Desert Vengeance

by Betty Webb

  The smile went away and the suspicious eyes flickered. “If you mean my ex-husband, I have nothing to say. He can thank his girlfriend for what happened. I had nothing to do with it.” She started to close the door.

  “I want to talk to you about Brian Wycoff,” I told her. “An innocent woman’s life may depend on it.”

  In a way, that was true. If convicted of double murder, Debbie Margules would spend the rest of her life in prison. Or worse, since Arizona still had the death penalty. Maybe, given who the so-called “victims” were, a judge might go easy on her, but it could easily go the other way. Justice is supposed to be blind; sometimes it actually is.

  The second I said “Brian Wycoff,” competing emotions began fighting it out across Magda Wallace Pierce’s face. Fear, disgust, curiosity.

  Curiosity won. “Come on inside, Ms. Jones. It’s hotter than blazes out there. Want some water? I’d offer you iced tea, but I’ve just returned from a flight.”

  Water would be great, I told her. While she bustled into the kitchen, I looked around. The house was considerably more upscale than it would have been on a flight attendant’s salary alone, so I guessed at a healthy divorce settlement. Not a lot of warmth to the color scheme, though. Cement-gray carpet, two matching gray-on-gray sofas, a scattering of tables that were a mixture of expensive new and auction-house antiques. No family photos.

  She was back in a minute with a filled ice bucket, two glasses that looked and chimed like Waterford crystal, and four bottles of Perrier. The perfect hostess, she tonged several cubes of ice into the glasses, then poured as if the liquid was fine wine.

  Service accomplished, the flight attendant politesse disappeared and the true woman emerged. “This is about that fucker’s murder, right?”

  “And his wife’s.”

  A sneer. “She deserved it. I told her what he was doing to me, and you know what she said?” Not waiting for an answer, she added, “She said it was my own fault, that I was a little whore.”

  “She said the same thing to me.”

  She looked confused for a moment, then after a quick glace and the scar on my forehead, it cleared. “Oh. Right. You’re the one who stabbed him.” The first genuine smile lit her face. “Good on you, girl.” Then the confusion returned. “Since he did the same things to you he did to me, why do you care who killed him? Whoever did it, did the world a big favor. Same for Norma. In some ways, she was more evil.”

  I explained about Debbie Margules and how she was sitting in jail about to be indicted for a murder she didn’t commit.

  “God, the poor…” She swallowed. “First she loses her daughter, probably to Wycoff, and now…” Her voice trailed off again, then she cleared her throat and continued, “I get it. You’re going to find out enough to spring her. Then what? Surely you’re not going to keep looking so you can turn the real hero over to the police.”

  A smart woman, she’d put her finger on the very conundrum I was struggling with. To effectively clear Debbie of murder charges would mean I’d found the real killer, someone the Wycoffs had hurt as much as they’d hurt Magda Wallace Pierce and a host of other vulnerable children.

  “Frankly, I haven’t gotten that far,” I told her. “But I’ll think of something.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Where were you when Papa Brian was killed?”

  She actually laughed. “I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me. If necessary, a handsome-but-married pilot can testify that I was in bed with him in his double-queen hotel suite in Birmingham, Alabama. I arrived home to the happy news.”

  “How about Norma’s death?”

  Another lilting laugh. “In the air over Texas on my way to Pensacola, Florida.”

  “I can check, you know.”

  “Check away, Lena. My hands are squeaky clean. Unfortunately.”

  We chatted comfortably for a while in unspoken agreement to avoid any more talk of the Wycoffs. While we made our way through the Perrier, I learned about her ex-husband Charles, who had developed a severe gambling problem while accompanying his girlfriend—the woman he’d left Magda for—to the local casinos, and then started embezzling from the insurance company where he worked. Charles’ trial came up next week, and Magda was still undecided whether to attend. I also learned that that she’d met her husband in a group home, several years into her adventures through the CPS system.

  “I thought he seemed normal, considering,” she said, allowing a wistful tone into her voice. “He received a scholarship to U of A, and as soon as I aged out of the system, I moved down to Tucson to be with him. That’s when I started taking classes myself. After what we’d both been through, our future looked bright. But you never know about people, do you, no matter how together they may seem?”

  I agreed that you didn’t, reminding myself to double-check her great-sounding alibi.

  ***

  An hour later, I sloshed my Perrier-logged self out to the Jeep and drove through the increasing heat back to Desert Investigations. There was no point in trying to reach Casey Starr, nee Fairfield, yet. Cybe-Sec didn’t close until five.

  Seeing Jimmy still scrolling his way through background checks, I pitied him. How could a man as energetic and physically fit as he was spend most of his working hours hunched over a computer? I remembered something he had once told me about his love for puzzles. As a kid he had read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon several times, and the third time through decided to find work in a puzzle-oriented profession. Thus the white-hat hacking and subsequent partnership at Desert Investigations.

  During one lull in the clicking and clacking, I called out, “Hey, Jimmy!”

  “Huh?” He looked up at me with glazed eyes. He always had that expression when searches ran particularly deep.

  “Have you ever been fooled by someone?” Then I remembered his disastrous love life, and added, “Other than women.”

  “All the time.”

  “Really? All the time?”

  He sat back in his ergonomic mesh chair and sighed. “Lena, very few people turn out to be what you thought they were when you first met them. Take me, for instance.”

  I laughed. “You? You’re exactly what I always thought you were.”

  Mahogany eyes burned into mine. “And what’s that?”

  “A nerd who neither looks nor acts like a nerd.”

  “Those are the ‘what-I’m-nots.’ Tell me the ‘ams.’”

  I tried again. “You’re a great cook. You like Thai food and fry bread. You watch National Geographic specials. You turned your trailer into a work of art. And you’re the best hacker in the business.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You’re loyal to your people.”

  “Go on.”

  “Go on to what? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  After a pause long enough to make me feel uncomfortable, he said, “You don’t know me at all.”

  Disturbed for some reason, I spent the next couple of hours checking out Magda Pierce’s alibi through my contacts at Canyon Airlines. After several phone calls, I concluded she was telling the truth. I don’t know why that surprised me, but it did.

  A little after five, Jimmy proclaimed himself finished for the day. “Want to come over to my place for dinner, too? I was thinking shrimp on the barbie, with ratatouille side.”

  Given the excellence of the lunch he’d served me, I seriously considered it, then decided not. “Sounds great, but I’m going to see if I can chase down Casey Starr. He’s probably home by now. ”

  “He lives all the way out in Litchfield Park. Shouldn’t you call first?”

  “And give him the chance to refuse a meeting? I’ll risk it.”

  Jimmy grunted a goodbye and left.

  ***

  Phoenix was becoming more and more like Los Angeles, a collection of suburbs in
search of a city. Our freeway system isn’t as clogged as L.A.s, but rush hour in the Valley of the Sun is still no picnic. Thanks to the jackknifed semi blocking two lanes on the I-10, it took me more than an hour to reach Litchfield, when it shouldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes.

  Sweaty and irritable, I finally reached the Litchfield turnoff. The rest of the drive was a snap. A former cotton-growing area turned planned community on Phoenix’s far west side, the landscaping was almost as lush as Arcadia’s. Chez Starr, a faux-stucco Territorial knock-off, even overlooked a man-made lake.

  According to Jimmy’s printout, Cyber-Sec, Casey’s company, was doing well. So was Kay Starr, his wife, who headed up the Engineering Department at Maricopa College. No children, though, and given Starr’s background, I wondered if that was by choice. Neither of them had an arrest record, and both were frequent volunteers at St. Mary’s Food Bank. In short, the all-American family, minus the 2.3 kids.

  PI’s don’t trust perfection, so I approached their front door with the same forethought I’d approached Magda’s, hoping for the truth, prepared for lies.

  Starr wasn’t home.

  Neither was his wife.

  Frustrated, I hopped back in my Jeep and drove to a small strip mall I’d passed earlier, where I ordered a gyro at Nikko’s Greek Cafe. I ate slowly, giving the Starrs time to meander home. The service was as fast as the décor was spare, so by the time I finished eating, only a half hour had passed. To kill more time, I walked next door to the Yoghurt Yurt and had a raspberry cheesecake sundae with chocolate chips and granola sprinkles.

  Then I climbed back into my Jeep. The upholstery felt scorching by now, so I had to cover the driver’s seat with the blanket I kept in the back. Reminding myself to buy heat-resistant seat covers, I tooled out of the lot and back to Chez Starr.

  The Starrs were still gone. It occurred to me then, that they might have been on vacation—most sane and well-heeled Phoenicians leave the city during summer—so I gave in and phoned their number. Voice mail. A pleasant male voice told me to leave a message and he’d get back to me as soon as possible. Giving up, I made my way along the diesel-fumed interstate toward Scottsdale.

  Driving in non-congested traffic gives you time to remember.

  Remember Papa Brian telling me to keep our little secret or he’d kill my dog. Mama Norma telling me what a slut I was. Sandy, my dog Sandy, the only thing in the world it was safe to love, looking at me with absolute trust in his eyes.

  My fault, all my fault.

  I should have kept him with me instead of giving him to those other girls. Sandy and I could have run away together and found a home for the both of us, a home with loving people.

  And before we ran, I should have used a bigger knife.

  ***

  When I arrived at my apartment, I showered off the sweat and the fumes and the memories.

  Needing something to drown out the noise in my head, I wrapped myself in a bath sheet and clicked on the TV with the remote. The local news wasn’t helpful with its muggings and shootings and melting glaciers. Neither were the cable offerings. Supposedly real housewives, bearded duck-hunters, Kardashians.

  Irritated, I turned off the TV, stepped around the bankers’ box I had brought in from the storage locker, and wandered into my bedroom. I stood there for a while before realizing it was too early to go to bed.

  Bed?

  Roy Rogers and Trigger bedspread. A duplicate of one I’d had for one brief, happy time as a child.

  To the side, a nightstand with a horsehead lamp, another duplicate of a bygone room.

  Sue Grafton’s X open on the nightstand.

  A glass of water next to X.

  Underneath the window, a chest of drawers. Pine.

  Closet. No monsters in there now. Papa Brian was dead.

  Still restless, I changed into clean clothes and went back into the living room. Sat down. Clicked on the TV again. More muggings, more shootings, more Kardashians. Clicked it off.

  Tired of sitting there picking at my cuticles, I stood up.

  Looked around again.

  Sofa covered in Navajo rugs.

  Satin toss pillow that said WELCOME TO THE PHILIPPINES.

  Painting by an Apache artist over the sofa.

  Chair covered by another Navajo rug.

  What the hell?

  I was taking inventory again.

  Confused, I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Mustard. Ketchup. Two-day-old leftovers from the Thai restaurant across the street. The contents of the freezer revealed a months-old, half-finished carton of Rocky Road ice cream crystallized to a fare-thee-well. I tossed it and the other leftovers into the garbage. Now the refrigerator was empty except for condiments.

  Maybe I should organize my bedroom closet?

  I was halfway down the hall again before I caught myself. What was there to organize? Just several pairs of black jeans and black cargo pants, black tee shirts, three pairs of black Reeboks.

  And that damned box where I’d stashed the damned paisley-printed scrapbook.

  I let out a breath.

  Looked at my hands.

  The cuticles were bleeding.

  Why was I doing this to myself?

  Because I couldn’t help it.

  Despising my own cowardice, I opened the box and took out the scrapbook. Looked through the articles, the photographs.

  Let the memories come.

  Let myself see the deep green forest, the hovering night. The cold blue light in Golden Boy’s eyes. My father running with the children. Men running after them through the trees. Gunshots. The screams as the children were hit. My father, clutching a baby, as he fell.

  What had happened next?

  Abraham said something, gave an order. What was it? What had Abraham said as he handed the rifle to his golden-haired son?

  “You’re a man now. Old enough to do a man’s work.”

  Shot through the gut, my father lay helpless. The baby, thrown out of his arms as he hit the ground, squalled.

  “Finish them according to God’s holy word,” Abraham demanded as he handed the rifle to my twelve-year-old husband.

  Let myself hear the gunshots as Golden Boy finished off my father and my baby brother.

  Two more shots.

  Let myself hear Abraham’s words of praise. “God is pleased, son!”

  Let myself hear my mother’s shrieks as Abraham’s men restrained her.

  Let myself see my twelve-year-old husband beaming under his father’s approval.

  And for the first time in more than thirty years, I let myself cry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jimmy stood up when I entered the office next morning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Still feeling weak, I sat down at my desk. “Turns out I’m married. And I have…I had…a brother.”

  “Oh, Lena.”

  The next thing I knew, he was leaning over me, his hand on mine. How odd. We never touched. Over the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, I could smell toothpaste and some kind of herbal shampoo. And cologne. When had he switched from Polo and started wearing Paco Rabanne?

  “Tell me,” he said.

  I took a deep breath, then told him.

  At the end, he said, “That marriage isn’t legal, Lena.”

  I swallowed. “It still happened. And my baby brother’s still dead and I don’t even remember his name and my father’s dead and I don’t remember what happened to my mother and what kind of world is it when you can’t even remember your own brother’s name?”

  I couldn’t stop babbling and I didn’t like the tight feeling in my throat.

  His hand squeezed mine. “We’ll find whoever did this to you.”

  I stopped. Took a deep breath. “Did to me? I’m alive, aren’t I? The o
thers aren’t.” I had never felt so empty.

  “Did you see your mother killed?”

  “No. But she’s…”

  He put a cautionary finger against my lips. “Don’t say it, because you don’t know for sure.”

  I drew back. For some reason, his touch, although warm, made me feel even more benefit than before.

  “Lena, do you…?”

  I shook my head. “Enough. No more.”

  Without another word he returned to his computer and after one last long look at me, resumed typing.

  From what I could see, he was scrolling through newspapers. Did he think he would find something new, such as an article we hadn’t already read a hundred times before? What was the point, anyway? What was done was done, and this continual rooting around in the past, looking for that mythical state termed “closure” never solved anything. People needed to just…

  Then it occurred to me that Debbie Margules, Jacklyn Archerd, Nicole Beltran, and all the other members of Parents of Missing Children wouldn’t agree with that line of thinking. Although fearing the worst, their search for their children had never ended.

  Inspired by their courage I forced myself to think about Golden Boy, about what he’d said to me in that grim forest.

  “Don’t be afraid, girl. I protect my property.”

  I was property then. That’s all.

  Property.

  Abraham had called my mother property, too, when he’d sent for her. All the women in the group were his property, he constantly reminded us. I was the sole exception because he’d transferred my title and registration to Golden Boy.

  Remembering, my grief slid away, replaced by a deep, burning rage.

  “Lena, are you okay?” Jimmy’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “Never been better,” I lied.

  ***

  After a workday that never seemed to end, I hopped on the freeway again and headed to Litchfield Park. This time I had better luck and the door to Casey Starr’s house opened just as I raised my hand to press the bell.