Death and Desire

Books by P. H. Turner

 

Death & Desire

P. H. Turner

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I
paced impatiently up and down the sidewalk in front of the 1950s Airstream trailer that had recently undergone a tasteful rehab into the Route 66 Diner. A dry, cold wind whipped around the building and blew red sand in my eyes. Where the hell was he? I looked at my watch and debated going into the diner to escape the blowing grit.

I turned my back to the wind, facing the one-way oncoming traffic on Central Avenue. Niyol was striding toward me wearing a lamb shearling coat and a black beaver Stetson, matching the description he had sent by e-mail. He had straight black hair that hung down past his collar, a turquoise bracelet peeking out his sleeve, and a matching bolo string tie. His eyes tracked to me, his head barely nodding. Tension seeped out of me. He had come to the meet.

I edged toward the alcove outside the diner's front door to shelter from the howling wind. The high-pitched squeal of tires shrieked over the wind. A black Mercedes sedan rounded the corner of Central toward the café. The car popped the curb and aimed straight for him. I dived into the shelter of the doorway. His body suspended in midair before bouncing off the windshield with a sickening, wet
thump
, then tumbled to rest at my feet. The Mercedes swerved back on Central and gunned south out of sight. His unmarred left eye held a look of surprise. Blood from his head dripped into the expansion joint of the sidewalk, forming a puddle around a withering dandelion dying in the crack.

People rushed out of the diner and milled around me. “Miss, Miss, are you hurt?”

I scrabbled to a street-side trashcan for support. “No.” I was dizzy and sweating fear. Niyol's body was inches from my foot. The foul stink of death washed over me. Blood pooled near the toe of my left boot. I gripped the edge of the city's trash can, smelled the rancid grease from the remains of too many hurried lunches, and retched until nothing was left but bile.

A woman shouted into her cell phone, begging for help. She tugged my coat sleeve. “Help's coming.”

Wailing sirens announced the arrival of the police and an ambulance. A woman in the crowd pointed at me. “She was right by him. Her. Over there,” she cried out to the officer. An inner voice reminded me no one in Albuquerque knew I was meeting him. To these witnesses, I was only the person most proximal to him.

An officer bore down on me. “Miss, do you need the EMTs? Need to be checked out?” His badge identified him as Officer Lee Harris.

“No, I'm okay, just shaken up.”

A detective joined Officer Harris. “I'm Detective Jorge Gutierrez, Albuquerque PD. You okay to answer a couple of questions?”

“Yeah. Okay. . . .”

He flipped open a spiral. “Do you know this man?”

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin. “I've never seen him before.” At least that much was true.

“Tell me what you did see,” he demanded.

“I was walking in front of the diner and saw a black Mercedes drive up on the sidewalk and run him down. He was only a couple of feet from me.”

“You get the license plate? See the driver?” he asked sharply.

“No. It all happened so fast. One minute he was walking, and the next he bounced off the car. I–I didn't even realize it was a Mercedes until it sped away.”

“Look like an accident to you?”

“No, the driver drove up over the curb and ran him down.”

“Did the dead man speak to you?”

I shook my head. “We made eye contact as we were walking toward each other. He may have nodded.”

“We'll have to have you give us a formal statement at the station. Do you have any ID with you?” He held out his hand to me.

I fumbled out my driver's license and passed it over.

He scanned my license and read my name out loud. “Ms. Taylor McWhorter. What were you doing in Albuquerque?” Gutierrez demanded.

“Sightseeing.”

He looked at me long and hard. I didn't blink.

“You'll need to make your statement and sign it before leaving the city. The main precinct is at thirty-three nineteen Broadway. Take the first right off Central and head down two blocks. It's on your right.” He turned away from me to someone else in the small crowd.

“What did happen here?” I called to his back.

Detective Gutierrez looked over his shoulder at me. “Looks like murder.”

An excited older man planted himself in front of Gutierrez. “I was in the diner. Right there in the booth by the window.” He gestured frantically. “I saw the driver aim for him.”

I turned away without looking back and walked briskly to my car. I wanted to make my statement, sign it, and get on the road back to Flagstaff. I parked a block from the precinct and composed my statement in my head. No need to lie. Niyol Notah was widowed. No wife or kids who might have known he was meeting me. But he wasn't the victim of an accident, which means someone knew where he would be and maybe what he was going to tell me.

I flipped down the visor mirror. My wild, curly black hair was a riot surrounding my drawn face. I fumbled in my purse for a brush and smoothed my hair behind my ears. A pale-faced woman who sported some deep shadows under her blue eyes stared back.
Just make the statement and get out of here.
I stepped out into the wind and cinched my coat around me.

The inside of the precinct house was an institutional brown, the Naugahyde chairs repaired with duct tape. I perched on one until a sergeant beckoned me to join him in a small conference room. A young officer idly tapped her nails waiting to take my statement.

“Will you state your name, address, phone number, and occupation?” the sergeant asked.

I spelled Mc Whorter for the woman. “I work at KNAZ in Flagstaff,” I said without amplifying my work description.

She dutifully typed that in her laptop, and he read into the record his name and rank, the date, and Niyol's case number. No question to me about what I did at KNAZ. I repeated the comments I had made to Detective Gutierrez.

Back in the waiting area on my duct-taped chair, I drank a cup of overly brewed coffee and waited for the statement to be printed for my signature. The whole process took less than an hour. The time had not even run out on my parking meter.

The traffic on I-40W was light in the early afternoon. The first finger of fear trickled down my spine, mingling with my nervous sweat. I looked in my rearview mirror, eying the traffic in the left-hand lane. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I dialed the news desk. “Marty, it's Taylor. I'm on my way back, and I didn't get a chance to talk to Niyol. He was run over on the sidewalk in front of me.”

“What! You okay?” Marty yelled into the phone.

“I will be,” I said grimly. “Someone nearly took his head off. There was blood spattered everywhere.” My knuckles were splotched white from gripping the steering wheel. “He died right on the street.” My vision blurred to black around the edges.

From down the black tunnel I heard Marty say, “You all right to drive? You sure?”

I shook back the darkness. “No choice. I want to be home in my own bed tonight.” I blinked back my tears and steadied my breathing. Better to concentrate on the story. “Listen, Niyol had an older brother on the Navajo Nation near Tuba City. I don't know how close they were, but Niyol told me one helluva story. Maybe he shared some of it with his brother, Bidziil.”

I could hear Marty's pencil tapping impatiently on his desk. “You know what the Albuquerque police are calling Niyol's death?”

“Detective Gutierrez says it's murder. Sure looked that way.”

“Gutierrez know you're a TV reporter?”

“No. I told them I worked at KNAZ, but they didn't ask what I did, and I didn't offer any explanation.”

“They'll find out once they start poking around in Niyol's case. You tell them you were meeting him?”

“No. He didn't ask.”

He groaned. “That's gonna come back to bite you in the ass.”

“I didn't lie. I told them I had never met him.”

“Be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. I gotta go. Hell, I haven't completed the run sheet for the six o'clock. You call me if you need anything.”

My boss, Marty Cummings, was a seasoned news director, gruff as hell, and had all the sensitivity of a pit bull. KNAZ was the only full-service network affiliate in northern Arizona. My job was to investigate stories from Flag to the New Mexico border. I'd built a nice little life for myself with a snug adobe casita, close friends, and a job with an award-winning news station. Niyol Notah died trying to tell me his story. My job was to get it told.

A semi whipped past me, rocking my Rav4. I kept to the speed limit and punched Louis's number. “You back from Phoenix?”

“Yeah, Eric had a great time. Of course, he could look at every painting in a museum twice while checking his iPad for the painter's life history. Me, I can stroll through an art museum in thirty minutes tops. We did get to play some pretty mean golf. Where are you? Want to come by for a drink?”

Listening to Louis settled me down. The three of us enjoyed each other's company along with some legendary happy hours featuring Eric's gourmet cooking. “Wish I could. I'm on I-40, a couple of hours from home.”

“Thought you would be back by now. You talk to Niyol?”

“He's dead. Run over.”

“Taylor! You okay?”

“Almost, maybe. Marty just asked me the same thing. Better than I was.”

“Jeez, gal. Take it easy. Who killed him?”

“I don't know yet. Albuquerque PD has me and a witness in the diner who both think it was deliberate.” I inhaled sharply. “Someone knew he was going to be there and didn't want him talking. I'm meeting Marty at ten in the morning. Can you join us? I want you in on this one.”

“Sure. Listen, girl, you need anything—anything at all, even in the middle of the night—Eric and I will be there. Whoever killed Niyol got a good look at you.”

“Too bad they don't know I've got squat.” I glanced in my rearview mirror. “Thanks, Louis. See you tomorrow.”

“Text me when you get home,” Louis demanded. “If you don't want to stay in your house, we got a spare room and it's yours.”

“Thanks. I think Mac and I'll be fine.”

I stopped in Gallup, a major trading town on the edge of the Navajo Nation, for gas. The old Route 66 was the main thoroughfare through town, lined with Indian jewelry stores and run-down motels from the 1940s, still blinking their tourist-court Vacancy signs for those too tired to make it to Flagstaff. Fast-food joints like Denny's lined the old road to lure in travelers for a grand slam breakfast anytime during the day.

An old Navajo man with filthy matted hair and tennis shoes with flopping soles staggered out in front of my Rav at a stoplight. He steadied himself with one grimy hand on the hood of the car, lurched to his right, caught himself, and shot the finger at the Mazda driver who was honking impatiently on the other side of the intersection. He tottered across the street and slumped down on the curb. Holding his head in his hands, he tumbled over in a drunken stupor, half in the gutter and half on the sidewalk.