Murder Under the Desert Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  Bob must have made some sexual innuendos. He often did that.

  "Okay, then, thanks. Will wait to hear back—remember Arizona is not on daylight—no, no, just saying."

  "That's it?" I was a little disappointed: nothing I didn't already know or hadn't thought I knew.

  "So, what do you say we take the long way home and walk by the pool?" he suggested.

  "Good idea. I would love to run into those two just to see their expressions."

  We gathered our things. He locked the car, and we headed the same way Shannon and Rico had disappeared.

  "I'm a bit concerned about Vivian. If Shannon and Rico are together, who's taking care of our landlady?"

  Larry had his arm around my shoulders as we walked side by side.

  "She probably slept off the booze and is at home swearing she'll never do that again. By the way, those words she kept repeating, hochu k— something else, can't remember. Anyway, it's Russian or close to it, like a dialect. We asked one of the secretaries who has parents from the old country. She said it means wanting to be with someone you miss or someone you care about who is no longer on Earth."

  "Like a lover?"

  "That, or a parent? But the lover would explain the wedding dress. Where do you think she got that? At a Halloween store?"

  "I think it's her own wedding dress, from a long time ago."

  "My sweetie, always the romantic. Remember, we don't discuss anything important or pertaining to the case when we get home, not until I get someone there in the morning, when you're going with me to the dealer and helping me pick out the car. We can have breakfast on the road, and if you're concerned about Flash, we can take her with us."

  The only thing I really heard was "we don't discuss anything important or pertaining to the case." Yes! I was part of the investigation! I was beginning to understand why Larry missed his job so much—it was better than a shot of double espresso. I felt tingling with excitement, everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The young man with the briefcase could have been a schoolteacher or a salesman, but I would have never guessed him to be The Sweeper. He came in and went right to work while exchanging meaningless trivia with Larry about the virtues of imported cars versus American-made, as a cover.

  Once the men were satisfied that no listening devices existed, they sat, and I offered some freshly brewed coffee. Apparently the clean-shaved and oh-so-polite young man was the perfect example of a new generation of experts on many things people do, mostly of the illegal kind, when breaking into someone's home. Except, if indeed Rico or Vivian wanted to pay us a non-scheduled visit, they had their own set of keys.

  After he left, Larry gave me his version of the facts. Shannon was scheming with Rico to find out what Larry was really doing in Phoenix. That's why she offered to be my guide and drive me to Carefree to allow enough time for Rico to go through the place. While he was busy doing that, Flash got out.

  "Okay, suppose you're right, where does Vivian fit in? But wait, why that strange scene between Rico and Shannon when we showed up at their front door? If they're in this together, he knew we were coming."

  "Lella, you think there was a scene or something unusual there, but nothing unusual was said, correct?"

  I nodded.

  "Maybe you're suspicious by nature." He pulled back as he said that, fully expecting me to go after him.

  "Funny, Mr. Detective. Very funny."

  "Shall we go pick our new car? I think we should hire someone to drive your Mustang back and maybe we could follow Kyle's example and take the long way home, spend a few days in Vegas."

  "What about Flash?"

  "Right, how can I forget about Flash?"

  She must have heard her name because she appeared and pranced around, rubbing against Larry's legs.

  "Did you feed her?" he asked.

  "I can't believe you would even dream of asking me that. Of course I fed her. She's kissing up to you because she knows I won't let her out. Sorry baby, you need to stay in. It's too hot outside. Okay?"

  She kept ignoring me.

  I went to comb my hair, and I heard Larry opening and closing drawers. "Looking for something?"

  "Yes, do you have any thread?"

  "You mean like for sewing?"

  "Yes."

  "No, I don't. What do you have that needs sewing? We can stop and get it—even drugstores carry some sewing supplies."

  "Nah, it's just a trick, to see if someone gets in the house after we've gone. I could use one of your hairs."

  Before I had the time to answer he came over and actually yanked one from my head.

  "Hey, hey! That hurts."

  "Oh, poor baby." His eyes smiled.

  He had me go out first, and then he managed to insert my hair between the door and the frame. I could tell that wasn't his first time either.

  We walked by Vivian's place. Then ten minutes later we were heading toward Scottsdale to the Mercedes dealership. We'd forgotten to deploy the shade-screen on the windshield so the car was very, very hot. Larry turned on the air conditioning full blast.

  The car showroom was more than luxurious but in a very subdued way. We'd gone directly there so I was getting hungry. To my surprise, there were no stale donuts. Instead they had brioches and fresh fruits set out on large platters. So I made myself comfortable while the manager gave Larry the grand tour.

  The television was set on a local channel, and the weatherman was discussing haboobs and showing some pretty unsettling pictures of massive walls of dust descending on parts of the region.

  "Wow," slipped from my lips between bites of brioche.

  "You're not from around here, are you?" a pleasant Hispanic woman asked. "Nothing to be concerned about—it's way too early for those summer storms. They call it with that fancy name, haboob, but it's the same old giant dust storm we used to get when I was a kid. Comes and goes pretty fast. It's annoying if you have a pool or if you get caught on the freeway. Otherwise, not much to fear—beats tornadoes and earthquakes."

  I found myself nodding like a bobblehead.

  "Oh, oh," she added quickly, "I bet you're from California. I could see it on your face when I mentioned earthquakes."

  "You're right. I'm from Orange County, and I have to confess I've been very lucky so far, with only one mild earthquake, and no damage whatsoever."

  I wiped my mouth just as Larry came looking for me. Haboob or dust storm, who cared? I'd be long gone before July.

  "So, did you find your new car?" I asked Larry.

  "I think so, come take a look, see what you think."

  We crossed the waiting room and the show room, and ended up outside in the heat where a shiny black Mercedes sat, doors wide open, engine purring, and the same color leather inside as his old one.

  "Oh, look, your old car must have had a baby," I said, and watched the young helper, still holding the dust rag he'd used to wipe down the car, turn his face away to hide his laugh.

  Larry gave me one of his cool looks, pretending he hadn't heard my snarky remark. "It's not the same model," he said, a little too fast. "Let's take it for a spin."

  He motioned for me to get in, and I did. The kid with the rag quietly closed my door, the smile still lingering in his impish glance. When the car began to move, Larry seemed to relax in a very blatant way. What? Getting a new car was equal to a climax? I'd never viewed the man-car experience as such, but maybe there was something to it?

  Fascinating.

  We drove off the dealership's lot and onto Scottsdale Road. I sensed Larry itching to find an open road. No such luck.

  "It may look like my old car, but looks are deceiving."

  He waited for me to say something—I'm sure. Cars have never been very important to me. If they run and take me from point A to point B in a safe way and the color doesn't clash with the predominant shades of the garments in my closet, it's fine by me.

  However, I would never have a red car because I've read in
many magazines that that color is the most likely to get pulled over and to get you a ticket. Black was good, maybe not in Arizona with the hot sun and the dust storms, but perfect for Southern California.

  "Nice," I said. "Very nice. Smooth ride." An extra stroke for his manly pride.

  "It'll be ready by tomorrow. We can drive here and pick it up ourselves, or they'll deliver. What do you think?"

  "I think that the days are going by, and there's no court date, but yes, we can pick it up. I have the feeling that's what you have in mind."

  He stroked my knee. "You know me so well. Let's get into our Continental and find a place to eat. I'm hungry, how about you?"

  "I had a buttery brioche and some fresh strawberries and bananas, really good coffee, and—"

  "Okay, I get the idea. Well, let's pick up something at a drive-thru and go back to the condo. I'm hoping that Bob will call soon, and I want to be able to take notes. Do you think we'll find a fast-food place on Camelback Road?"

  "Not between Scottsdale Road and Camelview Suites we won't."

  "Listen to you, you talk like a native. Where do you suggest we look?"

  "Have no idea. You know what I think about fast food. We should watch for a Starbucks, they're sprouting up everywhere like weeds."

  "I haven't seen many weeds around Phoenix, have you?" he teased me.

  Just then we noticed the discrete logo of the coffee shop, one with a drive-thru. Good, problem solved.

  We were back in his rental car, and had the Starbucks bag stored safely, having decided to wait until we got home to eat. He was edgy, and I was surprised he didn't talk about the new car. Something else must be eating at him. What?

  Just before we turned into the short driveway of our gated complex he said, "Logan Thompson is coming by."

  "Oh, what for?"

  "To make you an offer you can't refuse." He could hardly keep a straight face.

  "And if I did refuse?"

  "Come on—give him a chance to exceed your expectations."

  "Who are you? You talk like an infomercial. What have you done to Lawrence Devin?"

  He laughed, patted my leg, and said, "I would really like to get the cement-on-the-sun-roof-story resolved so we can move on."

  "You mean you want me to name my price, take the money, and be done, right?"

  "Yes, that works too. Any idea what would make you happy? I'm talking about numbers, dollars, monetary happiness. I know you don't like to talk about that. If it's easier, give me a number, and I'll do the talking."

  I kept shaking my head. I hadn't thought about it at all. "In your opinion, what would be a reasonable amount?"

  "Forget reasonable, aim high. The father of the wannabe pilot is loaded. Maybe that will teach him to keep the kid on a shorter leash. You realize the kid could have killed you and even himself. I'm willing to bet daddy will put enough pressure on the people in charge to keep the kid out of jail. Let's at least give him some grief through the wallet."

  "You know these people?"

  "Not personally, and I'd like to keep it that way. But I know that this is not the first time the kid's been in trouble."

  We went from the parking lot to the condo. Vivian's drapes were open, but I didn't notice any movement. I had to wait for Larry to check if the hair was still in place before we could get into the condo. It was, and we entered the condo not a moment too soon—his phone was ringing.

  "Bob, I'm all ears." Larry dropped the Starbucks bag on the table, pulled out a pen, and started scribbling on what looked like the receipt for what he had in the paper bag.

  I rushed to get something better to write on. I found a paper napkin. Really?

  "Seriously? Here in Phoenix? Oh, not in Phoenix. Sun City? Yes, no problem. This is good, very good. What else you got?"

  I couldn't hear what Bob was saying, but by Larry's reaction it must have been something extremely important and unexpected because while the intensity of his expression grew, all signs of good news faded from his eyes.

  I tiptoed around the kitchen. What had Bob uncovered?

  Larry no longer took notes. He sat and listened, his shoulders slumped. Then the conversation was over, but he still clutched the phone like a lifebuoy. Whatever was in the Starbucks bag was by now cold for sure. I had a feeling Larry didn't care and was no longer hungry.

  He checked his watch. "Logan may be on his way." He drummed his fingers on the table.

  I felt so useless.

  "I need to get downtown and double-check some information, but I don't want to leave you here alone. Let me see if I can catch Logan and ask him to reschedule. Do you mind going with me? You can take the car and go shopping if you don't want to wait around while we talk."

  And miss all the excitement? Hell no. Finally, I was going to be a part of the action, not just the investigation!

  Twenty minutes later we were on Camelback Road, driving west, to downtown Phoenix.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I had no intention of leaving Larry's side, unless he went to use a public bathroom clearly marked Men.

  The office where he was to meet someone from the Innocence Free Project wasn't in any high-rise glass and metal state-of-the-art building. Instead, we parked in front of a vintage bungalow-turned-law-office. Very charming, no doubt about it. The high-rise buildings could be seen about a mile or so away.

  Here they did have an open box with a few stale donuts, probably to be coupled with old, bitter coffee. I'd brought along my bottle of drinking water and a week's worth of pent-up curiosity, ready to burst.

  The woman who let us in was older than I was—how refreshing—and about my size, a reason for instant connection. While Larry marched directly into the conference room, I lingered, and the kind lady asked if any of us would like to place an order for sandwiches to be delivered shortly. I ordered a sandwich for Larry.

  A door opened somewhere and Dennis Thompson came from around a corner. With him was a young woman with very pale skin and long, stringy blonde hair, not a good candidate for the outdoors unless she liked moonlight.

  When Dennis noticed me he flashed me a smile. "Hello, Lella, glad you're joining us." Without much fanfare he pointed to the conference room.

  Perfect. I felt acceptance; I was part of the team.

  We entered what must have once been a dining room, perhaps a large Arizonan family would have gathered here for their evening supper, before air conditioning was invented. Well, hats off to those tough pioneers.

  Larry stood when we entered. He nodded to Dennis, said a quick "Hello Greta," and then glanced curiously at me.

  I quietly sat myself at the end of the table. Sunlight filtered through the tall, narrow windows and formed arabesque shadows on the glossy tabletop. I could see fingerprints left by sweaty hands. The place smelled of old potpourri.

  "Okay then," Dennis laid open a thick file, "let's compare notes."

  The young woman Larry had called Greta opened a small computer. She never once looked at me. And here I was wondering if she could be a good match for Kyle. Nah. She wasn't tall enough. Focus, Lella, focus.

  "We all agree on Carillo's movements that day. His classes at Fullerton College ended earlier than usual—verified. He hitched a ride from another student who dropped him off on Harbor Boulevard, where he would catch the bus to Santa Ana—verified." Dennis continued. "Because he had a long wait, he walked around, and according to him, found himself behind a strip mall where he snooped inside the large garbage bins used by businesses. He claimed he got lucky a few times doing that, finding goods he was able to sell and make a few bucks. When he spotted the guitar case, he became very excited and retrieved it, handling it with care.

  "Once he found the brand new guitar inside, he quickly walked away from the trash container in case someone came back looking for the guitar. He reached the bus stop and didn't budge until he boarded the bus to Santa Ana. The only verified info we have is that he was on the bus, and he was carrying a guitar case.

  "We
know the rest. He was caught in the raid and would have been released within hours if not for the guitar case. Too bad back then there weren't cameras on every corner. These were the facts, and it boiled down to who could better sway the jury's opinion. Apparently, the prosecutor was the more convincing lawyer. And you, Larry Devin, should stop beating yourself up over this. Okay?"

  Greta coughed lightly. "Dennis is correct."

  She had been sniffling the whole time, and I had to summon up all of my will power not to offer her a clean tissue from my purse.

  "You say you've detailed information gathered from a former colleague of yours. He's interviewed the granddaughter of the deceased owner of a Russian restaurant that burned to the ground about ten, twelve years ago." She sniffled again and stared at the screen of her small portable computer. Then she looked at Larry with a rather blank expression. "Hearsay," she stated matter-of-factly. "Some of your information we already have in our files. It sounds good, but we can't prove a thing. Our team feels that what we've gathered will be good enough to get Carillo's sentence reduced. Of course none of this is my call, only my opinion."

  I had no idea what was going through Larry's mind, but he didn't look too happy.

  Voices came from the small lobby and soon a man wearing a shirt saying Freshly Made Quickly Delivered came into the conference room and deposited a large wicker basket in the middle of the table. He began to hand out sandwiches, each with a name on the wrapper. When he called Larry, my Larry sort of looked around. I winked at him. He understood and reached out for his sandwich and unwrapped it: turkey, lettuce, and mayo, his favorite.

  "Why aren't you eating?" Dennis asked me.

  "I ate earlier," I said.

  For the next ten minutes I listened to their munching. The nice lady from the front brought some cans of soda and water, then asked if anyone wanted coffee. Dennis scrunched up his napkin and the wrapper into a paper ball and aimed for the wastebasket. He missed, and we all laughed. Time to get back to work. Larry drummed his fingers on the table. Now I understood how all those fingerprints got on it: messy hands after eating.