Desert Run (25 page)

“Sir, you can't…”

From the opening in the cubicle where they'd stashed me, I could see him throw a handful of credit cards at her. “Fuck your insurance forms! Now get out of my way!”

Not waiting to see if the clerk picked the cards up from the floor, he sidestepped her and rushed to my cubicle. I was naked, only partially covered by a sheet, the emergency room techs having cut off my soaked clothes. “Oh, Lena, I thought I'd…” He couldn't finish, so he pushed his way through the clutch of nurses that surrounded me, grabbed my hand and began kissing it. Then he saw the skin, torn from my death's grip on the ladder, and began yelling all over again. “Bastards! If they let anything happen to you I'll…”

“You won't do anything,” the doctor snapped, pulling the stethoscope away from my chest. His name, which I hadn't quite caught due to the continued ringing in my ears, sounded vaguely Slavic. “Now be quiet or I'll call Security and have them remove you from the hospital.” Actually, the doctor looked like he could do that all by himself. He was almost six inches taller than Warren, with the bulk of a weight-lifter. While Warren might be in good shape in his sleek Hollywood way, he wasn't in the doctor's league.

Only partially to distract Warren from his escalating emotionality, I asked, “When you were coming back with the coffee, who did you see standing near me?”

It took him a moment to focus, and when he did, he looked puzzled. “Why do you ask? It was an accident, wasn't it?”

“Someone shoved me once, and then, when I didn't go into the canal right away, they shoved me again before I could regain my balance.”

Fear fought with rage across his face. “When I find out who did this to you I'll…”

Now I knew why family members weren't always welcome in emergency rooms. “Hush. The doctor needs to listen to my lungs.”

With a dry smile, the doctor bent over me again. I'd not only swallowed plenty of water but had breathed in some, too. Remembering the dead dog that had floated past me while I flailed in the water, I shuddered. God knew what kind of bacteria was swimming around in my body.

Lung inspection finished, the doctor straightened up. “Not too bad, considering. But we're going to play it safe.”

By the time the nurse finished shooting me full of antibiotics, my arm was sorer than before. So was my rump. And I was still naked.

Using Warren's cell phone, I called Jimmy and explained the situation. After he calmed down, I asked him to get my spare apartment key out of my desk and fetch me some clothes. “Underwear, jeans, shirt, shoes, the works.”

Although Jimmy didn't sound too thrilled about searching through my underwear drawer, he agreed and soon arrived, clutching a grocery bag to his chest. A tube sock with a hole in the toe peeked over the edge. “I'm not much into style,” he explained, “and I didn't know what went with what, so I brought a couple of everything.”

I wasn't much into style either, so as soon as I'd shooed everyone out of the cubicle, I simply put on what came out of the bag first; lavender panties, cocoa-colored bra, black jeans, and a red tee shirt I'd picked up at a Chamber of Commerce mixer that said S
cottsdale—the West's Most Western Town
. White socks and pink sneakers completed my ensemble, and I didn't care. All I wanted to do was get back to my apartment and wash the canal crud off. Once dressed, I joined Warren and Jimmy in the reception area, where Warren had made peace with the clerk he'd been so rude to earlier. I refused to let him cover my brief hospitalization and instead handed the clerk my own insurance card. Lena Jones always pays her own way. Once outside, with a prescription for yet more antibiotics clutched in my hand, I listened tiredly as Jimmy and Warren sparred over who was going to take me home.

“Look, Warren, I'm headed back there anyway,” Jimmy said, sounding cross. “Besides, don't you have a movie to make?”

Somehow it had escaped my notice that Jimmy didn't like Warren. I filed the realization away for later examination.

“Forget it. I'm taking her.” More rough than gentle, Warren grabbed my sore arm and hustled me toward his Range Rover, which was parked in the red zone outside the Emergency entrance. A ticket already decorated its windshield and I figured a tow truck wasn't far behind.

I was too spent to argue so I let myself be pulled along. Jimmy frowned, started to say something, then stopped. After a second, he began again, but I knew it wasn't what he'd originally planned to say. “Whatever you want, Lena. I'll follow right behind and meet you back at the apartment.” With a wave, he headed at a run across the hospital parking lot to his legally parked pickup truck.

On the way back to my apartment, Warren kept up a constant stream of chatter, trying, I guess, to relax me. I tuned out, trying to remember who'd been near the canal right after Warren left me to fetch another cup of coffee. Faces flickered by like stills from an old movie. The sound man. A couple of camera guys. The usual neighborhood looky-loos. And Lindsey, arguing with the crew.

Then I remembered that only a few seconds before someone shoved me into the canal, I saw Warren moving toward me.

His hands were empty.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I spent the night shivering, even though I wore winter workout sweats. Warren had refused to leave and lay next to me, fully dressed except for his shoes. We slept spoon-shaped, separated by the bedclothes, and throughout the long night, he never put a hand where it shouldn't be. Once, though, when I awoke in the middle of the night, I found him sound asleep, but his soft mouth was giving the nape of my neck little butterfly kisses. For a moment I lay there, halfway tempted to turn around and kiss him awake, but decided against it. I was too sore. When I finally fell back asleep, I dreamt that Warren was in the canal with me, yet every time I reached out for him, he pushed me under.

It was preferable to my usual dream.

My alarm rang at five, waking me with a start. The minute I began to move, I knew I was in for a bad day. Every muscle, every bone, sang with pain.

“What…?” Warren reached out and touched my hair. “Lena. Did we…” He fell silent, the condition of our clothing answering the not-yet-formed question. “How do you feel, baby?”

“Like hell.” I threw the covers off, and ran into the bathroom, where I promptly threw up. To my horror, he followed, and as I heaved canal water into the toilet, he held my head, then handed me a towel.

I wiped my mouth. “I told you I don't like being called baby.” The second the words were out, I realized how churlish they sounded. But I couldn't help it. I was too miserable for courtesy.

He didn't seem to mind. “Now gargle.” He handed me my Scope.

I gargled, then spit the detritus into the toilet bowl. As I kneeled in front of the bowl, Warren rubbed my back. “May I say something to you?”

“Not if you're going to nag me about my abhorrence for pet names.”

“Hardly. It's just that, well, I think it might be a good idea if you stayed away from mirrors today.”

I wiped my mouth again and stood up. Ignoring Warren's suggestion, I stared straight into the bathroom mirror. At some point in the canal, I'd acquired a black eye and a split lip. When I hustled him out of the bathroom and began my shower, I found more injuries. Bruises and scratches along both sides of my body, and a reddened area the size of a man's fist on one breast. I looked like the loser of a prize fight. After showering under the hottest water I could stand, I finally dried myself off and approached the mirror again. Using some old bits and pieces of disused makeup I found in the cabinet, I patched the damage on my face as best as I could, but not having MaryEllen Bollinger's expertise, I was still a mess.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a faded terrycloth robe, Warren was still there. He was going through my kitchen cabinets.

“Where's the cereal?”

“I don't have any.”

He crossed to the small refrigerator and began opening up various compartments. “Eggs?”

“None of those, either.” I leaned my sore back against the wall, watching him.

He stared at me. “Lena, what do you eat?”

“Um, usually I have a Danish or one of those microwave egg thingys.”

“You don't cook. At all.”

“Microwaving is cooking.”

For a minute it looked like he was about to laugh, then his face changed and I thought he would cry. But he didn't do that, either. He just grabbed me—carefully—by the arm and said, “I'm taking you out for a decent breakfast. Eggs. Steak. Lots of protein. After what you've been through, you need it.” He began herding me toward the door.

“Warren, haven't you forgotten something?”

“What?”

“I need to dress. And quite frankly, I think you need a shower yourself. From the smell of things, I think I threw up on you.”

***

Once we arrived at U.S. Egg, I fended off his continued concern by bringing up work. “Shouldn't you be at the set?” When you're not used to having someone take care of you, it's difficult to know how to respond.

He patted my hand once again, as if trying to reassure himself it was still there. “While you were in the shower, I called Lindsey and told her to get started without me. She's probably already at work.”

I groaned. “Oh, Warren! She'll have everyone up in arms by the time you make it over there. In fact, I'm betting you'll have to spend the rest of the day calming everyone down.”

He pooh-poohed my concerns. “She'll do fine. Most of the shots are location only, showing the various places where the German POWs were either captured or turned themselves in. She has a nice feel for atmosphere. By the way, I like your new furniture.”

I felt so pleased I didn't care that he'd abruptly changed the subject. “You don't think it's too much?”

“It's perfect.”

“I'm thinking about getting plates with spurs and lariats on them.”

“Even more perfect. And how about one of those chrome and vinyl breakfast sets? We had one of those when I was a kid. I think they used to make them with Western prints.”

I smiled so broadly my face hurt. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

As we talked, I noticed people staring at my black eye, cut lip, and scratched arms. Oblivious to the frowns Warren was receiving from our waitress and several restaurant patrons, he simply shook more Tabasco on his chorizo omelet.

I brought the conversation back to where I wanted it. “Warren, are you sure about leaving Lindsey to work alone this morning?”

He nodded, but it wasn't convincing. “Lindsey's exterior work is some of the best I've seen. It's only where people are concerned that she has trouble.”

I ducked my head against the other customers' stares and forked in another mouthful of hash browns. “She sounds perfect for the National Geographic Channel. Nothing but monkeys and mountains.”

He laughed, added even more Tabasco to his plate, then scooped up the beans with a warm tortilla. “Hot damn!”

Sharing breakfast with Warren after a night of non-sexual closeness, I had to fight the urge to flee. The only thing that kept me seated at the table was the memory of my therapist telling me it was time to stop running away from emotional intimacy. Sex I had no problem with.

Still, it was time to confront what had been bothering me all night. But I'd start slow. “Lindsey was near me when I went into the canal.”

He looked away. “So were a lot of other people. The whole damned film crew.”

“You were there, too.”

He looked back, his blue eyes cold. “What is all this about? Of course I was there. I needed to direct the extras as they crawled out of the tunnel.”

“But where was the coffee you supposedly went after? I didn't see it.”

“Supposedly?” All the expression stripped away from his face and he appeared to choose his words carefully. “Before I reached you, someone knocked the cup out of my hands. If you hadn't…if you hadn't gone into the canal when you did, you would have seen spilled coffee all over my leg.” With that, he pushed his chair away from the table, stood up, and to the astonishment of the other customers, rolled up his chinos. “You see?” Red splotches covered his calf, and angry blisters blossomed above the knee. He gave me a wry smile. “Maybe like that woman at MacDonald's, I should sue our caterer for making the coffee so hot.”

For a moment, I wondered if he'd splashed hot coffee on himself
after
I'd survived the canal. Then I looked down at my hash browns. Jesus, what was wrong with me? “I'm sorry.”

“So am I.”

He'd leave me now, no doubt about it. If I could,
I
would leave me. “I don't know what else to say, Warren.”

“You don't have to say anything.” He rolled his pants leg back down, walked around the table, and kissed me on the cheek. “When I first met you, I could tell you were a complicated woman, but I was born and raised in the neurosis capital of the world, so nothing you do, nothing you say, can shock me. Hurt me, maybe, but that goes with the territory when you love someone, doesn't it?”

There it was. The “L” word. I just kept staring at my hash browns. “I guess.”

When he sat back down, the mood in the restaurant had changed. The other men now looked at him with pity. “Yes, Lena, it does. Now stop looking at those damn potatoes and either eat them or give them to me.”

***

Unusually for Jimmy, he wasn't in when I opened up Desert Investigations at nine, but I wasn't worried. The day before, he'd followed Warren and me from the hospital all the way up to my apartment, making a big show out of checking around to make certain no boogie men were hiding anywhere. Then he'd gone downstairs to the office. I thought I'd heard his pickup truck leaving the parking lot around ten last night, so I figured he was spending some comp time with Esther and would be in later. I forgot about my absent partner and went straight to work, happy to be away from the sympathizing stares of the public.

After calling Captain Kryzinski at Scottsdale PD and reassuring him that I was fine, just fine, after the previous day's adventure, I asked him if there were any new developments in the Erik Ernst case. His answer was depressing.

“You're wasting your time, kid,” he said. “Tesema's as guilty as they come.”

I then placed a call to Dectective Manuel Villapando at the Apache Junction Police Department, where I struck out again. Villapando confided to me that his superiors believed Harry Caulfield's murder was nothing more than a burglary gone bad.

“Like you, Miss Jones, I'm convinced Harry's murder is tied to the Ernst case, but so far we've found no concrete evidence to that effect. And Ballistics is backed up, as usual, so there's still no proof it's the same gun which killed Harry and the
Scottsdale Journal
reporter. Just to make things even worse, there's been a spate of break-ins at a couple of the more upscale senior communities around here, with some of the old folks getting roughed up pretty bad, and I'm sure you know how short-handed we are, so…” He trailed off. In other words, his superiors were steering him in the opposite direction. Well, nothing new there. My own experience in Scottsdale PD had taught me that more and more police departments, swamped by the rising tide of crime, were focusing on crimes they had a good chance of solving, not those they probably wouldn't.

“I understand, Detective.” I wished him well and rang off.

His mention of upscale senior communities sparked my memory, so I placed a call to Tommy Bollinger. At first, his secretary told me he was in a meeting and tried to foist me onto his voice mail, but when I told her it concerned the Bollinger family murders, she put me right through.

“Have I ever received anonymous letters?” Tommy asked, in response to my question. “Of course I have. A gay multi-millionaire's bound to receive his share of hate mail.”

“I'm talking about letters that accused Erik Ernst of your family's murder.”

A long silence. Then, “Ah, there were plenty of crackpots around, even back then.”

“In other words, you did.”

“Yeeeess.” His voice slowed to a crawl, as if he was more interested in listening than talking.

My cue. In great detail, I told him about the anonymous letters Harry Caulfield and Fay Harris had received. All he said at the end of my spiel was, “Interesting.”

“It doesn't intrigue you that someone else claimed to have definite knowledge that Ernst killed your family?”

A bitter laugh. “Ms. Jones, I never believed Chess did it. If only Edward had been murdered, that would be different. But the whole family? That little girl? No way. As to the anonymous letters, I handed them over to the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office years ago, but to my knowledge, they never followed up. Now if you'll excuse me, I really am in a meeting. My secretary wasn't lying.”

Before I could ask another question, he hung up, leaving me frowning at the phone. I sat there for a while, trying to figure out why he no longer seemed interested in the solution to his family's murders, and reached one possible conclusion. He was growing worried over what I might find out. Remembering his biceps and his strong golf swing, I couldn't help but wonder where he'd been when someone pushed me into the canal. But he'd never given me the chance to ask.

I was still going through my notes on the Ernst case when the office door opened and Jimmy came in, looking as red-eyed as I did. Instead of sitting down, he placed a fat file folder on my desk, and said, “We need to talk.”

“You and Esther make an offer on the Scottsdale Fashion Square condo?”

“It's not about the condo.” He frowned so deeply that even the tribal tattoo on his forehead pulled down.

A frisson of alarm crept down my back. “Jimmy, there's nothing wrong with Esther or Rebecca, is there?”

He reassured me. For a moment. “They're fine. This is about the check you wanted me to run on Warren. I was too busy to get right to it when you asked, and I'm sorrier about that than you'll ever know. But after what happened to you yesterday, I ran him through every data base I could. It's not like the information about him was buried deep. In fact, if we lived in L.A. or were more entertainment-oriented, we'd both probably know what I'm about to tell you.”

Annoyed, I pushed the folder away. “A Tinseltown scandal. Big deal.”

The folder came sliding back. “Considering that you were almost killed, I think it is.”

It was time to say what I'd lately begun to suspect. “Jimmy, are you jealous of me and Warren?”

He snorted with disgust. “I won't dignify that question with an answer. Go ahead and read those printouts. Or are you afraid to find out the nasty truth behind your precious golden boy?”

Okay, so there was some little secret Warren had kept from me; he had already hinted as much. But who didn't have secrets, these days? Granted, Hollywood lives didn't exactly reflect the Middle American experience, but neither did mine. Deciding that I might as well pacify my partner and make our last few days together at Desert Investigations as peaceful as possible, I picked up the folder and shoved it into my carry-all. “It's pretty thick, so I'll go over it tonight. I don't have time now.”