by Betty Webb
He looked miserable. “After that last breakdown I thought she was past her problems with him, but then Luke said…he said…”
“Your grandson told you she was dangling Brittany in front of him?”
He sighed. “I didn’t want to believe it, but just in case, I was going to tell that son of a bitch to leave today and never come back. I was ready to give him the damned Winnebago if necessary, anything to get rid of him. Before he…” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Before he went to prison, before I put a stop to it, she’d sometimes drive down to Scottsdale to spend the weekend with him and Norma. Every time she came back she was…”
“Disturbed?” I finished for him.
“That might be putting it a bit strongly, but something like that, yeah. The last time I saw her, her eyes were bloodshot.”
“Maybe she’d been drinking.”
“Grace never drinks.”
A terrible thought occurred to me. “Was this before Shana was born?”
After waiting long enough that I thought the interview might be finished, he answered, “Before. And after.”
It took me a while to speak, too. “How did Shana act when she got back?”
“I…I don’t know. I was more worried about how Grace was acting. Kids, they’re down one day and up the next. Most of the time it doesn’t mean anything.”
But sometimes it does. “What finally happened? You said you put a stop to it. How’d that come about?”
“One time when they went down there, Grace and Shana, I mean, they stayed for a whole week, and when they got back Shana barely spoke for a week. Grace acted weird, too. Stupid me, I thought Norma was the problem, or maybe one of the other kids, you know, the foster children they took in, might have done something to her. It bothered me enough that I called Brian up and asked him what the hell was going on down there that had my daughter so upset. Was Norma being mean to her? One of those foster kids? From what I heard, some of them were little hellions. Anyway, Brian swore nothing had happened, that when Grace was a kid she’d been moody, too, so it was probably a genetic thing. There was something about the way he said it that bothered me—it just didn’t sound right—so the next time Grace told me she was going down there visiting, I forbid it.”
“And?”
“And nothing. She didn’t go.”
From what I had observed about Grace, admittedly at a distance, she didn’t appear to be the meek kind of woman who would accept her husband’s every command as gospel. Had she also begun to suspect something was wrong?
“Did Shana ever say if anything happened, if her uncle…?”
He didn’t let me finish. “If she had, I’d have killed him.”
“How about Bethany? Did you ask her if her great-uncle had said anything out of the way?”
He thrust out his chin. “No need to. I’d warned her to stay away from him.”
And little girls always do what they’re told. “Mr. Genovese, you must be aware Norma Wycoff was murdered Tuesday, probably by the same person who killed your brother-in-law.”
“All the news reports said that Norma was shot, at least that’s what was reported on the news. And let me tell you, Brian sure as hell wasn’t shot.” The gloating expression on his face made me realize it was a good thing he’d been at the restaurant while Wycoff was being tortured, otherwise he might also have received an invitation to visit that ugly interview room at the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office.
Breaking up his moment of cheer, I said, “Well, Wycoff must have believed Norma’s murder had something to do with his own crimes, or else why would he come running up here?”
“He told us someone was stalking him, some private investigator. I wonder who that could be.”
I ignored the dig. “You didn’t put two and two together when you found his body?”
“Grace found his body, not me,” he corrected. “I just went in the Winnebago to make certain he was dead.” He looked up at the crisp sky and sighed. “My wife’s always been the excitable type, and what she was yelling didn’t make any sense. For all I knew, the shithead—Brian, I mean—just got drunk and fell down and injured himself. He could’ve even still been breathing. So I went in and found…and found what I found. Rough way to go, but if anybody ever deserved it, he did. Still, I want you to…”
At that moment several customers exited the Corral, heading for the pickups parked near the rear of the gravel lot. They walked slowly, their attention riveted toward us.
“Sure sorry to hear about your brother-in-law, Mario,” said a thin man wearing a John Deere gimme cap.
“Thanks, Jim,” Genovese said.
“What I hear, it was no big loss.” This from his buddy who was as obese as Jim was thin.
Jim nudged his pudgy pal. “Show some respect for the dead, can’t ya?”
The two began to squabble. Genovese and I waited until they agreed that everyone should be spoken of with a certain amount of decorum when they died, at least in front of their families. Then they climbed into a lime-green pickup and drove away, only to be replaced by three cowboy types who felt it necessary to offer their own half-hearted condolences.
As soon as they left, I said to Genovese, “Maybe you should just go ahead and tell me what it is you want. Before somebody else comes over here to pay their half-hearted respects.”
He rocked back on his heels. “Okay. I want to hire you.”
“For what? To find out who killed your brother-in-law? Frankly, Mr. Genovese, I don’t give a rat’s ass who did.”
Then Genovese said something that changed everything. “I don’t care who killed that baby-raping bastard, either, Ms. Jones, but I’m afraid that once the cops get through talking to my wife, they’ll come back for my grandson.”
Here’s the problem: I’m a sucker for kids. Not that I’m maternal, mind you, but having lost so much of my own childhood to violence, I’m more interested than the average person in ensuring that children be protected.
“Mr. Genovese, what makes you think the authorities might, to use your own words, ‘come back’ for your grandson?”
He looked down at the gravel, saw a Kit Kat wrapper near a cigarette butt, then bent down and picked up both. Then he walked over to the Dumpster and dropped them in the bin. Instead of answering me, he continued scouting the gravel for more debris. Typical avoidance behavior.
I waited.
After three more trips to the Dumpster he ran out of candy wrappers and cigarette butts and I ran out of patience. “Mr. Genovese?”
Out on I-17 a semi blasted its air horn. Here, a half-mile of hill between Coyote Corral and I-17, Genovese winced as if the truck drove right next to him. But he never took his eyes off the gravel.
“Mr. Genovese, answer my question or I’m driving back to Scottsdale right now. My Jeep’s already packed.”
He swallowed again. “He…he likes video games.”
“So does every other thirteen-year-old boy in America.”
“Violent ones.”
I sighed. “Like every other thirteen-year-old boy in America.”
“You don’t understand. That’s not the only thing.”
“What else, then?” Getting this man to make sense was heavy going.
“It’s…it’s his girlfriend.”
“A thirteen-year-old has a girlfriend? And even if he does, what does she have to do with any of this?”
“It’s just puppy love,” he muttered, still staring at the gravel, looking for more debris.
“Mr. Genovese, I’m tired of looking at the top of your head. We’re either going to have this conversation or I’m splitting. Your choice.”
He finally met my eyes. “The girl, ah, her name’s Carolee, she attempted suicide last month. Cut her wrists, but thank God she cut the wrong way. She…She…Oh, hell. Supposedly it had something to
do with her mother’s live-in boyfriend. Cops went out and arrested him, but he made bond and is still in town, says everything Carolee told the police was a lie and he’s going to sue for false arrest.”
You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure that one out. “This Carolee, she accused her mother’s boyfriend of sexual abuse, correct?”
He shot me a look of surprise. “Her mom told the cops it was nothing, that the girl was just looking for attention, that she’s always making stuff up.”
“This was before or after the suicide attempt?”
“Before.”
“I take it your grandson believed her.”
A nod. “Carolee’s back home now from the hospital. I suspect Luke’s been visiting her and that she’s been talking to him about it, but I told him to ease up on the relationship, because who knows? Her mother might be right. I’d…I’d decided to talk him into seeing less of the girl even before this all happened because the mother, well, she’s a heavy drinker and by the look of her skin and teeth, she’s no stranger to meth, either. When the boyfriend mess blew up, I told Luke flat-out to stay away, and so did Shana, but of course he didn’t listen. In a way it was a good thing he didn’t, because he’s the one who found the girl right after her attempt and called 9-1-1. They live in a trailer over there.” He gestured in the general direction of the highway.
“They? Are you telling me that the mother’s boyfriend is still living with them?”
“God, no, he’s renting some old shack over by Rock Springs. Myra Jo, that’s the girl’s mother, she still sees him, though. They came into the bar together the other night. When I told him he wasn’t welcome here, he slithered out like the piece of shit he is, but Myra Jo mouthed off, said she was going to sue. Doubtless got the lawsuit idea from her scumball boyfriend.”
“Sue for what?”
He spread his hands wide. “Denial of her civil rights to get drunk on her ass every night? Whatever, it’s a bad situation and I don’t want either in my establishment, or Luke around any of them. I told Luke last night to stop going over there or I’d take away his video games.”
Poor Carolee. An accused molester for a father figure, an addict for a mother, and now, thanks to Mario Genovese, in danger of losing her life-saving boyfriend. Yet this was no time to judge the man. In his place, I might have made the same judgment call.
“We’re getting pretty far afield here. Tell me how much Luke knows about his grand-uncle?”
He bit his lip hard enough to make me wince. “That’s the problem, Ms. Jones. Luke knows everything.”
Chapter Nine
As we stood in the light of the beautiful day, Genovese told me that when Grace talked him into letting Wycoff stay in the Winnebago, he sat his grandson down and explained the nature of his grand-uncle’s crimes.
“When I finished, I told Luke that under no circumstances were he nor Bethany to go anywhere near him. After that, I told Grace to make sure they didn’t.”
“And?”
“She promised.” A spot of blood appeared on his bitten lip. He didn’t bother wiping it off.
“Mr. Genovese, you realize I have to talk to Luke.”
I could tell by his face he was about to say no, but before the denial was out of his mouth, he changed his mind. “Only if I’m present. Kid’s thirteen, for Christ’s sake!”
I shook my head. “Won’t work, because the kid wouldn’t tell me anything he didn’t want you to hear.” And thirteen-year-olds are good at keeping secrets from their parents and grand-parents.
“An attorney, then.”
“Luke needs to talk openly to me, which he won’t do with either you or some rent-a-shark hovering in the background. Given his age, I doubt he was involved in your brother-in-law’s death, but I do need to ask him some questions. If I hear what I think I’m going to hear, then you have nothing to worry about.”
Telling a grandfather not to worry about a grandchild was like telling the sun not to rise, but he understood my logic and reluctantly agreed.
“I need to talk to Grace, too.”
“Uh, as to that…”
I didn’t let him finish. “Yes, I know she’s at the sheriff’s office right now giving a formal statement, but I’m betting they’ll cut her loose soon. And, yes, I understand that she’s grieving, but if you want to hire Desert Investigations I have to interview her whether she likes it or not. Remember, if it hadn’t been for her talking you into taking in Wycoff, none of you would be in this situation. Maybe not even your brother-in-law. Now, can I follow you back to the house? The sooner I talk to Luke, the better.”
***
Luke was taller than the average thirteen-year-old boy, and more emotionally mature, which I put down to working on his grandfather’s ranch. Working with livestock had given him a sense of responsibility, a trait that had fortunately kept Bethany away from Wycoff. Not to mention giving him a backbone. But it was that very backbone I was having trouble with now.
While his sister rode her new bicycle outside and his grandfather paced back and forth in the living room, Luke stood before me, arms crossed against his thin chest, defiance in his eyes. “I don’t have to talk to you.” He was a handsome boy, with his sandy hair, his mother’s hazel eyes, and his grandfather’s dimpled chin.
We were in Mario Genovese’s den, a none-too-neat space furnished in Late Nineties Awful. Fake mahogany paneling, fake oak desk holding up an ancient iMac, brown indoor-outdoor carpet, two brown-and-gold plaid chairs. The only real wood in the room was a small and obviously locked gun cabinet in the corner. It held a Mossberg 500, a Vanguard rifle, and a small Rossi .22 caliber rifle—Luke’s, no doubt. A family of hunters, from pesky squirrels to deer to big whatevers. Unless I was wrong, Genovese kept a handgun under the Corral’s bar, too.
I sat in one of the chairs, while Luke remained standing. The den’s small window overlooked the pasture, where a palomino and a pinto grazed near the fence. Luke seemed to prefer looking at them rather than at me.
“Luke, your grandfather hired me to keep you and the rest of the family out of trouble.”
“We’re not in trouble.”
“Your grand-uncle was murdered on your property. That’s a whole lot of trouble.”
Bony shoulders shrugged. When Luke filled out, they would be he-man broad. His girlfriend, if she managed to survive her criminally negligent mother, would appreciate that.
He made a face to match the shrug. “What happened to him has nothing to do with us.”
God bless kids. They confuse hope with truth. “The cops think it does, and your family has to live with the fallout whether you like it or not.” I let that sink in for a moment then said, as if changing the subject, “Say, I hear you like video games.”
“Me and everybody else I know.”
“What kind?”
He warmed a little. “Oh, like Call of Duty 4, Assassin’s Creed, Jerico, stuff like that.”
The usual suspects. “Those games are pretty violent, aren’t they?”
He flicked his eyes toward the pasture still preferring the horses to me. “Games’re no worse than movies, and I don’t see anybody getting all spastic over them.”
We could discuss the pros and cons of violent video games all day, but I needed to step things up. “Where were you between ten and two last night?”
When he turned away from the horses, there was an expression of scorn on his face. “Where do you think I was?”
“My thoughts aren’t important here.”
“Hmph.”
Most kids don’t “hmph” well and Luke was no exception. I tried not to smile, to leave the kid his dignity. “If you weren’t here, you can’t provide an alibi for anyone in this house, which includes your sister, your mother, and your grandparents.”
Horrified, he responded, “Mom and Gramps were at the Coyote and a mill
ion customers would have seen them!”
“There was a storm, remember? I’m betting a lot of the usual crowd stayed home. But your mom and gramps aside, how about your grandmother?” For good measure, I added, “And Bethany.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “I know what you’re getting at, and nobody went out to the ’Bago. I would have seen them.”
“Not if you were asleep. Or gone.”
“I, uh, I…” He darted a look at the iMac.
Again, I had to force myself not to smile at this artless kid. In a way he reminded me of my goddaughter. “You snuck onto the computer last night, didn’t you, Luke?”
He hung his head. “Gramps’ll kill me if he finds out.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Yes he will. I’m not supposed to use it if he’s not in the room with me.”
Lena, don’t you dare smile. “Were you e-mailing Carolee? You girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” he told the brown carpet.
Good. The e-mails would be dated and timed, providing an alibi for at least one member of the Genovese family. “While you were in here messaging away, did you happen to hear or see anything?”
Thin shoulders hunched over, he finally collapsed into the chair across from mine. “Just Grandma snoring. She’s awful loud. Gramps is always after her to get her nose operated on and she says she will, but she wants to make sure she’s all better first. She was kinda sick there for a while.”
Luke didn’t realize it, but he had just alibied his grandmother.
“Snoring can be a problem when it wakes everyone up. Besides your grandma, did you hear anything else? A car, voices outside, whatever?”
He shook his head. “Just the storm. Loud? Geez! That storm was something, wasn’t it? Took down one of our cottonwoods.”
And loud enough to cover a tortured man’s screams. Then something Luke said struck me. “What do you mean, your grandmother was ‘kinda sick’?”
He blushed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s okay now, so she promised Gramps she’d call the EMT, or ENT, the nose doctor, whatever they’re called, and get something scheduled next month. But this was, uh, before my uncle…you know, got killed. ” He looked out at the pasture again, where the palomino and the pinto were having some sort of disagreement. Ears back, they faced each other, yellow teeth snapping. Threats duly delivered, they trotted off to opposite ends of the pasture. Too bad humans couldn’t settle their disagreements in the same sensible way.