Desert Noir (9781615952236) (18 page)

“I bought the painting for my apartment upstairs,” I told him. “But I've got to go in my office to return something first. You want to come in with me and get a drink? Coke? Tea? Ice water?” 

He shook his head. The heat didn't seem to bother him. “I'll just start hauling it up the stairs. Maybe you can give me something to drink when we're finished, okay?” 

I nodded, then went inside the office and slid the keys across the desk to Falcone, who was sitting in my chair, an odd expression on his face. Jimmy sat across from him, looking smug. A weathered deck of cards lay spread out between them.

Uh oh. “Seven card stud?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Your friend here insisted on playing a couple of hands.” For relaxation Jimmy played poker on his computer, and he was as good at that as he was everything else. Certainly too good for Falcone the Open-Faced, Falcone the Fumble-Fingered.

I threw Jimmy a dirty look. “You didn't.”

Jimmy gave me a look of studied innocence. “It was just a friendly game. And he wanted it. Practically
begged.”
 

Falcone cleared his throat. “Um, I'll drop off what I owe you on payday, okay, Jimmy?” 

“No problem,” Jimmy said. At least he didn't smirk.

Falcone put the cards back in his pocket. Eager to change the subject, he asked me, “Well, did you find anything over there?” 

“Not a thing,” I lied.

I could look at Clarice's Dayrunner later, but now I had a painting to hang.

Jimmy was already packing to leave, so I left him to lock up and met George Haozous at the top of the stairs. The artist smiled, revealing the straightest, whitest teeth I had ever seen. “First a real life private detective and now an art collector. Well, well.” 

“Well, yourself.” I took out my keys and opened the door. Notwithstanding the fact that I had a six-foot Apache at my back, I still took my gun out of my carryall and did the usual. When I returned from my search and destroy mission, Haozous was waiting for me in the living room.

“A little paranoid, are we?” His smile had dimmed.

“Even paranoids have enemies.”

Haozous didn't look eager to explore this. Instead, he began untying the thick cords that kept the plastic wrapped around the painting. I held my breath. Would I like it as much today as I had the first time I saw it? But as the black plastic fell away and the colors rushed out, I released my breath in a satisfied sigh.

It was even more horribly beautiful than I had remembered.

“Apache Sunset,
ready to hang,” the painter said, all business. “I attached wire to the stretchers before I left the studio. So. Where do you want it? Over the couch?” 

“If I put it over the couch I won't be able to see it.” I thought for a moment, then unplugged the television and hauled it over to the small table by the door. It would mean that I'd have to watch CNN at an angle, but who cared? “Let's put the painting on the wall behind where the TV used to be. That way I can sit on the couch and look at the painting, instead.” 

Haozous looked inordinately pleased. “Wish I had more collectors like you. Most people just buy paintings to give their sofas something to do.” 

He took some hooks out of his pocket and unattached the screwdriver hanging from his tool belt. “The painting's pretty heavy, so I usually use these wing nuts. You mind?” 

I shook my head. I didn't care if he bolted the painting to the wall.

“Now stand where you want the painting to be. The middle of a painting should be hung at the eye level of a standing person.” 

For a change I did as I was told, taking note of the way Haozous's eyes raked the rest of me before he checked my eye height. But he was an artist and artists were into anatomy, right?

“You can move now.”

I stepped away and he walked to the wall, brushing my arm as he passed. Unusual. Out of respect for personal boundaries, most Indians avoided unnecessary bodily contact. Or even unnecessary eye contact, for that matter.

But Haozous looked me straight in the eye. “This about right?” He pointed to a spot three-quarters of the way up the wall.

“Looks fine to me.”

He nodded, then began screwing the wing nuts into the wall.

He was still working when the phone rang. For a second, I thought of letting the machine downstairs pick it up, but worried that it might be Kryzinski with some new tidbit to offer, I picked up the receiver. No such luck. It was Dusty.

“We've got to talk, Lena.” He sounded half apologetic, half irritated.

I looked over at Haozous, now wrestling the painting onto the hanger. “Sorry, I can't talk now. I've got somebody here.” 

A few seconds of silence, then the irritation swallowed up whatever was left of the apologetic tone. “What do you mean, you've got somebody there? You
never
invite people over.” 

The painting was a little high on the right side, but before I could point it out, Haozous straightened it. “That's wonderful, George!” I called to him, not bothering to cover the phone's mouthpiece.

“What's wonderful? Who's George?” Dusty sounded suspicious.

“I told you, I don't have time to talk now.” Without giving him time to argue, I hung up the phone. Hey, the world is filled with men, right? So what do I need with a man who likes redheads better than blondes?

I don't love him, I don't love him, I don't love…

If I repeated that mantra enough maybe I'd even start believing it.

I came out of my funk to see Haozous watching me intently, his bronze arms folded across his broad chest. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen a handsomer man. Sean Connery in his 007 days? Brad Pitt? The young Elvis? Nope. None of them could hold a candle to George Haozous.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

“Like… like what?” Then I felt my face flame. “Oh, you mean the painting. I like it fine. It's magnificent.” 

And it was. The brilliant colors raged across the wall, totally transforming the beige-locked room. But for some strange reason, my eyes kept drifting away from the painting to its creator.

Haozous smiled. “Want anything else?”

“Wh…what?”

He lowered his arms and stepped away from the painting, approaching so closely that I could see my blond hair reflected in his dark eyes. “Lena, I asked if you wanted anything else.” His voice was softer now, almost seductive. Or was that just my imagination?

For a minute, I felt like a jackrabbit hypnotized by a rattler. He looked so good, he smelled so good… Then I stepped back, putting a more discreet distance between us. I already had enough trouble with the men in my life and I certainly didn't need the added trouble of a married one. “No, George, I don't want anything else. Now, how about that drink I offered you earlier? It's a long drive back to the rez and it must be 115 degrees out there.” He smiled slowly. 

“I'm real comfortable with heat.” 

I waited until Haozous's truck was completely out of sight before I undressed and changed into my jogging outfit. I still hadn't regained my strength since being shot, so I was only able to make it halfway to the buttes before slowing to a walk. But at least the long walk cleared my mind.

As I finally limped across the McDowell median and into Papago Park, I was wondering if Haozous had ever made any moves on Clarice.

And if so, what she had done about it.

When I got back from my run—oh, hell. Let's be honest about it, from my
walk
, I found a note slipped under my door.

Don't you think it's time you quit pouting about that redhead?

Dusty

I tossed the note into the garbage, all the while chanting,
I don't love him, I don't love him, I don't love him.

 

The next day, I left the office to Jimmy and left for Tudor Hills. Since the monsoon weather had calmed for a few days and was tormenting Mexico instead, Scottsdale Road was back in full working order. All debris from the storm had been removed, the flooding had drained, and the detour signs were down. As the Toyota ate up the miles, subdivisions slipped away and the road climbed higher into the desert. The crisp scent of sage surrounded me.

Just before the Boulders neighborhood where Serena Hyath lived, I followed the TUDOR HILLS—MODELS OPEN NOW! signs and took a hard left, crossing over the granite ridge. What I found on the other side was appalling.

On a once gentle hillside, a few finished Tudor-styled homes—exposed black beams and phony wattling on the second story perched over gray monastery rock on the first story—overlooked bulldozers busily carving flat terraces out of the vanishing slopes. Below them, deep trenches now criss-crossed the desert, awaiting the miles of sewer pipe that lay alongside the ditches stacked like stranded sea serpents. What appeared to be several hundred mesquite trees, creosote bushes, and saguaro cacti sat in giant wooden tubs awaiting banishment to other areas, leaving the denuded area looking like a giant, unpaved parking lot. The Hopi tribe had a word for such desecration:
Koyannisqatsi,
the world is out of balance.

I tried unsuccessfully to battle the rage that boiled up inside me. The sage-swept paradise of my childhood had vanished forever.

But there was nothing I could do about that now. The damage had already been done.

The Hyath Construction Co. trailer was located near four homes in various stages of completion. I parked the Toyota pickup between a fairly new but beat-up Dodge Dakota and a sleek gold Infiniti I-30. I was standing there admiring the Infiniti's taupe leather upholstery when the trailer door opened and one of the biggest men I'd ever seen stepped out. He was so tall he had to duck, and at the same time, so wide that he had to turn sideways to get through the narrow doorway. His massive frame filled out his work clothes in an almost alarming manner, but his ebony face projected an affability that belied his menacing bulk.

“I'll phone a friend of mine up in Flagstaff,” he called over his shoulder into the trailer. “He should be able to send somebody down in the next couple of days. We got to get this show on the road.” 

The person in the trailer muttered something I couldn't quite hear, then the big man closed the trailer door and started down the steps. Spying me, he stopped halfway down.

“I wouldn't get too close to that Infiniti if I were you. There might still be broken glass scattered around.” 

I looked down at the car. “Broken glass? Everything looks fine to me.” 

He shook his head. “Somebody busted out the driver's side window the other day and stole the car phone. Third time in six months. We had the Glass Doctor out and he replaced the window, but Evan's still having a fit.” He paused, then asked, “You here to see him?”

I nodded. There was something about him that looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him. “Do I know you?” 

He grinned, revealing flawless teeth. “Maybe. How many football games you see in college?” 

Now I remembered. Malik Toshumbe, former fullback for the ASU Sun Devils. I'd watched him mow down an entire line of U of A Wildcats more than once.

“You went on to the Cowboys.” I said, taking his extended hand. Although my own hand seemed little larger than his pinky, I found his handshake surprisingly gentle.

He pumped my hand a few times, then released it. “Tore my knee up the third season. But, hey, I had a good run. That's all you can ask.” 

He'd been one of my heroes, a role model of sorts, because Malik, who'd been two years ahead of me at ASU, was another foster home kid who'd beaten the odds. At the time, I'd been a lot more emotionally fragile than I was now, so whenever my memories threatened to overwhelm me, I had simply pictured Malik. I knew he had experienced so much worse. Once he'd even been pulled from a foster home because they'd “forgotten” to feed him for a week.