by Lisa Mangum
“I wasn’t scared until I heard a shout. I went to the window and peeked through the curtain. That’s when I saw it.”
“The unicorn?” I ask, keeping my tone as even as possible.
She nods. “The moon was full so I could see good. At first I thought it was a horse with a man riding it. But then I saw the horn and the dark purple fur. Uncle Ed was real surprised. That man spurred the unicorn hard, and it ran down my uncle, its horn hitting him … right in the … He … I …” She trails off into soft sobs. I feel for the kid. She’s suffered way too many losses in the past few months.
The tears don’t last long. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a few beats, and slowly lets it out. She wipes the tears from her cheeks, her eyes hardening. “The man got off the unicorn and came in here.”
“What did you do?”
“I hid behind the door. He walked in like he had been here before. Went right to the kitchen. I hid behind the couch and watched. I couldn’t see much. There was banging, crashing, and a bunch of beeps. He marched out holding some papers.”
“Did he see you? Did you get a good look at him?”
She shakes her head. “He had a bandana over his mouth. I don’t think he saw me. He walked right out, got on his unicorn, and rode away.”
I nod and walk into the small kitchen. One of the plain handmade wooden cabinets is open, cans spilling out onto the counter and the floor. In the cabinet is a small metal safe embedded into the wall. The door is ajar, and the safe is empty.
“Is that where you got the money?” I ask after I walk back into the living room.
Irene nods, her hands back onto her lap, her eyes way too calm.
* * *
It’s a hot day and the corpse of Edwardo Campos is going to stink to high heaven soon. The smell of blood and urine and horse manure is already overpowering.
“It looks like a horn did this,” Helen Montana says, pulling away the bloodied cowboy shirt that used to be a powder blue. There’s been a lot of foot traffic, but I did find a few fresh hoofprints leading to the corpse. She gets up, brushing absently at her ponytailed blonde hair. Helen is a tall, big-boned woman with blue eyes and a great smile. She’s my age at around forty. There’s been sparks, and we’ve briefly dated a few times, but never a sustained flame. Working with her is always a bit awkward.
She walks several paces back to a yellow CSI marker where I located the hoofprints right next to a shotgun. “It looks like he was hit here and thrown back.”
“The bull did it?” I ask.
“I’ll know more when I do the autopsy.”
I nod, glancing back to the faded blue ranch house.
“Sorry, Conner,” she says, and I hear that sweetness in her voice that makes work hard.
“Did they get a blood sample from the bull’s horn?” I ask.
She chuckles and looks over to a corral where two deputies are trying to get a rope around the bull. He’s a big Hereford and doesn’t appear to be cooperating. “Maybe you should go show them how it’s done.”
I shake my head, feeling uncomfortable. Helen was born in upstate New York and has a thing for cowboys. Could explain her interest in a mess like me.
Sanchez walks up, her arms folded. “You taking the case?”
“Any other witnesses?” I ask, pointing at a smaller building back behind the blue house.
Sanchez shakes her head. “Campos used to have a ranch hand living there. The neighbors told us he left a few months ago before the girl got here. Said they were close, that the old man treated him like a son, but something happened.”
“Did you call CPS, Child Protective Services?”
She nods. “Doesn’t look like they can get out here today.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Budget cuts. Short staffed. You know the drill.”
“And what about Irene?”
Sanchez chuckles and smiles at me again. “You take the case, you take the girl.” She walks away looking like she’s having the time of her life, paying me back for that stakeout with this mess.
* * *
I go help the deputies with the bull. Not that I want to get into the corral with a ton of pissed off beef. I need to think. And to think, I need to move. Everyone, including Detective Sanchez, knows I need the cash. But taking a little girl’s money on a wild-goose chase doesn’t seem proper.
I climb over the fence and hop down onto the churned brown dirt of the corral. It stinks of horse and cow, but at least it doesn’t smell of death. The jolt of the hop doesn’t do my sacrum any good, and I feel each and every one of my old rodeo injuries. I rode bulls for a while, but mostly worked as a rodeo clown—keeping other riders safe was the right kind of crazy for me.
“You’re just makin’ the old boy mad,” I shout to the two deputies. One is the lanky blond from the house. “Back away.” They comply promptly.
I scrape some oats out of the bottom of the feed trough and get the specimen collection swab from the tall deputy and amble over toward the bull.
Those deputies may have been born and raised in Arizona, but they ain’t no cowboys. They were afraid and trying to overpower an animal that’s five times their weight. Stupid.
“Hi ya, boy,” I say gently as I approach, the hand with the oats outstretched. I keep my eye on the bull and walk slowly. This is no rodeo bull used to bucking guys like me off. This fellow’s older, probably kept around for stud duties. He didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t want to be bullied either.
People think cows are dumb, but they ain’t. They seek safety and comfort just like the rest of us. The bull’s big brown eyes finally leave mine and flick to the handful of oats. I’m two paces away and I stop walking, the final choice has to be his.
My left hand has the swab in it, and I hold it just back from the oats. I’d be a fool to spring it on him while he was eating. His nostrils flair and his eyes flick to the swab and back to the oats. He doesn’t like the sharp alcohol scent of the swab, but he wants the oats.
I stand there like I don’t care and just keep talking to him. He eventually takes two steps forward, his soft mouth in my hand as his rough tongue licks up the oats. I wipe the swab against the red stain on his horn, and when he’s done eating, I back slowly away.
A crowd has gathered, and there’s a smattering of applause. When I’m clear of the bull, I look back and see Helen holding Irene on the other side of the corral. Detective Sanchez is there, a question on her face.
* * *
“The girl is traumatized,” I say to Sanchez. We’re out of earshot of Helen and Irene, who are both staring at us as we walk the dirt driveway. “She needs a professional.”
“The system sucks,” she says, “but the girl needs something to do, and running around with you trying to find a purple unicorn might be better than her hanging out in the sheriff’s office.”
I’m about to say something stupid when it occurs to me that this must be Sanchez’s way of looking out for the girl. But why me? “What about the robbery? There’s somethin’ that ain’t right.”
She shrugs and points towards the bull. “I’ve got the killer right there. As to the money, the old man just realized he bought a bunch of Home Depot stock on a whim back in the eighties. He’s suddenly rich, that explains the money, and besides, the safe wasn’t forced open. Until I have evidence to the contrary, I’m done.”
I nod and look back at the girl. Helen has her by the hand and is walking her away from the crime scene and towards the pasture. The girl needs someone, that much is certain. But me? A mostly drunk, past-his-prime cowboy pretending to be Australian?
“Look, Bright,” Sanchez says. “Just take the girl for the day. Take any clue you can find and run it down with her. I’ll call you when the social workers are ready for her.”
Sanchez walks away and starts barking orders. I don’t fight it. I owe her.
* * *
I keep Irene in the house while Helen finishes with the corpse and hauls him away.
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It’s odd that the murderer wanted those papers, but didn’t care about the money. And that damn unicorn keeps tripping me up. Maybe there was no robbery. Maybe Irene knew the combination and got into the safe herself.
I’m standing in the mess of a kitchen staring off into space when I notice Irene looking at me. Her eyes have that too-wide look of shock. That’s why she’s been so restrained. The poor kid is in shock. Sanchez was right, she needs something to do.
“All righty then,” I say, stooping down and picking up a can. “Get over here and help me clean this up.”
“Clean?” Irene says.
I nod. “There could be a clue here, so we’re gonna clean up this mess and see what we can find.”
* * *
While Irene is in the kitchen, I go searching Edwardo’s bedroom. It’s small and neat, with a twin bed, an old wooden chest at the end, a small closet, and a cross on the wall.
I start in the closet, going through the pale blue cowboy shirts—the man liked to dress the same every day—and patting down the two dark blue blazers. Each of them has a matchbook from the same place. The Sugar and Spice, a “gentlemen’s club” in downtown Phoenix.
So the old man liked to look at young women.
“Did your Uncle Ed go out much?” I ask Irene back in the kitchen.
Irene nods. “Every Saturday night. He didn’t think I knew, but he snuck out after I went to bed. Stayed out real late. He always came back smelling like smoke.” She wrinkles her nose.
It’s Monday morning, Edwardo was killed Sunday night. Maybe something happened at Sugar and Spice. I show Irene the matchbooks.
“What is it?” she asks.
“A clue, Irene. It’s a clue.”
* * *
The Sugar and Spice is a pinkish building with bright neon that sits between a bank and a fast-food joint off a busy street in central Phoenix. I shift uncomfortably in the seat of the El Camino as I drive by for the fourth time. It’s Irene sitting next to me that makes me feel uncomfortable.
The fifth time I drive by, Irene sighs and says, “Just pull in.”
I park behind the building.
“Are we going in?” Irene asks.
“You’re kiddin’, right?”
“I know what goes on in there. Men look at girls.” She ends by rolling her eyes.
My reputation’s bad enough without dragging an eight-year-old into a strip club right before turning her over to CPS. “Not gonna happen, love,” I say as I get out the car. I walk over and open the door for her. She looks puzzled, but gets out and follows me to the McDonald’s next door. As I do this, I’m convinced that I’m not the only man that’s dropped off a little girl at this McDonald’s before ducking into Sugar and Spice.
She doesn’t complain, but she grabs my hand and holds it as we cross the hot asphalt. Her hand feels so small in mine, and I look down at her and she’s looking at me with a tiny smile on her face. That look of trust scares the hell out of me.
* * *
The inside of Sugar and Spice smells of desperation, with a bored blonde dancing and a few rumpled men watching. I give the bartender a twenty and show him the picture of Edwardo Campos that Irene gave me. He tells me Edwardo was there the night before last, buying drinks and celebrating like he’d just won the lottery or something.
On the way out of Sugar and Spice, I’m confused. I have no motive for murder, and no idea why a robber would leave behind a wad of cash—or ride a purple unicorn, for that matter.
I’m not looking and collide with a man on his way in while I’m on the way out, the Phoenix heat swirling around us.
“Sorry, mate,” I say, looking at the stranger. He’s got on alligator-skin cowboy boots, a Stetson hat, sharp green eyes, and a sneer. He’s almost as tall as me, but a lot beefier.
“Watch it, buddy,” he grumbles, moving past quickly. I’m distracted by his boots, which would make a fine addition to my Australian cowboy look.
I get halfway to the El Camino when Irene runs up and wraps her arms around me. “That’s him,” she whispers between gulping breaths. “The man that came into my house. That killed Uncle Ed.”
“How do you know?”
“The boots. The eyes. I’ll never forget them.”
* * *
An El Camino is a crappy car to tail someone in. Especially mine. With its shiny blue paint job and tricked-out rims, it stands out. This car is the one thing in my life that I truly take care of. I love it. It’s a car, but it’s got a bed like a truck. It’s rare. It used to be my dad’s.
Irene is sitting right next to me, eyes wide. She smells of cheap beef, french fries, and fear. Her closeness feels strangely good.
We follow Alligator Boots in his red Ford F-150 from Sugar and Spice to a Circle K where he stops for gas. I pull into the carpet place next door. When he ducks into the Circle K, I make to get out of the car, but Irene grabs me.
“Don’t go,” she says. “Please.”
I get lost in those big brown eyes of hers. I’m not used to someone needing me.
“I’ll be right back. No worries.” Those eyes don’t look like they believe me.
I walk casually over to the truck and place my cell phone in the back. What I see there makes me gasp. It’s a long horn with spiral ridges running its length. It’s an honest-to-god unicorn horn. I’m dizzy for a moment. Did Irene really see what she thought she saw?
As I look closer, I see that the tip of the horn is rough, as if it broke off, and the other end has an odd leather harness on it.
I rush back to the car, my heart pounding hard.
* * *
It feels strange, like I’m missing something. I’ve left Irene with the morgue’s receptionist. I had called in on a burner phone I bought at the Circle K to have Sanchez trace my cell so I could keep tabs on Alligator Boots. She told me Helen needed to see me and it was urgent.
Helen is pacing when I walk in. Her blue eyes are a bit wide and remind me of Irene’s. Does Helen need me too?
The corpse of Edwardo Campos is laid out on a metal table, the wound to his chest all that much more shocking being exposed—no shirt to hide it, no blood to mask it. It’s a big, red hole near his heart.
The morgue is pretty small. A couple of shining tables for the dead with bright lights mounted above. A wall of drawers for bodies to be stored in. Except for the ragged wound in Edwardo’s chest, the place is spotless and smells strongly of antiseptic.
Helen’s biting her lip and stands me next to the body, showing me a stainless steel tray. In it is what looks like a piece of bone about the size of an almond. Like a piece of rib or something.
“So?” I ask, shrugging my shoulders.
“The blood you got from the bull’s horn is his. But … I pulled this out of him,” she says, like she’s telling me the Pope is secretly a woman or something.
I give her a blank stare. I’m clueless.
She drags me over to big round magnifying glass and holds the tray underneath it, giving me a pointed look. I lean close and look at the little piece of bone. It’s pointed and has a distinct spiral ridge. When I look back at Helen, I’m smiling. She looks worried.
“That ain’t no cow horn,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“Good on ya, Helen,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “You just made my case.”
“What? Conner, unicorns don’t exist. How can this be?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. What I do know is I just saw the mate to that piece in the back of an F-150.”
* * *
We’re back in the El Camino heading out of Phoenix towards my place. I’m tired and hungry and don’t know what else to do. Sanchez won’t go after Alligator Boots. Won’t tell officers to look for an F-150 with a unicorn horn in the back, says she’d be risking her reputation and won’t do that for me. She wants more evidence.
Irene’s smile is a mile wide. She looks so much more like a kid now. She’s happy because I told her what Helen found an
d what I saw in the back of that F-150. Told her that I believe her. Her smile warms my wilted old heart.
It’s near rush hour and the Phoenix traffic is thick as ants on honey. We’re moving slowly forward in the stifling heat.
Phoenix is a flat and boring expanse except for the occasional outcrop of craggy stone. The city streets are a monotony of urban sprawl with strip malls, cookie-cutter houses, and the ubiquitous Circle Ks.
“So do you think it was a real unicorn?” Irene asks, her voice all bubbly and light.
I shrug my shoulders. Given the harness that was on the horn, I doubt that. I didn’t get to telling her that part, and with her lit up like this, I just can’t.
In the rearview, I catch a flash of a bright red truck weaving its way through traffic. My face falls.
“What’s wrong, Conner?” Irene asks.
“Nothin’, love,” I lie. I point at the glove compartment. “There’s a bottle of water in there. You best drink in this heat.”
She nods and dutifully pulls out the water bottle and takes a drink. My eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror looking for that red truck. Maybe it’s Mr. Alligator Boots. Maybe he got wise to me following him.
At a stoplight, I pull out the burner phone and text Sanchez, Check location of both phones.
A minute later, as the traffic is finally starting to ease up, she texts back. Same location.
* * *
We didn’t have the tail long. I saw him briefly right behind me and then he was gone, talking a left and speeding off.
When we’re past the city and closer to my house, we pull into yet another Circle K, my stomach grumbling and my head pounding. I needed food and a drink. A stiff drink. I take Irene in. She holds my hand the whole time while I pick up a few microwave burritos and some cookies for us, and she picks out some potato chips.
I stop in front of the refrigerated section. I have to let go of Irene’s hand to open the door. My hand’s shaking a bit, my body screaming for alcohol. And there it is. Row after row of beer, an obscene number of choices. Dark beer, light beer, fancy beer, cheap beer, foreign beer.
Beer reminds me of Tommy Wilkins. Of the sickening sound of his scream when I ran him over. You’d think it would make me drink less, but it’s done just the opposite.