Desert Noir (9781615952236) (14 page)

As I drove along, I was gratified to see that the desert had changed little since those relatively happy days. Brittle-brush and catclaw clung to gently sloping ridges. Purple salsify and vetch added bright spots of color. The sky was alive with life. Yellow warblers and cardinals winged their way through the sentinel saguaros, while above them, a kestrel glided along the updrafts.

Perhaps the desert had taken to its heels further south, but up here it remained triumphant.

The temperature had risen to 108 degrees and it was as humid as a swamp when I pulled up near the top of the ridge that harbored Serena Hyath-Allesandro's luxurious spread. I was happy to see the still-intact cottonwood trees lining the driveway that led to her Territorial adobe. Although the house was obviously not a true 1880's Territorial—increasingly rare in the Valley—I didn't mind these copies as much as I minded the pseudo-Mediterranean stuccos that plagued the Arizona landscape. At least the Territorials were a part of the Southwest's heritage. And god knows, those three-feet-thick adobe walls could keep out the heat
and
the monsoon's humidity.

The only untraditional touches on the property were the sign out front which warned, “Protected by Winchester Security Services,” the closed steel shutters blocking the windows, and the steel-fortified front door desperately pretending to be oak. It didn't fool me.

The steel door swung open as I started up the paved tile walk and a vicious-looking Doberman pinscher peered out.

“Good dog,” I said, stopping in the middle of the walk.

Good dog's upper lip lifted away, exposing pointy teeth. His growl sounded like a bear with catarrh.

“Back, Hans,” a reedy female voice whispered, as I saw a long-fingered hand snatch at his collar. “It's nobody.” 

I didn't know if that made me feel better or worse.

“Mrs. Hyath-Allesandro?” I called. I was still yards from the door, not certain if I wanted to get any closer. Hans still stood framed in the doorway, lip curled. Now he was drooling.

Then Hans disappeared as a dark-haired woman looked out. “Please call me Serena. And I take it you're Lena Jones.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

I told her she took it right and advanced up the walkway, ready to sprint back to the Jeep at the first sign of a pointy black nose.

“Hans won't bite you now.” She continued to whisper, as if talking too loud might attract undue attention. Opening the door wider, she ushered me in, and together we clattered across the Saltillo tiles into a room as vast and dark as a cavern. The shutters were closed here, too, obscuring whatever view might have existed outside the three glass walls. “Once I've tugged at his collar he goes off guard until I alert him again.” 

Comforting. Especially since Hans heeled at her side, not taking his eyes off me. Like most Germans, he probably liked blondes—for lunch.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see her better. She was tall, almost six feet, alarmingly thin, and her yellowish skin was little more than a covering for a ragtag collection of bones. Her brittle black hair reminded me of that I'd once seen on a chemotherapy patient, and dandruff flaked the shoulders of the dark sundress that hung on her like a blanket on a clothesline. Cancer? AIDS? Anorexia?

From a certain angle, I could see an echo of Clarice, but only that. Where Clarice's face had been a perfect, smooth oval, Serena's was sharp and angular, with jutting cheekbones creating smudge-colored shadows below. The large, razor-sharp nose that jutted above her thin lips bore testimony to Eleanor Kobe's catty remark about Clarice's plastic surgery. Serena had obviously elected to stay clear of the knife. She wasn't an attractive woman, but at least the pink-rimmed eyes that stared out at me from the dark hollows in her caved-in face revealed that she'd been crying. Over Clarice, I hoped. It was about time someone in her family grieved for her.

Serena ordered Hans into a corner, where he sat watching me, eyes alert. “You wanted to talk to me about my sister, right?” 

Almost repeating the hand gesture she'd used with her dog, she motioned me towards the large, putty-colored suede sectional that wrapped around a living room the size of the Phoenix Suns' basketball court. Maybe she'd been able to afford it all by skimp-ing on her electric bill. Besides being dark, the room was uncomfortably hot. Three-foot-thick walls or not, it
was
over 100 degrees outside.

“Um, it's awful dark in here and since I want to take some notes do you think you might…?” 

She frowned, and for a moment I thought she might refuse to open the shutters or even turn on a light, but she surprised me and moved across the room to the windows. She pressed a button and the shutters slid up, revealing a view that took my breath away.

Thousands of acres of virgin desert rolled unimpeded towards the saw-toothed ridge of the McDowell Mountains. The rain had also cleared away the smog and the McDowells glimmered in a Cezanne-like pastiche of lavenders and mauves.

“That's all government-protected land,” Serena said proudly, noting my awed expression. “Nobody can build on it.” 

An ironic boast, coming from a member of the family which was almost single-handedly responsible for destroying any remaining desert within the Phoenix and Scottsdale city limits. But then again, it was doubtful if Serena looked at it that way. She probably used the word most developers used when they defended their actions—they didn't destroy the desert, they “improved” it.

“I'm cold,” she complained, although the room was even warmer with the shutters open. “Wait here until I get a sweater. Don't make any sudden moves, because Hans is very alert.” With those comforting words she abandoned me to Hans' mercies, but not before I spotted the marks running up the insides of her arms. They weren't as bad as the needle tracks I'd seen on some heroin addicts, but they were getting there.

Keeping a watchful eye on Hans, I settled myself onto the deep sofa, which was as comfortable as it was beautiful. The living room was the antithesis of her parents'—all suede, glass, and tile. There were no knickknacks lying around, no wall hangings, no sculpture, no paintings, no books, no photographs. The room was stripped to the bare bone, like the woman who lived in it.

She finally returned wearing a white cashmere sweater and carrying a silver tray weighted down with a pitcher of tea, two Bass Ales, two Diet Cokes, and two empty glasses. “I've given the maid the day off, so I'm fending for myself. I hope I've brought something you like. If you want coffee, I can go back and make you some.” 

I wanted the tea but told her I preferred the Diet Coke instead, afraid that if she picked up the heavy-looking pitcher, her skeletal wrist would snap.

Coke poured and her hostess duties satisfactorily performed, Serena appeared to relax. “You wanted to know about Clarice,” she whispered, finally raising her eyes to mine.

The sunlight streaming in from the newly opened shutters fell on my face and for the first time she could see me clearly. She gasped, a reaction I was not unfamiliar with. Then to my surprise, she leaned forward, and with a trembling forefinger, gently traced the scar on my forehead.

“Did it hurt? I… I have the name of a plastic surgeon who is wonderful with this sort of scar tissue. If you don't have the money to get it taken care of, I'm the head of a foundation which can cover the cost. Please let me help.” 

Despite my usual cynicism, I was touched. I'd met women like her before. They could be bleeding from a dozen wounds, but the old scars of others caused them greater pain. It was easy to make fun of such do-gooders, but the fact remained that unlike certain other human beings I could mention, they at least
did
have hearts.

“Don't worry. I'm fine with it,” I said, pushing her hand away from my face as carefully as I could. “Honestly.” 

Her lower lip trembled and for a moment, I thought she would weep at her inability to help me. Instead, she collected herself and said, “I'm sorry. My manners… Please. What do you want to know about my sister?” 

Considering her condition, the question was a cruelty, but it needed to be asked. “Do you think Jay Kobe killed her?” 

Serena shuddered, then in a voice strengthened by anger, she answered, “Of course I do. Who else would kill her? I always told her she was a fool for staying with him.” 

When I pointed out that Clarice had finally left Jay, she nodded. “I'm on the board of Safe Haven, a home for battered women, and I can tell you that most women killed by their abusers are killed when they try to leave.” 

I granted her that but pointed out that Clarice had left Jay months earlier and there had been no indication that he had ever stalked her. Instead, he had simply moved in with his girlfriend and transferred his heavy-handed affections to her.

“It doesn't matter,” Serena said, throwing a look towards Hans, who thumped his stubby tail at her in gratitude. “These controlling men, they can't let go.” 

Behind her, framed in the huge glass expanse, a hawk plum-meted out of the sky. There was a flurry of dust on the desert floor, then the hawk rose again with something struggling desperately in its talons.

The gooseflesh popped out on my arms as I wished the hawk had given its prey a quicker death. “You ever have any problems with controlling men, Serena?” 

She shuddered again, then her face closed off. “What makes you think that?” 

“Just a thought.” I switched to what was obviously a more comfortable topic: Clarice's death. “Kobe's out on bail, you know. And he says he has an alibi.”

Her bitter laugh made Hans prick up his ears. “Men like that always have alibis.” 

That made me wonder about her own marriage. Something was destroying this woman from the inside out. But her vulnerability gave me an idea. I'd test a theory on her that I had developed over the past few days.

“Um, Serena, Jay's alibi still looks pretty good, but I've been wondering about something. Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that I wanted to kill a woman but was afraid I'd fall under suspicion. It would be nice and handy, wouldn't it, if my intended victim was known to have an abusive husband?” I didn't mention the traces of latex the police lab had found on Clarice's face or the indication that there had been another murder weapon besides the killer's fists.

An expression of disbelief replaced the vulnerability. “That sounds like something out of a cheap detective novel.” 

“Sometimes life
is
like a cheap detective novel. Can you think of anyone else—besides Jay—who would benefit from Clarice's death?” 

Tears finally sprang to her eyes. When one spilled out and trickled down her gaunt cheek, she didn't even bother to wipe it away. “The divorce wasn't final so Jay gets her money and the house. What better benefit could there be?” 

I thought about that for a while, then decided there was no point in not asking the question. “How well do, uh,
did
you all get along?” 

Now she wiped the tear away and gave me a trembling smile. “We got along like brothers and sisters.” 

“Well, I'm an only child, so tell me how that is.” 

The smile faded, became wistful. “You've met my parents?” 

I nodded.

“Then you know how…” She paused, took a few deep breaths, then began again, so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her. “We… Uh, the three of us didn't have the easiest childhood. Like a lot of children from, well I guess you'd call them
dysfunctional
families, we, uh, tended to band together against our parents. Not anything overt, you understand. We just thought we needed…” She stopped and took another deep breath. “Protection.”

Judging from the house's over-the-top security system, Serena thought she still needed it. But I'd never thought of Clarice as the paranoid type. “You think Clarice needed protection?” 

Serena looked over at Hans, who scrambled to his feet. “Sit,” she whispered to him. Disappointed, he sat back down. “I thought she needed less protection than my brother or myself, but I was wrong, wasn't I?” 

For a few moments she stared out at the beautiful, savage desert and seemed to draw strength from that. Then she turned back to me.

“Since you're investigating my sister's death, I'm sure you've already found out about the civil suit she had pending against my father. It… it surprised me because the odd thing was, even with the inces… um, abuse, Clarice seemed to be so close to him, even after she got married. But as for her relationship with Mother… Well, that's a different story. Mother was always very hard on my sister, especially when she was drinking, which just before Clarice's marriage was pretty much all the time. I think maybe that's one of the reasons Clarice rushed into marriage with Jay. As for Evan and me, well, we rushed into marriage for other reasons. Mainly Father. He was always pretty physical with us.” 

I wasn't sure what I had heard. “Serena, are you telling me that your father used to beat you and your brother?” I was surprised because emotional abuse, not the physical variety, was the usual torture of choice among the wealthy. And Stephen Hyath hadn't seemed like a violent man. But what child abuser or serial killer ever did? Didn't they frequently turn out to be the quiet ones? The pillars of their communities?

Serena's smile was sad. “Oh, yes. Father believed in ‘discipline.' He said it built character.”

That's usually the way these things go, isn't it? With the most characterless people being the most vocal on the subject.

While I was thinking about that, Serena got up, again causing great excitement on Hans' part, walked over to a bleached oak credenza, and took out a ring of keys.

“You have to do something to help my sister. These are the keys to her house,” she said, returning to the sofa. “I want you to go over there and look for something, anything, that will get Jay locked up again. He killed my sister. I'm certain of it.”