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.”
Recently, Jimmy’s own cousin had narrowly escaped being tried for murder, so he could hardly be blamed for viewing the justice system with a jaundiced eye. I felt the same way, and wondered why the police hadn’t followed up on Ernst’s late-night visitor. Or perhaps they had, and found no connection to the crime. Ernst could have been a dirty old man and his visitor merely catering to his needs. As for the shouting the neighbor heard, sex could be a noisy number for some folks.
For the next couple of hours, Jimmy and I concentrated on our separate tasks, avoiding any mention of his imminent departure. I finalized the paperwork on several cases and began sending out invoices. Despite the glamorous image of television PIs, most of a real private detective’s days verged on dull, entailing everything from skip-tracing deadbeats to background checks on errant or prospective spouses. For instance, Beth Osman, a wealthy Scottsdale widow descended from one of Arizona’s original copper mining families, had met Jack Sherwood, a shopping center developer who was relocating to Scottsdale from Mississippi. They had been dating for little more than a month but he was already talking marriage. Beth professed strong feelings for the man, but wanted Desert Investigations to give him a once-over. We had, and found him clean—on paper, at least. No wants, no warrants.
When I called to relate my preliminary findings, she sounded unsatisfied. “Lena, I…I just feel that there’s something…” Her voice caught. “He is from out of state.”
“Unlike yourself, Beth, most people here are from out of state. People move here from other places. Of course, most go back to where they came from after their first Arizona summer.”
“Ha ha.” Her laugh held little amusement. “You said, ‘on paper.’ What’s the next step up?”
Remembering my own fear of commitment, I felt for her. “A more comprehensive investigation. I could run surveillance on him for a few days and check a few out-of-state-sources.”
A trembly sigh. Obviously, she hated what she was doing. “Yes. Do what you have to. I’ll pay you for another ten, no, make that twenty hours. I want to make certain before I…”
I could have finished her sentence for her. Before I fall so hard there’s no return. I simply reiterated my fee. “Plus expenses.”
Another sigh. “Right.”
In total sympathy with her relationship paranoia, I hung up. The first man in my life, a fellow student in the ASU Criminal Justice program, dumped me for another girl (“I need someone less complicated.”). A few years later, a fellow police officer in Scottsdale PD demanded I give up my career for him (“I want a wife, not a colleague.”). More recently, Dusty had vanished and reappeared in my life depending on his sobriety status, frequently trailed by the women he’d romanced while on his bender. One of them had tried to kill me.
Considering everything, I was tempted to ask Jimmy to run a background check on Warren before tonight’s date, then decided against it. Anyone with Warren’s high profile would have little to hide.
“Hey, Jimmy, I’ll be shadowing Jack Sherwood for the next few days, possibly longer. Would you mind holding down the fort?”
“No problem.” He looked so relieved to have me out of the office that I figured his conscience had been bothering him. We had started Desert Investigations together and I’d been foolish enough to believe we’d continue running it together until…well, until. Now “until” was here.
I rummaged through the supply closet for the items I’d need on the Sherwood surveillance. Camera with zoom lens, tape recorder with long-distance mike, two wigs: one brunette, one auburn. From past experience I knew that the wigs, along with the help of makeup, various sunglasses, and extreme wardrobe changes could make me look like three different women. I also needed to rent a couple of cars less noticeable than my customized Jeep. A Neon, perhaps, and some kind of generic Ford? No. Jack Sherwood was a high-flier and the places he frequented would call for something more upscale than Neon-and-Ford territory, such as a Beemer and a Lexus. As I picked up the phone to punch in the number for Hertz, it rang in my hand.
“Desert Investigations. Good morning.” Unless the caller was a new client with a fat wallet, I was determined to get him—or her—off the line quickly.
“Is Miss Lena Jones?” An Ethiopian accent, hollowed by the echoes of other men’s voices. In the background, one man cursed loudly while another wept.
My stomach clenched. “Yes, Mr. Tesema, this is Lena Jones. But before you get started, I need to tell you that my fee…”
He didn’t wait for me to finish. “I call you from jail. You will help me, please. I not murder Kapitan Ernst but they going to kill me for it anyway.”
Kill him? Even if Tesema was eventually found guilty, why did he believe he’d wind up on Death Row? Sure, Arizona still had capital punishment, but only for extreme situations, such as the child rapist who had killed both his two-year-old victim and her mother, then dumped their bodies in a canal. “Oh, Mr. Tesema, that won’t hap…”
“They stick needle in my arm and I die. Then my family starve. You help me, please.”
Why wouldn’t he listen? “I’m sure your public defender…”
“I have wife, four sons, two daughters back in Ethiopia. I make family’s only money. If I die, they starve. If I not work, they starve.”
I knew little about current Ethiopian economic conditions and hoped they weren’t as extreme as Tesema painted them. But in the end his fear—which impressed me as being more for his family than himself—swayed me. Desert Investigations could at least look into his situation and perhaps steer him toward the appropriate government agencies to help his family while his case snailed its way through the court system. “I’ll come down to the jail this afternoon and we’ll talk. But I can’t make any promises.”
“You are blessed woman.”
Regardless of the extremity of Tesema’s situation, I smiled. Men had frequently used a “B” word to describe me, but “blessed” wasn’t it.