The Mosaic Murder

by Lonni Lees

  Unlike most homes she visited, Adrian’s surroundings revealed little to Maggie about the woman. It was as though Barbara was her entire life. Her only reason for existence. She just sat patiently in her dingy little waiting room for her wayward lover’s return. Nothing more. Just the photograph on the wall, her shrine to her lover. Her obsession. It was sad really.

  She admired the woman’s dedication, Maggie had never loved anyone like Adrian loved Barbara, but her tenacity just reinforced Maggie’s suspicions.

  Adrian Velikson remained her number one suspect.

  * * * *

  Maggie sat inside The Mosaic Gallery and looked around the room. She was trying to visualize the scenario that might have led to Armando’s death but came up blank. Her eyes drifted to the tall shelf that had displayed his Mexican statues. The tacky statues that had created hard feelings among the real artists. Something caught her eye as beams of late afternoon sun washed across the floor. Something beneath the bottom shelf. She walked over and knelt by the shelves. Underneath, she spotted pieces of broken clay nestled in a thin sifting of soft white powder.

  It was something that forensics had missed.

  Maggie rose and looked around the room, then opened a small door that lead to a utility closet and found what she was looking for. A whisk broom and dust pan. She pulled a plastic evidence bag from her briefcase and returned to the shelf. Her knees ached and popped as she squatted down and swept the pieces into the bag.

  * * * *

  “The autopsy’s completed,” said the coroner, a small woman with a stern face. “I’m working on my report. Two hard blows to the back of his head did the deed.”

  “No big surprise there,” said Maggie. “I just have to figure out who was holding the weapon, whatever it was.”

  “He was one handsome corpse,” the coroner said, matter-of-factly. “Makes me wonder what he must have looked like when he was breathing.”

  “He must’ve been a looker, that’s for sure.”

  “And I picked several small pieces of broken red clay from his scalp.”

  “Like this?” Maggie asked, holding up the evidence bag.

  The coroner squinted at the bag and nodded. “Looks like the same stuff to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish up that report.”

  “And I need to get this to forensics. Thanks again,” she said as she headed out of the icy cold room and back into the stifling heat.

  * * * *

  Maggie Reardon sat at her desk in the police department, scouring through her notes and writing up the day’s report. It had been interesting to say the least, but she still hadn’t zeroed in on anything she could really sink her teeth into. And there were several people she still needed to talk to.

  Tomorrow promised to be busier than today.

  She wanted it wrapped up and she wanted it solved. The sooner the better.

  Her cell phone rang. Caller ID told her it was Marty the ex.

  Marty the ex who didn’t want to be an ex anymore.

  She didn’t want to answer.

  But it just kept ringing, nagging her until she finally picked up.

  “What,” she said, impatience in her voice.

  “I’ve been trying to track you down all day,” he began.

  “I’ve been busy. I’ve got a job, remember?”

  “I don’t think you’d ever let me forget,” he said. “Maggie, you haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

  Silence.

  “Why don’t I pick you up later and take you out for a good meal? To a nice restaurant.”

  The last thing she wanted to do was put on make-up and girly clothes. Much less spend time with Marty.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ve got too much work to do.” She was trying to be polite, but it was never easy where Marty was concerned. He was like a damn puppy just begging to be kicked.

  “We can make it an early night,” he said. “You’ve got to eat sooner or later.”

  “Marty, Marty, Marty,” she sighed. “You’re spinning your wheels. It’s over.”

  “That’s not the impression I got the other night.”

  “Impressions can be deceiving,” she said and disconnected him.

  “Trouble in paradise?” said a voice from behind her.

  Jerry Montana was walking toward her with a big, cocky grin and the same young rookie from the other morning following in his wake.

  “None of your freakin’ business,” she said.

  He ignored her and kept on talking.

  “You got that gallery murder solved yet?”

  “I wasn’t aware that you were my boss or that I had to answer to you.”

  She returned her attention to the papers scattered across her desk.

  “Don’t be so touchy Irish,” Jerry said. “I was just wondering if you’ve made any progress.”

  “I’m working on it,” she said, looking up and eying the rookie who stood behind him.

  “It seems hardly worth the effort to me,” Jerry said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “C’mon Irish. The guy’s probably just one more illegal. One less ain’t no big deal.”

  Maggie said nothing but wanted to say a lot. He was the kind of cop that should never be a cop, much less pump his poison into a rookie who was still wet behind the ears. And besides, she hadn’t been able to find anything on Armando Salazar. No records of any kind. Jerry’d likely hit the nail on the head, which irritated her. But he could have been less racist in making his point. She glared at him and remained silent.

  “What?” he said.

  “Don’t call me Irish.”

  “Sorry, Detective Reardon, is that better? But let’s face it, the guy was probably a wetback.”

  Maggie exhaled. “Your surname is Montana, so why the slur?”

  “My family got here through the front door. Something else you wanted to say?” He asked, winking at the rookie.

  “You have no respect for the living, Jerry, so I could hardly expect you to show any respect for the dead.”

  “Am I supposed to say ouch?”

  “You’re supposed to leave me alone.”

  “Aw, c’mon, you know you love me.”

  “Save it for your wife.”

  The rookie stifled his snicker when Jerry Montana gave him a dirty look.

  The two members of the boys club walked away.

  I’ll never be in that club, Maggie thought to herself. I don’t have the right equipment. They wore an invisible sign like the one on The Little Rascals’ club house. No girls allowed. That was fine by her. All she wanted was an even break. Making detective had been a big one, even if there were some sour feelings from the boy’s club.

  Maggie shoved her paperwork into the desk drawer, picked up her briefcase and headed for the door. She’d had enough crap for one day. It was nearly dark as she left the station and walked to her car.

  It was even darker when she got home.

  She fumbled with her keys, opened the door and leaned down to pet Prowler where he stood on the other side to greet her. He didn’t have the best disposition, not even for a cat, but it was better than what she had to deal with in the outside world. She flipped on the light, threw down her keys and headed for the kitchen, Prowler singing his impatient chorus as he followed at her heels.

  Maggie filled his dish and headed for the shower, nearly tripping over Prowler’s litter box as she stumbled into the bathroom.

  The lukewarm water felt great against her skin as she washed away the day’s grime. She stood under the stream for a long time, her mind replaying the day as the water got cooler and cooler. Barbara Atwell was at Rocco La Crosse’s place. Adrian sat waiting in her hovel. Things were slowly beginning to add up but to what she wasn’t sure. Could the three of them be in it together? And for what purpose? Her mind wandered. Rocco had smelled good sitting next to her in the car. Stop it Maggie! She stuck her head under the stream and gave her short red hair a shampoo with her bar of body soap then rinsed it out
quickly. The water had turned ice cold. How long had she been standing there? She turned it off and stepped out, grabbed a towel and dried off.

  The phone was ringing.

  And ringing.

  She threw on her robe and walked to the front room.

  Caller ID said it was Marty.

  She ignored it, plopped down into her chair and turned on the remote.

  Bad boys, bad boys. The theme from Cops was music to her ears as Prowler jumped onto her lap and they settled in for the evening.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHITEWASHED

  Detective Maggie Reardon woke up to a growling stomach, a grating infomercial and a hungry cat. She was curled up in her living room chair, having fallen asleep in front of the television the night before. Not only had she failed to make it to the bedroom, she had forgotten to eat and she was starving.

  She did her morning routines, fed the cat, gulped down her coffee, dressed and headed for the police station for her daily briefing. Her stomach growled noisily as she sat impatiently in the squad room. Jerry Montana had somehow managed a chair next to hers, his rookie trainee in the seat on the other side of him. The kid looked like he was fresh off a Wisconsin farm. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a slightly naive demeanor. The only thing missing was some straw sticking out of his mouth. That would change, she thought, smiling to herself. The little rube was in for a surprise. Being a cop in Tucson wasn’t like patrolling the streets of some hayseed farming community where there wasn’t much to do besides bust an Amish for not having a taillight on the back of his buggy. He’d be facing more murders in one week here than he’d probably see in ten years in Podunk. And he certainly needed some big city training before they turned him lose. She leaned across Jerry Montana to speak with the kid.

  “I never did catch your name,” she said. “Jerry’s a bit short-changed in the manners department.”

  “Aaron Iverson,” he replied with a warm smile. “My pleasure.”

  “Welcome to Tucson, Aaron Iverson. Maggie Reardon. Where did you transfer from?”

  “Minnesota,” he said, in an accent right out of the movie Fargo. “Little town outside of St. Paul. Yah, I’ve had enough snow to last me a lifetime.”

  Minnesota. Wisconsin. Not a bad guess she thought to herself.

  “Tucson warm enough for you?”

  “Hotter than I figured, I must admit.”

  “But it’s a dry heat,” said Maggie with a smirk. “Think you can take it?”

  “You betcha. As long as I don’t have to break my back shoveling the sunshine.”

  Maggie leaned back and returned her attention to the front of the room.

  “A little young for you, don’t you think?” Jerry whispered in her ear.

  “Bite me, Montana.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

  “Pig,” she said under her breath. Her conversation with Crazy Jake at the park flashed back. He’d referred to her as a pig. Well, pig was the perfect word for Jerry Montana, but not because of his profession.

  Maggie breathed a sigh of relief when they were dismissed. The morning ritual slowed her down and she was ready to get started. Today she would pay a visit to the next person on her list. An artist named Misty Waters who’d been at the gallery the night of the reception. Maggie hoped that she could shed some light on things. So far nobody had given her any valuable information and she didn’t like being in a holding pattern.

  But she had to take care of something else first. She had to fill her stomach.

  She pulled up in front of the nearest all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, paid up front and grabbed a large plate. She looked around the room at the breakfast crowd. Maggie was probably the only person in the place under sixty-five. Even if the food was lousy, it was a good place to fill up if your Social Security couldn’t buy you three meals a day. Or if you were a hungry cop in a hurry.

  She watched as an elderly woman wrapped a fistful of bacon into a paper napkin and shoved it into her over-sized purse. It would probably serve as her lunch and dinner.

  Maggie piled her plate high with enough bacon to feed the entire room, a buttered biscuit topped with white gravy, some scrambled eggs and a couple slices of melon. The only reason she added the melon was because Carlos always chided her about her eating habits. So there, she’d eat some fruit. That would neutralize all that cholesterol. Healthy enough. She found an empty booth, sat down and inhaled her plate of food in record time.

  * * * *

  Maggie Reardon pulled up in front of the small white house that sat in a quiet cul-de-sac. The front yard was a blank palette. A collection of rocks with no living plants in sight, not even the usual Tucson weeds that crept up when you weren’t looking. It was devoid of personality and would look abandoned were it not for the total absence of foliage. Someone spent a lot of time digging up palo verde sprouts and brittlebush and anything else that dared raise its ugly head.

  She reached the front door and was ready to ring the bell when she heard voices from inside.

  “Who’s your daddy!” Someone was yelling in the most god-awful voice she’d ever heard. “Come on baby, who’s your daddy.” She visualized some ugly little troll of a man with gnarled hands pacing the floor.

  “Shut up,” said a female voice. “Just stop it.”

  “Gimme some sugar.”

  “Can’t you be nice? Haven’t I taught you better?”

  “Baby,” the creep said. “Lay kisses on me.” Followed by a loud slurping sound. The guy sounded disgusting.

  “Baretta, stop it right now.”

  Well, this was certainly entertaining. Maggie wanted to listen a little longer but the verbal sparring stopped so she rang the bell. She’d have preferred talking to Misty Waters alone, but would make the best of it and hope the woman opened up to her questions.

  From the other side, Maggie could hear at least three locks being unlocked.

  “And I don’t want one more word out of you,” Misty said before she opened the door.

  “Misty Waters?” said Maggie.

  “Detective Reardon? I’ve been expecting you,” she replied softly. “Come in.”

  Misty closed the door, bolted and locked it, then slid a chain into place before leading the detective into the room. Did she feel that unsafe, even with an armed cop in the room?

  The interior was lit up brighter than a shopping mall. Every lamp in the place was burning and they weren’t sixty-watt bulbs. 100-watters in every corner washed their glaring light across even whiter walls. Walls filled with white paintings in white frames and a floor covered with an impractical white carpet. Floor lamps and table lamps, all with white shades. Recessed lighting. The place looked like the inside of a lighting fixture store in Alaska. She’d never seen so many lights, not even on a house gaudily decorated for the holidays.

  “Ooh, hot mama.” Maggie turned in the direction of his scratchy voice, ready to tell him to can it. Off in a far corner stood a tall birdcage. Inside a white cockatoo was dancing from one foot to the other and she could have sworn he was laughing.

  “Shut up Baretta,” said Misty. “I’m sorry. His previous owner thought it was cute to teach him filthy words. If only I’d known what I was in for.” An embarrassed blush stood out against the sickly pallor of her skin. “I’ve been trying to retrain him.”

  “I’d say your work’s cut out for you.”

  Maggie took out her notepad and pen. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Armando Salazar.”

  “From the gallery? Is he in some kind of trouble?” Maggie detected relief in her eyes, as though she’d been expecting something else entirely. Misty appeared to be in her mid-twenties and Maggie looked at her pure white hair for a hint of darker roots. Could a person actually bleach their hair that white? It couldn’t possibly be natural. Not on a woman that young.

  “I might as well cut to the chase and save you some time. He’s been murdered.”

  “How awful,” she said with no hint of emotion.<
br />
  “Did you know him well?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t know anyone well.”

  “Why is that?”

  “That’s how I prefer it. I like being left alone. When one gets too close....“ her words drifted off as well as her attention.

  “If I could ask you a few questions,” said Maggie.

  “I can’t see how I can possibly be of help to you, Detective Reardon. I know a few names from the gallery, but that’s all. I only go because it’s expected of me. I don’t entangle myself in their personal lives.”

  Maggie Reardon had seen plenty of odd birds in her life but never one as bland and guarded as Misty Waters. It was strange to say the least. She asked the artist several questions and each was answered either with a shrug or a blank look. It appeared that she knew nothing about any of them and Maggie suspected they knew even less about her.

  Continuing the conversation was useless.

  She’d batted zero.

  “Before I leave I’d like your prints,” she said, indicating the kit at her side.

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Then come back with a warrant.”

  Curious reaction, Maggie thought.

  “Thank you for your time. If I have any more questions I’ll call you. In the meantime, here’s my card. Feel free to call me if you can think of anything that might be helpful.”

  As Maggie left she could hear the locks sliding into place as the door closed behind her.

  * * * *

  Back at the station, Maggie sat in front of the computer at her desk. She was having no luck pulling up information on Misty Waters. The name came up nowhere, not even on a driver’s license. It was as if the elusive Misty Waters didn’t exist. What was she hiding? Maggie suspected she’d have found a hit of some kind if the woman had consented to be printed. But getting a warrant would be impossible without some concrete evidence. And there was none. Just her cop’s gut instinct that Misty was hiding something. And that would never wash with a judge.

  It was as if the woman was non-existent.

  She decided to put Misty Waters on the back burner for the moment and move forward.