Desert Noir (9781615952236) (22 page)

Mrs. Albundo gave no indication that she had heard the joke but I knew she couldn't have missed it. She was sitting closer to the man than I was.

“So you must understand how happy I was when I read that Clarice Hyath had been killed,” she said. “These rich people with the Anglo names, they should pay for the things they did to us.” 

This sounded awfully like a confession. Trying to keep my voice steady, I asked, “Was Clarice murdered because of what she did to your family?” 

Mrs. Albundo's smile chilled me. “The good God, he has his ways.” 

When I dropped Mrs. Albundo off at the restaurant where she worked, she was still smiling.

 

The next morning I went down to the office, determined to study Clarice's address book and the Dayrunner I'd lifted from the gallery, from beginning to end.

But the headline on the
Scottsdale Journal
changed my plans.

“JAY KOBE ARRESTED!” the headline screamed in eighty-point Gothic. The sub-head explained, “KOBE TIED TO BODY IN DESERT.” 

Body, I wondered? What body?

But as I read, it came back to me.

SCOTTSDALE —On Thursday, the medical examiner's office announced that a body found in the desert last week was that of Gus Baylor, of Bakersfield, California. The autopsy showed that Baylor had been shot at close range with a .45.

The Scottsdale Police Department investigation revealed that Baylor, who was on parole after serving six years for a 1992 murder conviction, met Jay Kobe in the Bakersfield jail, where they briefly shared a cell.

Last week, Kobe—who had earlier been arrested for the murder of Clarice Hyath Kobe, his socialite wife—was released from jail for lack of evidence. With this new finding, however, police theorize that Kobe contracted with Baylor to kill his wife, then murdered Baylor to keep him quiet.

The police arrested Kobe at Sky Harbor Airport, where he and his fiancée, Alison Garwood, were preparing to board a flight to Las Vegas where they were to be married. “We're certain of a conviction now,” stated Capt. Edgar Kryzinski, of Scottsdale Homicide. “Kobe got off before because he had an alibi for the time of death, but now that we have the link between him and the actual killer, his alibi means nothing. We'll get him, and for two murders, this time. Not just one. I promise you that Mr. Kobe is on his way to Death Row.” 

I noticed the politic way the
Journal
had cleaned up Kryzinski's language, making him sound like an Oxford scholar. Too bad. I'd have liked to see him revealed to one and all as the low-life, sneaky weasel he really was.

Fuming, I picked up the phone and dialed Kryzinski's direct line. When he answered, I started right in. “You shit. You could have told me!” 

“If you still worked for me, kid, you'd already know everything I know.” I could almost hear the bastard smile.

Somehow I kept from slamming down the phone. “Is there any other information you'd like to share with me—before I read it in the paper, that is?” 

He actually chuckled. “Well, you remember that our old client Jay was beatin' up on females when he was young and foolish and livin' over in Bakersfield? We checked around a little more and found out that when he was booked—and this is where the paper screwed up—the Bakersfield cops put him
next
to the cell where they was holding Baylor. Reporters never get this stuff right.

So, kid, you want to know what Baylor was in for?”

“The paper said murder,” I mumbled, choking back my anger. “Or did the reporters screw up there, too?”

“Nah, they got that one right. Seems Mr. Baylor beat his wife to death for having the nerve to start divorce proceedings.
And
Baylor had been married before, beat that one up, too. But the first wife, that gal had enough sense to start her divorce from a woman's shelter. Soon's it came through, she hit the road and ain't been seen since.”

I could see where Kryzinski was going. Two aggrieved batterers sharing stories of female duplicity. It held together, all right. But I still didn't like it. I was allergic to coincidence and this was one helluva big coincidence.

“So you're telling me the two kept in touch all these years? C'mon, Kryzinski. Does that sound right to you? Jay's one of those
classy
batterers, not your common, blue collar batterer. The two seldom hang together.” 

He chuckled again. “Oh, well, they ain't been exchangin' scented letters or anything like that. What happened was, they ran into each other up at one of those fancy developments Kobe's wife owned some kind of interest in.” 

I sat up straighter. “Developments? What do you mean?” 

“You know Tudor Hills? That English-looking piece of shit up near Carefree?” 

I nodded, then realized he couldn't see it. “Yeah, I know it.” But I wished I didn't.

“Anyway, ol' Baylor was working up there, laying flagstone for those fuckin' driveways. Here's how it all came down, we think. Remember the day the First Lady was in town, touring all the fancy-schmancy developments with the governor? Hell, the local politicos couldn't kiss her ass fast enough. So Kobe and the entire Hyath clan, they was all up there at Tudor Hills, trailing around after her, contributing their part to the community ass-kissing. The way we figure it, Kobe and Baylor musta recognized each other then. Two hearts beating as one, and all that shit. It was only two weeks later that Clarice split on him and filed for divorce.” 

“Are you telling me that Gus Baylor was actually working for a Hyath-owned company?” 

“Life's just filled with strange and wondrous surprises, ain't it?” 

I thought hard. “Tell me,” I began, trying to sound casual. “Did anybody else know about Baylor?”

“Whattaya mean, know about him? That he'd served time for murder? Give me a break. Nobody knew but Kobe. Although there was one incident…” He paused for a minute, then said, “It made the papers. I'm surprised you don't know about it, you bein' such a great reader and all.”

“What incident, Kryzinski?”

“It was quite the little scandal for the Hyaths, I hear.” 

“
What
incident?” I was ready to strangle the man.

“You know, that thing that happened when the First Lady and her entourage was all up there with everybody and his prize jackass. Old man Hyath was there, that boozehound wife of his, the skinny sister, the doofus brother, Clarice, and Kobe the Magnificent—not to mention all their snooty friends. After all, it's not every day the wife of the U.S. President bestows a blessing on your nasty little houses.” 

“
What
incident?” Maybe I would have to kill him after all.

“You mean the fight?”

I took several deep breaths. “What fight?”

“Seems Baylor, who was hanging around the site goggling at all the politicos instead of working, said something ugly about the First Lady. Compared her ass to a barrel cactus. Or was it a cholla? Anyway, before that, he'd been insulting one of the secretaries, too, even said something off-color about Clarice. But it's when he made the remark about the First Lady's ass that one of the other construction workers jumped him. Probably a Republican. Well, anyway, the fight got pretty nasty, right in front of the First Lady and all, and it took that big football star the Hyaths' got working for them to break it up.” 

“You mean Malik Toshumbe?”

“The very Malik Toshumbe I once won a bundle on at the Rose Bowl. Shame about that knee, wasn't it?” 

I flashed back to my visit to Tudor Hills, when Toshumbe had been bitching about losing a flagstone layer. It was neat, all right. Maybe a little too neat?

“Look, Kryzinski, hasn't it occurred to you that if all the Hyaths saw the fight…” 

“Saw
and
heard. They say it was quite the deal. And if what they say about the First Lady's gambling jones is true, she was probably makin' book on it.” 

I ignored him. “If the Hyaths saw the fight, then they all knew Baylor was a violent man who didn't like women.” 

He got my meaning and was quick to respond. “Doesn't track, Lena. Maybe they all saw the fight, but how'd they know they was watching a potential hit man in action? You're way off base there, kid, been reading too many of them detective thrillers. You need to be gettin' back to real police work and stop putzing around with those dinky computers.” 

“It's Jimmy who putzes around with the computer. And it's not dinky. It has millions of megahertz or whatever.” 

“Whatever.”

“Anything else you'd like to tell me before I read it in the papers?” 

“You mean like the traces of latex and talcum powder they found on Baylor's hands? I'll tell you everything when you come back to work for me, kid.” 

My patience ran out. “That'll be a cold day in Yuma, you bastard.” I slammed down the phone.

Jimmy looked up at me from his computer. “Did I just hear you casting aspersions on the parentage of the captain of the Violent Crimes Unit?” 

“Damned right you did.”

The tone of my voice warned him off, so with a baleful silence, he returned to his computer.

After working my way through the address book Stephen Hyath had given me, I was more disturbed than ever. The address book dated from the days long before Clarice's marriage to Jay and should have contained the names of old friends, but the phone calls I'd made proved just the opposite. Not one of the people I'd talked to had seen or heard from her in years.

“Clarice wasn't one for keeping close ties,” one woman told me. “She'd be all over you for a few months, then drop you and move onto the next conquest. Not the deepest person I've ever known.” 

The Dayrunner proved more helpful. I was studying it when the phone rang and Hal McKinnon's voice floated out of the receiver. “I'm sure you've heard about our client, Miss Jones.” 

Our
client? I'd been paid off, and my association with Jay Kobe was history. “I read the papers.” 

“How'd you like to come back on board? Jay would certainly be appreciative of your help. You and I both know that somebody's trying to railroad him.”

I snorted. “Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

My eyes kept scanning the Dayrunner, then stuck on a name. The day of the murder, Clarice had pencilled in,
Gus. 5:30 p.m
. A different Gus? Or had she actually made an appointment with her murderer, the man she had seen involved in a very ugly fight at Tudor Hills? I felt the hair stand up all over my body.

McKinnon was oblivious to my shock. “Come now, Miss Jones. Remember your promise to Albert Grabel, and that Jay is his wife's nephew.” 

“I don't care if he's the nephew of the fucking Pope,” I said, slamming the phone down.

When the phone rang again immediately, I ignored it. I was too interested in the Dayrunner. I returned to studying the appointments Clarice had penciled in during the last two weeks of her life.

Lawrence Sallis
. Her divorce attorney. Three different appointments there.

Emily Ruzan.
The attorney representing her in the civil case against her father.

Cliffie.
Why pencil in an appointment for your next-door neighbor? Wouldn't you just walk over and see him? But the appointment was for six o'clock, so maybe they were headed out some place for dinner.

Mom, lunch.
Drinks with the girls?

Dad.
Stephen Hyath appeared four times, which I thought was odd, considering the fact that she was suing him. But maybe they were on the verge of reaching an out-of-court settlement. The last appointment was two days before her death.

Serena and Evan
. Noon. Hacienda Palms Inn, Patio Court Restaurant. Clarice met with her brother and sister a week before her death.

I checked back through the book and found that the three met for lunch on the average of two times a month. This didn't surprise me, since both Evan and Serena had told me they were close. You couldn't fake the kind of grief both her siblings displayed when I interviewed them.

George H.
George Haozous? If so, the artist was pencilled in every Tuesday evening after gallery hours, all the way back to February. There had been a break in May, but then his name began to appear again in early June. But after the last of June, his name vanished from the book.

There were a host of other names, too, many with phone numbers beside them. I spent until two o'clock checking them out and discovered most of them to be artists or artists' agents. A few of the numbers pencilled in for lunches belonged to society women who professed themselves shocked—
shocked!
—over Clarice's death, then couldn't get me off the phone quick enough. None of them expressed any real grief, however.

As soon as I finished my calls and replaced the phone in the receiver, it rang. I picked it up, only to find Dusty on the line.