Desert Run (2 page)

While I stood there in thought, McKindroe went back in the house, leaving Kryzinski staring at me. “What?”

I liked Tesema, whom I'd met on several occasions, and doubted if he had any violence in him. “What do you mean, ‘what'?”

“I know that look of yours, Lena. What are you thinking about? That care-giver who never brought Ernst over to the set? Where the hell is he, anyway?”

I glanced toward the curb. Unless I was mistaken, the autoplex guy had resumed his badly timed sales pitch. As he slid hands along the Golden Hawk's sleek hood, I heard snatches of spiel. “…highly collectible classic gold-and-white two-tone…T85 three-speed with overdrive manual…two-hundred-seventy-five horsepower…” Beyond him and hurrying toward us was Fay Harris, reporter's notebook in hand.

“Here comes Fay, Captain, closing fast.”

Kryzinski wouldn't allow me my evasions. “Where's the care-giver?”

“Sorry. I don't know.”

He frowned. “Okay, let's try it this way. Did Ernst have any enemies that you know of?”

Probably more than I could count. It would be hard to have a history of torpedoing American warships without incurring a few grudges. From what I had heard, Ernst had been unusually ruthless, even for a U-boat commander. The ugly rumor going around the set was that Ernst had a habit of shooting survivors out of the water, which was a war crime under the Geneva Conventions. But I wasn't ready to tell Kryzinski yet.

“Enemies? Why would an old man—an amputee, no less—have enemies? Look, Captain, if you want to know more about Ernst, talk to the people who worked with him.” I gestured toward Lindsey, who was staring at the car salesman as if he'd lost his mind. “Ask Lindsey. She interacted with Ernst more than anyone.”

As much as Kryzinski wanted to stay and question me further, his own professionalism dictated he do otherwise. After telling me to leave the homicide investigation to the Scottsdale PD, he asked me to come into the station later that afternoon and make a full statement. When I promised I would, he walked over to question Lindsey, the
Journal
reporter hot on his heels.

While we'd been talking, the uniformed officers had finished sealing off the perimeter, but that didn't stop one neighborhood looky-loo from ducking under the bright yellow crime tape and swiping a handful of gravel from Ernst's desert landscaping. Apparently he felt that Death was a celebrity, too. The man's efforts went for naught when a nearby cop made him toss his treasure, then ordered him away. Grumbling, the man faded into the crowd.

“You a movie star, honey? You look awful familiar.” I turned to see an elderly woman, her back bent almost into an “L” as she leaned on her cane. She might have been pretty once, but now her skin sagged from her cheeks and chin, and her varicosed legs appeared too thin to support her body.

I shook my head. “No, ma'am, just a private detective.”

She cocked her head and stared at me through thick bifocals. “I remember now. You're Lena Jones. You were on TV a couple of months ago when you saved some woman from burning alive.”

That case, which involved the death of a Scottsdale publisher, still bothered me, so I changed the subject. “Did you see anything suspicious last night?” Experience had taught me that the elderly, for all their physical problems, could be excellent observers.

“You could say that.”

At that point I should probably have directed her to Kryzinski or one of the detectives, but my curiosity trumped my willingness to follow orders. “Why don't you tell me about it, Mrs…”

She limped closer. “I'm Carol Hillman, dear. I live right next door to the Kraut and I always sleep with my window open. Before you start to lecture me, let me reassure you there's bars on the window, so it's safe enough. Anyway, around two this morning, a woman started banging on his door and the racket woke me up. She was a redhead, almost as pretty as you, but she dressed, well, cheap. Tight miniskirt, tiny bodice top. Implants.”

Kraut?
Deciding she might have lost a family member overseas during WWII, I didn't comment on her use of a pejorative term you almost didn't hear any more. However, I also doubted that this myopic woman could see whether someone had implants at a distance of twenty-five feet, especially in the wee hours of the morning. “You are very observant, Mrs. Hillman.”

She frowned. “Don't condescend to me, young lady. The porch light was on and those implants were real bazookas. A blind man couldn't miss them, not that he'd want to.”

Properly chastised, I apologized. “You should tell one of the detectives about this. I'm not part of the investigation.”

“I'm telling
you.
After the Kraut—we weren't on first-name terms, and I'll be damned before I ever call him
Das Kapitan
like he wanted everyone to—after the Kraut let the woman in, things were pretty quiet for a while, so I started drifting back to sleep. But all at once I heard yelling, most of it from her, something about him being responsible for everything.”

“You heard all this?”

The frown again. “Didn't I just tell you I sleep with the windows open? So did the Kraut. Difference is, he didn't have any bars. It's a wonder the idiot wasn't murdered long before now.”

An interesting thing for her to say. The memory of Ernst's body, duct-taped to his wheelchair, flashed through my mind. Yes, a woman could have killed him. Maybe even an elderly woman if she'd been able to get enough leverage. And hated him enough. “Did you hear exactly what this ‘everything' was?”

Mrs. Hillman shook her head. “Not all of it. Just some stuff about her reputation, although why she should care, dressed the way she was, is beyond me. And I didn't hear what he said about it, either, because he kept his own voice down. Until the end, that is, when he lost his temper and started yelling back at her in Kraut.”

German, I guessed she meant. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that a ninety-one-year-old man had a thing for hookers, and it wouldn't be the first time a hooker had killed a john, but those incidents were almost always spur-of-the-moment killings. The duct tape around Ernst hinted of premeditation. “Had you seen the woman before?”

“Never. The Kraut lived next door to me for more than twenty years, and other than you, that sweet black care-giver of his, and Little Ms. Skinny over there…” Here she pointed to Lindsey. “…the redhead was his only visitor. Bastard had no friends.”

I studied her for a moment, watched her eyes narrow every time she said “Kraut,” and went ahead and asked the question. “Mrs. Hillman, did you lose anyone in the war?”

“My husband. Two uncles. My son-in-law lost his entire family. Jewish, you know.” A combination of rage and grief swept across her face.

Sensitive to Mrs. Hillman's old sorrows, I softened my voice. “You really need to talk to the detectives in charge of the case. They'll want to find that woman and question her.”

She gave me a hard look. “Don't want to get involved, huh? I guess I was wrong about you. You're just like the rest of your generation, you don't care about anyone except yourself.” With a sniff, she walked away, leaving me staring at
Das Kapitan'
s house.

Thus put in my place, I started toward my Jeep, then stopped as a thought struck me.

Where
was
Rada Tesema?

I didn't know Ernst's care-giver well, having met him only a couple of times, but judging from our few encounters he seemed like a nice enough man. Even the hardly PC Mrs. Hillman liked him. A licensed practical nurse, he worked for one of Scottsdale's many home care agencies, which were enjoying high times as the city's population aged. From what I knew, he arrived at Ernst's house at six o'clock, three days a week, to cook breakfast and do what needed to be done. And he really seemed to care about his charge. Once, when I had volunteered to take Ernst home from a location shot—Warren had kept him late to film him silhouetted against the sunset—I'd found Tesema standing on Ernst's doorstep, fumbling through a jangly mess of house keys. His car, a battered blue Nissan, hissed in the driveway.

Relief covered Tesema's face when he saw Ernst in my Jeep. “
Kapitan Ernst
, please call when you be late! I worry you hurt in there!”

Ernst hadn't bothered to answer. After Tesema helped him out of the Jeep and into his wheelchair, he rolled past the Ethiopian with a barely audible grunt.

So where was Tesema now? Chauffeuring Ernst around wasn't in his job description, Lindsey usually took care of that, but since he had promised to do so this morning his absence was odd. Could he have been murdered, too, and his body hidden somewhere? Or had Tesema himself…? No, I refused to consider that possibility. Something must have happened to keep him from his regular rounds. But whatever the reason, I needed to alert Kryzinski.

Even a man like Das Kapitan deserved justice.

Chapter Three

After tipping off Kryzinski about Tesema, I had no time to feel guilty. I left Warren to inform the rest of the film crew of Ernst's death and Lindsey to figure out a way to “shoot around” the problem, then headed to my office at Desert Investigations. When I arrived, my partner, Jimmy Sisiwan, was pulling into the parking lot.

“Morning, Lena.” Balancing several case files in one hand and a large Starbucks in the other, he struggled out of his pickup. He refused to meet my eyes and I knew it had little to do with his ever-polite Pima Indian heritage.

“Jimmy, we have to talk about that bombshell you dropped on me yesterday.”

He hurried to the office door, shaking his head all the way, rippling his long black hair across his shoulders. “We've already talked it over, and I'm sorry, but my mind's made up.”

No good deed goes unpunished. The client whose thirteen-year-old daughter I rescued from a forced marriage in a polygamy compound was now returning the favor by making off with my business partner. Esther didn't want to live on the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Reservation with Jimmy and his large, extended family. She wanted a traditionally employed husband and a house in the 'burbs. While part of me sympathized with her struggle toward an Apple Pie existence after living in a cult for so many years, the other part resented her implied criticism of my partner's life. Granted, I was hardly neutral on the subject, because Esther had also talked him into accepting a job with Southwest MicroSystems, Inc., the state's largest technology firm—and Desert Investigations' biggest client.

“We didn't talk it over, Jimmy. You delivered the news and I sat there and took it.”

He shot me a look as he settled in front of his computer. “That's not how I remember the conversation.”

“You're right. I'm sorry I said those things about Esther. They were uncalled for.”

Here's the thing about Jimmy and me. He is the gentle yin to my fierce yang, and yet because we are both orphans, we have more in common than not. Shortly after Jimmy was born, his parents died of diabetes, a disease so common on the reservation that it's called the Pima Plague. It was still permissible then for non-Native Americans to raise Indian children, so he was adopted by a Mormon couple in Utah. As for myself, I was orphaned at the age of four when I was found lying in a Phoenix street with a bullet in my head. Since the bullet destroyed my memory and no one arrived to claim me, I was turned over to Child Protective Services, where I was shuttled from one foster home to another.

Guess who got the better end of the deal? Jimmy spent his childhood having birthday parties and going to church. I considered it a good year when I wasn't raped.

Now my best friend and business partner was mad at me because of the harsh things I'd said about his fiancée. “Lena, it's not that Esther's become so—and I'll quote you here—‘disgustingly middle class.' It's just that she…she…” He drifted off, his eyes fixed on his computer screen. After keying in a few strokes, he turned back to me. “She wants to put the past behind her and live a normal life. Get married, raise a family, and all the rest of it. I fail to see what's so contemptible about that.”

I duly apologized, but couldn't give up without adding a question. “And you, Jimmy? What do you want?”

His smile faded. “I know what I'm doing. Now excuse me, but I need to get to work.” With that, he logged onto one of those quasi-legal data bases he used to run background checks on some of Southwest MicroSystems' prospective employees. Another sore spot. The company had been so impressed with his last checks that they'd made him an offer he couldn't refuse, and when he left, he'd take a large chunk of Desert Investigations' revenues with him. If he didn't kick some back my way, Desert Investigations would be in serious financial trouble.

In order to hang on after Jimmy left, I needed to change my way of doing business. Not only would I have to stop taking so many pro bono cases, but I would also have to hire another online research expert, since my own computer skills were south of zero. Somehow I had to talk Jimmy into staying. And Ernst's murder might make the perfect vehicle.

While formulating my plan of attack, I went over to the small refrigerator and took out a Tab. Soon after gulping a slug of pure caffeine, I felt the rush. I would save my agency. True, my Main Street office, in the center of Scottsdale's Art District, wasn't as fancy as its neighbors, just two rooms—one furnished with a couple of bleached pine desks, four matching chairs with some generic Indian-print upholstery, and several filing cabinets lining Navajo White walls. The smaller room in back allowed for private consultations, but in the way of conference rooms everywhere, it was seldom used and served as a repository for old case files. But best of all, my apartment was right upstairs.

I peered at Jimmy over the top of my Tab. “Did you know that Erik Ernst was murdered last night?”

He spun around in his chair. “The U-boat guy?”

“Someone duct-taped him to his wheelchair and beat him to death. How about running Ernst's name through the system to see what you come up with?”

“I'm really busy. Besides, the police should handle this. We have no client in the case.”

“Consider it a parting gift to me.”

His wince distorted the edges of the curved tribal tattoo on his temple. I'd touched the guilt nerve. “Oh, all right. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Gratified, I chugged the rest of my Tab and threw the empty can in the trash. “The documentary covers the war years, so focus on Ernst's life afterwards. All I know is that after he processed out, he went back to Germany. Then a few years later, he immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Connecticut. I seem to remember him telling Warren that he worked as a nautical engineer for a design firm there. After he lost both legs in a boating accident, he moved to Arizona.”

Jimmy looked doubtful. “You think the boating accident could be tied to his murder?”

“Stranger things have happened.” At least I'd tricked him into working with me again, for however brief a time.

“Sounds far-fetched, but I'll try.”

Dusty had said the same thing to me the last time he checked into rehab.

Love wounds us all. It's what we do with those wounds that determines the direction of our lives. Do we travel in circles, or do we struggle on ahead? After wasting five years on an alcoholic boyfriend, I had finally let go, and now the future yawned ahead of me, unformed and unlived. Some people would have found such a vast terrain of possibilities exciting. I worried that I might repeat my old mistakes.

Maybe it was time for me to find that new direction. During a working dinner the night before, Warren had put his hand upon mine, indicating interest in something beyond business. But the gesture spooked me so I leaned away and casually withdrew my hand, talking security all the while. The threat to my emotional equilibrium wasn't over. When he walked me out to the parking lot, he leaned forward to give me a peck on the cheek. I jerked my head back just in time. This morning, on the drive over to Ernst's, I'd been wondering if I'd acted foolishly.

Now it all seemed so petty.

***

Shortly before noon the phone rang, but it wasn't a client. Since I was standing near the microwave eating my lunch of ramen noodles, Jimmy answered. After clicking on HOLD, he said, “It's Warren.”

I carried the ramen to my desk and picked up the extension. “Terrible morning, right? Have you figured out what to do about the final scene now that Ernst is, uh, not available?”

Warren no longer sounded frantic, just sad. “Lindsey says a Frank Oberle interview can substitute for Ernst's.” Oberle was a former prison guard at Camp Papago, the only one left who was spry enough to walk over the park's rough terrain while yakking into a mike. “He can talk about the camaraderie that grew up between the Germans and the Americans, about how many of them became such close friends that they wrote to each other after the war. She think it'll be effective.”

It sounded saccharine to me, but I didn't say so.

“Listen, Lena, I didn't call to talk about the project. I've been thinking about dinner yesterday. You seemed uneasy when, well…I'm sorry about that. No offense intended.”

The apology should have made me happy. It didn't.

He wasn't finished. “Still, I believe in being up front about these things, so I'll come right out and say it. I'm attracted to you, but if you don't feel the same tell me now and I'll keep my distance. It's all up to you.”

Here it was. The invitation to an unformed future. I took a deep breath and told the truth. “I'm coming out of a bad relationship so I'm a little gun-shy.”

“Aren't we all? But we could take it slow, have dinner again. What do you say?”

I closed my eyes and took a chance. “Okay. When?” My face felt as if it was on fire.

“Tomorrow night at seven. I'll pick you up at your place.” The director, directing.

Thrown off balance, I almost changed my mind, but then remembered my safety net. After filming finished in a couple of weeks, Warren would return to California. Anyone, even me, could survive a two-week relationship. “Seven it is.”

“I'm very pleased.” I expected him to hang up, but he didn't. “Say, from the buzz going around after you took off this morning, the cops suspect Ernst was killed by someone who knew him. You're the detective. Does that sound right to you?”

This was more comfortable ground, but not being certain how much information he needed to have, I hedged. “Anything's possible. Ernst wasn't the world's greatest guy, remember.”

“He sure had a mouth on him. I was offended by the way he talked to what's-his-name, the Ethiopian guy who takes care of him.”

“You mean Rada Tesema.”

“Yeah. One day last week when Lindsey was out on location, Tesema came to pick Ernst up, and I've got to tell you, having grown up in the film business I've seen some abusive types, but I never heard anything like Ernst before. He had Tesema almost in tears.”

I frowned. “Do you remember why?”

“Afraid not. We were having trouble with the boom and most of my attention was on that.”

Maybe I was wrong about Tesema. Maybe he'd taken all the abuse from Ernst he was about to. Maybe he used his keys, crept into the house during the night, and beat his misery-maker to death. But there was another possible scenario. He could have arrived for work at his regular time, found Ernst's body, and fled. What was Tesema's immigration status? Probably green card. Permanent legal residents usually went to great lengths to avoid being caught up in police-type trouble, especially big police-type trouble like murder.

Oblivious to my musings about Tesema, Warren continued, “Part of me wishes I felt more upset about the old guy, but I don't, other than the fact that his death sure screwed up our shooting schedule. For that matter, what about that promise he made to give us some big revelation about the escape for our final scene? If he knew something, why didn't he tell us last week, when the cameras were rolling? Why hold out until we were about to wrap?”

I didn't attempt to answer his flurry of questions. “Scottsdale PD will sort it all out.” I had a theory about the “revelation,” though. Ernst had impressed me as a man with a highly developed sense of self-importance, not above resorting to trickery and outright lies to increase his screen time in
Escape Across the Desert.
One of the sound men on the set told me that Ernst had even demanded screen silence from the German-speaking actor who portrayed him as a young U-boat captain, insisting that the only “Kapitan zur See Erik Ernst” voice heard in the film be his own. The actor had been furious, Ernst adamant, leaving Warren to negotiate his way through a minefield of egos.

Warren appeared satisfied with my non-answer. “Let's hope Scottsdale PD is better than LAPD, then. By the way, I couldn't help but notice the dust-up this morning between you and Captain Kryzinski. Is that the bad relationship you were talking about?”

I laughed. “Me and Kryzinski? Hardly. He's my ex-boss from my days on the force. Since I opened up shop as a PI he's helped me with some of my cases and I've helped him with some of his. There's no doubt in my mind that he'll find Ernst's killer.”

Which shows how badly I'd misread Kryzinski.

***

While watching the local news as I dressed for work the next morning, I saw two Scottsdale PD detectives shoving a handcuffed Rada Tesema into their car. Although the grim-faced detectives refused comment and Tesema was too frightened to speak, the blond-on-blond newscaster filled in the blanks.

“Yet another Hollywood tragedy unfolded yesterday, only this time in Scottsdale, where the filming of Oscar-winning documentarian Warren Quinn's new project had to be shut down for the morning when it was discovered that one of its principals had been murdered during the night.” She took a deep breath, then continued. “Erik Ernst, who during World War II was held prisoner at the German POW camp in Papago Park and took part in the famous 1944 Christmas Eve escape, was found dead in his home yesterday morning. After a brief investigation, Scottsdale detectives arrested Rada Tesema, an Ethiopian national who served as Mr. Ernst's care-giver. More at five.”

She pasted a smile on her face. “In other news, little Holly Granger got the shock of her life when her Labrador Retriever, Slick, came home with…” I clicked off the TV.

Brief investigation, indeed. What about the mysterious woman who brawled with Ernst in the middle of the night? Uneasy, I threw my clothes on and ran downstairs to the office, where Jimmy was already running more background checks for Southwest MicroSystems.

“The police made an arrest in the Ernst case.”

When he turned around, I noticed how tired he looked. “Let me guess. The Ethiopian.” At my nod, he gave me a cynical smile. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”