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by J. Carson Black

  Could one of those bodies belong to Max? God, no.

  His phone chirped—Jerry.

  Gordon didn’t want to answer now.

  This was one mother-loving mess, and if Max turned up a bloody pulp—and the paparazzi were able to get a photo—his legendary status would be a thing of the past.

  In this day of instant gratification and overt bribery, Gordon had no doubt that if one of the corpses was Max, someone had already gotten a candid shot of him with a cell phone.

  And that photo would quickly make its way to the Internet. No question about that.

  In which case, Max’s value would plummet, and they’d be left holding a very unappetizing bag. And knowing Jerry, Gordon knew he’d hear about it for the rest of his life.

  The desk phone rang. He didn’t bother to look at the readout. “All right, Jerry. What now?”

  “No, sir, this is Drew,” Gordon’s assistant said. “There’s a call for you.”

  “I don’t want to talk now.”

  “You might want to talk to this one, sir. She’s with the Bajada County Sheriff’s Office. Detective Tess McCrae.”

  JERRY LISTENED AS Gordon’s phone went to voice mail. He waited for the tone and yelled, “Gordon, will you tell me what the hell is going on? I’m going out there!” He slammed the phone on the granite kitchen island and a piece of plastic flew off, almost hitting him in the eye. This made him angrier, so he took the phone and beat it against the edge of the island until it disintegrated.

  Talia stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. “What happened?”

  “Turn on the TV and see for yourself!”

  She grabbed the remote from the desk and turned on the television. Horny Housewives was on. Jerry grabbed the remote from her and muttered, “The news, dammit.”

  Three men had been shot to death in a home outside Paradox, Arizona. Their names had not been released yet, pending notification to their families.

  “So what now?” Talia asked, her voice calm. Too calm. Had she taken another Xanax?

  “So what now?” he repeated, parroting her “poor little me” voice. “We have to find out if Max was one of them. It’s probably best not to panic yet.” He stared at his broken smartphone. “Maybe there’s a way out. If they didn’t destroy his face. But you know it will come out. All the details. There will be at least one blurry corpse picture.” He stared at his new wall of storyboard scenes. Not worth the cheap paper they were drawn on, now.

  He needed to calm down. For all he knew, Max wasn’t involved in the killing at all.

  But his gut told him there was no way he wasn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WHEN JIMMY MET up with Shaun at the Subway, they had lunch. Jimmy had a spectacular appetite, and Shaun enjoyed watching her boy eat. Her heart filled with love as she watched him. He was always intent on his food, like a wolf or a mountain lion, and she liked that she could see the predator in him.

  He looked up at her, his mouth ringed with grease from the sub. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, knowing she sounded like an overindulgent mother.

  Jimmy said, “So what do we do now?”

  “We keep looking for him.”

  “Yeah, but where?” He stretched his arm out, as if to encompass the Subway and the whole northern part of the state.

  “We’ll find him. I’ve never lost a patient yet,” she joked.

  He stared at her skeptically. The lock of hair falling over one eye. He looked frail, small for his age, but he was strong. He was like a cable that would not bend. “He’s probably on a plane back to LA by now.”

  “He’s around here,” Shaun said. “Somewhere. I can feel it.”

  “You and your feelings again.”

  “I’ve done this for a long time. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Bet you didn’t figure on him locking those idiots in the bomb shelter!”

  She didn’t like his smirk. “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” she said.

  “You’re not my mother.”

  Shaun said, “What are you talking about? I’m your mother and you’re my son. I thought we already talked about this.”

  He looked away and mumbled something.

  “What?” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “What did you say?”

  “You’re not my mother. I have a mother.”

  “Then where is she? How come I found you living on the streets?”

  He ducked his head and rubbed one eye. That lock of hair, falling over his face. “My mother’s dead.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s right here, looking at you, young man.” A red mist lowered over her eyes. No—not a mist. A stain. She could see everything clearly, in better detail than normal—every grain on the Subway bun, every one of Jimmy’s fine eyelashes, the ring of dark around his accusing eyes.

  “I am your mother.”

  He stared at her through the red stain. Everything hyperdelineated and clear. Sound rushing in, magnified. She could hear the lowered voice of the other diners, hear the crackle of waxed paper as the kid at the counter wrapped a sub. Everything a deep, blood red.

  The anger building, coming up through her throat like Mt. Vesuvius.

  She repeated, “I am your mother!”

  And realized she was shouting.

  Everything stopped. The place went quiet.

  People were looking at them.

  She grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

  He pulled away. “I don’t want to go. You’re going to get us in trouble. We’re both going to end up in prison.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  He stood up. “Screw you! You go do what you want, but I’m outta here.” And he dodged past her and trotted to the men’s room.

  IN THE CULVERT, Max waited, then waited some more. It could still be a trap. The kid could be right outside, like a cat at a mouse hole. Waiting…

  But the thunder was grumbling, and he could smell moisture in the air. If it rained, he’d be washed out like everything else in this culvert.

  He’d been trained by cops. He knew how to at least act like one. He duckwalked over to the edge of the culvert. Got on his stomach. Looked left first—the kid might go for the element of surprise—then right. Sweeping his gun as he did so. Crawled out a little more. On his back, gun trained at the road above. Sweeping again. Then he jumped to his feet.

  No one here. No sound of cars. No skinny little kid with the heart of a killer.

  Relief rolled off him along with his sweat.

  He’d wiped his nose on his sleeve. Realized he’d never smelled so rank.

  Fear smelled rank. And the desire to kill, that smelled rank too.

  He felt it. The strength flowing into him. He felt exalted. He wanted to crow to the skies. He wanted to hunt down that kid and hunt down that woman and see it in their eyes when he drew down on them. Wanted to smash, to kill.

  “What is wrong with me?” he muttered as he climbed the bank. He started in the direction of town, but his goal was the Desert Oasis Healing Center. And Gordon White Eagle would be in for a world of hurt when he got there.

  TESS STARTED UP the new car—it sounded powerful and didn’t miss like her last unit—and waited for a big truck to pull off the road and into the Subway parking lot. The words “Sunline Traders” were written on the side.

  Back at the office, she called the Desert Oasis Healing Center. She was immediately put on hold. The canned music was Sinatra tunes without Sinatra’s voice. The young man who’d answered had said, “I’ll try and see if he’s in. No promises.”

  She should just drive up there. But it was her first day as detective and they had three people dead of gunshot wounds and at least two crime scenes. They were understaffed and even though Pat was not as helpful as she would like, he was doing his job. She needed to stick around and work with him.

  “Hello.” The voice was deep and brisk. “This is Mr. White Eagle.”

  Tess thought once
again, What kind of name is that? “My name is Tess McCrae. I work for—”

  “I know who you are.” Silence—did he mean to intimidate her?

  “This is in regard to one of your patients, Mr. White Eagle…” She decided to be straightforward. “There has been a serious crime and—”

  “Is he dead?” White Eagle blurted out.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man took a deep breath.

  “Sir? Do you have any knowledge of a crime?”

  Nothing but breathing on the other end. Deep breathing. Hyperventilating.

  “Sir?” she repeated. “Do you have any knowledge of this crime? Here in Paradox, in Bajada County? Have you heard anything?” Wishing now she had done what her instincts told her to do and had driven up to see him in person. “Sir?”

  White Eagle said, “Is he…” She heard him swallow. “Is he dead?”

  “Is who dead?” Tess asked.

  He didn’t reply. Silence stretched out. Tess said, “From where I’m sitting, it sounds to me like you have knowledge of this crime. Is that correct, Mr. White Eagle? Do you know what transpired here in Paradox?”

  “No! Look. I’m just trying to understand. If there’s a problem…”

  “You keep saying ‘he,’ Mr. White Eagle. Who are you referring to?”

  Silence.

  “Are you referring to the actor, Max Conroy?”

  Another pause. Then Gordon White Eagle said, “Why would you think that?”

  “Sir, was he at your facility last night?”

  “I haven’t talked to the attendants today. They’d certainly alert me if he was missing…” His voice drifted off.

  Fudging.

  Max had left the reservation. But why did White Eagle think he was dead?

  “Sir, I want you to listen to me and listen carefully. I am going to ask you a question. I want you to answer me truthfully. This is a criminal investigation, and as such I need the absolute truth.” Tess was a little rusty, but she thought she struck the right tone between official business and offering a little bit of wiggle room—if he cooperated. She added, “I am counting on your cooperation.”

  The subtext was: remember the guru down the road with the sweat lodge? The one whose negligence led to the deaths of three people?

  He was quiet on his end.

  “Do you understand me? I need you to be truthful. Is Max Conroy at the Desert Oasis Healing Center or isn’t he?”

  “Of course he is!”

  So much for her bluff. Dammit, she wished she was in a room with him. “I need to speak to him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “This is a homicide investigation, sir. If he is there, I need to speak to him.”

  “It can’t be done.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “He’s in an isolation tank. He cannot be disturbed.”

  “Why did you ask me if he was dead?”

  Silence.

  “Sir, did you think he was dead?”

  “No, no. Not at all. For just a moment there I thought maybe someone might have gotten into the chamber with intent to do him harm, maybe some sicko—you know how that could happen, like that freak who shot John Lennon…but Max is checked on the hour. If there were anything, er, untoward, I’d know about it.”

  Tess had had enough of his slippery answers. Time to bring the hammer down. “Are you aware that obstructing a criminal investigation is a crime?”

  She could almost hear him puff up. “I am a doctor, Ms.…I’m sorry, I forget your name. Removing Mr. Conroy from the sensory deprivation tank at this juncture could result in grievous psychological harm, and I will not do it!”

  “Mr. White Eagle—”

  “Doctor White Eagle,” he said primly.

  “Doctor White Eagle.” Tess spoke quietly and concisely. “I’d like to read my notes from the beginning of our conversation. In reply to my statement that a serious crime had been perpetrated here in Bajada County, you stated as follows: ‘Is he dead?’ You asked me this not once, but twice.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Do you have knowledge of what transpired—”

  The phone disconnected, and all she got was a dial tone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ON THE JET, Jerry tried to relax. He relaxed the old-fashioned way: by drinking. No designer drugs for him. Macallan scotch did just fine. He planned to drink all the way to Arizona.

  Talia was moping in the jet’s bedroom, which was good, because he didn’t have to listen to her whine. He could see why Max dumped her the first time. No doubt, Max was happy that Jerry and Talia were sleeping together. If this was a game of hot potato, Jerry was the loser.

  He’d tried to reach Gordon, but Gordon wasn’t answering. It could be Gordon was putting out fires, but it could also be he was in his suite taking mescaline. Peyote was a fallback position he’d used for years.

  We all have our ways of coping, Gordon was fond of saying.

  Gordon White Eagle was Jerry’s older brother by four years. A Jew, of course, but in the seventies he’d morphed from metal band lead singer to counselor at a hippie retreat in Mendocino, and, after a couple of correspondence courses and a quickie trip to Tortuga for a diploma in “Psychology,” he graduated to guru. For some reason, Gordon got the looks in the family. Jerry liked to think that he’d gotten the smarts. Gordon was big. Gordon was athletic. Gordon got the girls in high school. All his life Jerry had to follow in his wake.

  But Jerry was richer.

  Still, it was tough in high school.

  They didn’t look like brothers at all.

  When Gordon first started the Desert Oasis Healing Center fifteen years ago, he’d had a mane that would put Fabio to shame. His hair was slightly graying at the temples, which only made him look wise. The hair went with the tan deer hide jacket embossed with Native American symbols. But time had taken its toll and like Jerry, genes were genes, and by forty, Gordon was prematurely balding. For a while, he held onto the long locks, adopting a ponytail to go with his Guayabera shirts and wire-rimmed glasses. This made him look wise and professorial. The nineties came and went, and good ol’ Gord realized he needed to evolve again. He had grown more famous, more powerful, and he chose to show that power. Now he shaved his head twice a day, his gleaming tanned dome a wonder to behold. He wore a diamond earring in one ear, and kept the deer hide jacket.

  But Jerry was richer.

  TESS CALLED BACK and asked to speak to Mr. White Eagle. The administrative assistant told her that Dr. White Eagle was unavailable.

  First, White Eagle had stonewalled her, and now he was unavailable.

  His story about Max and the sensory deprivation tank made no sense. In Tess’s interactions with powerful people—and that included the second-in-command of a New Mexico drug cartel and a corrupt mayor—this was not at all unusual. She’d seen it many times. The tactic was almost universal among high-octane public figures—men, mostly—who felt they could get away with it precisely because they were wealthy and powerful. The object was simple: stick to the lie, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. Tess never ceased to be amazed by the sheer audacity of it. These guys seriously thought if they just stuck to their stories, they could get away with anything. And many times, they did. It didn’t surprise her that Gordon White Eagle had tried it on her; she would have been surprised if he hadn’t.

  One thing was clear: the guru of the Desert Oasis Healing Center didn’t know what had happened to Max Conroy, but he assumed Max was dead.

  Why would he think that?

  She called Pat. “I know we won’t release the names of the victims until next of kin are notified, but I’d like to make sure no information leaks out in the next few hours. OK?”

  “You think I’m a rookie?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t ask me crap like that. We’re not releasing the names until the last dog dies. And one of those dogs is not answering his phone.”

  “Good
. I need to go to Sedona.”

  “Sedona? Now?”

  “It’s a lead.”

  He gave her the silent treatment. She was pissing off a lot of people today. “It’s a lead, Pat.”

  “Bonny know this?” Pat growled.

  “No, I’m going to call him now.”

  “And I get to do the dirty work.”

  “Are the bodies gone?”

  “On their way to Phoenix as we speak. But I’m going to be here a long time. I thought you would be joining me—it’s a real joyride, Detective.”

  Pat had always been good at making her feel guilty. “I’ll get back to you when I know what’s up,” she said.

  She knocked on Bonny’s open door. He looked up. “Something up, Detective?”

  She told him about her conversation with Gordon White Eagle.

  “He sounds slippery. But is that any reason to suspect him of anything?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I think it’s important, though.”

  Bonny sighed. “Pat’s gonna give me fits over this. Still, if it’s a lead, you’d better follow it.”

  WHEN BAJADA COUNTY sheriff’s deputy Luke Jump cleared his throat, Pat Kerney looked up. He was still down in the bomb shelter, trying unsuccessfully to negotiate his way around all the blood. His blue booties were turning purple.

  “Yeah? What?” Pat asked.

  “We went through the guesthouse.”

  “And?” Luke Jump talked slower than anyone he’d ever met. “Anything interesting?”

  “Well, uh, as a matter of fact, I think there’s something you should see.”

  “I’m in the middle of something, not so’s you’d notice.”

  “It, uh, might be important.”

  Pat climbed up out of the slaughter pen, as he was beginning to think of the bomb shelter, and followed Jump out past the pool to a smaller version of the main house. They went through the postage-stamp living room and into the hallway. The guesthouse had old blue-gray carpet of a tromped-down pile that reminded him of a nest of caterpillars. The air was on and it was cold.