Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (7 page)

The master bedroom was a disaster, with the mattress slashed to a fare-thee-well, but at least the Camerons’ attacker hadn’t massaged dog feces into the Tempur-Pedic. The master bath was worse. Every mirror had been shattered, the long granite countertop split in two, the porcelain top on the toilet bowl smashed against the tile floor. More feces had been smeared in the sauna-sized bathtub. I held my breath as long as I could, but finally had to inhale. Due to the hard surfaces and closed nature of the bathroom, the stench was worse than the den’s.

“You about done?” Bocelli called from the window, where he stood looking out. By this point, he had seen all he wanted to see.

“There’s still the kids’ rooms,” I called back. “And the maid’s.”

“No damage in the maid’s.”

I still wanted to see for myself, but a quick check found Eldora Morales’ room immaculate. The Camerons hadn’t skimped on her comfort. As maids’ rooms go, hers was large and well-furnished, with a roomy double bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers, a small desk-and-chair setup, a comfy-looking recliner, a radio, and a flat-screen TV. It could have served as a room in any mid-priced motel, except for the photographs. Like most live-ins, Morales surrounded herself with pictures of her family. From the landscape in the backgrounds I could see they lived in Mexico. I recognized the beach at Rocky Point.

Obviously, the killer held no grudge against her.

But the fact that the murders happened during the maid’s trip to Mexico made me wonder about the timing. A coincidence? Or did the killer know the maid’s schedule? If it was the latter, then the killer was either someone who knew them well, or someone who had been casing the house over a period of time. That, as well as other things I’d seen since entering the house, nagged at me.

“Ready for the kids’ rooms?” Bocelli asked.

“Not really.”

“Me neither. In a way, those are the worst.”

When I looked into Ali’s room, that nagging feeling grew even stronger. Girls were hyper-protective of their belongings, and I couldn’t see her allowing anyone to slash her collection of stuffed animals, or smear dog feces all over her pink walls. But everything in here was as savaged as most of the other rooms I’d seen.

“Used to be very girlie,” Bocelli remarked, behind me. He didn’t step into the room.

“Not so much now.”

Alison Cameron’s white-carpeted room had once been a young teen’s dream. A canopied bed stood in the middle of a room painted a muted pink, trimmed in darker, but still muted, lavender. It had been spray-painted, then finished off with dog feces. The bed’s white coverlet and hangings hung in ribbon-like tatters. Degas prints of horses and ballerinas still decorated the walls, both species flaunting long, muscular legs. Their protective glass frames were shattered. No laptop or cell phone, of course; the police had confiscated them, whatever condition they’d been in.

Just about the only intact items in the room lay on Ali’s dresser—a silver-backed brush and comb set and an emptied jewelry box. The box had been dusted with the same fingerprint powder I’d seen on other bits of carnage, but a few smashed pieces of jewelry remained on the floor. Of most interest to me was the antique silver locket that might have been a family heirloom. It was now bent, the chain snapped. When I opened the locket, I saw a tiny photograph of Ali’s mother. The mother who wasn’t a biological mother. As I held the locket, Alexandra’s picture fell out, revealing another photograph, this one of the handsome young man whose picture I’d seen at Mrs. Daggett’s. In this one, too, Kyle looked harmless enough, but despite what most people believe, most killers do.

I took a picture of the picture.

For all her pink-and-white frou-frou, Ali was a reader. Scattered in front of the bookcase across from her bed was a full set of C.S. Lewis’
Narnia
books, Tolkien’s
Ring
series, and a veritable shrine to the young adult novels of Judy Blume. All ripped in half. Safe enough reading for a young teen, but lying on the bottom shelf, oddly untouched, I saw the complete set of the
Hunger Games
books, as well as a scattering of other harder-edged sci-fi, such as Cory Doctorow’s
Little Brother
, and Ursula Le Guin’s
The Lathe of Heaven
. Fantasy and violence. At least that’s the way the county attorney would play it if this case ever went to trial.

After finding nothing more of interest, I moved down the hall to Alec Cameron’s room. No casual reader, Alec. If he’d set up any shrine, it was to the Arizona Diamondbacks, Cardinals, and Coyotes. Remnants of sports pennants and posters covered the walls, the one exception being a large photograph of Albert Einstein. The only books around were textbooks, but they looked advanced for a boy of ten.
Supersymmetry and String Theory
.
Introduction to Astrophysics
. No cell phone, no laptop. Like Ali’s room, everything was either ripped, smashed, or covered in dog feces.

There were two upstairs rooms left to check out, a hobby room Alexandra Cameron had used for weaving—shreds from a brightly colored blanket hung from a small loom—and a nicely appointed guest room. Neither of those rooms had been defiled—not personal enough, I imagined—but I photographed them anyway while Bocelli, now confident that I wasn’t about to pocket anything, waited in the hall.

I was about to leave the guest room when I noticed something out of place. Like the other rooms, it had been tastefully decorated in a soothing, if bland, color scheme: beiges, browns, and rusts, accented by discreet touches of turquoise. Yet resting behind the Indian-print pillows tossed on the bed was a small, navy blue bolster, looking out of sync with the room’s overall color scheme. Curious, I walked closer. Was it my imagination, or was the bolster slightly misshapen?

After checking to see if Bocelli remained in the hall, I picked up the bolster and found it much heavier than any self-respecting mini-pillow should be. When I gave it a squeeze, something crumpled. Like many bolsters, this one had a zipper so that the cover could be washed. When I zipped it open, money fell out.

Lots of money. Eighteen bundles of ten one-hundred dollar bills. Wrapped around one of the bundles was a deposit slip for eighteen thousand dollars cash, dated the day before the murders. That was a lot of money to leave lying around the house, even for a doctor. I spread out the bundles and snapped pictures as quickly as possible, getting several close-ups of the deposit slip.

Then I called out, “Officer Bocelli, you’d better radio the station. Looks like we’ve found something interesting.”

Chapter Six

While we waited for detectives to arrive, I emailed the photos I’d taken to Jimmy’s computer, beginning with the close-ups of the deposit slip. Emergency Room patients don’t pay their doctors in cash.

WHAT CN U FND OUT BOUT THIS? I texted.

By the time the unmarked police car arrived, I had finished sending the last picture.

We’d pulled Bob Grossman and Sylvie Perrins, excellent cops and old friends of mine, but right now both looked worried. With good reason, since they were the detectives who originally processed the murder scene.

“Captain Ulrich is fit to be tied,” Bob mourned. He was a big, comfy looking man whose laid-back demeanor had fooled many a perp into dropping his guard. “Claims we did a lousy search.”

Sylvie, a thin nervy woman, twitched all over, par for the course for her. “Heads are gonna roll, probably ours. You know what she’s like.”

I did my best to soothe them, explaining that the money had been hidden in an undamaged room, which wouldn’t have been subjected to as rigorous a search. “The reason I noticed was because the bolster didn’t fit the decor.”

They gave me blank stares.

“Navy blue in a room done up in earth tones.”

Bob still looked confused, but Sylvie, who had visited my redecorated apartment upstairs from Desert Investigations, nodded. “Yeah, you’d notice that, Miss Interior Decorator. Oh, well, water under the bridge. C’mon, Bob, let’s visit the scene of our sure-as-shit demise.”

Officer Bocelli remained downstairs while I led the two detectives to the guest bedroom and pointed out the bolster, which I’d re-stuffed with the money, and tucked back into its original position. It was almost hidden again underneath more appropriately colored pillows.

“Oh, shit,” Sylvie sighed.

Bob recovered enough to quip, “No, that’s in the other bedrooms.”

They began tearing the place apart.

***

When I arrived back at the office, Jimmy was locking up for the day.

“How about an early dinner over at Malee’s, Almost Brother?” I suggested, gesturing toward the Thai restaurant across the street. The echoes of carnage at the Camerons’ house had disturbed me and I didn’t want to be alone. Not that I would ever admit it.

“Sorry. Promised my cousin Rita I’d have dinner with her. Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Whatever.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Just the heat. I’ll feel better when I get upstairs. Well, see you tomorrow.”

“Lena, if you need…”

“I said I’m okay!”

He raised his hands and backed away. “Fine. You’re all right. Never better. But you know where I live and you’ve got my phone number. I should get back from Rita’s around eight, and the only thing planned for the rest of the evening is sitting in front of the tube watching
Iron Chef
reruns.”

“What an exciting life you lead,” I muttered, as I picked up the case file box and started up the stairs to my apartment. “See you tomorrow.”

He said something else, but I was moving too fast to hear.

Years ago I had leased the space for Desert Investigations mainly because of the apartment above, a furnished one-bedroom efficiency that made up for its lack of character by its ten-second commute. At the time, the impersonal beige-on-beige color scheme didn’t bother me. Due to a childhood spent in one foster home after another, no place felt like “home,” and I saw no reason trying to convince myself otherwise just because I was no longer forced to live where Child Protective Services deposited me.

Eventually, though, I began to see that turning an apartment into a home could be a sign of hope, not futility, so I went shopping.

Sylvie called my apartment Cowgirl Modern. The sofa and chair were crafted from bleached saguaro cactus skeletons, made sittable with thick cushions covered with Navajo designs. Kachinas danced along the living room’s long window ledge, and a bright painting by the Apache artist George Hazous thumbed its nose at the still-beige wall. In my bedroom, a spread depicting the Lone Ranger and Tonto covered my double bed, and a table lamp in the shape of a horse’s head threw off a soft, welcoming light. Only after the frenzy of redecorating was finished did I realize I’d created a bedroom identical to the one I’d had at Madeline’s, the foster mother who showed a lonely child that love could exist in this cold world.

Usually, whatever rough day I’d endured, stepping into my apartment calmed me. Not this evening. In my mind’s eye, I saw blood splatters on the wall, pooled blood on the carpet.

I saw death.

After a moment’s reflection, I put the case file on the floor, grabbed my landline, and called Madeline. When she answered, I said, “Hey, how about I drop by with some vegetarian takeout from that new Indian restaurant in Apache Junction? Haven’t seen you in almost a month!”

“Drop by?” she laughed, the cascade of warmth easing my tension. “Have you forgotten I live sixty miles away? Normally I’d love to see you, honey, but that oil painting class I was thinking about giving, well, I decided to do it, and it starts tonight. Twelve people will be arriving in less than an hour. You’re welcome to join them, though.”

“That many people signed up, all the way over in Florence?”

“Don’t dis Florence, kid. Lots of talent hidden out here in the desert. So how about it? You ready to try your hand at Painting 101?”

“I’ll pass on that.”

“There’s another class scheduled for tomorrow, so how about I drive up there Friday and treat you to an eggplant Parmesan dinner at Green’s? You’re right, it’s been almost a month, way too long for me not to see my favorite daughter.”

Favorite daughter
. The expression brought a smile to my face. Before she’d been sidelined with breast cancer and eventually whipped its ass, Madeline had fostered several children. For all I knew, she still called each one of them her “favorite daughter” or “favorite son,” but hearing her say those words took the edge off my misery.

“Friday’s good, as long as nothing new blows up with this case I’m working on.”

Even through the phone I could hear her smile. “There’s always a case with you, isn’t there?”

I hoped she could hear my smile, too. “An astute observation.”

After promising I’d call if something came up, we rang off.

But as soon as her “Good-bye, honey” faded, my misery returned.

Walls smeared with dog feces and blood.

Shaking the image out of my head, I turned on the TV, but most of the channels featured brawling basketball wives, men pretending to be lost in the wild, widows hoarding used Kleenexes and rotted food, drug addicts ruining their loved ones’ lives, collapsing apartment buildings in New York, or suicide bombings in the Middle East. As I scrolled through the evening’s offerings, it got to the point where I could no longer tell which was which, real reality or made-up reality.

But nothing was as bad as MSNBC, which featured Congresswoman Juliana Thorsson denying that she had made up her mind to run for the U.S. Senate. She was being interviewed as she left some government building, minions in tow.

“I act on the will of the people,” she said, fending away a dozen microphones stuck into her face. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

The campaign posters I’d seen in her house told a different story. Like all politicians, the woman was a practiced liar.

Walls smeared with dog feces and blood.

I switched the set off. I couldn’t stay here, not feeling the way I was feeling, so I grabbed my keys and left in search of comfort food. Ten minutes later I was sitting at a deuce in the Olive Garden, surrounded by happy families or families faking happiness. Even worse, a party nearby was celebrating a young woman’s birthday, their merriment reminding me that I didn’t know my own birth date. How could I?

I had been found at the age of four—at least that’s the age the admitting physician estimated—lying beside a Phoenix street, the bullet in my head wiping out all memories of birthdays. When I emerged from my coma, I couldn’t remember who my parents were or who had shot me. The only thing left of my former four-year-old self was a burning rage that five years later found its target in the belly of the man who raped me.

Why had my parents left me to die?

Walls smeared with dog feces and blood.

My life didn’t feel right.

The murder scene didn’t feel right.

By the time the waiter arrived and began reeling off a list of specials, my appetite had disappeared, so after slapping down a ten dollar bill on the table for his trouble, I left.

Once back in my apartment and as relaxed as I ever get, I opened the case file and started reading the material the crime techs pulled off Dr. Cameron’s personal computer. I don’t know what I hoped to find, but nothing there looked even halfway suspicious. His emails contained nothing more than messages back and forth to various medical colleagues, and his search history was downright boring. No visits to porno sites, no sexplicit love letters from other women, just dozens and dozens of sites focused on collectible cars. Most of the older hits were for American classics, like the ruined Corvette and T-Bird in his garage, but the more recent searches were for new and exotic foreign cars. I found no history of sexting on his iPhone, either, just interminable calls back and forth to Good Sam.

The man had no life.

Alexandra’s laptop was a little livelier, although not by much. Emails to and from her Sigma Gamma sorority sisters tended toward the salty, but never crossed the line into vulgarity. Same with the emails to her book club. Myriad emails between her and various functionaries of a Chicago organization named Big Kids Dream Big, for which she apparently did volunteer work, as well as emails to and from dozens of friends. None sounded the least bit suspicious. Her search history wasn’t overly exciting, either, consisting mainly of searches for universities, scholarship information, child-guidance sites, and anything having to do with hand-looms and weaving. No porno. Her phone revealed no sexting, no nude selfies, absolutely nothing of a racy nature.

Same for ten-year-old Alec, who, judging from his laptop and his phone, felt no interest in anything that didn’t fall under the heading of science or sports. Like his father, he didn’t appear to have many close friends, as shown by the sparse list of names and numbers on his contact list.

Saving what promised to be the most complicated for last, I finally opened Ali’s material. While I was certain her parents normally policed her laptop, they didn’t appear to have done so recently, because some of the sites on her search history were eyebrow-raising. After having what appeared to be a long-distance, and unrequited, love affair with the trembly lead singer of Antony and the Johnsons, she had dived headlong into the Goth lifestyle. She subscribed to Goth eZines
Gothic Beauty
and
Lady Amaranth
, to which she’d posted several comments, mainly about the hopelessness of life. She’d also downloaded music from bands such as Fields of the Nephilim, Nox Arcana, Bluetengel, and Christian Death, which was dark enough to make Marilyn Manson look giggly by comparison.

And as for sexting, well, she must have kept Kyle Gibbs one happy boy.

Unfortunately, the sexting wasn’t the most disturbing material the techs found on her phone. A month before the murders, she and Kyle had exchanged texts about running away together. The plan was to take one of Ali’s parents’ cars and drive to Hollywood, where they would get jobs in the movie industry, he as a leading man, she as his leading lady. Although these weren’t uncommon teenage fantasies, given the timing, they were worrying. Then, on the week before the murders, Ali’s texts had become more and more vitriolic about her parents. The phrase WSH THEY WER DED was repeated several times.

Those messages wouldn’t play well in any courtroom.

After reading what had to be Ali’s fortieth wish for her family’s early demise, I put the information back in the file and turned on the TV. I channel-surfed for a while and paused briefly on yet another interview with Congresswoman Thorsson, heard her tell a few more lies, before I settled on Me-TV and watched reruns of old sitcoms. Perhaps they would drive away my memory of the Cameron house. Around midnight, I trudged off to the bedroom, but lay there wide awake until almost three. When sleep finally greeted me, I dreamed of a mine shaft filled with dead children.

Or maybe it was a memory.

***

Knowing what I know about the way most foster homes are run, the next morning I waited until nine o’clock to arrive at the house of Glen and Fiona Etheridge, Kyle’s foster parents.

Although the house was within walking distance of the same golf course the Camerons’ place fronted, it was in an older development that in a few years would probably be torn down to build new mini-mansions. The lot was small, and desiccated desert landscaping decorated the tiny front yard. As for the house itself, the eaves needed repair, and the stucco facing could have used a fresh coat of paint. A banged-up green Volvo emblazoned with fading political bumper stickers sat in the open garage. One tire was flat. The doorbell was ailing, too, and it was only after I pounded on the door with my fist that a woman’s voice shrieked over the noise of a vacuum that she’d be with me in a minute.

A few seconds later the vacuum shut off and the door opened.

“Jesus, lady, where’s the fire?” A frowsy brunette in her mid-forties. She looked like she’d fallen off a dump truck, but her assertive manner signaled she wasn’t the maid. Besides, no self-respecting maid would be caught dead in that filthy apron. From somewhere behind her, I heard a baby muttering.

“Mrs. Etheridge?”

Scowling, she brushed a lank lock of hair off her face with a broken-nailed hand. “If you’re selling anything, I’m not buying, and if you’re doing a marketing survey, go annoy someone else.”

I stuck my foot between the door and the jamb. “My name is Lena Jones. I’m a licensed private investigator, and I’m here to talk about Kyle.”

The scowl deepened. She looked down. Saw the foot. “You’ve got three choices. I slam the door in your face, call the cops, or get out my Glock and shoot you where you stand. Pick your poison.”