I heard a door opening somewhere, and my cat hunched up, looking like the consummate predator. Suddenly she arched her back, and with a loud meow she leaped down the other side of the wall. I heard metal hitting metal. Patio furniture? I hoped.
Larry and I sprang for the front gate at the same time. I accidentally stepped on Larry's big toe while we hurried to the neighbor's front patio. The place was dark and now quiet if not for a low growl. Wait, it wasn't really a growl—it was my cat purring. Purring? How? Why?
"Hello," I called out.
Larry's hand was still on the locked top of the gate. Flash stopped purring. I heard little paws running. Was there another cat?
"Hello." A little louder.
"Yes." A light came on, and a woman stood by the open door of her unit, holding a glass of something and checking us out without any qualms.
"Huh, hello, sorry to bother you. We just moved in next door, and I think my cat is on your patio." I couldn't tell if she heard me or not. Her eyes were on Larry.
Without a word she walked up to the wrought iron gate and clicked something. She moved back and said, "Come in, come in. Your cat is playing with my Lucy."
I could smell her flowery perfume from where I stood. She wore a gauzy long caftan of a peachy color, and her platinum hair fell straight and sort of limp on her shoulders. How old was this woman who seemed fascinated by Larry? She also was barefoot, and yet appeared as tall as I was with my two-inch heels.
Larry moved aside letting me walk through the gate first. I felt his edginess, a very different type of edginess than just because my stupid cat decided to go play with the neighbor's pet. Was Lucy a cat also?
This woman must not believe in bright lights. Only an amber-colored light bulb was on outside, and the inside of her unit appeared dark. She sat herself on a patio chair the same shape and size as the set on our patio, but the pillows were a different color. Her long fingers with painted nails pointed toward the other chairs. I hesitated.
Larry sat across from the neighbor. "Larry Devin," he said, without offering his hand.
"Vivian Kurtis, pleased to meet you." She turned to look at me still standing and feeling out of place. I sighed.
"Lella York, how are you?" I sat, and I swear she seemed giddy when she heard my name. Because I wasn't Mrs. Devin?
"Where are you folks from?"
"Southern California," Larry said.
I tried to locate Flash, looking around without being rude, and had to smile seeing Larry's toes against the concrete floor. Poor darling. There he was making polite small talk with the strange neighbor who watched his every move, his every breath, so I could get my cat.
And then I saw it.
It was as if someone punched the air from my chest. "Oh my God! Flash has caught a mouse, a giant mouse." I sounded panicky and jumped up, pointing toward the dark corner where Flash seemed to be holding this big mouse. Or a rat? A white rat?
"Ah, that's not a mouse." Vivian laughed, a childlike laugh, at first. It quickly changed into a deeper sound, and then a serious cough. "It's my Lucy." She spoke between fits of coughing. "Lucy's my ferret. She's no rat. What's wrong with you? You've never seen a ferret?"
I was mortified and not a little embarrassed. Now that I paid closer attention I could see that Flash and this Lucy-ferret were actually playing. I didn't care what the coughing neighbor said—it looked like a rat, except for the tail that was sort of nice and fluffy. I glanced at Larry, wishing for some kind of moral support.
"There aren't any ferrets in the state of California," he said calmly. "They're illegal in our state. That's one good reason for Lella never having seen one."
Vivian drank from the glass she had been holding, and soon she stopped coughing. I didn't know what to do with myself. I really wanted to grab my cat and run back to the other side of the wall, but I was afraid to provoke the ferret and maybe get bitten.
Larry took charge. He went over to the playmates, picked up my cat, walked over to where I sat in a state of advanced stupor, helped me up, and said to Vivian, "It was nice meeting you, sorry about the inconvenience. We've had a long day. I'm sure we'll see you around."
Holding my arm, we walked out of there, back onto our patio, and inside the house, locking our front door behind us. If Lucy wasn't pleased, she didn't make a sound. As for Vivian, we could hear her coughing while we locked the door. We even left our wine glasses on our patio table. Neither of us was in the mood to go out to get them.
"That is one strange cookie," Larry said, letting Flash go. I knew he meant the neighbor.
"She seemed fascinated by you, and you were both barefoot."
"Please, the idea of having something in common isn't flattering at all."
"I'm still thinking about that thing, the Lucy-ferret? I've never even heard of those things before."
"Sweetie, they aren't things, and they are harmless, but they smell, a natural body odor."
"That's why they're illegal in California? Because of BO?"
Larry laughed, came over, and hugged me. "You're too cute. I'm not sure why they are illegal. It must have something to do with reproduction and damage to native creatures or plants. But no, it's not because of their smell. Wanna go sit in the spa?"
"Now?"
"Can you think of a better time? Just you, me, and the sky above. You could wear your new swimming suit." He rubbed his fingers up and down my spine while he spoke.
Temptation.
"What are you going to wear? A fig leaf?"
"I'll have you know that I have some very nice black Gucci swimming shorts."
"Gucci? Are you making fun of me? Since when does Gucci make men's swimming shorts?"
"Since enough vain men are willing to pay the hefty price tag that comes with them."
"And you are one of these men? How much did you pay for them?"
"I'm not going to tell you. Wait, I'm going to model my Gucci shorts for you, and you have to guess the price." He walked into the bedroom.
I followed him. "This is not fair. You can make up whatever price you want. Unless the tag is still on, how would I know if you're telling the truth? Are they more than one hundred dollars?"
"A lot more." He was totally naked, his back to me.
Suddenly I didn't really care about the going price for Gucci swimming shorts. I had other figures in mind, mostly horizontal. We never did make it to the spa.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the morning Larry wore the celebrated black Gucci swimming shorts to make coffee. I dragged myself to the kitchen, and he handed me a cup with the perfect combination of brew, milk, and sugar.
"Your cat wants out." Larry pointed to Flash pacing by the front door.
"Too bad. You know if I open the door she'll make a beeline to the neighbor's place."
"Possibly. What are you going to do? Keep her locked in?"
"Maybe I'll take her for a walk. Let's talk about your Mercedes, and who did all that? And why?"
"Neither my car nor you were the intended target. That's the good news. Here is what I know about the culprits. Three male friends, early twenties, stole—okay, borrowed an older single-engine Cessna belonging to one of the kids' dads with the intention of dumping a very large amount of quick-setting concrete into the fountain head located in the middle of the water lily-like structure in the lake." He stirred his coffee, his eyes on me.
"Oh my God! How do people come up with schemes like that? Were they trying to destroy the fountain?"
"I'm not sure—don't know if the damage would have been permanent. Suffice to think what they did to the Mercedes and to you without even trying. They stole the fifty-pound bags of concrete from a construction project underway just outside the Scottsdale airport.
"The same kid who took the Cessna just got his pilot's license, so airport workers were used to seeing him hanging around his dad's plane. We're guessing alcohol was involved. Either they miscalculated when to dump the bags, or they were overzealous. Anyway, the first drop hi
t the Mercedes, and you know the consequences. Another bag ended up just a few feet from the lakeshore.
"By then they panicked and rushed back to the airport hoping no one had noticed the missing Cessna. All three have lawyered up. I'm surprised the legal teams haven't contacted us yet. Anyway, my plan was to drive downtown to MCSO headquarters and see what they need from you before you take off." He didn't look at me while he said that.
I felt like dirt.
"I'm not going home. How can I? With that platinum blonde on the other side of the wall waiting to catch you alone?"
His eyes smiled when he walked over and kneeled down by my chair so that we were face to face. He hugged me. "I'm so happy you're staying. You won't regret it."
"Larry, I still want to know what it is that you're doing in Phoenix."
"Tell you what, let's get dressed, grab some breakfast on our way to the Sheriff's headquarters, and I'll give you the short version. Deal?"
"Deal. Where are we having breakfast?"
"Makes no difference to me. I drive—you look. When you see a place that appeals to you, tell me, and we'll stop to eat."
We had to walk by the neighbor's gate to get to the Lincoln. No signs of Lucy or her owner. My Mustang was parked on the guest side of the complex.
"Good thing Kyle isn't around—he would tease us mercilessly with this rented car. He calls this model of automobile an old-people's-car."
"Should you call and tell him you're staying in Phoenix for a few days?"
"He doesn't know I'm here."
"You didn't tell your son you were driving to Arizona?"
"Larry, it was supposed to be a twenty-four-hour quick trip. The kid may not even be in the country; he's been chasing some woman he met in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and I think she's from England."
Larry shook his head. I usually tiptoed around the subject of our grown kids, not wanting to bring attention to his relationship, or lack of it, with his daughter.
We drove down Camelback Road, heading downtown, or as Larry explained, we traveled west toward Central Avenue, the main thoroughfare separating east Phoenix from west Phoenix. He enjoyed sharing all that information; unfortunately I couldn't have cared less.
"So, you see, when you're in East Phoenix, you're on the streets side, while West Phoenix has avenues."
I kept my eyes on the street signs. You never knew when you might need to remember your way home. Once we crossed Sixteenth Street, it was like entering Car Alley. Dealerships were on either side of Camelback Road, one right next to the other. What a change of scenery!
I was famished. "Let's find a place to eat on the streets side and start talking about this witness testimony or whatever it is that you're here for." I wasn't about to let him off the hook.
Five minutes later we sat in a booth at Denny's on Camelback and Seventh Street. And Seventh Street seemed to mark the end of the car lots, too.
Denny's! Of all the local breakfast joints he could have chosen. I knew Larry did it on purpose. Want to eat on the streets side of town? There you go. He never said a word, but after the years together, he didn't need to. And I wasn't going to complain either. Two could play that silly game. I smiled and checked out the menu. I always ordered the same thing: pancakes—hold the butter, scrambled eggs, and two very crisp slices of bacon. And I always ate part of the eggs, all the bacon, and one pancake.
"About the witness thing?" We sat in a quiet booth, the perfect place to talk.
"Where do I begin?" He sighed. "Seventeen years ago? That's when this thing started, seventeen years ago." He sighed again. "If that poor kid is innocent, he's been robbed of seventeen years of his life. Gives me goose bumps just trying to get my mind around the enormity of it all."
"So, whatever you are here for is tied in with that Innocence Free Project you mentioned at the party, right?"
He nodded yes and looked ten years older when he did that. "It started in California, Orange County. Before I became a full-fledged detective I arrested a young man for stealing a guitar. Miguel Carillo, freshman at Fullerton College, living with his grandmother. Clean record. He claimed he found the guitar case on his way home.
"While waiting for the bus, he'd noticed something shining in a commercial trash bin behind a strip mall. He got curious, hoping to find something of great value, but when he walked over there he saw the guitar case sticking out among the garbage. It looked in good condition and felt sort of heavy. Inside the case was a brand new guitar.
"He got all excited and was carrying it home to show his grandma when we swarmed the complex trying to catch a crook who'd robbed a Circle K. Carillo and a few other young men fit the description. He was singled out because of the guitar case. You never know what's hiding inside. We drove him downtown and read him his rights.
"Soon after that the real crook was apprehended, but by then we'd found a gun hidden inside the guitar. That's where it got complicated. The owner of the guitar and the case was deceased—his body was at the morgue in Maricopa County, Arizona, and had been there for a few days. No biggie. Miguel could easily prove he hadn't been anywhere near Phoenix; he hadn't left Southern California for the last two years.
"But, yes, another twist, the lead detective in Phoenix was pretty sure the guitar owner was killed somewhere else and dumped in the desert near the Scottsdale-Phoenix border. Apparently that wasn't unusual. Coyotes and cartels had been known to dump bodies around there."
"Wait, wait. Coyotes and cartels?"
"Coyotes are people smugglers. Sometimes, if the clients can't pay, they kill them. And cartels, well they don't need a justification to kill. Except that the dead man wasn't a Mexican national being smuggled, nor a US citizen for that matter. And—" His cell phone chimed.
Damn. This was sad, yet fascinating stuff, especially for me, who knew very little about coyotes and cartels. Dana Point seemed like the safest place on Earth after those five minutes of raw reality.
Larry was still on the phone when our server brought the bill. I excused myself and went to use to the ladies' room. I had the feeling we were about to get into the car and drive to some office in a hurry. When I got back Larry had paid the tab and was pacing by the front door.
I followed him to the car. "Bad news?"
"Not really, but things are moving fast. The crew from the Innocence Free Project is giving a televised interview, a lawyer for the three stooges is waiting for us to make us an offer we can't refuse, and Miguel Carillo sent me word he wouldn't mind saying hello to me. He still remembers me, poor kid. Not sure I'll get the green light to visit him, but I'll try."
Yes, in my mind Dana Point just got upgraded to a beacon of serenity.
"Before we get to where we're headed, are you saying this so-called kid is in prison for the death of the guitar's owner? How? You said he was never in Phoenix, so who drove the dead man here?"
He turned to look at me, and I saw surprise in his eyes. "Sweetie, you figured that out quick! Good for you. Well, that was the defense's main point of contention. That and the fact that there was no motive. But the prosecutor insisted Miguel was a go-between, and he could have slipped a few bucks to anyone working the smugglers' route, and they would have gladly left the body at the well-known dumping spot."
"By your tone I'm guessing you didn't agree with the prosecutor."
"The whole scenario is just out of Miguel Carillo's league by light years. The dead man was a high-profile member of an Armenian organization. Think Mafia. No one could explain what Anton Hasan was doing in the States. Through passport checks at Customs we knew he arrived at LAX from London a week before his body showed up in Arizona.
"He purchased the guitar from a store on Sunset Boulevard the same day of his arrival. The clerk at the Sam Ash store recognized Hasan from the photo in the newspaper. Then the Armenian disappeared, until his body was found in the desert. Of course, back then we didn't have a camera at every corner, but still, how did he get around? Did he rent a car? Take a taxi?
"S
ure, Carillo had acted suspiciously when we approached him. What do you expect? Most of the Spanish-speaking community is leery of cops in general, and he had in his possession an apparently brand new musical instrument in a fancy case that he knew very well wasn't his."
"They convicted him of murder for having the guitar?"
He patted my knee. "A guitar with a gun hidden inside, the same gun that killed Hasan. Plus, the only fingerprints found on the case and the contents were of Hasan and Carillo. And the gun was wiped clean."
The whole story felt downright spooky. Before I could ask more questions we reached our destination—MCSO headquarters. And what a strange building that was. The red brick structure looked more like a prison than an office building. Maybe it was both? Not many warm and fuzzy feelings to be found inside the building, either.
Larry went to talk to a young man minding the front desk, and five minutes later we were out of there, being escorted by car to a different building, with fewer bricks and more glass, then up an elevator to a law firm that apparently took up the whole ninth floor of a high-rise backing onto Central Avenue.
I'd kept my mouth shut because I figured Larry must know what was going on, and there was no need to ask a lot of questions while this Sheriff's Deputy drove us to our destination, but now I was curious. What were we doing here?
I tried to read the names of the lawyers printed in golden letters on the glass door. Then I gave up when the receptionist looked at me in a suspicious way every time I stretched my neck to look back at the door.
Soon we were sitting in a large and sunny—well, this was Arizona, and the word sunny applied to everything and everywhere—conference room. The deputy said good-bye and left. Apparently we were there for a long stay? The view was fabulous. You could see all the way to—Camelback Mountain. Of course.
I looked at Larry. "What's going on?"
He smiled. "We're waiting for the lawyer representing the kid who borrowed his dad's Cessna. They're probably going to offer us a lot of dough and ask us not to file charges."
Murder Under the Desert Moon Page 3