Desert Noir (9781615952236) (27 page)

The pall of pollution that had hung over the Valley for the past few days remained and as I jogged across McDowell and into Papago Park that evening, I noticed that no other runners or mountain bicyclists could be seen. Apparently only mad coyotes and private detectives were crazy enough to jog under such conditions. It was a sad irony that the Valley's pure, dry air, which had attracted tuberculosis sufferers for decades, was speeding down the same smog-clogged road as Los Angeles. As I squinted up at the yellow-tainted sky, the feeling that I had forgotten something important returned. What the hell had Eleanor Hyath told me that was so important?

The thick air made it hard to breathe, and by the time I reached the Papago Amphitheater at the foot of the buttes, I felt like I'd run twice the distance. The exhaust from the rush hour traffic seemed even thicker up here, and I chastised myself for not being farsighted enough to stay on flat ground. Hoping the old Pima gods would forgive me, I decided to skip the steep climb to my usual perch above the amphitheater and instead dropped down on a rock cement seat. The pollution exaggerated the heat effect, and my skin felt dangerously clammy—a warning sign. Any savvy desert dweller knows that clammy skin can be a precursor to heat stroke. I needed plenty of liquids and I needed them right now.

Which turned out to be a good thing, because reaching around for the water bottle attached to my fanny pack's belt probably saved my life. I heard the shot from above me and the bullet's whine almost at the same time, then the concrete just beyond where my head had been a half-second earlier exploded.

Quite literally hitting the dirt, I scooted along on my belly to a broken-off piece of seating and hunkered down behind it. Dust entered my nostrils, making me want to sneeze, but I didn't dare make a sound. I froze, unmoving, heat stroke a concern of the distant past. At moments like these, when you are paralyzed by terror, time itself seems to stand still. Overhead, a yellow and orange Southwest Airlines jet appeared to hang suspended above the Salt River as it made its way towards Sky Harbor. The traffic noise from below merged into one humming wave of sound, as if some prehistoric monster was making its noisy way through the sandstone buttes.

Time began moving again when a lizard, panicked by the gunfire, or maybe by the big white person lying atop its home, scuttled out from behind the concrete and tore ass towards the underbrush. Released from my terrified paralysis, I hauled my .38 out of the fanny pack. The shooter was hidden somewhere in the rocks above the amphitheater, looking down on me. I couldn't be in a more precarious position. Raising my head over the sanctuary of the concrete might get me killed, but I couldn't just cower until he finally scored a bull's eye. There was an added danger, too. The commuters below us were oblivious to the drama taking place above. If he kept firing, the shooter might kill an innocent driver. Or two. Or three. How many families were in those cars? How many children?

I couldn't allow him to keep shooting.

Squirming around, I wedged as much of my body as possible behind the concrete and peered carefully over the top.

He didn't disappoint me.

Another gunshot, another rock exploding. This one even closer.

But I'd seen what I wanted to see, the burst of fire from a gun muzzle. The shooter was tucked away into a dark recess near the gap in the buttes that led to the Eliot Ramada on the south side. I snapped off a quick defensive shot, more to make the shooter realize I was armed than to do any real damage, but my shot missed him by only a few inches. An iron oxide boulder at the edge of the recess exploded. He yelped, but his voice was too distorted by the traffic noise below for me to identify it.

My return fire accomplished its purpose. The shooter realized he was facing an armed adversary instead of a helpless victim, and that changed the entire equation. I heard feet scraping along rock, then the sounds died away as the shooter dove through the gap in the buttes. His footsteps echoed as he scrambled down the other side.

I picked myself up, gun held high, and ran up the amphitheater steps towards the gap.

“Halt! Halt or I'll shoot!” I ordered.

But I was too late.

By the time I reached the gap, I heard the roar of a motor from the ramada parking lot. I looked down just in time to see a silver Taurus round the corner on two tires and head towards Phoenix.

Once home, I called Kryzinski and told him what had happened. He cursed for a while but finally shut up when I promised to go down to the station first thing the next morning and file a report. Then I stripped my grit-embedded clothing off and stepped into the shower. While I hadn't felt anything while scooting around in the amphitheater, my breasts, stomach, and knees proved to be scored by tiny cuts. I looked like someone had dragged me through a cactus patch backwards. But hey, at least there were no new bullet holes. After toweling myself off, I dabbed some antiseptic ointment on the worst of them and counted myself lucky.

When I finally wandered back out to the living room, I noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking. Dusty, I bet. Smiling, I hit the “play” button.

But it wasn't Dusty.

Dulya Albundo's voice floated out to me. “Miss Jones, I need to talk to you again. I'm working at Julio's tonight, and should get off at ten. I'll meet you in the parking lot.” 

I frowned.

At ten in the parking lot. Did the woman think I was an idiot?

Then again...

At 9:30 p.m. I walked into Julio's, sat down at the bar, and ordered a glass of iced tea. It being late on a week night, the restaurant was nearly deserted. In the dining area, I could see Mrs. Albundo making small talk with the last dinner customers as they slid out of a booth. I saw the man hand her a twenty. No wonder she made the two-hour commute.

When the bartender informed me they were closing, I walked into the dining room and tapped Mrs. Albundo on the shoulder. The polite smile on her face faded when she saw me.

“Miss Jones, I thought I said I would meet you in the parking lot.” 

“I'm allergic to dark places.”

She didn't know what to make of that, but it didn't seem to bother her as much as I thought it might. “We cannot talk here. We must go somewhere else.”

“How about some more caffe latte?”

That seemed to please her so as soon as she was finished in the kitchen doing whatever it is that waitresses do, I escorted her out to the Jeep I'd left parked directly under a tungsten light. I kept a close watch on the shadows, but I saw nothing other than a stray cat rummaging through the Dumpster. On the soft night's breeze I could smell magnolia and garlic.

“Where is your truck?” Mrs. Albundo said, when she saw the Jeep. “The truck with the wonderful air-conditioning.” 

Was she just trying to cadge a free ride back to South Phoenix? Funny, she hadn't seemed the type. “Oh, that was just a loaner. This is mine. I was having it painted when we talked before.” 

“What are those designs on it?”

As we traveled south on Miller Road, I gave her a short course on Pima mythology. It didn't seem to me that she really was all that interested, but I noticed that she did her best to keep me talking. I'd seen this sort of thing before. It usually stemmed from a guilty conscience.

The espresso bar was still open, so we found a seat near the back. She ordered another bagel with veggie schmear with her caffe latte. I did, too. She kept me talking until our orders arrived and I decided to end her clumsy manipulation.

“Now, Mrs. Albundo, I want to know why you wanted to see me tonight, and don't tell me it's because you wanted to learn all about Earth Doctor.”

She stared into her steaming cup. “I should have told you before.” 

I said nothing. Sometimes it's best just to wait. Was I going to get a confession?

The caffe latte appeared to fascinate her. She watched the steam curl upwards as if it were protoplasm about to coalesce into earthly form. Who did she expect to see? The ghost of her mother? A visitation from the Madonna? I was almost ready to prod her again when she finally spoke.

“I think my cousin was the person who carried you to the hospital that night.” 

A woman sitting at a table by the window laughed and the man with her leaned over and whispered something in her ear, making her laugh even harder. The counter man watched them both, his expression bland. He was wearing an ASU T-shirt and a lame attempt at Coolio's hair style—four thick braids sprouting from his head all directions. I preferred corn rows, I decided. Corn rows with beads. Even Afros were nice as long as they weren't too extreme. I wondered if Afros would ever come back. I hoped so. Some of these rapper-influenced hair styles verged on the hilarious. I missed grace. I missed beauty.

“Miss Jones, did you hear my words?”

“Huh?”

She was staring at me now with an expression bordering on pity. “I said, did you hear my words?” 

“Ummm, yes. Yes, I did. I heard your words.”

Now it was the man's turn to laugh, the woman's turn to whisper in his ear. The counter man rolled his eyes. Another couple entered. They took seats at the table next to us. I liked the woman's dress, a pretty shade of blue. Periwinkle, I think it was called. Blue with just a hint of lavender. Total artifice, and no artist would be caught dead using it, but flattering nonetheless. I wondered where she bought it. Neiman Marcus? Saks?

“Miss Jones, please look at me. You are scaring me.” 

I closed my eyes for a moment and exhaled a deep, trembling sigh. What a bitch of a day. Then I summoned up the tattered fragments of my courage and looked straight at her. “Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“Because my cousin was an illegal. I did not want to get her or me into any trouble with INS.” 

As active as the Immigration and Naturalization Service had sometimes been, after a few recent ugly incidents they'd become much less knee-jerk about picking up innocent Hispanics off of Valley streets. I reminded Mrs. Albundo of that.

“Maybe so, but you must understand that I do not trust the government, not any of it.” 

I finally understood the peculiar expression she'd worn on her face during our previous interview. She'd been hiding this secret for years, afraid the INS would swoop down and do even more hideous things to her family than had already been done.

Seeing the fear in her eyes gave me courage. “Tell me.” 

She shook her head. “There is not much I can tell you. It was so many years ago. My cousin Agnezia, she and another cousin of mine, Annuncio crossed over down by Nogales, where we were waiting for her. They wanted to work and there were jobs here for them, the dirty jobs that you Anglos do not like to do.” 

“Mrs. Albundo, I don't give a flying fart how your cousin got here, so skip the soapboxing and get to the point.” 

Anger hung in her face for a moment until a wave of guilt drowned it. “I am sorry. I have been angry for so long.” 

“Haven't we all.”

She sighed. “Agnezia, she worked as a cleaning woman for some rich people who lived up on one of the mountains. One night she came home late covered with blood and very, very frightened. She would tell me nothing, just there had been a shooting and she took a little girl to the hospital with the statue of St. Joseph and the Baby Jesus in front. She did not know if the child was still alive when she got there and she was afraid she would be blamed and sent to prison. She would tell me no more of what had happened and made me promise never to tell of this to anyone.” 

Then she spread her hands. “What more can I tell you? Agnezia was only seventeen, a young girl away from her country and scared of your Federales. She was afraid they would make her go back to Mexico.”

It held together. Ever since I learned that the woman who'd left me in the Emergency Ward was Hispanic, I'd suspected that she was an illegal. Otherwise why not stay and give the police a statement? 

Unless, of course, she'd had a hand in the shooting herself. But for some reason, I'd never believed that.

“I want to talk to Agnezia. Right now.”

Mrs. Albundo smiled, the first genuine smile I had ever seen on her face. It made her look a decade younger. “You have a long drive ahead of you, Miss Jones. Agnezia went back to Mexico ten years ago.”

Some rich people who lived up on one of the mountains.

After I returned from driving Mrs. Albundo home to South Phoenix, I put some Honeyboy Edwards and some Johnny Shines on the turntable and collapsed on my cheap beige sofa. For the next hour, I stared at George Haozous's painting—at the little Apache girl with the bullet wound in her forehead.

Some rich people who lived up on one of the mountains.

Jimmy's computer search of the entire database for Arizona the day I had been taken to the Emergency Ward had come up with no killings, not even any shootings. No children had been reported missing, which only meant one thing.