Desert Shadows (9781615952250) (10 page)

“Lena? Are you all right?”

I forced a smile. Never let them see you bleed. “Probably a touch of indigestion. You were talking about Patriot's Blood. Was it successful right away?”

“To a certain extent,” Megan continued, stroking a tiny white kitten which had climbed up her leg to join the elderly nappers. “But it became more so when she began publishing books. Everyone knew Gloriana's background, so even in the beginning she had an in with researchers who were working on books about the Founding Fathers. She signed them, and the reviews were good, but the income wasn't great. And Gloriana liked money, so she decided to, as she put it, ‘broaden the company's publishing guidelines.' Zach had no idea how far she'd go. God, you should see the stuff in her latest catalog.”

“I've seen a brochure.” The titles alone should be good for a few more nightmares.

Megan gave a little shudder, making one of the old cats grumble in complaint. “The full catalog's even worse. Gloriana didn't originally plan to publish that type of material, but.…” Her shudder turned to a shrug. “Well, once she got started with books like Randall Ott's, most of her original authors deserted her. She didn't care. Why should she, when she was making money like she'd never dreamed of? That's what Gloriana was all about, money. At the expense of everything decent.”

“Was she aware of how you and Zach felt about the new editorial direction?”

The anger in her face hardly marred her beauty. “Of course she was. Zach fought her tooth and nail, but Gloriana didn't care.” Her former glow returned. “Everything will change now, though. Zach will return Patriot's Blood to its original mission, maybe even start publishing some literary fiction. I'd like to see him do a nice mystery line, to tell you the truth. These days, it seems like mystery novels are the only places where good triumphs over evil. But that's beside the point, isn't it? People like Gloriana.…Well, she suckered Zach into coming to work for her by telling him he could head up a new fiction imprint. Then as soon as he resigned from ASU and came on board as her managing editor, she changed her mind. Or maybe she'd simply been leading him on in the first place. Whatever the truth, by then I was pregnant.”

I asked the expected question. “When are you due?”

“In forty-five days. It's a boy. We promised Gloriana we'd name him Zachary Alden-Taylor VII, but now maybe we can just call him Joe. Or name him after my father. Marcello. Now there's a beautiful name.”

I was getting ready to ask her another question when the doorbell rang. Dogs, cats, and rabbits scattered in all directions.

Megan lumbered to her feet, but not before gently placing her lap cats on the floor. “That must be Mrs. Howell to collect Boz.” Did I detect a note of relief in her voice?

Boz, hearing his name, chased his tail again, and woofed.

I knew a good exit line when I heard one, so as Megan opened the door to a short, middle-aged woman bearing a leash and a big smile, I waved goodby. I stepped outside just in time to see the door open at the house across the street. A rumpled-looking man in stained overalls lifted the National Alliance flier from his doorknob. He stood there reading it for a moment, but instead of crumpling it into a ball, he nodded.

Then he went back inside, taking the flier with him.

Chapter 7

Like most women with a penchant for black jeans, I keep a lint remover in my Jeep, so when I parked in the lot behind Patriot's Blood Press, I took a few minutes to de-hair myself, then walked around to the front entrance.

The office was located in a strip mall on Goldwater Boulevard at the end of Scottsdale's famous Art Gallery Row. I had expected the place to be painted in red, white, and blue, but in accordance with the city's stringent zoning restrictions, the front of the office sported only a discreet gilt sign that whispered
Patriot's Blood Press
. No rabble-rousing books filled the picture window, only an assortment of hanging plants that looked as if they could use some watering. When I opened the door, a dog barked and I looked down to see a gray, wire-haired fox terrier. She began licking the same ankle that had so fascinated Boz.

“Don't worry, Casey doesn't bite,” said a heavy blond woman at the front desk. So many manuscripts were stacked around her that if they ever fell over, I feared they would kill her. The blonde's face, a bit on the pasty side, appeared bloated, and the bags under her dark eyes testified to either too much carousing or a serious sleep disorder. Her flowered dress didn't look quite clean.

The other office workers didn't lift their heads from their computers; they kept typing away.

“Seems to be my day for dogs,” I muttered, nudging the animal away with my foot. “Uh, is Mr. Alden-Taylor here?”

“Zach?” The blonde frowned. Maybe she thought I was a desperate author in search of a publisher. “Do you have an appointment?”

I fished a business card out of my carry-all. “I'm a private detective, and I'd like to speak to Mr. Al…Zach for a few minutes.”

The hand she reached toward my card trembled. A hangover, or anxiety? Could have been either. Her fingernails had been bitten to the quick.

“A detective? Wha…what do you need to see Zach about?”

“I've been hired by Owen Sisiwan to look into Gloriana's death.”

She relaxed. “Owen wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“You know him well, then?”

She nodded, revealing dark roots at the base of her blond hair. “Oh, yes. Gloriana worked him half to death. Tell you what. I'll ask if Zach can see you now. Anything I can do to help Owen, I will.”

When she rose from her desk and walked toward the back, I saw that the hem of her dress had ripped away. It flapped around her stout legs like a ragged banner. Did she not know, or did she not care?

Soon she returned, trailed by a tall man in his mid-thirties. With his tanned skin, sun-streaked brown hair, and a Kirk Douglas chin, he bordered on handsome, but his eyes were red and his too-flat nose skewed to the side, as if he'd once taken a blow to the face and decided not to have it fixed. He looked more like a boxer than a publisher.

“Hi, Ms. Jones, I'm Zach,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “Great work you did up at that polygamy commune, getting that little girl out of there. Too bad the attorney general didn't follow up and arrest those perverts.”

My relief that Zachary Alden-Taylor knew who I was almost wiped out the memory of my fury at Arizona's cowardly AG. Almost, but not quite. “He said something about polygamy being a matter of religious freedom.”

Zach snorted. “Since when is the rape of underage girls a matter of religious freedom? No, you can bet that money's involved in it somehow. It usually is when serious crimes aren't prosecuted.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” I said, trying to stay calm. Every time I thought about my last case, my stomach churned. “But right now, I need to talk to you about your grandmother's murder.”

Like his receptionist, Zach sounded more than willing to help. “Follow me back to my office so we can leave poor Sandra here to her many miseries.”

Poor Sandra threw him a grateful look and settled her wide bottom back on the chair. Zach nudged me along a narrow hallway made even narrower by the dozens of cartons lining its walls. Stacks of loose books and manuscripts were piled on top of the cartons.

He ushered me past a closed door and into a tiny office lit by a flickering tungsten lamp where even more manuscripts moldered upon the battered desk, the floor, and the ripped Naugahyde visitor's chair. A computer hummed on a chipped, faux wood credenza behind the desk. I decided that Zach's office was little neater than his home. Just with less hair.

He cleared the chair for me. “I kept intending to do something about this, but.…Now I'll be moving into my grandmother's office soon, so there's no need to clean.”

As I sat down, a cloud of dust puffed upward from the chair. “I guess not,” I said, once I was through sneezing. “As I told your receptionist.…”

He gave me a bleak smile as he sat down in his own chair, which appeared to be held together by duct tape. “Receptionist? Sandra's my cousin and she's a senior editor, in charge of the other people you saw out there.”

“Sorry. I thought.…” I stopped myself from saying that she looked like an accident that had already happened.

As if oblivious to Sandra's appearance, Zach chattered on. “Most small publishers like us don't enjoy the luxury of a receptionist. Everyone here does several jobs, including Sandra, who coordinates the reading of all new submissions.”

He then launched into such a detailed description of Sandra's duties that I grew restless. “Zach, do I need to know all this?”

“Probably not. It's only my long-winded way of saying please don't call my poor overworked cousin a receptionist. Now, what can I do for you?”

I explained the situation, told him about my earlier interview with Megan, and watched his face for any sign of alarm. After all, with Owen in jail, the police had stopped looking for other suspects. If I proved Owen innocent, Zach might wind up as the next candidate.

But Zach's face displayed only approval. “Great! The more people who work on this, the better. When the police told me they'd arrested Owen we were all shocked. Just yesterday Megan begged me to get him an attorney. After I made a few calls, I realized we could. Since I already sign the checks around here, the estate's executor—Gloriana's attorney—gave me the go-ahead for the bail money a little while ago. In fact, I was getting ready to drive down to the bail bondsman's office when you arrived. I'm hoping to get Owen back to his family by the end of the day.”

I wanted to cheer in relief, but the celebration would have to wait. Making bail was one thing, being cleared of murder charges another. “Your wife told me you're Gloriana's primary heir.”

He smiled. “Which makes me the primary suspect, too. Right?”

Right, but I wasn't about to admit it. His forthrightness, like Megan's, intrigued me. By admitting to his obvious motive, Zach Alden-Taylor VI was either the dumbest murderer I'd ever met, or an innocent man. I didn't know enough about him yet to figure out which. Then again, not everyone killed for money. Passion and revenge made dandy motives, too.

“I imagine the estate is sizeable?”

The figures he rolled out weren't quite as high as I'd expected, but impressive nonetheless. In addition to her house, the publishing company, and a tidy stock portfolio, Gloriana also owned that forty acres of undeveloped desert land near Pinnacle Peak, an upscale enclave near Scottsdale's northeast border. Once the will cleared probate, Zach and his wife would enjoy a more comfortable life. I said as much.

Zach's smile broadened, and a tendril of brown hair fell fetchingly across his forehead. “The Hacienda is five times the size of our current house, and since you've seen Megan's menagerie, you can appreciate how much we need the space. As far as Patriot's Blood goes, well, I'm changing the company's entire publishing philosophy. Later today I'll draft a letter to some of our authors canceling their contracts. I imagine there might be a few lawsuits coming our way after that, but the desert acreage will give us a nice financial cushion.”

“You can do that, cancel book contracts?”

He nodded. “The librarians we've been selling to sure won't weep bitter tears. The bookstores, they've been through this kind of thing before and we'll straighten it out. As for everyone else.…” He laughed. “I don't give a damn about the disappointment of the National Alliance and its fellow travelers.”

His comment gave me the chance to clear up the confusion I had experienced since speaking to Megan. “It's nice to know they'll have to go elsewhere for their reading material, but I'm curious. Given your own obvious feelings about these books, how could you stand working here?”

He shifted in his seat, and one strip of duct tape on the chair peeled away. I noticed that he had stopped meeting my eyes.

“When my grandmother lured me away from my job at ASU, Patriot's Blood was an entirely different kind of house. The magazine was a product any publisher could be proud of, and the books were reputable. But after 9/11—which was
after
I'd come on board, you have to understand—everything changed. Gloriana saw a way to cash in on tragedy, and so she did.”

“Why you didn't leave?”

The flush deepened. “You've heard that story about the frog in the saucepan, haven't you? At first the water is cool, so he's comfortable and doesn't try to hop out. Then it warms up a little, he's still comfortable. By the time the water gets hot, it's too late to move. Well, I'm that frog. The first few, ah,
worrisome
titles Gloriana purchased weren't that bad, merely distasteful. I figured she was trying something out, so I didn't say anything. The next few titles we had words over, but it was like spitting in the wind. The new line was bringing in so much money she ignored everything I said.”

He still hadn't answered my question. “Couldn't you have gone back to ASU? Resumed your academic career?”

After a bitter laugh, he answered, “Au contraire, Miss Jones. The head of the creative writing school had a long waiting list for my position. And now that my resumé includes
Losing America
and its nasty brethren, no university will touch me. In case you didn't notice when you were out at the house, Megan and I aren't rolling in dough.”

He sighed. “By the time I realized my grandmother had no intention of listening to my complaints about her progressively scarier author list, it was too late. Megan was pregnant, and Patriot's Blood was our insurance carrier.”

The frog, trapped in boiling water; sounded like a great murder motive to me. “I saw some of your titles when I stopped by the SOBOP booth at WestWorld, so I know how hard it must have been for you.”

“Then you only saw the books, which account for a mere fraction of our income. Most of the company's profits come from our computer games and music CDs. I halted production on those first thing this morning.”

“Computer games?”

Zach got up and walked over to a gray steel bookcase, which, I now realized, held as many software boxes and CDs as it did books. “Let me show you,” he said, turning his back to me and inserting a disc into his computer.

After the prerequisite hums, the screen filled with red letters on a black background, proclaiming we were about to play
BORDER RUN
. Zach double-clicked something on the menu at the lower left of the screen, and as I watched over his shoulder, the letters were replaced by a crudely animated version of a rifle-toting skinhead wearing a T-shirt decorated with the American flag and the numbers 311.

The National Anthem began playing from the computer's speakers, and a deep voice filled the room. “
SOLDIER OF FREEDOM, IT IS YOUR JOB TO KEEP AMERICA PURE. SHOULDER YOUR RIFLE AND GET READY TO DEFEND YOUR COUNTRY.
”

The black background morphed into a cactus-strewn landscape reminiscent of the arid borderland between southern Arizona and Sonora, Mexico. A few chunky rabbits jerked across the bottom of the screen, but the skinhead ignored them. I had the feeling he was waiting for bigger game. I was right. The National Anthem died, replaced by “La Cucaracha,” as several Hispanic-looking people—men, women, and even children—began running back and forth between the saguaros. When Zach exchanged the mouse for a joystick, the skinhead began firing. Blood spatters appeared on the foreheads of the “border runners” as his shots found their mark.

Zach released the joystick. “That's the Hispanic version of the game. Click on a different icon and you get your choice of Asians, Native Americans, African-Americans, Jews, Arabs. Anyone who's not flagrantly Anglo-Saxon. The purpose of the game, as I'm sure you've figured out, is to keep America, ah, racially pure. Under my grandmother's leadership, Patriot's Blood manufactured more than a dozen games like that, each one worst than the last. But that's not all. Would you like to hear some of our music CDs? We've recorded groups like American Nation, Manifest Destiny, Power Police, and Aryan Arms. Gorgeous stuff.” His bitter voice belied his words.

“Holy crap!” I finally managed, as Zach grabbed the joystick again and the last standing Hispanic's head exploded in a blossom of red.

“That holy crap brought my grandmother a couple million dollars in gross revenue last year,” he said, shutting the program down. “Hate is big business in America these days, and domestic terrorism has become downright chic in some quarters. If al-Qaeda doesn't destroy us, our own fanatics will.”

I cleared my throat. “You plan to replace this, ah, lucrative sideline with…?”

“With nothing, unless I can figure out how to design a video game starring Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe competing in a poetry slam at the Old Globe. My wife wants us to concentrate on books, to sign some of those midlist authors who lost their contracts when the big publishers began their merging frenzy, but I.…”

Midlist authors? I guess my puzzled look showed on my face, because he immediately stopped his rush of words.