meantime, I have a Consent-to-Search form here. If you’d be so good as to sign that, it would certainly speed things up.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said. “Hand it over.”
The detective withdrew the consent form from a maroon leather briefcase and handed it to me. Using the case as a writing surface, I signed the paper on the spot.
“I suppose you’ve already called in a crime scene team,” I commented, passing the signed paper back to her.
Detective Reyes-Gonzales shook her head. “We do our own crime scene work,” she replied, “although the state crime lab in Phoenix does the actual analysis. This way, please, Detective Beaumont. We’re to use Mrs. Crenshaw’s office. Mr. Crenshaw will be making the official announcement as soon as people come to the dining hall for lunch.”
In the course of the morning a new bank of lowering clouds had blown in from the west. Now it began sprinkling in earnest. Walking briskly through the spattering rain, Detective Reyes-Gonzales led the way up the path to the main building, through the deserted dining room, and down the tiled hallway to Louise Crenshaw’s office. She opened the door without knocking and motioned me into a chair before pausing to speak briefly to someone who had followed us down the hall. Finished with that, Detective Reyes-Gonzales closed the door firmly behind her, then settled herself easily into Louise Crenshaw’s executive chair.
“I take it things weren’t particularly cordial between you and your roommate, Detective Beaumont,” she said, opening our discussion with both a shrewd statement and an equally disarming smile. That’s a killer combination for a detective—one few male detectives ever master. It did as expected and suckered me right into talking when I probably should have been listening.
“‘Not cordial’ isn’t the expression I’d use,” I replied shortly. “Joey Rothman was a punk kid. I’ve never liked punk kids.”
“Tell me a little about him,” she said. “For instance, what do you mean by the term ‘punk kid’?”
“You know the type—a spoiled brat. His family has way more money than good sense. He was a braggart, especially where women were concerned. Claimed he could screw anything in skirts. And then, there were all those rumors.”
Detective Reyes-Gonzales seemed to become more alert. “What rumors?”
I had opened my mouth and inserted my foot. “About him being a hotshot drug dealer,” I answered. “Legend has it that he was a big-time operator, that he was still dealing right here at Ironwood Ranch.”
The detective arched one delicate eyebrow. “You’re saying he was still dealing while a patient at the recovery center?”
“As I said, that was only a rumor. I’d take it with a grain of salt if I were you.”
“Why?”
“I’m telling you, Joey Rothman was a braggart. He thrived on attention. Bad attention, good attention, it was all the same to him. Joey knew I was a cop. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started that rumor himself just to see if I’d try to do anything about it.”
“Did you?”
“I ignored him as much as possible. I’m not here dropping a grand and a half a week to play games of cops and robbers with some young twerp. Joey and I shared the same cabin, but that’s as far as it went. I kept away from him except when absolutely necessary.”
“What happened last night? I understand from one or two people I’ve talked to that there was some kind of problem in the dining room just before your family went back into town to their motel.”
That was a lie. The detective hadn’t talked to one or two people to get that piece of information. She had only talked to one—Louise Crenshaw herself. I remembered the disapproving glare Louise had leveled at me as she walked by Kelly and me just when our battle over Joey Rothman was reaching fever pitch.
“He was messing around with my daughter. Kelly’s only seventeen. He was leading her on when he’d already—”
I broke off, but too late. Detective Reyes-Gonzales was on point. “When he’d already what?” she asked sharply.
Lamely I shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose by now you know all about Michelle Owens.”
“What do you know about Michelle Owens?” Detective Reyes-Gonzales returned.
“That she’s pregnant and claims Joey Rothman is the father.”
“And how do you know so much about it? Did Joey tell you?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not. I talked to Guy Owens, Michelle’s father.”
“After he got the results back from the doctor?”
Clearly, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had already done a considerable amount of homework among the players.
“Yes,” I answered. “After he got the results.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did you talk to him?”
“At the cabin. Joey’s and my cabin. Guy came there looking for Joey.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“After lights-out?”
“Yes.”
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know. It must have been around midnight. Maybe a little later.”
“And then what happened?”
“I kept waiting for Joey to come in, but I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up around four-thirty, that’s when I discovered the car keys were missing.”
“And?” she prompted.
“I went up to the parking lot, expecting the car to be gone, but it wasn’t. It was parked right where it is now. The keys were in the ignition.”
“You should have turned your gun in to the treatment center when you checked into Ironwood Ranch four weeks ago. It shouldn’t have been left in the vehicle.”
Detective Reyes-Gonzales was no longer smiling. Deputy Hanson had already told her about the Smith and Wesson in the glove box, and her understated reprimand was well deserved.
“I know. I’ve been telling myself the same thing over and over all morning long. I just didn’t, that’s all. No good reason for it either except that we’ve been through the wars together, that .38 and I. Maybe I’m paranoid. I don’t feel comfortable if I can’t get to it if I want to. If I need to. You know how it is.”
From the level, detached look s
he gave me, I wasn’t at all sure Detective Reyes-Gonzales did know how it was. Maybe female cops don’t have the same kind of meaningful relationship with their weapons that male cops do. Maybe they don’t have to.
There was a sharp rap on the door behind me. “Come in,” she called.
The door opened to reveal Deputy Mike Hanson standing outside, waiting anxiously for the door to open. “Excuse me, Delcy, but could I have a word with you?”
Detective Reyes-Gonzales stood up. “Do you mind?” she asked.
“Not at all. Go right ahead.”
She stepped outside and closed the door. For several moments I could hear them speaking urgently back and forth. When she came back into the room, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales was frowning.
“I’m afraid something’s come up, Detective Beaumont,” she said. “We’re going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?”
It was my turn to smile. “I’m not going anywhere,” I answered. “What about fingerprints? The deputy said you’d want a set of mine for comparison.”
Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn’t really listening. “That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.” She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.
“And if you don’t mind, Detective Beaumont,” she added, “stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?”
“Of course.”
She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw’s office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own .38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she’d come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she’d have to.
An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn’t help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman’s death. Homicide detectives don’t break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there’s some over-whelmingly compelling reason.
I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn’t going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn’t a detective at all. He was an outsider—a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.
More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…
The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too filled with a sense of foreboding to want to sit alone any longer in the depressing oak-lined cell that was Louise Crenshaw’s office.
As people filed into the dining room, they were strangely silent, as though somehow word had spread through the general Ironwood Ranch population that something was dreadfully wrong. As yet, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was, but all were equally affected by it. There was no playful banter in the serving line, no joking or calling back and forth as people headed for tables. At the far end of the room, Calvin Crenshaw paced nervously back and forth in front of the huge fireplace. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he stared fixedly at the floor as he walked.
Ed Sample sidled up to me in line. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. “Everybody’s acting as though their best friend died or something.”
I glanced at him quickly, trying to assess if his comment was merely an innocent coincidence or if he had some inside knowledge of what had happened. Despite my questioning look, Sample steadfastly met my gaze, his countenance blandly open and indifferent, his smooth features the picture of a man with nothing to hide. Had I been the detective on the case, I would have paid attention to his comment and done some discreet digging into Ed Sample’s personal life to see if there was a connection between him and that miserable dead excuse for a human being, Joey Rothman.
You’re not the detective, I reminded myself silently. Go have some lunch and stay out of it.
“Beats me,” I said aloud, and hurried over to Dolores Rojas’ serving window. I collected a plate filled with her version of corned-beef hash along with a generous portion of steamed fresh vegetables. I glanced around the room and found that Karen and the kids were already settled at a table. Scott had saved a chair for me. I hurried over to it, wanting to be there as a buffer when Calvin Crenshaw made his inevitable announcement.
As I walked across the dining room carrying my plate, that’s when the inconsistency struck me full force. Why was Calvin Crenshaw making the announcement? Why not Louise? For someone who was always front and center, for someone who had insisted that she be the one to notify the authorities of any irregularities, this sudden reticence seemed totally out of character. Understated elegance wasn’t Louise Crenshaw’s style.
Karen looked at me questioningly as I walked up. Kelly feigned an engrossing conversation with the person next to her so she wouldn’t have to see me. I took the chair Scott offered, sat down, and glanced around the room, making a quick mental roll call.
Cal was still pacing in front of the fireplace. Louise was nowhere to be seen. Michelle and Guy Owens weren’t seated at any of the tables, nor were they standing in line waiting to be served. That was just as well. Their absence confirmed my suspicion that they must have been the first to be notified of Joey Rothman’s death when Nina Davis had pulled them out of the room before the beginning of our early morning session.
When the last straggler left the serving window, Cal cleared his throat with a tentative cough that carried throughout the room. The already subdued crowd hushed expectantly.
“I regret to inform you,” Cal began slowly and deliberately. “I regret to inform you that something tragic has happened here today. Joey Rothman was found in the river early this morning.”
Calvin stopped speaking. The people in the room looked uncertainly at one another. “What I’m trying to tell you,” Calvin Crenshaw continued, “is that Joey Rothman is dead.”
There was a moment of stark silence followed by a shocked, betrayed shriek. Sobbing, Kelly leaped from her chair and stumbled blindly from the room.
It was going to be one of those days. All day long.
CHAPTER
6
Karen shoved back her chair and went after Kelly while Scott caught my eye. “Geez, Dad,” he said. “What’s going on here?”
I didn’t have much of an answer.
Once lunch was over, the dining room cleared out as though someone had pulled a plug. People wanted to talk about Joey Rothman’s sudden death, and they wanted to do it in relative privacy. Ignoring the rain and taking their family members with them, they quickly dispersed to individual cabins rather than hanging around the main dining room as they usually did to linger over cigarettes and coffee.
Because of the murder investigation, I was forbidden to return to my own cabin. Adding insult to injury, Burton Joe corralled Karen and the kids and vanished with them into his private office for some kind of confidential powwow. Within minutes I found myself alone in the dining room, stewing in my own juices. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to do it with. Willing to settle for a much-needed nap as a dubious consolation prize, I settled down by the fireplace to wait out the remainder of the lunch break.
I had b
arely closed my eyes when the front door banged open. James Rothman, Joey’s father, strode into the room with Jennifer, his seven-year-old, blonde-haired daughter, trailing forlornly along in his wake. He paused briefly at the entrance to the hallway leading to the administrative wing of the building and looked down at his daughter. Stopping and kneeling beside her, he spoke briefly, motioning for her to return to the dining room and wait for him there, then he hurried on down the hallway.
The child, alone and hesitant, stood looking longingly after him, hoping he’d relent and let her accompany him. He didn’t. Down the hall and well out of sight, a door slammed shut, giving voice to James Rothman’s final answer. Dejected, Jennifer turned her back to the closed door and surveyed the long dining room with its empty tables and chairs.
Uncertain of my reception with her, I waved tentatively across the deserted tables. As soon as she saw me, her desolate elfin features brightened. In a day of sudden upheaval, I was someone vaguely familiar, someone she recognized. After all, I had been her brother’s roommate.
Dubiously, she waved back.
“Would you like to come sit here with me?” I called.
Jennifer Rothman had come to Ironwood Ranch the previous week as part of her brother’s family week experience. In my book, she was the proverbial sweet-tempered petunia trapped in an onion patch full of schmucks. She was a beautiful child—fair-skinned with straight long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When Joey had initially introduced us, I fully expected her to be a brat. After all, chronic phoniness seemed to run in the family.
Her half-brother was an out-and-out jackass. Jennifer’s parents, unrepentant yuppies, showed up at every group session dressed in matching sets of Fila sweats. Daddy was a loud, obnoxious blowhard—Joey came by his boorishness honestly—and Marsha, his stepmother, moved in a cloud of resentment that belied the skin-deep show of marital harmony suggested by their matching outfits. I figured Jennifer would make it four for four.