Desert Noir (9781615952236) (9 page)

Clarice's parents lived three-quarters of the way up Camelback Mountain, which afforded them a magnificent view of the Valley of the Sun. While present zoning restrictions protected the remaining part of the mountain, for all intents and purposes, the once-magnificent peak was already ruined. As the heat rose in waves from the desert floor below, the ostentatious mansions clinging to the steep hillside appeared to wiggle in the sun. They looked like gyrating hookers at a Sierra Club dance. The man responsible for most of this vandalism was Stephen Hyath, the most successful developer in Arizona. The rumor on the street was that he had long since stopped being a mere millionaire and had joined the rarified ranks of billionaires.

The mountain had been raped for its view. Halfway up Camelback I pulled the Jeep off to the side in front of an authentic-looking adobe house that could have been there since Arizona's old Territorial days, and walked to the edge of the road. This was the opposite of the view that I had enjoyed during my run in Papago Park. From there, I'd looked to the north, but from Camelback Mountain, the view was to the south and much more encompassing. As the smell of gasoline and sage rose to meet me from the hot city basin, I marveled again at the sere but threatened beauty of the Valley of the Sun.

In 1870, while Arizona was still the Arizona Territory, only two hundred and forty people lived down there. Now there were almost three million of us—more than half the entire state's population—crowded into the Valley. The wear and tear was beginning to show in pollution of almost Los Angeles proportions.

While much of the Valley's development paid homage to the territory's Hispanic and Indian heritage, too much of it had been imported from the East with the ever-increasing influx of new residents. As I gazed straight down at the Minnesota-lushness of the Arcadia district, I saw emerald lawns accented by turquoise pools, mulberry and olive trees busy skyrocketing the Valley's already alarming pollen count. Allergy sufferers, beware. To the west, Central Phoenix was trying its best to mimic the skyline of New York, pushing up skyscrapers with abandon, blocking the view of the stunning lavender mountains that completely ringed the Valley. Meanwhile, the western edge of the Valley had begun to resemble the industrial Midwest, continuously spewing industrial fumes into the once-pristine sky.

Only Scottsdale still seemed to have a chance at maintaining the Valley's Western heritage, but even there, I counted too many Taco Bell-clone houses, too much alien Midwestern landscaping, too many golf courses sucking up the ever-dwindling waters of the aquifer.

In an almost straight shot down the mountain, I could see Scottsdale's showcase resort, the old Hacienda Palms. Unlike the newer resorts, the Hacienda offered its guests only a nine-hole golf course, but it was considered one of the most beautiful short courses in the world, with swan-filled lagoons, trickling brooks, and deep, meandering greens. I was still admiring it when I heard footsteps behind me.

“This is a private road.” A female voice.

I turned around and saw a tiny, white-haired woman who appeared to be in her late eighties and couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. The gun in her hand was almost as big as she was, a long-barreled Colt the size of a small dog. It was cocked and ready for action. The button on her white blouse said,
Neighborhood Watch
.

At least the gun was pointed at the ground.

Forcing a smile, I said, “I was on my way up the mountain and thought I'd stop and admire the view.” 

That didn't cut any ice with her. “If you want to gawk go on over to Squaw Peak. That's public property, this isn't.” 

“I've got an appointment to see the Hyaths,” I said, not taking my eyes off that big gun.

Her frown intensified as she looked up the mountain. “Trash. That's what those people are. Trash.” Then she looked back at me. “Get on up there then but don't dawdle on your way down. I'll be watching you.”

I gave her a wary salute. “I'm sure you will.”

She stood there, gun still cocked, while I climbed back into the Jeep and headed on up the mountain.

As I neared the Hyath mansion, the reason for the old lady's hostility towards them became quickly apparent. I grimaced with distaste as I wrestled my Jeep up a narrow switchback and the white marble monstrosity the Hyaths called home came into view. It was a lunatic riff on a Norman castle, with elevated walkways, narrow archers' windows hacked out of the marble, and a pseudo-drawbridge perched above a pseudo-moat. Spires and towers thrust themselves in every direction, as if to provide first defense for the mansion's long, crenellated roof. What the hell were these people expecting—an attack by mounted Saracens?

Shuddering, I coasted the Jeep to a stop behind the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow someone, probably the chauffeur, was polishing.

“You that detective they're expecting?” he asked. A closer inspection showed that the man was that current Scottsdale status symbol, a chauffeur/bodyguard combo. He was young and tough-looking, with biceps the size of my thighs. Not that he needed them. Strapped to his hip was a hand-tooled holster, and peeking out of it was an evil-looking Glock, a clone of my old Scottsdale PD service revolver.

Should I tell him I approved of his taste in guns? Instead, I just smiled. “Yes.” 

“They're waiting for you out by the pool. I unlocked the gate for you.” He pointed along a tiled walkway.

As I turned, he added, “Watch yourself in there.” 

When I looked back, he was tenderly stroking the Rolls' fender, as if he hadn't said anything.

On that optimistic note, I headed down the walk, ducking around an overly aggressive bougainvillea bush whose thorns seemed intent on ripping my clothes off. Once past the bougainvillea, I had to turn sideways to edge between the cholla cacti that crowded the area, spines a-bristling. Why did rich people have such mean plants?

As I let myself in the gate, the pungent odor of chlorine smacked me in the face. The Hyaths certainly weren't taking any chances with that nasty old desert bacteria. What I saw when I rounded the corner of the house made me gag.

Not content to merely own a pseudo-castle, at the back of the house the Hyaths had installed a tropical lagoon, complete with waterfall. A twenty-foot “mountain” composed of artificial granite rose above the bright turquoise water, spewing a silvery cascade.

A hummingbird darted around the summit, a confused expression on its face. The bright red blossoms it kept poking its beak into were obviously artificial. At the side of the pool, two real banana palms bent solicitously over a gray-haired couple seated about eight feet apart on matching chaise lounges, shielding their patrician skin from the desert rays.

The Hyaths pretended not to notice I was there.

“I'm Lena Jones. I take it you're the Hyaths?”

Neither smiled, although Mr. Hyath eventually deigned to look in my direction. He had been cold over the phone, which wasn't unreasonable since for all he knew I was still in the employ of the man accused of murdering his daughter. I hadn't exactly been expecting an enthusiastic welcome. But this… I'd gotten warmer receptions raiding dogfights.

Hyath looked to be in his early sixties. Although not actually handsome, he was slim and elegant with softly waved gray hair that could have been styled that very morning. His eyes were the color of his upscale pool but much less inviting.

Clarice's mother was a surprise. Rich women were usually face-lifted and bone-thin, but Eleanor Hyath's face was lined and puffy, with dewlaps that could rival a basset hound's hanging from her flat cheeks. Her body fared even worse. No designer swimsuit could disguise the rolls of fat around her waist or hide the cellulite on her thighs. Her stubby, un-manicured fingers were yellow with nicotine. One lit cigarette dangled from her mouth while another smoldered in the overflowing ashtray that sat on the wide, littered table. Unlike her husband's seal-sleek mane, her own gray hair stood out in straw-dry clumps all over her head, looking like it hadn't been washed or combed in days. A reaction to grief? As I drew closer, I could tell that she was drunk.

“Nice job you've got, working for a murderer,” Eleanor Hyath slurred, her voice husky from booze and too many cigarettes.

I eased myself onto a nearby deck chair, not that I'd been invited. Common courtesy was not the Hyath's currency. “Look, as it stands right now, there may not be a good enough case against Kobe to convict him of your daughter's murder, so the police are proceeding cautiously. I'm sure you don't want him to go to trial and then get off, because he'd never be able to be tried for the same crime again. Not even if he eventually came right out and confessed.” 

She looked at me for a moment, trying to focus. She finally managed it. “Why not?” 

Her husband gave her a look iced with contempt. “Because of double jeopardy, Eleanor. In this country once someone's been found innocent they can't be tried again, not even if they confess to the crime at some later date.” 

Then he looked up at me and my own day got colder. “Regardless of all that, Miss Jones, I find this visit in the worst of taste. But since I agreed to see you, just ask us what you need to then do us the favor of going back to wherever you've come from.” 

Such as the rock he so obviously thought I lived under? “I'd like to speak to each of you separately.” “No.”

This promised to be an interesting experience. I was about to ask a man if he'd had sexual relations with his daughter, while his drunken wife sat there listening to the whole thing. But, hey, it couldn't happen to a nicer couple.

I tried not to let my satisfaction show. “In that case, here we go, Mr. Hyath. Jay Kobe told me Clarice was getting ready to sue you for the pain and suffering your incestuous relations caused her when she was a child. He told me she'd already talked with an attorney and they were about to file in civil court.” 

He gave me a bleak look. “That's certainly an interesting story, but rest assured, Miss Jones, Clarice wouldn't have collected a dime.” 

His wife didn't react at all and for a moment, I wondered if she'd heard. She simply took the half-smoked cigarette out of her mouth, flicked it into the pool, and lit another one.

“Goddamn!” Hyath uncoiled from the chaise and plucked the sodden cigarette out of the pool. “Eleanor, must you be so disgusting?” 

Eleanor just kept puffing away.

I was baffled by their reactions. “Is that all you've got to say about such a horrendous allegation?” 

The cigarette incident overwith, Hyath calmed himself again. “What else is there to say? You'll either believe that story or you won't, regardless of any protestations I may make. But I would like to warn you that if you spread this story around you'll be facing a lawsuit of your own for slander. Now, is there anything else, Miss Jones?” 

I swallowed my anger. “I'd like to get an idea of what Clarice was like. Who her friends were. Her enemies.” 

Eleanor pulled the cigarette from her mouth and picked at a strand of tobacco hanging from her lip. “So you think my daughter had enemies.” 

Her husband looked at her briefly, then away again.

“Everyone has enemies,” I said to Eleanor. “Especially when they're as beautiful and accomplished as your daughter.” 

She sat up, barked a laugh and for a moment her eyes lost their dazed look. “Beautiful? Not before the cosmetic surgeons fixed her, she wasn't. She had her father's nose and my cheekbones. Believe me, without the magic of the scalpel she wouldn't have won any beauty contests. Men wouldn't have looked at her twice.” Then she settled back against the chaise, her cheeks glowing with spite.

Clarice had enemies, all right. Her mother, for starters. I thought again about Kobe's allegations of incest and how I had wondered what kind of mother would countenance such a situation. Now I knew.

“Who were Clarice's friends?”

A smirk. “She didn't have any.”

Now Stephen Hyath came to life. “Eleanor—”

She turned to him and snapped, “You call that art crowd trash she ran with friends?” 

He shrugged. “She liked them. They liked her.”

Eleanor sneered. “Oh,
like.
”

I wanted to drown her. Instead, I cleared my throat and directed my next question to him. Clarice's mother was a lost cause. “Perhaps you could give me the contact numbers for Clarice's friends. Maybe she was open with them about whatever problems she was having.” 

His face was expressionless. “Problems? With what?”

“Something that made her dead, Mr. Hyath.” Jesus, wasn't anybody grieving for Clarice?

Eleanor flicked another cigarette into the pool. Hyath leaned over the long table that separated him and his wife and punched at the beeper next to the ashtray. Seconds later, a wary-looking Hispanic maid joined us.

“Clean that up.” Hyath pointed to the cigarette now decomposing in the pool. Then he pointed to his wife. “And when you're through, clean
her
up. She smells.” 

Grabbing the beeper, he stood up and gestured for me to follow him. “I'll give you a list of Clarice's friends, but after that, I don't want you to bother us again. Now come with me.”

I hurried after him, eager to escape from the human train wreck by the pool.

The interior of the house was even worse than the exterior, with no taste anywhere in evidence, just obscene amounts of money. Black marble tiled a living room the size of a football field. It was accented by rugs flayed from the bodies of zebras and polar bears, and in one horrifying instance, a Bengal tiger. A sheer glass coffee table in front of the white leather sofas was held up by two severed elephant's feet.

Somebody here had an unhealthy obsession with violence and death. Then I remembered who decorated the house.