Desert Noir (9781615952236) (10 page)

Alison.

Not quite as grotesque as the dead endangered species—but trying hard—was a gallery off the main living room which housed a collection of pseudo-classical sculpture. I saw a copy of the Venus de Milo
sans
arms, the Athena Nike
sans
head, and scattered busts of almost a dozen Roman senators
sans
their entire bodies. It struck me that both rooms were decorated with pieces of bodies, not whole ones. Was this the way the Hyaths viewed people—as nothing more than a miscellaneous collection of body parts?

“Nice house,” I lied.

“It should be for what it cost me.”

After a long hike though a hall lined by a gun collection that could have dwarfed the Arizona National Guard's armory, we finally arrived at two massive bronze doors that opened onto a cavern-like den.

“I've got her old address book in here,” he said.

Alison apparently hadn't waved her magic decorating wand in here. The dark brown carpeting that softened the floor was made even darker by wood paneling that looked like it had been ravaged from some primeval forest. More guns were mounted on the wall here, and they gleamed menacingly in the gloom. As I squinted around, Hyath switched on a desk lamp so dimly bulbed that I couldn't help but wonder if all this darkness mirrored his heart.

The only saving grace in the room was the large oil portrait of Clarice that hung on the wall facing the desk. Unlike the dismembered bodies in the living room and gallery, all of Clarice had been captured by the artist's expert brush. She posed proudly in the desert sunlight, her dark hair offset by a pale pink dress, and matching tights and shoes. She was complete, glowing. She appeared to be around nine years old, with a hopeful, unshadowed face. Was this the age when her father started molesting her?

Hyath rustled through a desk drawer and finally came up with an address book. “This was Clarice's,” he said, tossing it to me.

“Do you want me to return it?”

“What for?”

As a memento of your daughter, I thought. But voicing that sentiment was probably pointless. When it came to sentiment, the Hyaths were definitely twisted. “Fine. One more thing. Um, I've heard that Clarice lived on income from a family trust. Is that true? I know she didn't make all her money from the Western Heart Gallery alone.” 

At first it looked like he wasn't going to answer my question, but then he glanced across the room at Clarice's portrait and his cold face softened. “Yes, there's a trust, but each of my children is also an equal partner in Hyath Construction. I signed it over to them six years ago.” 

I blinked in surprise. I'd always thought Hyath Construction was solely owned by Stephen Hyath. I couldn't help but wonder why he'd given it to his children.

Out of guilt, perhaps?

“And it's remained a successful company, hasn't it?” 

When he finally turned from the portrait, his eyes were wintry again. “Being good at business runs in the family. Now, I'm afraid you need to leave. I'm a busy man.” He pressed the button on the beeper. The maid wasted no time in responding. She had a towel draped over her arm. Presumably she was in the process of scrubbing Eleanor down.

“Inez, please escort Miss Jones out. Tell Randall to make certain she leaves the property.” 

Inez nodded and led me outside where Randall the chauffeur/bodyguard stood waiting for me beside the now-gleaming Rolls. “I have to follow you down the hill, make sure you're gone.” At least he looked apologetic.

“Fine with me. But before I go may I ask you something?” 

He shook his head. “Sorry. I need this job.”

“You just answered my question.”

I drove away, overcome with loathing for the Hyaths and their home, until it occurred to me that my parents—if I ever found them—might prove to be even worse.

After my visit to the Hyaths, the Scottsdale Police Department seemed like Disneyland, even taking into account the two drunken teenagers sprawled on a curved bench inside the door. One had peed himself, the other had a nosebleed.

“Hi ya, Lena,” said Sgt. Vic Falcone, a transplant from Chicago, who was the lucky man assigned to the front desk today. He'd been at my side the day I took the bullet that ended my police career and had kept his hand pressed against my severed artery until the EMTs arrived. They told me later that he'd been crying almost as hard as I'd been bleeding.

Now he frowned. “What's this I hear you been out gettin' shot again?”

“That story's been greatly exaggerated, Vic. Just a graze, just a graze.” 

The frown didn't let up. “You need to be more careful with yourself.” 

“My middle name—Careful.” I grinned, trying to lighten the mood. Like Kryzinski, Falcone had always been a nag.

The grin worked and he mirrored my expression. “Other than that, how's tricks?” 

“A lot more lucrative since I stopped working Van Buren,” I answered. The reference to Phoenix's notorious Hooker's Row earned the laugh I'd been fishing for. “Say, is Kryzinski in? He told me to stop by.”

Vic waggled his eyebrows at me. “Doing house calls now, are ya?” 

I waggled back and twitched an imaginary cigar. We were both big Marx Brothers fans.

He bared coffee-stained teeth in appreciation. “We miss ya around here. Them new broads on patrol ain't half as pretty as you.” 

I laughed. “I'll bet you say that to all the girls, you sexist pig, you.” 

Now he twitched his own imaginary cigar. “Only the blonds, Lena. Hey, ya know where Kryzinski's office is. One of the rookies'll take you up. I gotta babysit for the Katzenjammer Kids here 'til their parents arrive.” 

I blew him a kiss as a fresh-faced rookie trying to look scary used his pass to open the electronically locked door to the inner sanctum. He led me down the hall to the elevator, our footsteps whispering along the expensive blue-gray carpet. As in the rest of the city's municipal buildings, the police department's architect had spared no expense in creating a tasteful work environment. In fact, a casual visitor to the building would swear he was in an insurance office until he came to the glassed-in case that held the collection of guns, rifles, and assault weapons we'd confiscated during raids. There were enough in the display to stock a small army.

The rookie rode with me up to Kryzinski's lair without saying a word. I didn't think it was because he was unfriendly, just that his voice was still changing and he was afraid it would crack. They seemed to be hiring them younger and younger these days.

The elevator stopped and as he ushered me down the hushed hallway past the communications room, old friends of mine from the Violent Crimes Unit rushed from their pods, demanding to know why I was walking around so soon after being shot. I had to tell my story again and couldn't help grinning as I noticed the rookie's face begin to pale. He probably hadn't yet dealt with anything other than Iowa grannies running stop signs in their Winnebagos. But his time would come, and I felt a moment's pity for him.

After I satisfied everyone's curiosity, we continued our progress to the glassed-in office at the back of the VCU, where I was finally able to wave goodbye to my guide. Glancing through the glass, I saw Kryzinski hunched over his laptop. He was wearing a tan Western suit with chocolate piping, a black string tie completing his ensemble. Since he bulged slightly less than usual, I surmised that he was beginning to buy his clothes in larger sizes or that the Police Chief had finally convinced him to go on a diet. As I watched, Kryzinski hurled an oath at the laptop's monitor. It didn't deign to talk back.

“I love a man who loves his computer. It really makes me hot.” 

With a start, Kryzinski looked up from the laptop. His expression would have scared Geronimo. “Jesus Christ, Lena, you out walking the streets again?” 

“That's funny. I just had the same conversation with Falcone. You cops have such dirty minds.”

The scowl deepened. “Quit fartin' around and do yourself a favor. Go back home and get some rest. You just been shot, for Christ's sake.” 

I eased through the door. Regardless of the laptops that sat on every Scottsdale police officer's desk, Kryzinski's office was always a mess, with piles of paperwork accumulated on every conceivable surface—the desk, the chairs, the scarred lamp table, even the floor. The inspectors from Rural Metro Fire Department were always threatening to ticket him.

“You told me to come down here, see what you guys have found out.” 

“I didn't mean today and you damned well know it.” He breathed heavily for a few beats then sighed, “Oh, hell, since you're already here, you might as well pull up a chair. I got things to tell you but remember, kid, you didn't hear it from me.” 

Which meant don't let the Police Chief find out.

I removed a pile of papers from the battered old lounge chair he'd had shipped all the way from Brooklyn and sat down. As I settled in the chair, a puff of dust rose around me, making me cough.

“See?” Kryzinski snapped, pointing a stubby finger at my chest. “You're still weak. You're wobblin', too.”

“It's the chair. One leg's shorter than the other, has been for years. And if you'd clean up around here every now and then, my cough would go away, too. Now quit your nagging and tell me what the Medical Examiner said.” 

He rummaged through the mess on his desk, and finally found a fat manila envelope. “We're still waitin' for the complete toxicology results but already we got something' pretty juicy.” He held the envelope out to me. “You're not gonna believe it.” 

I read through the report, at first noticing nothing out of the ordinary. The ugly crime scene photos told me nothing I hadn't already known, but the preliminary coroner's report detailed the violence done to Clarice's body. She had suffered such severe skull fractures that bits of bone punctured her brain, yet those injuries hadn't killed her. The actual cause of death had been the bloody clog of teeth and pieces of tongue lodged in her airway, asphyxi-ating her as she lay helpless on the floor. While she choked to death, the attack continued, this time with an object that matched the configuration of a tire iron.

I looked up at Kryzinski. “This guy really wanted to make sure she was dead, didn't he?” 

Kryzinski nodded. “No shit. Keep readin'.”

On the second page I found the strangest thing I'd ever come across on any homicide investigation. “What the hell's this? They found traces of latex on her face?” 

Kryzinski nodded, making his string tie flap up and down. “Maybe she was beaten to death by a lead-filled condom.” 

“Or maybe her killer was wearing latex gloves.”

“You tryin' to take the fun out of this? Anyway, now you see why the case against Kobe ain't lookin' real tight. Firstly, Kobe wouldn't have to be worryin' about leaving his fingerprints in the gallery 'cause there was plenty of reason for his fingerprints to be there. Place was crawlin' with his crappy paintings. Secondly, that asshole was too drunk to even piss straight let alone do everything the perp did. When we arrested him that night his blood alcohol level was .193.

“Just between you and me and the lamppost, kid, I can't see Kobe staggerin' out of his girlfriend's house, drivin' all the way over to the gallery without gettin' snagged by some hotshot patrol officer, then puttin' on latex gloves, then beatin' his wife senseless, then switchin' over to a tire iron to finish the job,
then
sneakin' out of there in broad daylight without anybody seeing him. Sound like any drunk you ever ran into? Shit, when Kobe's lawyer laid all that out for the judge, he dropped bail from one million to a measly ten thou and Kobe only had to come up with a tenth of that. Hell, half the homeless in Scottsdale got that much hidden in their favorite Dumpster.” 

I sat back, but the chair rocked wildly and I had to lean forward again until it found its equilibrium. “You're right. This is all a little too cagey for some drunk. I guess that means my former client is off the hook. Now isn't that nice?” 

Kryzinski snorted. “Not to be too optimistic or anything but maybe the guy is smarter than we think. Try this on for size. Maybe he rigged all this bizarre shit, including being drunk. Maybe he was hopin' we'd take him to trial and he'd get off. Once acquitted…” 

I finished for him. “…he can't be tried again.” At times like this, I really missed working with Kryzinski. He was nobody's fool, which is why he'd been hired away from NYPD and why the Police Chief—an Überyuppie from Yale—put up with his atrocious English and bizarre manner of dress. Kryzinski might not be pretty but he always got the job done.

The two of us sat there in silence for a few moments, examining his theory. Then I said, “I don't know, Kryzinski, it all sounds too Agatha Christie to me. There's no way Kobe has the smarts or the self-discipline to rig up anything that sophisticated. Maybe there's some new suspects you'd like to tell me about? Just for old time's sake, you understand.” 

He gave me a sour look. “We shot our wad with Kobe. Now we start over again.” 

I met his eyes. “Then I'll do what I can. One nice thing about going private is that you're not handicapped by police procedure or any hand-tying legalities.” 

His sour look lightened. “You break the law, I don't wanna know about it. But you come up with anything, you're gonna share it, right? You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours?” 

“Of course.”

The chair gave another lurch beneath me and for one horrible moment, the room began to spin. I only managed to remain upright by hanging onto the chair arm.

Kryzinski jumped up and rushed towards me, grabbing my shoulder with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Hey, Lena! You all right?”