by Leo W. Banks
He hadn’t gone far when a voice called out, “Come on, Danny, we didn’t come here for you to read to us. What’s this about?”
Departing his script, Wilson said, “You asked how Whip here was able to strike out nine batters. Well, I’ll tell you how. That gum he was chewing—that’s a special gum made out of the agave plant that grows right out here in our Sonoran Desert.”
The reporters traded puzzled looks.
The same voice said, “You mean Whip Stark was hammered on tequila?”
Everyone laughed.
Wilson said, “What I mean is, he was throwing a spitball, an old-fashioned shine ball, ladies and gentlemen.”
The room rumbled with shocked voices. The noise grew as the back door swung open. Wilson shielded his eyes and squinted into the TV lights as Bunny Slippers emerged from the glare. She made a stage of the center aisle, striding along, heels tapping.
She was heavily made up with blue eyeshadow and dark-blue lipstick. She wore tight jeans and an even tighter leopard print shirt. Her big arms made it out of the short sleeves, but barely. If she took a deep breath, a button might fly off and hurt somebody.
Near the tables, she looked back as if surprised that no one had followed her. She waved like a mom hurrying a child, and along came Arthur Melody. He made no sound but for the swish of his corduroy slacks. He walked on his turned-in toes, careful not to break any eggs.
He had on a paisley shirt and his William Holden glasses from Walgreens.
Wilson piped up: “Why don’t I forgo the remainder of my statement and throw this over to Whip. He can talk on this matter some more.”
I pulled out the Dexter tobacco tin, took out the remaining gum, and held it up for everyone to see.
“Like Danny said, my pitch out there today that tied up those guys—that was a spitball, a doctored pitch using this gum right here. The inventor, the brilliant botanist Dr. Arthur Melody, is standing to my right.”
The reporters shouted questions. I shut them down to finish my statement.
“People have been killed over this, and the men responsible need to pay,” I said. “The first is the agent Max Mayflower. He hired Dr. Melody to create this gum using the sap from the Palmer agave.
“The agreement involved the vicious cartel enforcer Roscoe Rincon. He allowed access to the agave plants on Paradise Mountain to keep producing it, and in return was allowed to launder his drug money through a club owned by Mr. Mayflower. Men have been murdered as a result, and Rincon and Max Mayflower need to answer for those deaths.”
Reporters scribbled into their skinny notebooks. Cameras whirred. There was nothing to do then but keep talking. The hardest part was talking about Rolando’s involvement in the conspiracy, but I had to do it.
When I was done, Melody sat behind the microphones and read from a prepared statement detailing his dealings with Mayflower.
He began with a lot of trench coat talk about their first meeting. Mayflower’s demand for secrecy. An initial public meeting place where a different man showed up, and that man driving Melody to a hotel room on the freeway.
I wondered if the driver had been Ed Bolt. Mayflower paid Melody his up-front fee in cash, in a plain paper bag.
The initial deal called for Melody to deliver a usable PED made from steroidal saponins. When that didn’t work, Melody engaged Mayflower in offhand conversation about his favorite subject, the sap from the Palmer agave and his decades-long work with A. A. Bildenson to use it in a lubricant.
More as a lark than anything, Melody remarked that if he could develop a way to apply a substance of that viscosity to a pitcher’s fingers, the result would be an unhittable spitball. But it had to be concealable and leave behind a clean ball.
Mayflower jumped at the idea. Melody got another bag of cash and went to work searching for a workable delivery system.
He settled on gum, ordinary chewing gum with a small but precise amount of Palmer sap added, along with “a few modest chemical enhancements” to maintain its integrity and remove its toxic properties.
He declined to document exactly how much of the sap he used or say anything about his enhancements. He kept the information secret from Mayflower as well, which explained the false research he’d created.
Melody said he did so because he no longer trusted Mayflower and had begun to fear him. He wanted to delay turning over the formula as long as possible while he tried to extricate himself from the deal.
“When I came to suspect that serious crimes might be involved, I hired a lawyer to help me do the right thing,” Melody said. “To me, the project was a work of science using skills I’d developed over a lifetime. My mistake from the beginning was trusting Max Mayflower.”
Maybe that was plausible for an innocent professor lost in his work. But trusting a man who worked with paper bags full of cash should’ve been a tipoff.
I suspected there might’ve been more to Melody’s motives. In withholding the formula from Mayflower, he might’ve been plotting a shakedown of his own, demanding more money in exchange for the real formula.
At the end of Melody’s speech, Bunny Slippers got up and stood behind him, placing her hand lovingly on his shoulder.
That’s when it became clear this was a performance, and Bunny was the master director. She’d schooled Melody on how to put on a show, ensuring his name and his invention would be known around the country, even as he distanced himself from the resulting crimes.
He concluded, saying, “I deeply regret the terrible things that happened, the lives lost as a result of my work. If I’d known that was even possible, I never would’ve accepted Mr. Mayflower’s offer.”
Reporters shouted questions, but Melody didn’t respond. He fell back into dazed-professor mode. Bunny leaned into a microphone. “I want to say that I insisted that Arthur accompany me to Las Vegas, Nevada, where I had a long-standing commitment to perform at a club called the Mustache Room.”
A voice shouted, “Never heard of it!” His tone meant the opposite.
Everyone laughed. Bunny said, “Two nights a week, sugar. Stop on by.”
More laughter. Bunny raised her hands to bring quiet. “I want you to know Arthur Melody didn’t run from nobody. That’s not what happened.”
She paused to emphasize the importance of what she was about to say. “As soon as Arthur found out these were evil men, he wanted out. But when they threatened to kill him, I made him come to Vegas to save his life. That’s as true as I can make it.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
The press conference lasted ninety minutes. As I exited, I saw Roxy and Benny Diaz standing against the back wall. Diaz asked us to join him in Wilson’s office.
I knew something important was happening when he cop-marched around Wilson’s desk and sat erect in the chair. That caused Wilson to pull up and stand there looking puzzled. Charlie and Opal stood at the back of the room. Roxy and I sat opposite the desk.
Diaz folded his hands on the desktop and said, “I noticed in your little speech you didn’t mention anything about Rolando Molina’s severed hand.”
My stomach flipped. I tried to stay stone faced, but I don’t think it worked.
Diaz said, “Right hand, Virgin Mary tattoo between the thumb and forefinger? You must remember that tattoo, Whip?”
“Rolando had one just like it.”
“A hiker found a hand matching that description in a wash on Paradise Mountain.” Diaz shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it either. “How about that? Your friend’s hand in a plastic freezer bag, half-buried under a rock. Reasonably well preserved.”
The floodwaters must’ve washed it out of the well and carried it off. I sat motionless and said nothing. Wilson stood with his hands in his pockets. He knew nothing of the hand or my involvement in hiding it, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
“We tried pulling prints but no luck,” Diaz said. “I’d love to know how it got there.”
I didn’t move or speak. Roxy jiggled her foot.
Diaz said, “I don’t see Roscoe Rincon killing your friend and putting the hand in a plastic bag. Somebody who cared for him did that, somebody who cared a great deal.”
Roxy jiggled some more. My stomach turned right side up, only now it was full of ants.
Diaz said, “Words are easy, like the wind. But faithful friends are hard to find.”
“Shakespeare,” I said. “I’m blanking on the play.”
“The Passionate Pilgrim,” Diaz said, and his eyes held mine. They weren’t angry or searching. They looked peaceful in a way. For a full minute, he stared through the unbearable silence. Four people breathing in an office can sound like a jet plane in a janitor’s closet.
“I’ve placed a call to the Molina family in Mexico,” Diaz said. “If you’ve got any ideas where to look for Rolando’s body, I’m interested.”
He slapped his palms down on the desk, stood up, and walked out of the room. Roxy and I went out too. Just as we stepped onto the concourse, her phone rang with a loud rendition of “The Bitch Is Back,” the Elton John song.
Two seconds later, Diaz’s phone played the theme from Hawaii Five-O.
As he read his message, Diaz turned and walked back to us looking at his screen, his face taut in concentration. “There’s been a shooting at the residence of Mr. Max Mayflower. Black male dead by the front door, one bullet hole in his forehead, another through the heart.”
Not looking up from her phone, Roxy jumped in: “Deceased white female in back. Floater. Well, well.”
“It looks like Roscoe Rincon’s going after his partner now,” Diaz said. “I guess I’m working late.” He turned and walked quickly down the concourse toward the exit.
Roxy and I followed. As she walked, she fingered more text onto her screen. “No sign of Mayflower. Uniforms searching the neighborhood.” She slipped the phone into her back pocket and quickened her stride. “We can get there in twenty.”
Annoyed, Diaz said, “You receive the same alert seconds before me. That’s just wrong.”
“It should’ve been sooner. I’ll have to straighten some people out.”
“Would I be wasting my time if I told you to stay away?”
“Come on, Benny. I’ll get the information anyway, so it might as well come from you. Besides, Prospero and I have been there and can help ID the bods.”
“No cameras at my crime scene. Just you and Whip under the tape. And do me a favor, Roxanne?”
“Of course.”
“Let me get there first.”
SEVENTY-SIX
It was 7:15 p.m., not quite dark. The day’s last light glowed behind the mountains. Driving the Audi, Roxy did her best to stay on Benny Diaz’s bumper, using his spinning roof light as a guide as we raced through the city at twilight.
But he gunned it to beat a red light and disappeared. Roxy pounded the steering wheel. “Did you see that! He did that on purpose! That prissy jerk!”
I choked down a laugh. Cops and reporters.
She slapped the Audi into reverse, swung into the space between the lanes, and inched forward, biting her lip to keep from pin-striping adjoining cars. At the front of the line, she gunned it without waiting for the light to flip.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to Mayflower’s ranch house off Campbell Avenue, halfway up the foothills. Diaz stood outside with three uniforms. Cop headlights from the driveway lit the place like an amusement park. The front door was wide open and it looked as if every inside light had been turned on as well. Crime scene techs bustled around.
The first victim lay flat on his back in the doorway. He was barefoot and bare chested, wearing only lime-green shorts. His mouth and eyes were open, his lips stretched wide over prominent teeth.
The expression of shock was probably the same one he had right after he opened the door, looked down the dark gun barrel—the instrument of his death—and thought, “Oh, shit.”
Diaz got as close as he could without stepping in the ocean of blood. Down on his haunches, hands folded between his knees, he said, “One in the chest when he opens the door, one in the head to make sure. Professional job. Tentative ID is Reggie Lake.”
Roxy looked over Diaz’s shoulder. “That’s him. Worked for Mayflower.”
“We found his ID in the guest house in back,” Diaz said. “It’s the other one we need help with. Follow me, if you would.”
We jump-stepped around the blood and went through the kitchen and out the sliding glass door to the backyard. The second victim floated face down in the pool, the water a sickly yellow with the mix of her blood. She was tanned and blond and had on a white bikini bottom, no top. A tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon decorated most of her back.
Two men from the Pima County Coroner’s Office laid out a black body bag on the deck beside the pool. As Diaz approached, one of them straightened up and said, “Detective,” and they both stepped aside.
Diaz said, “It looks like the killer shot Mr. Lake at the door and chased this victim through the house, caught up to her here. Pop, pop, two in the back of the head.”
He nodded to the coroner’s men, and they lifted her out of the water. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she made them struggle to get her laid out on her back on the zipper bag. The dead always make a last effort to matter.
“We’re not finding a purse, a car, nothing to identify her,” Diaz said, and leaned down to finger a chunk of wet hair off her face. Her right eye was open and frozen and blue as the sky. A bullet had passed through the left eye, leaving a round black hole.
Roxy looked. “Sorry, Benny. I don’t have a name on this one.”
Diaz tilted his head at me.
“Never saw her before,” I said.
Diaz stripped off his crime scene gloves and handed them to one of the workers. He put his hands on his hips, eyes roaming the scene, thinking. Probably twenty cops and other officials stalked the backyard, not talking much, each doing separate jobs with grim efficiency.
Diaz said, “Mayflower’s out here enjoying himself by the pool. He hears the shots at the door, knows he’s got a few seconds at best, and takes off running.”
“Leaves the girl to fend for herself out here,” Roxy said. “What a guy.”
“It was business. No witnesses.” Diaz motioned to the back of the property. “Mayflower jumps the fence and escapes ahead of the gunman. Won’t get far. We’ll have him before the night’s out.”
I noticed something. The gate at the west side of the house was wide open. I remembered our first trip to Mayflower’s house, when I checked the registration on the Chrysler LeBaron in the driveway. Apart from Reggie Lake, only one other person had been at Mayflower’s house that night, his girlfriend.
I gave Roxy the high sign. We finished with Diaz and left through the open gate.
In the front yard, I said to Roxy, “Mayflower didn’t go over that fence.”
“I’m thinking the same thing.”
“They can’t find the victim’s car because Mayflower bolted through the open gate and beat it in his girlfriend’s Chrysler LeBaron.”
“What was her name? Lily Lee something.”
“Summers. You wrote down the address.”
“I should have it here somewhere.”
Roxy threw open the back door of the Audi and leaned in. Her backseat looked like a homeless camp. She sorted through piles of newspapers, food wrappers, beer cans, multiple pairs of shoes, some pantyhose, fast-food bags, and half-eaten boxes of jujubes.
She went through some old notebooks to find the one she wanted and flipped to the correct page. “Lily Lee Summers. Lives right up the hill here, unit 51A, Copper Queen Apartments.”
I said, “Want to bet that’s where Mayflower went?”
“Let’s go.”
“Should we tell Diaz?”
Roxy glared at me. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Roxy hit the accelerator so hard it launched her back in the se
at, arms straight out, hands squeezing the wheel. Campbell Avenue winds high into the Catalina foothills. With no moon on a black night and no streetlights, only the Audi’s streaking high beams lit the way.
The darkness hid the fine pueblo-style homes in the desert beyond the road, an occasional window light winking through the tangle of brush.
Over the roar of the engine, I said, “Lily Lee woke up happy this morning because she had a date with her boyfriend.”
Roxy said nothing, her face mangled in concentration as she darted in and out of traffic, the descending whine of angry horns all around us.
The Copper Queen Apartments consisted of three buildings set in the mouth of a canyon on the north side of Skyline Drive, a main east-west thoroughfare. The place looked well tended and elegant. The location high above the city probably added $300 a month to the rent.
The buildings were painted white, the apartment doors red, and the roofs covered in copper-colored sheeting. The main office looked like a country club with putting-green grass all around it, a glass front, and chandeliers throwing off bright light inside.
We drove down to Building A. The LeBaron was parked right outside unit 51. No lights shone in the apartment.
Roxy said, “Mayflower’s hiding under his bed. How do we get him out of there?”
“Pound on his door. Don’t identify yourself, don’t say anything. He’ll think it’s Rincon and take off out the back.”
“How much time you need to get back there?”
“Count to fifty,” I said.
“You can move faster than that. You’re a jock. Make it thirty.”
The night was silent. No cars moving. No people walking. I raced to the back of the building on spaghetti legs. Nine tough innings will do that. Sweat beaded out on my forehead.
I turned the corner and hustled along the sidewalk between the swimming pool and the back of the apartments. The pool sat above flagstone steps leading to a shelf higher than the apartments, on the first rise of the Catalinas.
The water slightly cooled the night air. Add another $300 to the rent.