Nightwalker

by Rhonda L. Print

  Wilson jogged back up the ridge with Ramírez on his heels. Wilson held his hand out to help me up. He was smart enough to keep the laughter off his face as I stood and wiped the mud off the back of my dress.

  Ramírez wasn’t.

  Stupid man.

  “Hey Wolfe, if you wanted to mud wrestle, all you had to do was ask. I’d be happy to…”

  In one fluid movement I dropped to a stooping position and swept my leg out. Ramírez landed fully on his back in the mud. Wilson covered his laugh with a cough as Ramírez struggled to stand.

  “You’re a letch, Ramírez.” I gave him a satisfied grin as he picked himself up off the muddy ground.

  “And you’re a bitch, Wolfe.” He took a step toward me, his hands clenched into fists.

  “Yeah, but I’m the bitch who took you down.” I kicked off my shoes and squared my shoulders. I didn’t really think he’d take the punch, but I was damn sure going to be ready if he did.

  Wilson stepped between us. “If you two can spare a minute, maybe we can get back to the dead woman.”

  I glared at Ramírez and let out my breath in a long sigh. Ramírez unclenched his fists and took a step back. “This ain’t over Wolfe. That was a cheap shot.”

  “It just so happens that I have an appointment open at 4:30 tomorrow, shall we continue this then?” I asked in my most innocent voice.

  “I’m off duty at 3:00. Meet me at Luigi’s, loser buys the pizza.”

  “You’re on.”

  Taking bets at a murder scene may seem coldhearted to a civilian. For a cop, distracting yourself from the daily onslaught of horror and gore is a sanity-saving defense mechanism.

  “What do we know about the victim?” I yanked at the bottom of my dress.

  Wilson flipped open a small notebook that he always kept with him. “Tamara Mahu, twenty-three years old, Native American. She was last heard from at eight this morning, that puts her missing for approximately,” he glanced down at his watch, “eight or nine hours. A friend reported her missing after she didn’t show up for a lunch date and he couldn’t find her at her home.”

  “Do you think this was an animal attack?” Ramírez got his head back in the game.

  “You know this wasn’t animal. The cuts are too clean, jagged but not torn. Has the heart been found yet?” I stood and rubbed my hands up and down my arms. Talking to the dead always left me feeling chilled.

  “We’ve searched the area, hell, even had the dogs out. The only sign of blood is in the perimeter of the body.” Wilson looked out over the vast desert as if he could somehow will the heart to appear.

  “So whoever did this took the heart. It could be symbolic of love or revenge. You know, ‘you ripped my heart out so I’ll rip yours out’. Check with past and current boyfriends or lovers.”

  “Were already on that, Leah.” He turned to Ramírez. “Check the progress on that, Ramírez.” Ramírez didn’t argue, he simply turned and left.

  “Did you get anything on this, you know, was her, soul, spirit, whatever, there?” Wilson knew that my abilities were not psychic, that just made the whole “talking to the dead thing” easier to explain, but that didn’t make him comfortable with it.

  “She was there for a couple of minutes but too hysterical to help. She should have stayed around longer.”

  “What do you mean, ‘should’ have stayed around longer?”

  “The soul doesn’t usually know the body is dead this quickly, especially within a couple of hours. She knew she was dead, she must have known before that she was going to die. She didn’t die here, either. Someone killed her and dumped the body here.”

  Wilson continued to write in his little notebook. “Why do you think she was killed elsewhere?”

  “Her shoes.”

  He stopped writing and looked up at me, a furrow between his eyebrows accenting his blue eyes. “Shoes?”

  “Yeah, shoes. They’re sequined heels, no mud and the sequins are still in place. The rain could have washed away enough blood to make it look like she was killed here, but the shoes wouldn’t have survived the rain in that good a condition.”

  “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  “Wilson?” I placed my hand on his arm to bring his full attention back to me. “Why call me in on this one? I haven’t worked a case in five months.”

  I watched expressions race across Wilson’s face. He was either looking for a lie or didn’t want to tell me something he knew would piss me off. Since Wilson didn’t lie, that left only one option.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I asked warily.

  He braced his shoulders and let out a long sigh. “She’s from Joaquín’s reservation.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I could feel the anger crawl up my skin. “You brought me in here to play peacemaker with Joaquín. What the hell makes you think he’ll talk to me, he thinks I’m an ‘unholy witch’. I believe those were his parting words.”

  Joaquín Wildhorse was Chief Detective of the Reservation Police Department. He was also my former fiancé. The first time we “worked” together I spoke to a spirit of a murdered elder, who, by the way, outed half the tribal council as plotting his death to achieve higher ranks. Joaquín looked at me like I was an alien, told me I was an unholy witch and he could take me to a tribal healer to cast my demons aside. I introduced my knee to his testicles and threw his ring at him as he lay on the ground.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on taking steady, even breaths. I had not seen or heard from him in several months and I would not shed another tear for Joaquín Wildhorse. He wasn’t the first person I’d lost to my “curse”, oh, pardon me, “gifts”. He was the end of a long line of betrayals and a large part of the reason that I’d relinquished my retainer with the department. I’d spent the last few months making an attempt at a “normal” life, whatever the hell that was.

  I opened my eyes and held my face very neutral as I asked Wilson, “What makes you think he’d listen to anything I have to say?”

  “He asked for you.”

  My eyes flew wide, my calm, neutral expression ripped away by surprise.

  Wilson put his hand on my shoulder. “This was done in broad daylight. He knows this woman. He wants you to help find her killer.”

  I shook my head slowly back and forth. “Why me?”

  “He told me that you’re the only one with abilities he can trust.”

  Shit.

  Chapter Two

  It was after one in the morning before the crime scene was clear. There were no neighbors to canvas in the open desert and no witnesses had come forward. There were no fresh tire marks and not enough blood on the scene for the murder to have taken place there. As I suspected, she’d been killed elsewhere and her body dumped.

  The coroner took the body and promised a preliminary report within twenty-four hours. Wilson arranged to meet with Chief Joaquín Wildhorse in his office at eight in the morning then offered me a ride home. If I were lucky, I’d get four hours of sleep.

  Wilson drove a four-wheel sport utility vehicle in the standard brown color of all state vehicles. It was kept as neat and tidy as his office. I guess when you get to be captain you don’t have to tote around many criminals. They have no respect for your time and even less respect for cop cars. They’ll kick, bang on windows, tear at upholstery and spit, among other nasty things, after they’re shoved in the back. Wilson’s car actually had a little air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror, the type that looked like little pine trees and smelled the same.

  “Mind if I stop at a drive-thru? I didn’t eat tonight.”

  “Sure, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “Not planning on sleeping?” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Coffee doesn’t keep me awake and I plan on sleeping like the dead the second I walk in the door.” The last word came out as a yawn.

  Wilson leaned back in his seat, extending his arms on the steering wheel to stretch. “Sorry to interrupt your date, Leah. I didn
’t know you were dating again.”

  “Jess set me up. She thinks I should settle down, have a kid and we both know that it just not possible for me. So I go on a few blind dates, Jess gets off my back a little, what’s the harm?” I shrugged. “I would hug you for pulling me out of that date but somehow I feel I’ve been taken out of the proverbial frying pan and thrown into the fire.” I let out a sigh and snuggled further into the seat.

  Wilson gave me the sideways glance that fathers often use on their children in church when they’re misbehaving. “You know she means well, Leah. She worries about you.”

  “And we both know what the road to hell is paved with.”

  “Date that bad, huh?”

  I grinned in spite of myself. “The steak was good.”

  “Smartass.” He chuckled. “So am I forgiven for bringing you in on this one?”

  “I’m glad you called me. I probably wouldn’t have lasted another month of…” I waved my hand in the air, “…retirement. Would it sound bad if I said I liked murder cases?”

  He laughed then, a good throaty laugh. “Hell, Leah, it only sounds bad if you did the killing. No shame in trying to clean up the mess.”

  “You always know just what to say, Wilson.” I let the sarcasm hang heavy on that one.

  We hit the drive-thru at a fast-food joint, I ordered coffee and Wilson ordered a heart attack value dinner that consisted of a double-stacked hamburger, dripping with grease and mayonnaise, and a heap of fries. He ate, I drank and we drove for a while in silence.

  We pulled onto the side road that led to my home and off the pavement. Small pings of gravel jumping from the road and hitting the bottom of the car played like a song. There was a reason the police out here drove SUV’s, most of the side roads were narrow, pitted and covered with what the county budget allowed for gravel. The area was surrounded with open desert. Only the occasional turnoff that led to the private homes or ranches interrupted the steady sight of open desert. Creosote bushes and scattered Mesquite trees swayed in the early morning breeze, surrounded by a variety of cacti. Not to mention snakes, bats, coyotes, wolves, bobcats, lizards, spiders, scorpions and a host of other critters that give me the heebidybejeebidies. I don’t recommend night hiking, but then, I’m paranoid. In the dark, you just have to know they are there. It’s like driving through great bodies of blackness, with only the silver moon lending shadows of what might be there.

  The moon was only a sliver of brightness in the star-studded sky. It was still two weeks until the next full moon. I could feel the track of the moon and instinctively knew which phase it was in. Damned if I knew why.

  So why didn’t I live in a nice condo in the city surrounded by the comforts of modern habitation? Positive energy, aura, good vibes, however you want to say it, it’s simply more peaceful in the rural areas. Don’t believe me? Try rush hour traffic in Phoenix.

  I gulped down the last of my coffee as we pulled into my driveway. It was short and the natural beauty of the desert hid the small rented adobe-style house that I called home. The light left on in my front entryway was a welcoming sight. I’d had no intentions of staying out this late, let alone investigating another grisly murder, but I always left the front light on.

  Flying insects fluttered around the light as the crickets serenaded me in the sliver of moonlight. Maybe I was just tired, but the cool breeze in the window, the bitter scent of the creosote bushes dotting the road and the high-pitched sound of the crickets reminded me of when I’d first met Wilson.

  He’d been a detective working in the juvenile crimes division and I was a kid on the street. I’d been on my own since I was thirteen. My mom left our tiny apartment one night and never came back. Like I said, I scared her.

  A few months later I got caught in the crossfire of a couple of rival gangs and ended up in the hospital. Wilson came to the hospital to question me. I knew my life was over if I ratted out either gang so I lied. I told him I didn’t remember. He knew I lied, but the doctor wouldn’t let him push me.

  I was a kid, I was alone and I was hurt. I played the sympathy card. It worked, or so I had thought.

  I was in the hospital for two weeks after the surgery to remove the bullet from my stomach. The day I was released, Wilson came in with a nice little paper from the judge, granting Charles and Allison Wilson foster custody of one Leah Wolfe. He had me.

  “You know, Alli would love to have you move closer to the city.”

  I smiled at Wilson, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “Wilson, you and Alli have been taking care of me for as long as I care to remember. I miss you guys too, but the city is just too … negative. I can’t find the peace in the city that I find here. I like the quiet.” I hugged him lightly then opened the car door. “Don’t worry, I’m scarier than most of the things that live out here.” I shut the car door and jogged to the porch before he could respond.

  I slid the key in the lock, walked in and kicked off my heels, then locked the door behind me. My feet gave a sigh of relief as I padded across the soft carpet to my bedroom. The light on my answering machine blinked like an impatient demand.

  Answer me, answer me, answer me. I knew who it was before I hit the play button.

  “What the hell did you do to Stan, Leah?” Jess was pissed. Her voice always went up a few octaves when she was angry. “He called and said he puked in his Porsche. What the hell…” The soft beep of the machine cut her off. I laughed all the way to my bedroom.

  He puked in the Porsche. That was awesome!

  Served him right. He should have dropped me off at my place to pick up my own car like I asked him to. I’d have to call Jess tomorrow and let her know that if he had listened to me and stayed in the car, or better yet, dropped me off at home so I had my own car, he wouldn’t have puked up his dinner in it. I was sure he already had an appointment to have it detailed. Mustn’t have the pretty car dirty.

  I peeled off the still-damp and muddy hose, unzipped the dress and let it puddle to the floor. Off went the holster, bra and panties and I was ready for the shower. I was tired but just couldn’t crawl into my nice clean sheets after falling in the mud without cleaning up.

  The water felt glorious, but sleep was a greater necessity. After a quick shower, I brushed out my hair, pulled on an oversized T-shirt and brushed my teeth. I set both my coffee maker and alarm clock for, eek, seven in the morning and opened my nightstand drawer to take my gun out and place it under my pillow, safety on.

  I keep a 9mm Baretta in my nightstand. At a little over two pounds it’s a little heavy for everyday carry, but its supreme firepower and fifteen-round magazine make it my favorite at-home toy. I keep it in a slide holster for easy access. A couple of extra magazines in the drawer complete the ensemble. I also keep a Glock 17 semi-automatic for everyday wear. It’s a little over a pound and a half, holds seventeen cartridges and is designed with a trigger system that will engage the safety automatically. I still check the safety, you just can’t be too careful when you sleep with a loaded firearm.

  I said a prayer for the soul of the dead woman and drifted off to sleep.

  * * * *

  It seemed like only minutes had passed when the alarm squealed its obnoxious set of beeps. I could’ve set it to music but found that it didn’t really wake me up. I hit the alarm and stumbled out of bed. Thank God for coffee makers with timers, I was useless without a pot or two. I followed the aroma of fresh brewed coffee into the kitchen, my eyes half closed with sleep.

  When I’d first rented this house, the saleswoman had gushed over the state-of-the-art kitchen. Top-of-the-line stainless-steel stove, refrigerator, dishwasher and microwave. A built-in wall oven for baking. Granite countertops in black with light brown and cream-colored specks. She called it “a true chef’s kitchen”. She seemed excited about it. I used two, maybe three, appliances. The refrigerator, the coffee maker that I bought in stainless to match the appliances and occasionally the microwave. Hey, even pizza needs to be reheated sometimes. />
  What sold me on the house was the open floor plan. A small bar seating area was the only thing that separated the kitchen from the living room. It also partially blocked the view of the kitchen from the front door, which would come in handy if I was ever in the kitchen long enough to make it messy. My small glass round table sat in the cozy eating area off the kitchen and a hall led to the master bedroom, office and guestroom. French doors off the eating area led to the backyard and the unobstructed view of the desert. The entire living area was painted off-white with one dark blue accent wall in the kitchen and living room. One wall of the living room had a gas brick fireplace flanked by two bookcases. My television was mounted to the wall above the fireplace. The house was full of large windows, and since most of my work was done at night, the windows were doubly equipped with blinds and light-blocking curtains for privacy and daytime sleeping.

  The sunlight now streamed through the cracks in the blinds; I’d left the curtains open. I opened the blinds in the entire area to let the morning sun warm the room. I didn’t want to be up right now, but since I was awake anyway, I might as well let the day in. I was never much of a morning person. I could function if I had to, but would prefer to start the day later, especially on just a few hours of sleep. I grabbed a cup from the hook under the counter, filled it with coffee and a little powdered cream and headed for the shower. I would’ve rather had real cream. The powder stuff isn’t as good, but it doesn’t spoil, either.

  Twenty minutes, a hot shower and two cups of coffee later I stood in front of my closet. What does one wear to visit an ex-fiancé? What I’d give for a long black dress, pointy hat and broom. He did, after all, refer to me as an unholy witch; I might as well dress the part. I settled for a pair of faded jeans and a white button-down shirt and topped it off with a light denim jacket to hide the Glock in the shoulder holster.

  My bedroom had an accent wall painted in a dark, almost plum purple while the other walls were painted the same pale off-white color as the living area. My king-size bed with matching comforter and a half a dozen accent pillows was centered on the plum wall. A canvas painting of a desert scene created by a local artist hung above it. Two bedside tables with reading lamps were on each side of my bed. I had a dresser in the same matching dark wood as my bed frame and another television. An oscillating fan next to my bed was on every night, warm or cold. I’d grown used to the sound of the fan and found it difficult to sleep without it.