by J. R. Rain
A few moments later, between bites, and picking frosting off my shirt, I told the detective again why I was here. He and I had spoken over the phone a few days earlier, arranging this meeting. During that call, I had learned that Sedona P.D. handled their own murder investigations, of which there had been precisely one since he’d joined the force.
Detective Tom Falcon studied me long and hard when I was done talking. He was probably close to retirement. He was going to miss the free donuts, I suspected. His clothing was snug, hiding nothing. He was a guy who didn’t believe in hiding behind baggy clothes. He was heavy, and proud of it. God bless his soul. He said, “I think people in Hollywood have too much money.”
“Yes.”
“And your client got his head blown off?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re still working the case?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever say no?”
“Yes.”
We both ate in silence. Shortly later, in what I would deem perfect synchronicity, the detective and I both started on our second donuts at the exact same time. I wondered if he noticed the universe lining up nicely for us, or if it was just me. He belched and took a swig from his coffee. I think it was just me.
“Fucking waste of time, Knighthorse. I saw the kid’s body.”
“You saw the body where?”
“At L’Auberge, where the kid had dropped dead from an overdose. My daughter loved him. I think he was her first crush. So, of course, I naturally hated him.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“But hard to hate a guy you see lying on the floor, dead, face pale and not breathing.”
I nodded. Hard to argue with that. Except, of course, I was being paid to argue. Or had been paid. By a guy who had a legitimate interest, legitimate concern and a legitimate reason for looking into Freddie Calgary’s death.
I said, “Did you check the body yourself?”
“Didn’t have to. I’ve seen dead guys, Knighthorse. As I’m sure you have. They have a look, ya know? Face sunken. Cheeks sunken. Life long gone. Pale, cold, gone.”
“Was he cold?”
Detective Falcon, who still had the coolest name I had ever heard, shook his head. “You’re asking if I touched him?”
“Yes.”
“The answer is no. Like I said, I didn’t have to. The kid was dead.”
I nodded. “So, he looked cold.”
“He also looked dead. And I wasn’t the only one to think so. Dr. Green was there.”
“Dr. Green proclaimed him dead on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“Is Dr. Green a medical examiner?”
“No, he was a general practitioner in town.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead now.”
“Oh?”
“Killed in a car accident.”
“When?”
“About a year ago, but I wouldn’t be looking too much into that. The kid died two years ago, for Christ’s sake.”
“But now his agent was murdered,” I said. “Two days after he hired me.”
“I think you’re wasting your time, Knighthorse.”
“I get paid to waste my time.”
“Except your client is dead.”
“I know,” I said. “I hate when that happens.”
“Was there an autopsy performed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Why not?”
“The kid’s doctor was there, and signed off on the death. The kid had been having heart problems. We don’t do autopsies unless the death was suspicious.”
“You don’t have many suspicious deaths in town.”
“Rarely.”
“Has your department taken some flak for not requesting or performing an autopsy?”
“Some. There are some conspiracy nuts out there who think we were in on the kid faking his death. I can assure you, we were not.”
“Can you assure me the doctor wasn’t?”
“Yes. He was a good man. In fact, just over a year ago, he helped build a special children’s hospital in town.”
“Did that cost a lot of money?”
“I assume.”
“Was the doctor’s donation significant?”
“From what I understood, yeah.”
“How much?”
“A few million.”
“Doctors make good money,” I said. “But that’s a lot, especially for a general practitioner.”
“I agree, but, like I said, don’t put too much into this, Knighthorse. There’s nothing here for you.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s always the red rocks and UFOs.”
Chapter Twenty-three
We were seated at The Secret Garden Cafe in the Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village.
The Secret Garden wasn’t much of a secret. It was, in fact, the first building in the popular shopping center with the name that cannot be pronounced. At least by gringos.
Her name was Ms. Green and she might have been a little drunk. I looked at the time. One p.m. I shrugged. As good a time as any, I guess. Last year, I had tried giving up drinking, and had gone a few months without the stuff. Except, of course, I’d fallen off the wagon, and gotten my foot caught on the way down, and have been dragging behind the damn thing ever since. These days, I quit for a few days, and then go back to drinking. Quit for a week, and then go back to drinking. I wasn’t an alcoholic in the traditional sense. I didn’t get shit-faced nightly, but weekly...yes. Weekly was too much for Cindy, and for me, too.
I saw rehab in my very near future.
I also saw a glass of beer, which I promptly ordered when the waitress came our way.
Last year, Ms. Green had been Mrs. Green. That’s when her husband, Dr. Lance Green, had played chicken with a cottonwood and lost. Cottonwoods, as I understood it, were a harder tree than the name implied.
As my beer was delivered, I told her a little about me and about my case, and why I had wanted to meet her. She nodded as I spoke, sipping from her wine. She was in her fifties, and wore clothes that were designed for someone in their twenties. Her hair was dyed blond, and her nails were painted red. She sported a small tattoo just inside her left wrist; a curious double bow, with an arrow nocked and ready to be fired. She wore a sort of strappy-heeled sandal that probably had a common name. I didn’t know the common name. Her toes were polished and looked, admittedly, cute. I suspected her boobs were fake, too. Either that, or her current breasts defied gravity, which I doubted.
The beer tasted heavenly. Maybe it had something to do with the vortexes. If vortexes were good for the soul, surely they were good for the taste buds, too.
When she was sufficiently caught up, I decided to get right to it. “Your husband was killed in an auto accident,” I said.
“If you call running into a tree an accident. Sounds to me more like idiocy.”
“Had your husband been drinking?”
“He had.”
“Was he determined to be legally drunk at the time of the idiocy?”
She gave me a sad smile. “No. He had alcohol in his system, but he was not drunk. About the equivalent of two beers.”
“Did your husband drink often?”
“Yes.”
“Two beers wouldn’t have impaired his driving?”
“Hardly.”
“What’s the official cause of death, besides idiocy?”
“They think he fell asleep behind the wheel.”
“Did they test him for any other drugs?”
“Not that I know of. My husband was a respected doctor in town. He didn’t take drugs.”
She looked at me. I looked at her. Her red toes wiggled. My toes don’t wiggle. Ever. She looked at me some more, then finally started nodding. “You don’t mean illegal drugs, do you?”
“No.”
“You’re wondering if someone slipped him a mickey.”
“Maybe.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Few would.”
“But you did,” she said.
“I’m being paid to think outside the box.”
“You were paid to think outside of the box, you mean. Your client is dead, correct?”
“Very.”
“Murdered, right?”
“Right,” I said.
She bit her lips that were, I was certain, injected with something artificial. I just hoped it wasn’t ass fat. Ass fat is gross. “And now my husband is dead, too,” she said.
I nodded, waited. Around us, customers and tourists strolled the grounds. I wondered how many of them could pronounce the name. I was willing to bet not many.
I asked, “Where was your husband drinking that night?”
She pointed directly above us. “Up there, at the Rincon.”
“And you were not with him?”
“No. It was after work. He had called to tell me he was going to meet with someone.”
We both looked at each other. I raised one eyebrow. Or tried to. I was never very good at that.
“You’re going to ask me who he met, aren’t you?” she said.
“I am.”
“Well, the answer is, I don’t know.”
With that, she asked me to keep her up to date on any new developments. I told her I would. Then she got up and walked out, leaving behind half her glass of wine.
Now that was alcohol abuse.
Chapter Twenty-four
A few minutes later, I had climbed the short flight of stairs to the restaurant above, the same restaurant where Dr. Green had met with someone on the night his car was found wrapped around a cottonwood tree.
I thought about that as I ordered my second drink for the day. When the cute bartender brought it over, I said, “What, exactly, is a cottonwood tree?”
“Did you say cottonwood tree?”
“I did. Maybe for the first time ever.”
She made a sort of face, and sort of shrugged, and sort of tilted her head to one side, then the other. Then she gave me a sort of answer. “It’s, like, one of the most popular trees out here. There’s a whole city named after it.”
“Cottonwood Tree City?”
She giggled. “No, just Cottonwood.”
“Okay, now that I’m an expert, can I ask you another question?”
She looked around. I did, too. It was midday. The bar was mostly empty. Most people, after all, were at work. I was at work, too. I drank my beer. I liked my work. There were two guys sitting in a booth not too far away, too guys that were trying like hell to not look obvious, except they were too big, too out-of-place, and too damn obvious. They tried to watch me casually, but failed miserably. Who they were, I didn’t know, but my inner spidey-sense told me I might see them again soon.
She winked at me. “I don’t see why not?”
She had short dark hair and a lot of personality. The name on her name badge read, “Tess.” She was bubbly and cute and gave me the impression that she thought I was the cat’s meow.
I said, “Did you know Dr. Green?”
She shook her head, shrugged.
“He died last year in a car accident?”
She looked genuinely sad, eyebrows knitting. “No, I’m sorry. I’m kind of new here. I’m sorry to hear he died, though.” And with that, she moved off and took another drink order.
Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree here, the wrong cottonwood tree. Even if someone had slipped the good doctor a mickey, what guarantee did that someone have that Dr. Green would ram himself into a tree?
I thought about that, pulled out my cell phone and dialed one of my latest numbers. She answered on the second ring. “I’m sorry to bother you again, Ms. Green, but can I ask you a few more questions?”
She was driving with her window down. Wind thundered over the receiver. “Make them quick, I’ll probably lose the call.”
I made them quick. “Are you on the road to your home?”
“Yes.”
“The same road your husband died on?”
There was a pause. “Yes. In fact, the tree is coming right up. I’m going to move, you know. The house is on the market. I can’t stand driving by the same damn tree every day...” Her voice trailed off.
I might have lost her.
“Ms. Green. Still there?”
“Still here. But hurry.”
I nodded, although she couldn’t see me nod. “The road to your home is a winding one?”
“Yes.”
“You live up in the mountains?”
“Yes. We’re basically alone up here. Got the whole damn place to myself.”
“Is the road dangerous to drive?”
“It can be, at night.”
“Or if someone was drunk?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, and started to say something else, but the line went dead.
That’s when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I clicked off my phone and looked up. A big guy was standing behind me. Not one of the guys who had been watching me. A different guy, wearing a name badge that said “Chuck,” with the word “Owner” under it.
“Hear you’re asking about Dr. Green.”
“I am,” I said.
“I knew him,” said Chuck. “I was here on the night he was killed.”
“Were you the bartender that night?”
“Nope,” he said. “You a cop?”
“Nope.”
“What are you?”
“Private eye. And proud of it. No matter what Sanchez says.”
“Who’s Sanchez?”
“Friend of mine.”
“You’ve been drinking?”
“Some.”
“You drunk?”
“Not yet.”
He squinted, nodded again. “Let’s talk.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Chuck might be a restaurant owner, but he was all badass, which was a good thing. I get along well with badasses. Call it a kinship.
We were in his office. He had a view of the very hotel I was staying in. I almost pointed it out gleefully, until I remembered that badasses didn’t do anything gleefully, except maybe kicking ass.
He sat behind an old desk, with a work boot crossed over one knee. Badasses typically wear boots. I wasn’t wearing boots. I was still wearing my Asics. Some badasses transcend stereotypes.
His arms were heavily tattooed. I saw a skull or two, and what might have been a dragon, which was badass. There was a red heart on the inside of his forearm, which wasn’t very badass. But the heart made up for it by being surrounded by devils and dripping blood, which was all badass and a little scary.
“So, why are you asking about Dr. Green?”
“His name came up on a case I’m working on.”
“You mind me asking what case?”
I considered not telling him; then again, his intentions seemed sincere, and his tone suggested that he wasn’t talking unless I started talking. So, I gave him a quick rundown about the case, about the agent’s concerns that his client faked his death, about said agent getting his head mostly blown off. About coming here to look deeper into the star’s death, to ask questions, to poke around, to maybe see my first UFO.
Chuck watched me closely as I talked. When I was done speaking, he asked to see my investigator’s license. I showed it to him. As he looked at it, then looked at me, I raised my head a little, turned my cheek, mimicking the angle in the photo.
Chuck grunted, handed it back. Badasses don’t compliment other badasses on their photos. Sometimes, I don’t like the badass code.
He said, “I’m glad you’re here—”
“Most people are,” I said.
“Most people are what?”
“Glad I’m there.”
He stared at me some more, blinked, then tried again, “I’m glad you’re here because I’ve been holding onto something for a few months, and I need to get it off my chest.”
I nodded, waited. It seemed rude to cut him off again, although that had never stopped me
before.
Chuck continued, “Dr. Green was a friend of mine. Came in here almost every night after work. Sometimes with his wife, but more often alone. He wasn’t a drunk. I know drunks. He just appreciated a few drinks after a long day.”
“Who doesn’t?” I said, and remembered I had left my unfinished beer on the counter in the bar. I hate when that happens.
“Half my business comes from that bar, so you won’t hear me complaining if someone has one or two too many. Except...”
His voice trailed off and, being the alert detective that I am, I said, “Except it’s bad for business when one of your customers doesn’t make it home.”
“Right,” said Chuck. “His death had me replaying the entire night over and over in my mind.”
“Because he wasn’t drunk,” I said. Badasses might like to kick ass and show off their tattoos, but they’re not exactly forthcoming when it comes to talking. I am, of course, the exception.
“Right,” said Chuck. “He drank no more than usual.”
“What was his usual?”
“Two or three.”
“And how many had he had that night?”
“Two.”
“On the low end of his usual.”
“Right,” said Chuck. “He was also a big guy.”
I nodded. “Could hold his liquor.”
“Yup.”
“Did he eat anything that night?” I asked.
“Hard to say. He didn’t order any food, but he probably had some chips. It was happy hour.”
“I’ve made it a point to make every hour happy hour,” I said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Means I focus on the positive.”
Chuck stared at me as if I were speaking in tongues. Badasses didn’t use words like “positive” and “focus.” He went on, “Anyway, I went back and looked at our surveillance footage that night.”
“The camera above the bar,” I said.
“You’ve seen it?”
“Small, but I saw it.”
“Most people don’t see it.”
“Most people aren’t ace detectives.”
He looked at me, nodded. “I suppose so. Anyway, I went back to the footage and studied it.”