CHAPTER NINE

PRIME SUSPECT

It was mid-afternoon and Maggie Reardon was still thinking about Rocco La Crosse when she pulled up in front of the run-down apartment building on the south side. It was quite the contrast to the palatial home she had been in just an hour earlier. She could feel the bass from the blasting boom box even before she heard the offensive lyrics. She walked towards the steps and passed an exterior wall decorated with graffiti and Spanish cuss words. Call Juanita for a good time was scrawled in Day-Glo orange spray paint. Some things never changed. A group of rough looking teenagers were scattered like cockroaches on the front steps, smoking cigarettes and flashing their gang signs as they swayed to the music. If you could call it music. The lyrics were spat out rather than sung, angry and hostile, like the looks on their sullen faces. They wore the kind of expressions you’d like to slap into the next county. If the children are our future we’re in deep trouble, she thought as she tried to push past them.

They stood their ground, blocking the steps and inundating her with cat calls and the sound of noisy, obscene kisses. One of them grinned at her, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth suggestively.

“Come here baby,” a young blaxican chided, motioning to his side with a slap on his hip.

“You’d best step aside,” Maggie said calmly.

“What’s your hurry, chiquita?” asked another. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but his grin exposed a serious case of meth-mouth, half his teeth already rotted or missing.

“You think you too good for us, gringa? I don’t think so.”

Like a pack of hungry coyotes, they formed a circle around her, one of them giving her a shove and spinning her around.

“You don’t know what you’re missing. Let me show you,” said the blaxican kid as he grabbed the crotch of his baggy pants.

“It doesn’t look like I’m missing much by the looks of it,” Maggie said.

The kid didn’t appreciate the laughter from his campadres.

“Oooh, baby,” one of them said as he hugged himself. “Apapachar, baby.”

“You gotta pay admission to go inside,” said the white kid of the group. “Maybe that necklace around your scrawny white neck.”

He reached over and pulled the chain from where it hung under her shirt. The police badge on the end of the chain glistened in the sunlight.

“Holy mother of God,” he said as he crossed himself and took two steps backwards, nearly losing his balance in the process.

“She’s a cop, you stupid pendejo!”

“How was I to know?”

“No harm, no problema, sí?” said one of the youths as he motioned her in the direction of the doorway. At least he had the sense to attempt diffusing the situation. One by one they stepped back, clearing the path for her.

“No harm?” Maggie said. “I oughtta haul in all your sorry asses. Assault and battery on a cop was pretty stupid, don’t you think?”

“Hey, how should we know? You ain’t got no uniform or nothing.”

“Our apologies,” the diffuser said, his eyes darting around nervously as he mumbled incoherently in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Mucho sorry.”

“How many of you punks have warrants? Think maybe I should check?”

One by one they slithered away.

The music was still blasting as she reached the top step. She looked down at the offending boom box, gave it a hard kick and sent it flying down the stairs. When it hit the cement the plastic shattered, sending pieces flying and the remaining punks scurrying.

Maggie welcomed the quiet.

Ordinarily she’d have taken them to the station just to teach them a lesson, but she figured they were slow learners and hardly worth the effort.

Besides, she had more important business.

The hallway smelled like last week’s rotting cilantro mixed with a hint of middle eastern curry. Latin music wafted under the doors and into the hallway. So much for peace and quiet. Babies cried and children screamed behind closed doors. Adults were trying to be heard over the salsa beat as they yelled undecipherable profanities at each other. This end of town was like crossing the border into another country. Several countries judging by the cooking aromas that filled the hallway. The foul aromas followed her as she walked along, seeking apartment number five. She’d smelled worse. She’d seen worse.

She knocked on the door.

It was time to pay Adrian Velikson a visit.

“You were the cop at the gallery,” Adrian said, opening the door. “Come on in.”

“You have quite the welcoming committee out there,” said Maggie.

“Oh, them? I knocked one of them on his butt my first week here. They haven’t bothered me since. They’re about as dangerous as a pack of wild dogs with no teeth.”

“You think? Just give them a year or two and they’ll be stabbing you for sport.”

Maggie sat down her briefcase and the two of them sat on a futon, the only piece of furniture in a room the size of a shoe box. A stove and sink below a makeshift cupboard stood against the back wall and an open door led to a small bathroom. A wooden TV tray served as an end table as well as the formal dining room. That was it. The entire apartment was the size of a closet. Adrian’s bulky form filled the remaining space. It was claustrophobic. Mustard yellow walls were unadorned except for a framed photograph that hung above the futon.

Maggie looked at the lovingly framed picture. Two college girls wearing University of Arizona sweatshirts stood with their arms wrapped around each other, smiling. A younger, even more beautiful Barbara Atwell, and a thinner Adrian.

They looked content.

“Happier days?” she asked.

“They don’t get any happier.”

“Why don’t you give me your spin on Armando Salazar.”

“I wasn’t fond of him.”

“I’ve gathered as much.”

“I’m probably not the person you want to ask. I’m sure my perception of the man is clouded by my personal feelings.”

“Feelings that might want to see him out of the picture?”

“Since day one.”

“Let’s just get to the point here, Adrian. Did you murder Armando Salazar?”

Adrian laughed, but it was a sad laugh. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Did you?” asked Maggie.

“I wouldn’t kill a mouse, let alone a rat like Armando.”

“You had every reason.”

“It’s obvious by your questions that you’re already aware of my relationship with Barbara but I can assure you that your conclusions are wrong.”

“Why is that?”

“Barbara and I have been lovers since college. Every once in awhile she strays to the other side. I stand back and wait for the novelty to pass, because she always comes back to me where she belongs. It’s just the way it is and if that’s what I have to do to keep her, well....”

“But she never married one of them before, did she?”

“No, never. But it wasn’t her fault. He blinded her with his charm and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. It hurt, but I knew eventually she’d see the light and things would go back the way they were. The way they were meant to be. They always have.”

“Did you live with her before then? Before Armando entered the picture?”

“For years. But I moved out before they got married. I thought I’d just be in this little place a month or two but....”

“It would appear she was in the marriage for the long haul,” said Maggie, pouring salt on the wound. “She must have loved him very much to have turned away from you.”

“Again, you’re wrong.” Adrian took a breath and wiped her hand across her eyes. “Most things between us never changed. We were still lovers, that never stopped. I never liked having to share her but it was better than nothing.”

“Was Armando aware that you two were still lovers?”

“Sure. He had his own peccadillos.”

“If he was the chaser everyone says he was, why did he want to marry her?”

“That’s the mystery. It was like he came from nowhere and swooped right in. I don’t think even Barbara knows who he is...,” she corrected herself, “...was, really. I told her she should check up on him, find out who he was and where he came from. She didn’t want to know. As I said, she was blinded.”

“You’re telling me how close you two are, yet Barbara is camped out with Rocco La Crosse instead of here with you. Why do you figure that is?”

“Look around you, detective. There’s hardly room enough here for me let alone Barbara and all her things. We’ll be together at the gallery as soon as you rip that tape down. In the meantime, Rocco will take good care of her.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Maggie rose from the futon. “I might want to talk with you again,” she said as she headed for the door.

Unlike most homes she visited, Adrian’s surroundings revealed little to Maggie about the woman. It was as though Barbara was her entire life. Her only reason for existence. She just sat patiently in her dingy little waiting room for her wayward lover’s return. Nothing more. Just the photograph on the wall, her shrine to her lover. Her obsession. It was sad really.

She admired the woman’s dedication, Maggie had never loved anyone like Adrian loved Barbara, but her tenacity just reinforced Maggie’s suspicions.

Adrian Velikson remained her number one suspect.

* * * *

Maggie sat inside The Mosaic Gallery and looked around the room. She was trying to visualize the scenario that might have led to Armando’s death but came up blank. Her eyes drifted to the tall shelf that had displayed his Mexican statues. The tacky statues that had created hard feelings among the real artists. Something caught her eye as beams of late afternoon sun washed across the floor. Something beneath the bottom shelf. She walked over and knelt by the shelves. Underneath, she spotted pieces of broken clay nestled in a thin sifting of soft white powder.

It was something that forensics had missed.

Maggie rose and looked around the room, then opened a small door that lead to a utility closet and found what she was looking for. A whisk broom and dust pan. She pulled a plastic evidence bag from her briefcase and returned to the shelf. Her knees ached and popped as she squatted down and swept the pieces into the bag.

* * * *

“The autopsy’s completed,” said the coroner, a small woman with a stern face. “I’m working on my report. Two hard blows to the back of his head did the deed.”

“No big surprise there,” said Maggie. “I just have to figure out who was holding the weapon, whatever it was.”

“He was one handsome corpse,” the coroner said, matter-of-factly. “Makes me wonder what he must have looked like when he was breathing.”

“He must’ve been a looker, that’s for sure.”

“And I picked several small pieces of broken red clay from his scalp.”

“Like this?” Maggie asked, holding up the evidence bag.

The coroner squinted at the bag and nodded. “Looks like the same stuff to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish up that report.”

“And I need to get this to forensics. Thanks again,” she said as she headed out of the icy cold room and back into the stifling heat.

* * * *

Maggie Reardon sat at her desk in the police department, scouring through her notes and writing up the day’s report. It had been interesting to say the least, but she still hadn’t zeroed in on anything she could really sink her teeth into. And there were several people she still needed to talk to.

Tomorrow promised to be busier than today.

She wanted it wrapped up and she wanted it solved. The sooner the better.

Her cell phone rang. Caller ID told her it was Marty the ex.

Marty the ex who didn’t want to be an ex anymore.

She didn’t want to answer.

But it just kept ringing, nagging her until she finally picked up.

“What,” she said, impatience in her voice.

“I’ve been trying to track you down all day,” he began.

“I’ve been busy. I’ve got a job, remember?”

“I don’t think you’d ever let me forget,” he said. “Maggie, you haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

Silence.

“Why don’t I pick you up later and take you out for a good meal? To a nice restaurant.”

The last thing she wanted to do was put on make-up and girly clothes. Much less spend time with Marty.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got too much work to do.” She was trying to be polite, but it was never easy where Marty was concerned. He was like a damn puppy just begging to be kicked.

“We can make it an early night,” he said. “You’ve got to eat sooner or later.”

“Marty, Marty, Marty,” she sighed. “You’re spinning your wheels. It’s over.”

“That’s not the impression I got the other night.”

“Impressions can be deceiving,” she said and disconnected him.

“Trouble in paradise?” said a voice from behind her.

Jerry Montana was walking toward her with a big, cocky grin and the same young rookie from the other morning following in his wake.

“None of your freakin’ business,” she said.

He ignored her and kept on talking.

“You got that gallery murder solved yet?”

“I wasn’t aware that you were my boss or that I had to answer to you.”

She returned her attention to the papers scattered across her desk.

“Don’t be so touchy Irish,” Jerry said. “I was just wondering if you’ve made any progress.”

“I’m working on it,” she said, looking up and eying the rookie who stood behind him.

“It seems hardly worth the effort to me,” Jerry said.

“What does that mean?”

“C’mon Irish. The guy’s probably just one more illegal. One less ain’t no big deal.”

Maggie said nothing but wanted to say a lot. He was the kind of cop that should never be a cop, much less pump his poison into a rookie who was still wet behind the ears. And besides, she hadn’t been able to find anything on Armando Salazar. No records of any kind. Jerry’d likely hit the nail on the head, which irritated her. But he could have been less racist in making his point. She glared at him and remained silent.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t call me Irish.”

“Sorry, Detective Reardon, is that better? But let’s face it, the guy was probably a wetback.”

Maggie exhaled. “Your surname is Montana, so why the slur?”

“My family got here through the front door. Something else you wanted to say?” He asked, winking at the rookie.

“You have no respect for the living, Jerry, so I could hardly expect you to show any respect for the dead.”

“Am I supposed to say ouch?”

“You’re supposed to leave me alone.”

“Aw, c’mon, you know you love me.”

“Save it for your wife.”

The rookie stifled his snicker when Jerry Montana gave him a dirty look.

The two members of the boys club walked away.

I’ll never be in that club, Maggie thought to herself. I don’t have the right equipment. They wore an invisible sign like the one on The Little Rascals’ club house. No girls allowed. That was fine by her. All she wanted was an even break. Making detective had been a big one, even if there were some sour feelings from the boy’s club.

Maggie shoved her paperwork into the desk drawer, picked up her briefcase and headed for the door. She’d had enough crap for one day. It was nearly dark as she left the station and walked to her car.

It was even darker when she got home.

She fumbled with her keys, opened the door and leaned down to pet Prowler where he stood on the other side to greet her. He didn’t have the best disposition, not even for a cat, but it was better than what she had to deal with in the outside world. She flipped on the light, threw down her keys and headed for the kitchen, Prowler singing his impatient chorus as he followed at her heels.

Maggie filled his dish and headed for the shower, nearly tripping over Prowler’s litter box as she stumbled into the bathroom.

The lukewarm water felt great against her skin as she washed away the day’s grime. She stood under the stream for a long time, her mind replaying the day as the water got cooler and cooler. Barbara Atwell was at Rocco La Crosse’s place. Adrian sat waiting in her hovel. Things were slowly beginning to add up but to what she wasn’t sure. Could the three of them be in it together? And for what purpose? Her mind wandered. Rocco had smelled good sitting next to her in the car. Stop it Maggie! She stuck her head under the stream and gave her short red hair a shampoo with her bar of body soap then rinsed it out quickly. The water had turned ice cold. How long had she been standing there? She turned it off and stepped out, grabbed a towel and dried off.

The phone was ringing.

And ringing.

She threw on her robe and walked to the front room.

Caller ID said it was Marty.

She ignored it, plopped down into her chair and turned on the remote.

Bad boys, bad boys. The theme from Cops was music to her ears as Prowler jumped onto her lap and they settled in for the evening.