Desert Noir (9781615952236) (20 page)

“Relationships are tough for us all,” I said, falling back on the truth in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “But there's nothing either of us can do about that right now so why don't we just concentrate on helping Clarice? Tell me who else might have a motive to kill her. Then I'll put the cattle prods to Jay.” 

My attempt at humor worked, and Evan managed a wobbly smile. “I'm still convinced it was Jay, but I know she was having trouble with one of her artists. Some Apache guy.” 

“I've already talked to him.”

He picked up his Anchor Steam and lifted it to his lips. “Other than that, I'm afraid I don't…” Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he slammed the bottle down. The glass resounded on the rosewood table like a gunshot. “Jesus, why didn't I think of her earlier?” 

“Her?”

“That damned Albundo woman. She's been gunning for Clarice for years.” 

“Albundo?” The name rang a bell, but I couldn't quite place it.

“Dulya Albundo. You must remember the Museum of Western Art project. When we got those old homes condemned, Dulya's mother refused to leave. Magadalena Espinoza, her name was, ninety if she was a day. Senile. Dulya hauled her out of there, not that she had much choice, really, what with the court order and all. But the old lady somehow managed to sneak back into that old house of hers one night and got killed when the bulldozers took it down next morning. Dulya blamed Clarice. Said she'd get even with her if it was the last thing she ever did. I thought the lawsuit she brought against Hyath Construction was what she meant.” 

I felt like slapping myself. How could I have forgotten the tragedy and the part Clarice had played in it?

It had been four years ago, but the scandal over the building of the Museum of Western Art still hadn't died down. The lawsuit Dulya Albundo filed was still winding its way through the courts. Every attempt at reaching a settlement had been spurned, because Albundo was determined to have her day in court and—as she had once told the newspapers—“prove to the world what a despicable woman Clarice Hyath is.” It had all started when the Scottsdale city fathers bought Clarice's idea that the city needed a museum devoted to the “art of the American cowboy.” Working from a list of the Valley's wealthiest families, Clarice had almost single-handedly raised the fifteen million-plus required to purchase a good-sized parcel of land and design and construct the huge building.

But the land purchase went terribly, terribly wrong.

Clarice had zeroed in on Scottsdale's last remaining Hispanic enclave as the museum's target site. She knew that the homes there, hand-built by Mexican laborers a century earlier, would be less expensive to buy than any Anglo neighborhood within Scottsdale city limits. The fact that the thirty-plus homes were genuine adobes, passed from father to son, from mother to daughter, meant nothing to her. In the end, it didn't mean anything to the city fathers, who let themselves be persuaded that
real
adobes weren't constructed of caliche mud, straw. Besides, they resented the fact that some of the families kept sheep and chickens on their property, a right that had been grandfathered in when the zoning laws changed. Bulldozing the entire area in order to get rid of some chickens and erecting a shiny new museum for the tourists sounded like an answer to the zoning commission's prayers.

Hence the quick and dirty nighttime condemnation hearing, attended by no one from the Hispanic community. By the time the families figured out what was happening, the homes their families had lived in for generations had been condemned. A quickly assembled protest group with a lawyer who'd just passed the Bar exam joined the fray too late and their attempt to obtain a restraining order failed. Justice had a price tag in Scottsdale and as usual, the Hispanics came up a day late and several million dollars short. Checks for “fair value” for their properties were hand-delivered to all the residents and the matter was considered closed. Soon sheriff 's deputies were stacking the families' belongings into U-Haul trucks and arresting any individual who refused to leave. A couple of the neighborhood's men put up a fight. Both were serving time in Perryville Prison.

Six months to the day after Clarice got her bright idea, bulldozers mowed down every adobe within a four-block radius.

And one ninety-year-old woman.

“Have you heard anything lately from Dulya Albundo?” I asked Evan.

Evan shook his head. “I never thought…”

“We can't jump to conclusions here but I obviously want to talk to her. Do you have an address? Your lawyer should know how to reach her.” 

He jumped up, walked quickly over to the desk, and picked up the phone. Within seconds he was talking to his attorney. After a few minutes, he scribbled down an address, hung up, and brought it back to me. Tears had filled his eyes again and he didn't look at me as he handed the address across. “Here's where she's living now. It… it looks like she's down in South Phoenix.” 

From Scottsdale to South Phoenix? Where the deer and the gangbangers played? What a come-down.

I stood up, eager to escape from Evan Hyath and his grief. “I'll check it out.”

When I left, he was sitting on the couch, his head once more in his hands.

As soon as I walked back into the office, Jimmy announced that he had beaten the investment banker's encryption system. “But whoever set it up was good. You want to know what it turned out to be?” 

I shook my head, convinced I wouldn't understand it even after he'd explained it to me. For once I was wrong.

“It was Navajo, with all the words spelled backwards!” Jimmy threw back his head and laughed. “Remember the Navajo Code Talkers in World War Two? The Japanese never broke that code, but all it was, really, was just a bunch of Navajo guys yapping all the classified information in their own language. After I recognized the sentence structure, I got Harvey Gray Hills over here and within ten minutes, we had it.” 

I laughed with him. “You've got to admit, though, that's one savvy investment banker. And he's obviously got a Navajo working for him.” 

“They're probably both World War Two buffs.”

“But no match for The Flash.”

To celebrate, I went over to the fridge and poured Jimmy a tall glass of prickly pear juice. Then I poured myself a tall glass of fucking overpriced designer water and toasted my partner.

“To The Flash!” I said.

Jimmy shook his head. “To the Navajo Code Talkers!” 

After replenishing my bodily fluids, I called Malik Toshumbe and verified that Evan Hyath had been having dinner with him the day Clarice had been killed.

“I'm never that hungry at five, but Evan wanted out of that trailer real bad so we went down to that fish restaurant on Scottsdale Road and scarfed down some oysters.” 

“You get the labor problems straightened out?”

Malik laughed. “Not much. Evan started drinking as soon as we arrived and by the time we left, he couldn't tell a labor contract from a summons. I even had to drive him back to the trailer.” 

The trailer? “Why not home?” 

Malik made a disgusted sound. “That trailer
is
his home. His last wife got the house and the Rolls. You know, Evan's a great guy, but he's a goof. Show him a couple of big tits…” he trailed off into stuttering. “I, uh, I'm sorry. I mean he, uh…” 

It was my turn to laugh. “No offense taken, Malik. I know exactly what you mean. He gets blinded by the light.” 

Malik laughed back and we finally hung up with me in receipt of an invitation to share an Arizona Diamondbacks game with him and his wife. They had season tickets, right down on the third base line.

Jimmy, who had been eavesdropping again, turned away from his computer with a jealous look. “Third base line? I've never been out of the nosebleed section.” 

I flashed my teeth at him. “Hurts, doesn't it?”

I fooled around the office for the next hour, making a few more phone calls. So far, we'd been unsuccessful at finding out the whereabouts of the department store chain CEO's ex-mistress, or the missing diamond necklace. I canvassed a few more pawnshops to see if anybody'd unloaded it, but came up empty-handed again. Still, I wasn't ready to give up. The woman had to be somewhere, possibly with friends, possibly with relatives.

Possibly in Vegas.

I told Jimmy to check out her credit card purchases since the CEO had finally admitted that he'd been silly enough to give her a platinum Visa, too. I then hopped back in my loaner and left for Dulya Albundo's house.

The trip took only twenty minutes, but it was like entering another country. South Phoenix was the Valley's version of the ghetto, the 'hood, the barrio—the place you moved when times were hard and not going to get any better. Granted, the area still maintained a few decent pockets guarded zealously by Neighborhood Watch groups, but for the most part, the area from Buckeye Road south to South Mountain, 32nd Street west to 19th Avenue was a no-man's land ruled by the Crips, Bloods, West Side Chicanos, and Wetback Power. Most Scottsdale residents pretended South Phoenix didn't exist, even though most of Scottsdale's maids and resort workers commuted from there.

Dulya Albundo lived on Buckeye Road, almost dead in the middle of the barrio. As I crept along Buckeye, checking out the street numbers on the rundown frame houses, I was very much aware of the group of youths lounging against a graffiti-covered wall near the corner, watching me with narrowed eyes. They were dressed almost entirely in brown, with baggy chino pants and long, wicked-looking chains which looped from their belts almost to their knees. West Side Chicanos. As luck would have it, Dulya Albundo's house was only three houses down from them, so I eased the pickup to the curb, hoping Michael Sisiwan's theft insurance was paid up.

The Albundo house was a single-story wood frame needing paint, but both the house and its small yard were spotless. Several well-used, unmatched chairs sat on the wide porch. Windchimes tinkled in the soft breeze, and from somewhere behind the house, a rooster crowed.

I locked the truck carefully, noticing one of the boys break away from the group and walk towards me. The chain at his side jingled, but it didn't sound like Santa Claus coming to town. Trying not to make too big a deal of it, I reached into my carryall and rooted around for my gun. Once my hand wrapped around the handle of the .38, I felt a lot more secure.

“Hey there, Blondie, you lost or somethin'?” the boy asked in an Hispanic accent, his busy eyes checking out my carryall. He couldn't have been more than fourteen and hardly came up past my chin, but I'd learned long ago that the little banty roosters were more apt to kick your ass than the big doofus noisy leghorns.

“Nope,” I said, forcing myself to sound casual. “Just looking for Dulya Albundo.” 

His mahogany eyes were not welcoming. “What you want with her?” 

“That's private.” I didn't let my own eyes waver.

He considered my words, my manner, then took careful aim and spat. A green gob landed uncomfortably close to my Reeboks.

“There ain't nothing private around here, Blondie.” 

This was nothing more than the standard Pecking Order Waltz, with the banty rooster trying to estimate my position on the dance card. Nevertheless, I couldn't let it get too far. “You spit on my Reeboks,
compadre
, and you'll be licking them clean.” 

A little fire jumped in those cold eyes. “You think you tough?” 

“Tough enough.” I kept my voice steady, even though I could see his friends were now approaching us, the same measuring look in their eyes. They didn't like Anglos down here. Anglos had never done them much good.

Then the little banty surprised me by laughing. He looked over his shoulder and rattled off a stream of Spanish to his friends. They laughed, too, and went back to their huddle at the wall, planning god knows what. My language skills being highly limited, the only words I had understood were “cute” and “Mama.” But that was enough. The banty was Dulya Albundo's son.

“You come on, Blondie. I take you to Dulya Albundo. Give me five bucks, I even watch your truck. Keep it nice, just like them pretty Reeboks of yours.” Then he surprised me even further by winking.

Without a word, I hauled a five dollar bill out of my carryall and handed it to him. Hey, good security's cheap at twice the price.

“Yeah, you a tough lady, Blondie,” the banty said, stuffing Abraham Lincoln into his jeans. “But you got brains, too.” 

He opened the screen door and let me inside. The house was dark, and for a moment I couldn't see at all, but when my eyes finally adjusted to the gloom, I saw a woman praying quietly in front of a small tabletop shrine. Plastic flowers flanked a small candle that lit up the photograph of a boy who bore a strong resemblance to the banty at my side. A younger brother? Next to the boy's picture was that of an elderly woman. I recognized her from the
Scottsdale Journal's
coverage of her death—Magadalena Espinoza. On a shelf above the child and the old woman, a small statue of the Madonna looked down with sorrowful eyes.