‘You get drunk a lot?’
‘Hardly ever. That’s probably why it hit me so hard. Want to know about my cocaine habit?’
‘Want to tell me?’
‘Cocaine’s a little passé,’ Chico said. ‘Or so I hear. I don’t mind a little—’ his hands made quotation marks – ‘“mary jane” when I’m musing in my studio.’
Malcolm looked at him with interest. A smart kid, maybe too smart?
‘I have all these images,’ Chico said, ‘but they’re all jumbled up in my brain. Like, I could say to you right now somebody shoved that gun in my hand, but to tell the truth I just plain don’t remember.’
‘So who was tending bar at the St Elmo that night?’
‘Sid.’
‘You were so drunk, I’m wondering how come Sid didn’t cut you off?’
‘Too busy, I guess. Or maybe you’re right. Maybe someone put something my drink. Like the blonde lady.’
‘The blonde lady?’
‘She was buying me drinks.’
‘A blonde lady? Name? You got a name?’
Chico shook his head. ‘Just some blonde lady. Older, but pretending she wasn’t.’
‘Just some older blonde lady, no name,’ Malcolm said. ‘Attractive?’
‘Actually, no, not really. But trying to be, you know? Lots of make-up.’
There was a pause.
‘Anything else?’
‘Hey, man, I was so out of it. But talk to Sid. He was probably the only one in the bar that day that was sober. And it was still daylight. That’s how these big weekends play, you know? This town knows how to party.’
‘Anything else you can think of I should know that’s not in any reports?’
‘Naw. Mr Ross asked me that too when we were going over the reports. Everything I can think of I already told him.’ He grinned. ‘You know what Lupita used to call you?’
‘What?’
‘The lonely man.’
‘Ah,’ said Malcolm. ‘The lonely man.’
‘Hey,’ Chico said, ‘no offense.’
‘None taken, I guess,’ Malcolm said.
‘It’s a cool name, actually, like maybe for an avatar action hero.’ Chico leaned closer. ‘Guy goes around with this semi-transparent mask like a veil, no one can quite see his face, and he’s always, always alone, except, you know, when he’s saving people.’
In the parking lot, Malcolm called Lupita.
‘How is he doing?’ Lupita asked, her voice rising at the end of the sentence.
‘He’s okay,’ Malcolm said, ‘a survivor,’ still smarting a little from Chico’s remarks about lonely men and avatars. ‘Listen, help me out here. Know anyone who works at the Copper Queen Hotel?’
‘Sure, a couple of people.’
‘Well, try to find out who might have had contact with the Coopers when they were staying there. I’d like to talk to them. Call me back as soon as you find out anything.’
He clicked off his cell, got in his car and drove back to town.
Malcolm stood at the top of a flight of stairs in Old Dudley: quaint stairs, in other words kind of crumbly, and looked down halfway to where the bullets had hit Wes and Carrie Cooper. It was getting on in the afternoon, close to the time when they’d been killed. Doves cooed in the Arizona cypress trees nearby, and bees buzzed in the pink valerian. It would have been noisier, of course, the evening they were killed – it was a holiday weekend, lots of people around down on the Gulch.
Behind him were more stairs leading up to High Road, where little wooden houses clung quaintly to the hillsides. The stairs went straight down, passing tiny houses, some close enough to look into their windows – Wes and Carrie’s bodies had fallen on a straight stretch maybe ten feet before the next flight. Even from here he could see the darker stains on the old concrete, concrete stamped WPA at regular intervals.
Malcolm’s old man had hated Roosevelt with a passion – a hatred Malcolm’s father had inherited from his father. Their hero was Lewis Douglas, a true conservative through and through, who came from an old Arizona family and had even lived in Dudley. But it seemed to Malcolm right now they could use another WPA to rebuild the stairs.
He went up three steps, opened a metal gate and went into Mrs Acuna’s yard.
Norteño music came faintly from inside. The door was open, the screen door shut. He knocked on the door frame. A big black dog showed up and began to bark. It barked and barked and barked.
‘Buster! You be quiet!’ A woman, gray-haired, with a cane came to the screen door and peered out at him. ‘He gets out all the time,’ she muttered. ‘Gets out and runs up the hill, and I don’t see him for days.’
‘Mrs Acuna?’ Malcolm said heartily.
‘Who are you?’
‘Name’s Malcolm McGregor, ma’am. I was wondering if we could—’
‘I mean, who are you?’ Her eyes, behind her glasses and the tiny squares of the screen, were sharp. ‘A reporter, a lawyer, a policeman, which?’
‘An investigator.’
‘An investigator?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want the story. You know how many times I’ve told it? Pretty soon I’ll be telling the story, instead of what happened.’
‘Wait,’ said Malcolm. ‘It’s not the same thing?’ But he knew just what she meant.
‘No. You try, but you forget,’ she said. ‘I heard the shots, at first I thought thunder, but no, better check. I went out, walked over to the gate where I could see better. What I saw, it was terrible, it wasn’t like when someone gets shot on TV.’ She took a breath. She had a little gold cross around her neck, Jesus hanging – he rose and fell.
‘So very very sad,’ she went on. ‘This poor woman with blood all over her. Pretty, I think, her hair. I’ll never forget it. And I saw the man a little way away – there was lots of blood on him too.’
She paused and looked past Malcolm. ‘I thought of children, I don’t know why, how precious they are and you never want them to be harmed. Then I looked over and I saw Chico with a gun. I know Chico from when he was little, so I wish I hadn’t seen him, but I did. I can’t help what I saw.’
For a moment Malcolm was silent. Her words seemed to call for it, a moment of silence.
‘And no one else?’ he said finally. ‘You didn’t see anyone else?’
‘No. How much can you see?’ Her voice rose. ‘How much can you take in? I didn’t see anyone else. Go away now.’
‘Wait,’ said Malcolm. ‘My card. In case—’
But she closed the door in his face.
Okay. He stuck his card in the space between the door and the door jamb, went back out the iron gate, down the three steps, sniffed a hint of marijuana from somewhere, mingling with the smell of urine, heard a woman singing a song he half recognized but not quite, singing it off key. From the steps it appeared that the alleyway dead ended, but when he walked down it he saw that it turned.
In front of him was a house with a ‘For Sale’ sign on it. It didn’t look too saleable – the porch was sagging at one end, and two of the windows had cardboard instead of glass. The yard was full of weeds. In the weeds something glittered. Malcolm went into the yard to see what it was, bent over to pick it up. The tinfoil from a pack of cigarettes. He straightened up and saw directly ahead of him, between a gap in two mesquite trees, the stairs where Wes and Carrie Cooper had been shot – exactly where they had been shot. He could see the bloodstains.
Aha.
This was where a shooter might have stood, a short walk to where Chico had been in the alleyway. Using a revolver, no pesky shell casings, possibly fingerprinted, to pick up. A revolver with the serial numbers filed off. The kind of gun a hit man might use.
Malcolm took a picture of the opening between the bushes with his camera phone. Then he walked as quickly as he could back to where Chico had been found slumped over, gun in his hand. It took no time at all really. The noise of the gunshots would have stunned whoever heard them, Mrs Acuna included
, and for them time would have stood still for that moment.
It was a plausible scenario, as likely to be true as the current official story. More likely, in fact.
His cellphone chimed.
‘I got a name for you,’ Lupita said. ‘Diane. She’s a waitress there, and she’s working today. She gets off at eight. She’ll be happy to talk to you.’
So, eight o’clock at the Copper Queen, then after that Sid the bartender at the St Elmo Bar. Time for Malcolm to go home now and have dinner, what was left of the Beef Stroganoff Hamburger Helper he’d made last night.
‘Carrie and Wes were sitting out on this bench by the steps, just like now, the way I am with you, when I came on at eleven in the morning,’ said Diane.
She was eighteen or nineteen, petite, no more than five one or two, with a cute little nose and an inordinate amount of eyeliner. ‘I noticed them ’cause they were holding hands.’ She giggled. ‘Like, you know, teenagers. It was so cute.’
Her voice was breathy. Malcolm couldn’t tell if it was from nervousness or just the way she usually talked. ‘What day was that?’
‘The first day they got here. The day before—’ Diane shrugged. She sighed. ‘You know.’
It was just after eight in the evening, balmy and relatively quiet, a weekday. Down the steps was the street where, under the street lights, tourists strolled, blocking the road for the cars of the residents. Across was the grassy park and the dark bricks of the back of the Mining Museum, one window lit up near the top, as if someone was working late, researching mines.
‘The thing is,’ Diane went on, ‘she was so pretty, but you could tell Wes really loved her, not just, you know, sex. I mean, some guys, like my stepfather for instance, old – I mean—’ she glanced at Malcolm – ‘older guys, to them things that women say are, like, ohmygod totally uninteresting. But he was really listening to her.’
‘Ah,’ said Malcolm.
‘Anyway,’ Diane went on, ‘I have a good view of the front steps from my waitressing station. Around, oh, maybe six thirty or so that evening, I noticed Carrie going down the steps alone. She looked all bouncy and happy, you know?’
‘Sure,’ said Malcolm, remembering her bright smile in the printout from her cellphone camera.
‘Then, when I got off work at eight, she was back, sitting outside on this same bench. She didn’t look bouncy and happy any more. I sat down across from her ’cause I was waiting for Nick – that’s my boyfriend – to pick me up. We started talking, you know, and I could see right away how nervous she was. Her voice was all shaky. I asked her if she was okay. And she said, “I hope so.”’
There was a pause.
‘I hope so,’ said Malcolm.
‘Yeah. Kind of a strange thing to say, I thought.’
‘Did she say where she’d been?’ Malcolm asked.
‘The High Desert Market – she showed me this darling Mexican painted frog that she’d just bought there.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. My boyfriend showed up, and that was about it for our conversation. And now she’s dead. It doesn’t seem real. It just makes me so sad. She reminded me of my mom, if my mom had been a little more lucky with guys.’
‘Umm,’ said Malcolm.
‘Oh yeah, I forgot – one more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She wasn’t alone.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘She wasn’t alone when she got back. I didn’t see who it was, but right before she came up the steps, I saw her waving, like, bye, at someone.’
Waving at someone?
Malcolm took a stroll to the High Desert Market from the Copper Queen Hotel, checking out the route Carrie must have taken to return to the hotel with her Mexican painted frog. She’d been upset, shaky when Diane talked to her. Had something happened to her at the High Desert Market? Or on her way back? What had she seen or encountered during that relatively brief period of time between six thirty and a little before eight?
Under the street lights in the park by the Mining Museum a bunch of teenagers hung out on the benches, a whiff of marijuana coming Malcolm’s way. Up and down Main Street the shops were all closed now; here and there was an alleyway where people sold crafts, the stalls shut down for the night. Only a restaurant, Cafe Roka, was open; a couple at a window table stared out at him without interest as he passed. And when he got to the High Desert Market it was closed too, the red umbrellas on its patio furled, a night light on inside and the rest full of shadows.
He’d come back tomorrow, talk to the help.
Who had been with Carrie that night?
Malcolm walked into the St Elmo Bar. Three depressed-looking regulars sat at the far end, and sitting closest to the door was a couple, arms around each other, maybe not depressed. Malcolm eased into a seat in the middle. Behind the bar was a display of guns and old watches, sheriff’s badges, and china figurines of happy drunks.
The bartender came over, a muscular biker type with a shaved head and a big moustache.
‘Got Sam Adams?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Yes, sir, we got Sam Adams.’ He pulled one from a cooler and set it in front of Malcolm.
‘Sid around?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Nope.’ The bartender grinned. ‘I’m Sid all right, but I’m a square.’
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Malcolm took a swig of his Sam Adams.
Sid leaned on the bar. ‘You know, sometimes I’ll wait three or four weeks before someone asks that question. And I know who you are. You’re that cop that’s helping out Lupita.’
‘Small town,’ Malcolm said.
‘Very. Look, she’s a good kid, Lupita. Chico too. They had a drunk for a dad. Chico’s not much of a drinker, but every now and then he’ll binge. Like, on these big weekends. Doesn’t hold his liquor too well. He was so drunk, I wouldn’t have kept on serving him, to tell you the truth. Drinking tea.’ He winked at Malcolm.
‘Tea. Huh.’ Long Island iced tea, a lethal combination of five different spirits. ‘So why did you?’
‘Why did I what?’
‘Keep on serving him.’
‘I didn’t. It was the blonde. She kept on ordering drinks.’
‘Chico mentioned a blonde, but he didn’t know her. I was hoping you might.’
Sid shrugged. ‘Not a clue. The bar was packed. Full of out-of-towners. She kind of glommed on to Chico.’
‘So, she an out-of-towner?’
‘I’d bet on it. Never saw her before. It looked like she was from Tucson. No—’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Actually, more like Phoenix, you know what I mean?’
‘Phoenix?’ Malcolm said. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Straight, with a touch of Republican. Tucsonans look more human. She wasn’t that good-looking, but her hair had that salon look, not hip. The ladies here, they’re au naturel.’
‘Au naturel?’
He looked apologetic. ‘My ex was a hairdresser.’
‘So, did she and Chico leave together?’
‘Not a clue. I didn’t notice Chico leaving or the blonde either. But you know what? The whole thing is a set-up. That kid, drunk as he was, he couldn’t have killed nobody, you ask me. But hey, you know what? No one did.’
‘Well, here I am,’ said Malcolm, ‘asking.’
‘’Preciate it,’ said Sid. ‘Chico’s a good kid. I’ll ask around for you, see if anyone else has a better memory.’
‘That’d be great. I’ll check back.’ Malcolm finished his beer, stood up, added a dollar and his card to the change on the bar. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Outside on the street, he thought, Phoenix. And there was the daughter of Wes Cooper’s, a Polly Hampton who lived in Phoenix. Interesting. He’d like to know a little more about this Polly. And about other friends and relatives too. He’d like to ask them, for instance, did those nice Coopers do drugs?
Tomorrow, he thought, he’d go find Kate, Kate who had risen from the dead. She’d acted so cool that last time he�
��d tried, but maybe this time she’d give him a chance to explain, a chance to persuade her. Why the hell not? Thinking of persuading Kate, he walked a little taller, strolling down the Gulch in the cool night air.
SIXTEEN
Kate was in the supermarket wheeling her cart past rows and rows of brightly colored produce – it looked really good, but she knew if she bought it some would turn out to be tasteless. She kept going and going, but the produce section seemed to have no end – she was so tired, but she couldn’t find the store exit either. She wheeled the cart faster and faster, afraid if she didn’t find the exit pretty soon she would pass out.
She was so tired, finally she lay down on the floor. The other shoppers wheeled their carts around her except for one – a man was pushing a cart right towards her. Then she realized the man was Harry Light, his face red with anger.
‘No! Stop!’ she said.
But he kept coming.
Kate opened her eyes. She was filled with dread. She had no idea where she was, lying in utter darkness. Then her vision adjusted, and dimly she saw she was lying on a couch in a place she had never been before. Something had woken her – what? – and she was certain suddenly it was Harry. Harry was hiding somewhere.
Outside, a dog barked and barked and barked.
Someone was shouting – she couldn’t make out the words, they were too far away.
Kate sat up, her heart beating faster. It hadn’t been Harry that woke her; it was the dog. She looked at her watch. Four a.m. She’d been asleep for hours. She hadn’t meant to go to sleep – it was the Ativan. Why had she taken it when she needed to be alert? Because she’d expected to come to this house, to hang out with Ellen and relax.
Ellen. She reached for her cell on the coffee table. She’d been afraid to turn it off in case Ellen called, but it wouldn’t have mattered – it was completely dead. She got up and went to the window.
Abruptly, the dog stopped barking.
Then she heard the whine of a police siren.
The sound was reassuring. She went outside, down the driveway where she’d stood earlier. Around the curve, a couple of houses were all lit up, and a cluster of people stood on the sidewalk in front of the one with the silver SUV. The lights were on there and in another house further down.
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