Minor in Possession

by J. A. Jance

  “Yes. The washer and dryer were both going full blast. I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “I got a message from the dispatcher that you wanted to talk to me.”

  “That’s right. Something’s come up. We need to talk. When can I see you?”

  “Not right now,” she said. “I’m just now parking at the Department of Public Safety crime lab. The guy I need to see will be here for only a few more minutes. What about later, after I finish up with him?”

  “Sure. Tell me where you’ll be,” I said. “I’ll meet you.”

  “You have wheels?”

  “At the moment,” I replied.

  I could almost hear her smiling. “Does that mean you convinced Alamo to rent you another car?”

  She was having a little fun at my expense, but I didn’t blame her, and I was operating under no delusions. Alamo would never have given me the keys to a second vehicle if Detective Reyes-Gonzales hadn’t gone to bat for me over the telephone.

  “As a matter of fact they did,” I said dryly. “Thanks for the help on that score.”

  “No problem. I was happy to do it. Do you know your way around Phoenix?”

  “A little,” I replied. “Enough to get back and forth from the airport.”

  She laughed. “The DPS headquarters is at 19th Avenue and Encanto. Know where that is?”

  “No, but I’m sure I can find it. Alamo gave me a map.”

  “Good. How about meeting me at La Piñata? It’s a Mexican restaurant at 19th and Osborn. I’ll be there by eleven-thirty or so, if that’s all right.”

  Why wouldn’t it be all right? I thought. I sure as hell wasn’t doing anything else, although I was wearing a little thin on an almost steady diet of Mexican food. “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  I found the restaurant without any trouble. A Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department car was already parked outside. Going into the darkened, cavelike vestibule, I was temporarily blinded by the gloom. I gave my name to the hostess, who led me into the dining room. Detective Reyes-Gonzales, with two colorful menus on the table in front of her, was seated in the far corner of the room.

  When I approached the table, she stood up and held out her hand in greeting. “Good to see you again, Detective Beaumont.”

  “Call me Beau, would you?”

  She smiled. “Sure. And I’m Delcia.”

  The careless toss of ebony curls as she sat back down hinted that under the lightweight camel-colored suit she wore, with its carefully tailored ivory silk blouse, lived a fiery woman. A fiery and temptingly feminine woman.

  Something uncomfortable stirred inside me. I remembered what Calvin Crenshaw had told me about the aftermath of his own years of drinking—the long-term damage. Maybe it was just a case of dry-out paranoia, but I wondered if I too had risked any permanent ill effects in that department. However, this was hardly the time or place to deal with that thorny issue.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked quizzically.

  Caught without a plausible lie on my lips, I gave her a lopsided grin. “Nothing,” I said more or less truthfully. “I was just thinking that you’re probably the best-looking homicide dick I’ve ever seen.”

  Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales gave no evidence of being either amused or complimented.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she asked, easily cutting through any attempt at sociable small talk. Before I could answer, our waitress, dressed in a bright yellow, flared Mexican peasant’s dress, came by to deliver Delcia’s coffee.

  She reached up to take the proffered cup and saucer. When she did, I noticed a slight but telltale bulge under her left arm. The small swelling told me she was wearing a not-so-feminine loaded shoulder holster next to the elegant silk blouse. Seeing that, I found myself suddenly very lonesome for the comforting presence of my own AWOL .38.

  In answer to the server’s question, I ordered a cup of coffee as well. “Any chance of getting my Smith and Wesson back?” I asked once the waitress left our table.

  “Not any time soon,” Delcia replied with a smile. “You know how those things go.”

  Unfortunately, I did know—only too well. It was highly unlikely that I’d ever again see my old faithful handgun. Although I had more than qualified to carry a new semiautomatic when Seattle P.D. switched over, I had hung onto the .38 like a child clings to a worn but familiar teddy bear. If by some miracle it was actually returned to me, it would only be after a suitably long and paperwork-laden wait.

  “Know where I could get a replacement?”

  She studied me levelly before answering. “Lots of places, but only with the usual three-day waiting period. Why do you want one?”

  “I feel naked without it, for one thing. And for another, I now know for sure that Joey Rothman was the one who tried to kill me, but just because he’s gone doesn’t mean somebody else won’t try to finish the job.”

  My words had an electrifying effect on Delcia Reyes-Gonzales. Her eyes flashed fire and her whole body was electrically alert.

  “Joey?” she asked, controlling her reaction enough that she put her coffee cup down without spilling any. “You say you know that for sure? How?”

  The waitress returned and took our orders. As soon as she left us, I launched into the story of my enlightening conversation with Jennifer Rothman. By the time I finished, Delcia was nodding her head thoughtfully.

  “The problem is, there’s no way to tell if Joey Rothman was acting alone or in conjunction with someone else.”

  “Or why,” I added gloomily.

  “It’s too bad snakes can’t talk,” she said with a half-amused smile. “If they could, maybe Ringo could clue us in.”

  “Ringo?” I demanded in surprise. “What about Ringo? You mean he’s still alive?”

  “Didn’t anybody tell you? It’s one of the main reasons I’m in Phoenix today—to drop Ringo off at the Phoenix Zoo for safekeeping. I did that first thing, before I drove over to the crime lab. I didn’t much like driving around alone with him in the car. In fact, that was my last stop before the Department of Public Safety.”

  “How did you find him? I thought he was a goner for sure.”

  “He was never lost. Shorty Rojas had him the whole time. Louise may have given orders to the contrary, but Shorty’s too softhearted for his own good. He was afraid the poor old snake wouldn’t be able to make it on his own. He hid him in the barn and planned to take Ringo down to a museum in Tucson on his next day off.”

  “Oh,” I said. “The one where his cousin works—the desert museum, or whatever it’s called.”

  Delcia nodded. “The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum,” she corrected. “Well, according to the keeper at the zoo here in Phoenix, Shorty was probably right to be worried—about the snake, I mean. Ringo’s old—somewhere in his mid to late teens—which is pretty old for a snake. The keeper said Ringo would have died if he’d been left on his own in the wild, especially since he would have been so far outside his natural habitat.”

  “He may be old for a snake,” I muttered glumly, “but age didn’t make him any less scary when he had me cornered in the cabin. And it didn’t slow him down enough so your guys found him when they searched my cabin, either.”

  “I asked about that this morning. At the zoo. The guy told me he probably found a hole somewhere and hid out in that until he thought it was safe to come out.”

  “Not a comforting thought,” I said.

  “No,” Delcia agreed. “I suppose not. Anyway, Shorty kept Ringo out of harm’s way until I picked him up, and now he’s being held in protective custody at the Phoenix Zoo. The Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department isn’t exactly equipped to take care of live snakes in our evidence room. That’s why we farmed him out to the zoo. Come to think of it, I believe it’s the first time we’ve ever had a live deadly weapon in a felonious assault case.”

  Delcia looked at me across her raised coffee cup while her dark eyes sparkled with humor.

  “Somehow I don’t find it
nearly as entertaining as you do,” I pointed out. “And if you ask me, that damn snake seems to be getting a helluva lot more attention than yours truly, who just happened to be the intended victim.”

  “Sorry,” she said evenly. “I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. Believe me, Beau, nobody’s treating this as a joke.”

  Mollified, I backed off. “I guess I’m a little edgy,” I admitted, disgusted with myself for trying to pick a fight with someone who was offering to be an ally at a time when allies were in short supply.

  “Perfectly understandable.” Delcia nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I went on to tell her about the books Jennifer had said she kept for Joey, the ones he had retrieved from her along with the snake the night he came to tell her good-bye.

  “From the way she talked, there must have been several volumes,” I said. “In fact, I’m sure he was working in one like it while we were together at the ranch.”

  “He was?” Delcia asked, thumbing back through her notebook, scanning several pages. “What was it like?”

  “Cloth-covered. Looked like a regular book almost, but the pages are blank inside so people can write on them.”

  Delcia frowned. “That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing anything like that either in his room or at the crime scene. It could be important.” She paused long enough to write another brief note in her small spiral notebook.

  Our food had come. I had ordered something they often call taquitos at Mexican dives in Seattle. In Phoenix they seem to be known as flautas. They were equally good if not better than the ones I’m used to having back home. For a while we ate in silence.

  “Any idea when he put the snake in your room?” she asked.

  I shook my head. For a moment Delcia sat chewing pensively before she spoke again. “I remember what Mrs. Attwood said the other night, that the snake could have been in your room for as much as a day or two, without your being aware of it. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Beats me. It seems as though I would have heard something, noticed or sensed something, but then again, maybe not. It had been stormy for several days with lots of wind, rain, and thunder. The cabin has a tin roof and it’s noisy as hell, so I could have missed it.”

  “Did Jennifer tell you what day she spoke with him?”

  “No, and I didn’t think to ask. The babysitter was bugging her to hurry and get off the phone.”

  Delcia made another note. I was sitting there watching her write when an odd thought occurred to me, one I hadn’t considered before. Maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. What if Joey’s leaving the snake in the room had been nothing more than an ugly practical joke? According to Rhonda, he hadn’t been above that sort of thing.

  “What’s going on?” Delcia asked.

  That’s why I never play poker. My face always provides a dead giveaway of whatever’s going on behind it.

  “Just a thought, that’s all.”

  “What kind of thought?” she insisted.

  “Is it possible he did it as a joke after all, to see what I would do? Remember what Rhonda told us about him turning Ringo loose in the house and her finding it a week or so later?”

  “I remember all right,” Delcia said with certainty, shaking her head, “but this is no practical joke, Beau. The two incidents happening in such close proximity have to be related. I can feel it in my bones. All we have to do is figure out the connection.”

  “We?” I said.

  “I,” she corrected.

  But her comment had made me feel better, less paranoid somehow. And it was apparent that her earlier skepticism about me and my story had been replaced by belief. During our interview in Prescott, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had clearly doubted my veracity. Now she was on my side.

  Something had changed her doubt to trust, and I wanted to ask what, but instinct cautioned me to be wary. If I tried horning in where I wasn’t welcome, I risked pushing her away. As the official investigator on the case, she needed to know about my conversation with Calvin Crenshaw, but if I told her, would she climb my frame for interfering? After all, she had just shot down my “we” and turned it into a singular “I.” On reflection, though, it seemed worth the gamble.

  “I talked to Calvin Crenshaw last night,” I ventured cautiously.

  “You what!” Delcia exclaimed. Her initial reaction wasn’t good, but I forged on anyway. The damage was already done. What more did I have to lose?

  “I drove up to Wickenburg last night and talked to him at home. It was a personal matter, Delcia,” I said reassuringly. “Louise had told my attorney that I was a permanent persona non grata at Ironwood Ranch. I wanted to get that situation straightened out.”

  Delcia’s face relaxed. Her sudden flash of anger dissipated. After all, my being thrown out of Ironwood Ranch wasn’t her problem. “Did you come to some agreement?” she asked.

  “Not exactly, because, based on what I found out, I don’t ever expect to darken their doorstep again.”

  Alert and listening, she waited attentively. “And what exactly did you find out?”

  “Louise Crenshaw was screwing Joey Rothman, among others. Calvin knew all about it. It was their own kinky little joke on the world.”

  Delcia Reyes-Gonzales seemed to rise in her seat by a good three inches.

  “Who told you this?”

  “Calvin,” I said. “Good old Calvin Crenshaw himself. But he also warned me that if I tried to pass any of it along, he’d deny it. My word against his. No way to prove it.”

  Delcia sat forward in her seat with her dark unsettling eyes drilling into mine. “Tell me precisely what he said, verbatim, as much as you can remember.”

  And so I did, stumbling as witnesses sometimes do in an attempt to remember everything. Delcia seemed to hang on every word, not taking notes, but assimilating every detail. When I finished, she was nodding.

  “In that case,” she said quietly, “Joey Rothman’s diary could be dynamite.”

  Before I could say anything more, she signaled for the waitress to bring the bill.

  I had hoped my recitation would result in her returning the favor and letting me in on some of what she had going, but that was not to be. She reached for her purse and headed for the cashier with me trailing along behind.

  “Wait a minute. Where are you going? What’s going on?”

  “I’m beginning to see a pattern here,” she said, stopping in front of the cashier’s desk. “One I don’t like. I’m going to check it out.”

  The cashier ran Delcia’s credit card through the machine while I waited impatiently in the crowded vestibule, which had filled up with lunchtime diners waiting for tables.

  “But can’t you tell me what it is?” I pleaded when we were alone outside, standing in front of her car.

  “No,” she said simply.

  “Why not?”

  “You seem to be forgetting something, Beau,” Delcia Reyes-Gonzales returned sweetly, favoring me with a dazzling smile.

  “What’s that?”

  “This is Arizona, not Washington, remember? Keep in touch.”

  With that, she got in her car and drove away, leaving me fuming in the parking lot.

  An old drinking buddy of mine once told me that when it comes to women, men don’t know shit.

  He sure as hell got that right.

  CHAPTER

  15

  The way Delcia Reyes-Gonzales wheeled out of the asphalt parking lot leaving strips of rubber in her wake told me that she was a woman with a definite purpose in mind, a lady with a fire lit under her slender butt. I must have said something that jibed with information she already knew or suspected, something important enough to merit her immediate attention. It pissed me off that she hadn’t bothered to tell me what that something was.

  Frustrated, I got in my rented Subaru and drove home to Ralph Ames’ house, intent on finishing the laundry. At the very least, sorting and folding clean clothes was a job with some resolution to it, with a tangi
ble beginning and end, both of which were firmly under my power and control. That was a whole lot different from the people and circumstances surrounding Joey Rothman.

  There were two messages on Ames’ answering machine, both from Rhonda Attwood, both anxiously trying to reach Ralph, and both saying she’d call back later. Hearing her voice made me crabby as hell. It reinforced my suspicions that she was up to no good and made me wonder what kind of subterfuge she was going to use to sucker Ames into helping her. I was sorely templed to erase the messages entirely, but I didn’t My mother taught me to be a better houseguest than that.

  MYOB, Beaumont, I told myself firmly. MYOB.

  I had completed the only crossword puzzle in the house and was just folding the last load of wash, the once-muddy sandbagging clothes, when the doorbell rang. I saw the green Fiat through the sidelight windows. What the hell is Rhonda Attwood doing here? I thought as I opened the door.

  She smiled up at me. “Is Ralph back from the golf tournament yet?”

  “No,” I answered with some vexation. Again I was odd-man-out. Ralph hadn’t told me about being in a golf tournament, but he had told Rhonda.

  “He said he thought he’d be done by three-thirty or four,” Rhonda continued easily. “Mind if I come in and wait?”

  “No,” I said. “Come on in.”

  Someone else might have noticed my annoyance, but Rhonda didn’t She followed me into the spacious living room, where I motioned her toward the long white leather couch. Once again, Rhonda didn’t take the hint. Instead of sitting down, she prowled around the room, examining the various pieces of artwork on the walls and tables, frowning at some and nodding in appreciation at others.

  Finally she turned and looked at me. “Ralph certainly has the eye of a connoisseur, doesn’t he,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” I answered brusquely. I thought she had a hell of a lot of nerve to meander uninvited around Ralph’s living room, treating it like a goddamned museum.

  “Would you like a drink?” I asked, attempting halfheartedly to assume the role of stand-in host.

  She glanced at her watch before she answered. “A Crown Royal if you’ve got it. Neat.”