The two sat in silence for several minutes before Mendoza spoke. “I was thinking about the footprints at the scene and they are consistent with a woman,” Mendoza said. “They’re long, but didn’t have much depth. That says tall woman or very slight man. So I think we are looking for a woman, just like you said.”
“I think the two men are connected through this woman,” Smith said. “Even though it isn’t immediately clear, they must have some common link to her.”
“I don’t know how they are connected either, but you’re right. They must be.”
“Okay. So, we’re looking for a tall woman, who knows how to use a gun…”
The waitress returned with their plates, setting them down then moving to circle the tables, staying on the periphery.
Mendoza jumped in, hitch-hiking on Smith’s train of thought.
“She blended in with the bikers, maybe she was one of them,” he said. “Or played the part to get close to Stone.”
“Okay. So, if that’s true, then that means Stone wasn’t chosen at random,” Smith surmised. “The playing cards pretty much prove that anyway.”
“Agreed,” Mendoza said. “She, assuming our killer is a she, must have known him before the night of the murder.”
“Same goes for Grady.” Smith answered from across the table.
“This is the part I don’t get,” Mendoza said, putting a thin slice of steak in his mouth. “Why would our killer pick these two?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Smith said, taking a large bite of his grilled chicken sandwich. “We better find the right answer…and soon.”
The two continued eating and several minutes, and a few beers, later the waitress hurried past and Mendoza made eye contact, bringing her to his side. “Check please.”
She handed him a slip of paper.
He turned back to Smith, “I’m beat, and I have some paperwork to finish before I go home. I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks for dinner, and all your help.”
“No problem. I want to take another crack at running down Stone’s movements the day before his death,” Mendoza said. “Then I have to go to Cottonwood to testify in a case.”
“Let’s meet for breakfast before you leave.”
“Okay.”
The two parted company on the sidewalk and Mendoza strode off. Smith ignored the bright lights and the sounds of the people as he made his way back up the small hill to his hotel.
Restored to its original western feel, the Hotel St. Michael and attached café serve as a hub of downtown activity on weekends. Inside the lobby, the heavy woods and dark colors reminded Smith of his favorite western movies, the simple furnishings classic, yet appealing.
Moving upstairs to his room, he shut the door behind him and fell onto the king-sized bed. He stared at the ceiling for several moments, eyes closed, resting and trying to still his tired mind. He drew a long breath, exhaled and opened his eyes, taking in the room’s antique atmosphere. He noted the quilt on the bed had the feel and heft of another era. His cell’s ring tone broke the silence of the room. He flipped open the device and placed it to his ear. “Hello?”
“John, it’s me.”
He immediately recognized his wife’s soft voice on the other end of the line. He still couldn’t think of her as ‘the ex’.
‘Cassie, hi. What’s going on?”
“Hi. I’ll get right to the point. I haven’t got the divorce papers back from you yet. I need them.”
“It’s not a good time to talk about this right now. I’m up in Prescott working.”
“What are you doing there?
“I’m on a case, a homicide.”
“Oh, my God.” She gasped.
“You probably saw it on the news. Somebody shot Senator Grady’s son, the baseball star, in an alley out by the Air Force base.”
“How awful. His poor mother must be inconsolable.”
“Yes. It’s very sad,” he continued. “Anyway, as you can imagine, the Chief made this a high priority, very high priority. I’ll get the papers to you later.”
“You’re always on a high priority case,” she said, her voice laced with irritation. “I’ve been waiting for three weeks.”
“I’m sorry. You know how these things go.”
“But the papers are ready, right?”
Silence.
“See John, this is what I mean. This is what I’ve been talking about. You always put work ahead of me. When do I get to be a priority?” she paused, her loud sigh audible over the airwaves. “Did you even sign the papers yet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Oh, God. Aren’t we past that stage by now? There’s really nothing more to say.”
“I hope that’s not true.”
“I want to know when you’re going to sign the papers.” She said, her voice steadfast and determined.
“I told you, I have to read them through first and then we’ll talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? Just sign the papers.”
“When I get a minute, I’ll look them over.” Irritation began to seep into his tone.
“You already know what’s there. I can’t be married to a man who doesn’t love me,” she said. “Your job means more to you than our marriage.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “I’m a police officer. That entails a lot of long hours.”
“And, I know about your girlfriend.” she said, the pain in her voice quite evident.
Oh, Hell. Not this again. She had accused him of infidelity years before, also erroneously.
“Cassie, there is no girlfriend. I’ve told you that a dozen times.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You don’t want me anymore, so there must be someone else. Even when you’re here, it’s like you’re not here. Your mind is somewhere else. That can only mean one thing.”
“That’s not true. I’ve never cheated on you and I don’t want anybody else.”
She paused, seeming to consider what he said. “Please, let’s not drag this out any more. I need those papers.”
“If you insist on going forward with this I’ll take care of it when I get back.”
“You should have taken care of it before you left, weeks ago as a matter of fact,” she said. “I need to give those papers to my lawyer.”
“I had other things on my plate,” he said. “Can’t we talk about this later?”
“Oh, now, all of a sudden, you want to talk. What about the counseling you agreed to? You missed four appointments!” Now the irritation broke out in her voice as well.
“You know that was work,” he defended himself, the attempt sounding weak, even to him. “I’m sorry.”
The delaying tactic was playing itself out. He knew he would have to sign eventually. However, he still held out a small hope, miniscule really, that he might be able to convince her to reconsider. The couple had problems, sure, but he felt that they could be overcome if they both worked at it. He still felt the nagging pangs of guilt over missing the appointments with the marriage counselor. I think she still loves me, deep down, but she’s lost faith in me… in us…and that’s my fault.
“Please, let’s give it one more chance. I promise, no more missed meetings. You’ll come first.”
Silence on the line.
“Cassie?”
“John, as much as I love you, you’ll never change. You’re obsessed with your work. You’re goal-oriented and single-minded,” she said, the irritation in her voice now gone, replaced with melancholy. “That’s what makes you a great detective. They’re just not qualities for a good husband.”
“Can’t we try again?” he said, trying to infuse his words with some hope. “I promise this time it will be different…I’ll be different.”
“Please John, just sign the papers,” she said. “It’s time to end this…before we really hurt each oth
er.”
He could feel that small glimmer of optimism dim with her words. The tone of her voice resigned, it rang with a painful finality.
“Okay. You’re right. I’ll sign the papers as soon as I get back home,” he said, voice flat in defeat. “I’ll get them to you next week.”
“No more delays?” she asked.
“No more delays.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Holding the dead phone in his hand, he again tried to mentally concoct a convincing argument to save his marriage. He struggled to come up with anything, no matter how farfetched, that would get Cassie to postpone the divorce. Running out of viable options, he scrubbed his face in his hands and heaved a long, heavy sigh, the sting of his wife’s rejection adding insult to injury.
“I need a drink.” His dark admission echoed across the empty room. Lucky for him, he remembered his hotel anchored an entire street of bars and clubs. How convenient. He propped his Stetson back on his head and started toward the door.
Whiskey Row, just as the name implied, comprised a string of small bars and nightclubs along Prescott’s historic downtown district. Established in the late 1860’s, Whiskey Row’s original bars and brothels catered to the ranchers, miners and residents carving out a living in the post-Civil War Bradshaw Mountains. A page right out of Old West folklore, gunfights broke out in the street and some bullet holes still exist in the ceiling of one popular restaurant.
Many of the original buildings on the west side of the street burned in 1900 and the legend goes that several intoxicated cowboys picked up the forty-foot long bar in the Palace Saloon and carried it across the street to safety, then served drinks while the fire raged. The historic rescue mission was re-enacted on the 100th anniversary of the event, to the enjoyment of hundreds of spectators watching from the steps of the Yavapai County Courthouse.
With its colorful history of good-natured debauchery, “The Row”, as it is often called, is now an entertainment, shopping and curiosity destination for locals and tourists alike.
Once outside, Smith marveled at the size of the Friday night crowds. Each club seemed to be overflowing, the happy revelers pouring out onto the sidewalk in small groups. He felt their exuberant energy as he approached. Not exactly in the mood for a party, he continued down the street, looking for a decent place to blow off some steam and misplace his problems for awhile.
He stopped, wondering which way to go, which one of the many beckoning taverns he should patronize. What difference does it really make, a beer’s a beer. He decided if he had to be miserable, he didn’t want to be miserable…and have to listen to crappy music at the same time. He passed a few places by before finding what he was looking for. The hard rock blasted out into the street as he pulled open the door. Few people knew it, but John Smith, despite his weathered cowboy appearance, was a classic rock man at heart.
He went inside and found a seat at the bar, the band on stage captivating the audience in an outstanding version of the iconic Who tune, “Behind Blue Eyes”. The arch of speakers surrounding the musicians shook the glassware on the tables.
“What’ll it be?” the pretty bartender asked, her voice barely cutting the din as she mixed a cocktail he didn’t immediately recognize.
Screw the beer. I don’t feel like wasting time. “I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
She nodded and turned a rocks glass over on the bar, filling it to the rim and placing it on a napkin in front of him. “That’s four-fifty.”
He handed her a twenty.
She headed toward the other end of the bar, the green concoction she previously created now in hand.
He swallowed half his drink in one smooth pull, mood still dark and brooding, his conversation with Cassie still burning a hole in his emotions. I guess it’s really over.
He killed the rest of the drink and signaled the bartender for another, which she quickly poured and set before him.
The band cut into another song, but Smith was lost in thought. He knew his wife was right. It was his fault their marriage fell apart. What does she want me to do, quit the force? What the hell would I do if I’m not a cop? He considered different scenarios for several minutes as the alcohol began to have the desired effect. I can’t sit around all day in an empty apartment. I suppose I could get my P.I. license. Smith dismissed the idea, knowing that trailing errant spouses and snapping pictures of them in the act of infidelity is the bread and butter of a private investigator’s work. I don’t want to peek in peoples’ windows for a living.
Yelling over the blare of the band belting out Van Halen’s “Running with the Devil”, he flagged down the bartender again. “A shot of Capitan Morgan’s please!”
The spiced rum burned all the way down his throat, landing with a bang to his head. He pushed Cassie from his mind, only to find the empty space filled with a replay of his argument with the Chief. Smith ordered another shot, now really beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. I can’t believe Matarski wants me to tip-toe around the Grady case. You’d think the Senator would want me to find out who killed his son. What is he hiding? Thoughts now becoming too jumbled and aggravating to endure, he ordered another shot. Fuck, maybe I should quit. It would probably be a relief.
He downed the liquid, feeding the fire in his stomach, and gave up thinking for the night, just trying to enjoy the drinks and the music.
Chapter Seventeen
The stereo’s blast echoing as they drove, Jenna and company turned off Gurley Street on to Granite. Parking in the new four-story garage, the three girls traversed the alley behind the Hotel St. Michael with clicking heels, making their way around the front to Whiskey Row. Jenna jabbed Hailey in the ribs. “Look at him,” she nodded her head toward a tall, muscular man walking from the opposite direction. “He’s really cute, for an older man.”
Hailey watched his lean, fit body as he moved closer on the crowded sidewalk. Moving her gaze to his face, she took in the rugged features, offset by the tan Stetson sitting atop his head at a jaunty angle. “He is cute,” she said, then completed the thought in silence. Older or not.
The three approached the door of the bar and Jenna held up her arm, blocking the other two.
“I’ll go tell Don we’re here,” she said. “He said he’ll get you guys in.” She disappeared between the rough sawn café doors into the noise and smoke beyond.
The Rat’s Nest, as the name implied was small and dark. Unlike the name implied, it was also clean and classy. Noted for its live music, the bar catered to the college set.
Jenna ushered the other two through a side entrance and down a narrow hall, the stacks of liquor bottles creating a cardboard maze. She handed her friends each a bright orange wrist band. “Here, put this on. It’s a VIP band. With this, you won’t get carded.”
Hailey wound the strap over her right arm and fastened it.
“We can also meet the band if we want.” Jenna said, face flushed with excitement.
Lights and sound assaulted Hailey’s ears as she stepped from the back room into the main hall of the club, the buzz of voices just audible above the music.
Looking into the lounge, she noticed the stage occupied what appeared to be an old orchestra pit, now converted to a cozy area surrounded by bistro tables. The revelers sat watching, listening and drinking, their smiles evident.
A lone young woman, perched atop a bar stool on stage, picked out original tunes on an electric guitar. The smooth tones of the bouncy composition both cheered and energized the three newcomers.
Making their way through the crowded dance floor, Hailey lurched slightly forward as someone bumped into her from behind. “Excuse me,” she said, a bit testily.
She turned her head, meeting the biggest pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She expanded her gaze to take in the young man’s face, his strong features sending out a loud ping of interest to her hormonal radar. Momentarily struck silent, she just stood still looking at the living Adonis.
“Sorry,” he said, moving back to a respectable distance in the swaying throng. “It’s kinda tight in here.”
He smiled at her and moved on, disappearing into the crowd and noise. Hailey watched him retreat for several seconds before elbowing her way forward to catch up with her friends.
On the far side of the pit, she saw Jenna and Mandy taking seats at a high-boy bistro table. Hailey took her place between them. They watched the people and enjoyed the music, taking in the ambiance, soaking up the abundant energy of dozens of young people out for a night on the town.
After a few minutes, a young woman approached, an empty drink tray hanging at her side. Hailey noted her tattoos and the piercing in her nose did little to mask her beauty.
“Hi everybody. I’m Trish and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. What will it be?”
The jovial greeting put the three at ease, setting the tone for an evening of fun, Hailey hoped.
“Apple Martinis all around, please.” Jenna said, pulling some bills from the front pocket of her jeans. She turned to Hailey. “This round’s on me.”
“Sweet!” Mandy bubbled. “Thanks.”
They sat and enjoyed their drinks, noticing a three-piece band now replaced the lone performer. The trio swayed to the music, now changed to a contemporary hard rock beat, the steady thump of bass rocking their glasses.
“So, is this place cool, or what?” Jenna asked Hailey, rhetorically. “I told you you’d have fun.”
“I give, you were right, I’m having fun.” She cocked her head toward Jenna. “Satisfied?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.” Jenna quipped, the approval evident in her playfully gloating tone.
Two more heavy metal songs had gone by when Jenna gently nudged her in the ribs.
“That guy at the bar is checking you out,” she said softly, leaning on Hailey’s shoulder to be heard over the music.
“Which one?” Hailey asked, eyes tracking in the direction Jenna was nodding.
“The cute one, at the bar.”
“They’re all cute,” Mandy chimed in. “You’d have to be more specific.”
“Second from the left,” Jenna said. “Blond hair, wearing khakis and a white shirt.”
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