by Lonni Lees
“Please,” he said. “Those are my friends. They called me to come and they need me to be with them.” He looked tough as nails with his tattoos and soiled jeans and scruffy beard, but his voice was soft and there was a gentleness in his eyes despite his obvious agitation.
“And you are?” Maggie asked, weakening.
“Rocco. Rocco La Crosse. They need me here. Please let me go to them,” he said.
So this was the creator of those amusing little naked people. Maggie couldn’t help but smile at the thought of this rough-hewn fellow creating such delightful art. At first sight she’d have figured the closest he came to metal was working on somebody’s junker for minimum wage. But nobody knew better than Maggie that first impressions can be deceiving. And she’d seen it all. A grieving father who ended up being the killer of his own child. A crack whore, mind turned to mush, who still knew right from wrong and turned state’s evidence despite the danger. A society dame who slowly poisoned her husband with arsenic, then played an award worthy role as the devastated widow. And the volunteer coach, loved by all, who secretly photographed teenage girls as they undressed in the locker room.
First impressions can’t be trusted.
People can’t be trusted.
Not many of them anyway.
“Okay, but stay in the side yard,” she said, raising the tape to let him pass. “Forensics is collecting evidence so don’t go inside!” Then she added: “I’ll need to question you later. All three of you.”
Maggie watched the pony tail sway from side to side at the back of his head as he trotted toward the tree, one long earring banging against his neck as he approached the women. They rose and spoke to him.
“Somebody killed Armando,” Maggie heard the blonde say. Barbara Atwell, owner of the gallery, sobbed.
“Thank you for coming, Rocco,” said the short, stocky one who held Barbara’s hand.
“I’m here now,” he said. “Everything will be okay.” He reached out to them with muscled, hairy arms and embraced them both.
The three of them sat down on the bench under the shade of the palo verde tree.
Maggie didn’t know where he fit into the scenario, not yet, but she could see from the way they welcomed him that the man named Rocco was surely their “rock.” Or could he be a co-conspirator? Or the lone killer? Her gut instinct told her otherwise, but for now everyone was a “person of interest”. She would have to narrow it down until all that remained standing was the prime suspect. She didn’t know where anyone fit in at this point. But sure as rattlesnakes had fangs she was going to find out.
* * * *
“What are they doing?” Barbara Atwell asked as the forensics team marched up the stairs that led to her private apartment. “That’s where we live. Nothing happened up there.”
“They need to do their job,” Maggie Reardon said.
“Oh, I don’t like this at all. It’s like having somebody snoop in my diary,” she said. “Barbara, Barbara,” Rocco La Crosse reassured her, “they want to solve this, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! It just makes me uncomfortable, that’s all.”
“Then, like the nice detective says, let them do their job so they can get out of here.”
* * * *
It was mid-afternoon by the time forensics wrapped up. They’d bagged up any possible evidence, put it in the van and driven off. The body of Armando Salazar was also bagged and removed for autopsy. As they wheeled him out on the stretcher Barbara sobbed uncontrollably under the shade of the palo verde tree. The finality of it had hit her. Hard.
Maggie walked over to the tree, tired and wishing she were sitting at home in her comfortable chair with all of this behind her. Some days were longer than others and this was proving to be one of them. The sweltering heat didn’t help.
“Let’s go back inside,” she said to Barbara. “I need to get a list of everyone who was here last night.”
“Everyone? I don’t know everyone that was here.”
“Let’s just do the best we can.”
Maggie and Barbara went inside, leaving Rocco La Crosse and Adrian Velikson behind. The gallery was still a crime scene and she didn’t want to disturb it any more than necessary. Maggie had informed them that she wanted to speak to each of them, one at a time. But first she needed to get some sort of starting point as to who was present last night, when they left, and anything else that might be crucial to the investigation.
The cool breeze from the air conditioning hit the two women as they went inside and Maggie could feel the beads of perspiration on her face dry to salt. It felt good. They walked over to Barbara’s desk and Maggie sat across from her, notepad in hand. Barbara removed a large address book from the top drawer and placed it on the desk in front of her. Her eyes wandered from Maggie to the floor of the next room then back again.
“Where do we start?”
“I’ll need names, addresses, phone numbers,” Maggie said.
“I’ll do my best but I don’t know half of them. I guess I could start with the artists. At least I have information on them. I mean, other people come and go, some of them are regular customers but for most of them I couldn’t even furnish you with a name, much less an address.”
Even without her make-up and dressed in her shoddy, blood-stained caftan, Barbara wore a regal and composed demeanor. Except for her occasional teary outbursts, which were certainly expected under the circumstances, she was handling things admirably.
“First I need to ask a few questions. When did you last see your husband?”
“Last night. When we were closing up. Armando kissed me goodnight because he was going out and I was exhausted. Then I went upstairs and went to bed.”
“Going out?”
“Armando is—was—high energy. He liked to party. If you haven’t noticed, my husband was a bit younger. Being in his twenties he’s, was, still in party mode. I hate to admit it, but at my age there’s times I’d rather get a good night’s sleep. Armando understood that.”
“That didn’t bother you? I mean, him going out and leaving you behind?”
“Not at all. We’re, we were married, but by no means did we own each other.”
“And you heard nothing after you went upstairs? A door closing? A commotion? The sound of a car engine perhaps?”
“Nothing. By the time my head hit the pillow I was out cold. And I’m a heavy sleeper. When I was visiting friends in California I slept right through the Northridge earthquake.”
Then she added: “I wish I’d heard something, anything. Maybe I could have....”
“Probably the only thing you’d have managed to do was to end up dead yourself. So don’t even go there. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I can help.”
“I understand you’re under a lot of stress right now. Just do the best you can. You’ll probably remember more details later. That’s normal. If you do, just call me,” she said handing her a business card with her phone number.
The front door flew open, banging loudly against the wall. Both women jumped. A wild-haired woman barged into the room with Rocco La Crosse close on her tail, yelling, “You can’t go in there!” He reached out and grabbed her by the arm as she neared Barbara.
“Belinda! I said you can’t come in here.” Turning to Maggie, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m sorry. I tried.”
“Wow, what happened?” said Belinda Blume, shoving the unkempt mop of hair from her eyes. “I came to help clean up and there’s friggin’ yellow tape all over the place.”
“Armando’s dead,” Rocco said to her. “You really need to leave. I can fill you in outside.”
Belinda stretched her neck, looking into the third room, barely reacting to the pool of blood on the floor. “Barb, I’m so sorry. Hey, you sold my Gaia! And look, all of Armando’s stuff sold too.”
Ignoring Belinda’s insensitivity, Barbara looked into the room. “I didn’t even notice before,” sh
e said to the policewoman. “It had to have been a robbery because those things didn’t sell last night. They were stolen. But why would someone commit murder just for some statues? It really makes no sense.”
“Just some statues? Armando’s maybe, but my Gaia is art,” said Belinda, “who wouldn’t want it? But Armando’s?” She snorted. “I’ll get paid anyway, won’t I? Even if it was stolen instead of sold?”
Barbara was losing patience, her throat tightening so that she could barely speak. “I’m insured. You’ll get paid at the end of the show like you always do.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
Maggie was trying to read the fleeting expression in Belinda Blume’s eye. Was it amusement? Disdain? This broad was some piece of work and she could hardly wait to sit her down and grill her. “Do I have to escort you out myself or are you going to leave?” she said.
“C’mon,” said Rocco giving her a firm shove in the direction of the door.
As they left the room, Maggie heard him say, “My god, Belinda. Sometimes I can’t believe what comes out of that nasty mouth of yours. Barbara’s husband is dead and all you care about is your damn Gaia?”
“I put a lot of work into that piece. Besides, it was only Armando.”
“Belinda!”
At the sound of the door slamming Barbara returned her attention to the detective that sat across from her, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I guess we don’t need that list now. If it was a robbery....”
“Robbery is only one possible scenario, albeit an interesting one. My job is to investigate every possible avenue. Hopefully we’ll have a few answers once the forensic reports come in.” Then gently she added, “And the autopsy results.”
Well, that sure triggered the old waterworks, Maggie thought as Barbara wiped her hand across her wet cheek. “This is going to be very embarrassing for the gallery. Can you imagine what my customers will think when they’re questioned? About a murder?” Her hands shook as she angrily flipped to another page in her address book. “I couldn’t think of more devastating publicity if I’d purposely planned to destroy The Mosaic Gallery all by myself.”
* * * *
Maggie Reardon walked out the gallery door, notebook in hand. It had been like pulling teeth but she had a good list of names to follow up on. Barbara Atwell was two paces ahead of her, heading to the tree where Rocco and Adrian Velikson sat. They rose and wrapped their arms around their friend in a group hug.
“They won’t even let me stay here,” she said. “The entire gallery is considered a crime scene.”
“You can stay with me,” said Adrian. “I can squeeze you in.”
“I think it’s better she stay with me,” said Rocco. “I have plenty of extra room.”
“You’re right. You’re always right,” said Adrian, thinking of the cramped little studio apartment she’d moved into around the time Armando and Barbara had married. There was barely enough room in the 500 square foot bachelor pad for one, let alone two. What she’d thought of as a temporary move had become more permanent as the weeks turned into months of waiting. For the call that never came.
Barbara turned to Maggie Reardon. “My purse, clothes, everything is upstairs. Can’t I at least take some things with me?”
Maggie accompanied her up the back stairs and into the apartment, watching her every move as she packed her make-up and shoved as many clothes as would fit into her overnight bag. Before they headed back down, she had Barbara slip out of the blood-soaked caftan. Even Maggie was awed by the statuesque beauty of this woman. It was no wonder a younger man had found her irresistible. She reminded Maggie of a pale ice princess from one of the old Alfred Hitchcock thrillers. Cool and collected. Doing her best to maintain her composure under the worst possible circumstances. Maggie picked up the caftan and slipped it into a large evidence bag. Forensics would check it out, see if there was tell-tale blood spatter or if the blood had soaked into it as Barbara Atwell knelt down and held her dead husband, as both she and Adrian had stated.
Maggie locked the door and pocketed the keys as she and Barbara descended the stairs to her waiting friends. At least she has a good support system, Maggie thought. She’s going to need it.
The day was nearly over. Dark shadows spread their elongated fingers across the side yard and touched the front gate. The air remained thick with the day’s heat and wouldn’t let up even as the sun set, the darkness only providing the illusion of coolness. Instead of sunny and sweltering it would be dark and hot. It was on days like this Maggie wished she had a swimming pool instead of a cold shower. Or that she could sit under the towering pines by a lake somewhere, far from the desert, inhaling the welcome scent of falling rain.
When she approached them with her portable fingerprint kit to ask for their prints they cooperated. She gave them each her card with her precinct and cell phone numbers and told them to call if they thought of anything. Then Maggie Reardon lifted the yellow crime scene tape and the three of them ducked under leaving the gallery, and the crime scene, behind them. Rocco La Crosse took the overnight bag from Barbara and slung it over his broad shoulder as the three of them headed towards his van. He turned and looked at her and as their eyes met something in Maggie’s stomach fluttered.
I don’t get it, she thought to herself. He isn’t even my type. But those little butterflies hinted otherwise. She returned his smile then headed for her squad car, cursing herself. Cursing her body for reacting the way it did.
This man, after all, was a possible suspect.
CHAPTER SIX
ONE STEP FORWARD, TWO STEPS BACK
The aroma from the bucket of fried chicken filled Maggie’s car, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since morning. She’d picked it up at a drive-thru and sat it on the passenger’s seat with a side of slaw, some potato salad and a buttered biscuit. Her stomach growled. Maybe a real meal would ease the hunger pains that gnawed away at her gut, keeping uneasy company with the mystery of her unsolved murder. One out of two. She would fill her stomach tonight and let the murder at The Mosaic Gallery take a back seat until tomorrow.
The glare of the setting sun reflected its blinding light across her dusty windshield as she headed west toward home. She reached over and turned on her windshield wipers, squirting water across the glass as the blades did their best to scrape away the dirty film. Beads of water splashed into the open driver’s side window and slapped against the side of her face. She ran her hand across her wet cheek, turned off the wipers, rolled up the window and jacked up the air conditioning.
The melody and lyrics of Caliente de Muerte played over and over in her head. The warmth of death fought its battle against the Tucson heat and the hum of the air conditioner.
Maggie pulled into her driveway, turned off the ignition, grabbed the bag full of chicken and headed for the front door. As she shoved her house key into the lock she noticed a note tacked onto the door with a purple push pin.
Written across the bright yellow envelope, perfectly centered in a familiar script, was her name. She’d know Marty’s handwriting anywhere. Small, precise and scratchy. Damn near obsessive/compulsive in its neatness, as straight as if it had been written on perfectly lined paper. She pushed her way through the door and walked to the kitchen, Prowler fast on her heels, meowing in unison to the beat of her footfalls.
“You could at least welcome me home,” she said. “It would be nice to know I’m wanted for more than just filling your gut.” She reached into the bag and removed a chicken breast. She pulled off a chunk, tore it into bite sized pieces and threw it into Prowler’s dish. He started attacking it before the dish hit the floor.
“Where are your manners? Were you born in a barn?” Then she smiled to herself. Prowler had indeed been born in a barn. She’d picked him out of an abandoned litter at a crime scene, the only kitten who still had a spark of life in him. She had patiently hand fed him with an eye dropper, slowly nursing him back to health. You’d think he would show some gratitude, she thought, bu
t what can one expect from a cat? “You’re lack of breeding is showing,” she said as he gulped down the last of the chicken.
Maggie walked back across the living room to the front door, opened it and pulled the envelope from where it was pinned. On the corner of the envelope was a floral sticker. What’s with Marty and his damn little pink flowers? Slamming the door behind her, she sat the envelope on the side table and returned to the kitchen. Prowler was on the counter, half way inside the bag of chicken. She pulled him out and he growled in protest as she wrestled away the thigh that he held tightly between his sharp teeth.
“This is my dinner, you little brat,” she laughed, throwing the piece of chicken back into the bag. “First things first,” she said to herself as she opened a can of cat food for him. He looked at the sloppy tuna in his dish and up to the counter, disappointment registering in his stubborn green eyes.
Maggie placed her food in the oven, out of his reach, then changed into the comfort of her ratty bathrobe before returning to the kitchen. She dished out a heaping plateful, flipped on the television, and settled into her chair.
“Bad boys, bad boys,” droned the television with the theme song of COPS. “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”
“You’re gonna cower and cry for your mother,” Maggie said to the set.
She worked her way through the cole slaw, potato salad, and chicken, tossing pieces onto the floor to appease Prowler while she ate. She’d forgotten how good a full stomach felt, but there was still a corner of her gut that churned restlessly as she thought of the handsome corpse that lay on the gallery floor. And something else was stirring too. Something she preferred not to acknowledge. She pushed it from her mind, returned to the kitchen and emptied the bones into the trash can under the sink, out of her cat’s reach.
Maggie poured herself an Irish, threw in a few ice cubes, and settled back into her chair. She reached over to the side table, pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, inhaled and sighed. She put her feet up on the ottoman and settled back. The yellow envelope sat by the pack of cigarettes silently demanding her attention. Might as well get it over with she thought, reaching over and lifting it from the table. She tore it open. It was one of those mushy greeting cards with a muted photo on the front of a couple walking along the beach at sunset. All in shades of gray and ochre and brown. Give me a break, she thought. As if it couldn’t get worse, inside was a silly verse about love and missing you and somehow the hack poet had managed to make the thoughts rhyme. Love and above. Romance and dance. Miss you and kiss you. It was almost as pathetic and irritating as that little bouquet of flowers he’d left at her doorstep.