Indians never cry, so why were Jimmy’s eyes red when he came through the door? He didn’t have allergies and I knew he never drank.
Love trouble?
“Jimmy, what’s wrong?” I didn’t know whether to get up from my desk and throw my arms around him, or give him a chance to collect himself. Remembering that Pima Indians didn’t approve of touchy-feely demonstrations, I chose the latter.
“Lena, I just need a minute here,” he muttered, closing the door behind him.
My partner walked straight to his desk and fired up his computer. He even skipped his usual trip to the office refrigerator for his morning bottle of prickly pear cactus juice. Computers acted on Jimmy the same way booze acted upon others; they offered a soothing balm against life’s ills. His addiction to cyberspace, coupled with his workaholism, kept Desert Investigations in the black no matter how many pro bono cases I accepted.
“Jimmy, please. Tell me.”
Had something happened to his girlfriend? Or worse yet, to his girlfriend’s thirteen-year-old daughter?
“Jimmy.…”
“Lena, I said to wait.” He stared at the computer monitor as the icons appeared, cocked his head as Bill Gates’ cheesy chimes did their thing, and even managed a faint smile when his screen saver, a montage of ancient Pima pictographs, covered the generic blue. The chimes finally faded, replaced by a recording he had made of his cousin’s Chicken Scratch band. As the raucous music rang out, he sighed in relief. “There.”
Then he swiveled his chair around to face me. “Scottsdale PD arrested Owen last night.”
Impossible. Jimmy’s cousin Owen, a straight-up former Marine, had never received so much as a parking ticket. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Jimmy’s red eyes gave me the answer.
“What did he do? Smart off to a traffic cop?” Owen would never do anything so stupid; he respected uniforms. But I wasn’t yet ready to accept the evidence of Jimmy’s ravaged face.
“The cops say he murdered Gloriana Alden-Taylor.”
“What!?” The very idea that Owen Sisiwan, a Bronze Star-winning Afghan War hero, would murder an elderly woman was beyond ludicrous. Go gunsight-to-gunsight with a Taliban sniper, neutralize a land mine, enter a terrorist-filled cave, hey, no problem. But hurt an old woman? Not the Owen I knew.
“That’s crazy, Jimmy. I’ll straighten this out.” I reached for the phone to call my old boss, Captain Kryzinski, head of the Violent Crimes Unit of the Scottsdale Police Department. Kryzinski admired Owen, too, and knew he’d never do anything violent. Outside of a war zone, anyway.
Jimmy leaned forward and placed his hand on mine, keeping me from picking up the receiver. “Listen to me before you make that call. The situation’s worse than you think.”
And it was.
His voice trembling, Jimmy told me that Gloriana Alden-Taylor, founder of Arizona’s most controversial publishing house, had collapsed and died during a banquet the evening before at Desert Shadows, a Scottsdale resort.
“The medical examiner says she was poisoned by water hemlock, and the cops think Owen got the stuff when he took some people for a hike up near Oak Creek.”
Oak Creek, about one hundred and twenty miles north of Scottsdale, was a popular recreation area thanks to its spectacular red cliffs and deep blue streams. “Some people, Jimmy? Who, exactly?”
He pushed a strand of long raven hair away from his dark face. “A bunch of publishers attending their yearly convention. Owen works…worked for Gloriana, and she wanted him to show them the sights. Supposedly, Owen brought the water hemlock back to the resort and sprinkled it on her salad. She died fast, I guess, but real ugly.”
When is murder not ugly? “Where is Owen now?”
“He’s already been transferred to the Fourth Avenue Jail.”
I grunted. The Scottsdale City Jail serves mainly as a holding tank for drunks and batterers. Serious felons are ultimately moved to the new facility run by the Maricopa County Sheriff in downtown Phoenix.
I grabbed my carry-all and started toward the door.
“Lena! Where are you going?”
I stopped, hand on the doorknob. “To the cop shop to give Kryzinski a piece of my mind. Does Owen have an attorney yet?”
Jimmy shook his head. As usual, when upset, the curved tribal tattoo on his temple stood out in startling relief. “Janelle was talking to some lawyer on the phone when I got over to their house this morning. But the money situation, it’s not real good, and it sounded to me like the guy wasn’t eager to take the case.”
The money situation, as Jimmy so delicately phrased it, was always the problem. Since the O.J. trial, it had passed no one’s notice that money, not innocence, was the best defense. Owen’s salary as Gloriana’s chauffeur/bodyguard/handyman probably didn’t amount to much, especially when you factored in a non-employed wife and three children, one of them barely a month old.
Jimmy stood, but I motioned him back down. “You stay here and take care of business, partner. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need the revenue.”
He looked doubtful. “Owen’s my cousin.”
“Yeah, but now he’s my client.”
***
As I drove to the cop shop, I remembered my one run-in with Mrs. Alden-Taylor, or, as she preferred to be addressed, Gloriana. Jimmy and I had attended a Scottsdale Chamber of Commerce mixer to scout new clients when she walked up and introduced herself. She didn’t bother to greet my partner. After all, he was just an Indian.
Gloriana was even taller than I, and her pale blue eyes had to look down to study the scar on my forehead. Unlike more polite people seeing the scar for the first time, she didn’t disguise her interest.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Jones,” she said. “Judging from your stature and coloring, you have got good genes. Too bad about that scar.”
From the articles I’d read about Gloriana in the Scottsdale Journal, I suspected why she approved of me. With my five-foot-nine-inch stature, natural blond hair and green eyes, I probably look like she thought an American was supposed to look. For a woman who claimed to trace her lineage all the way back to the Mayflower, she held oddly Germanic opinions about race.
“Oh, I don’t know, Gloriana,” I answered. “I think the scar gives me a certain panache.”
I didn’t bother responding to the remark about my genes. Anyone who followed my cases in the Arizona media knew I had no idea who my parents were, let alone the rest of my ancestral DNA donors. Raised in a series of foster homes, the name Lena Jones had been bestowed upon me by a particularly unimaginative social worker. For all I knew, I was descended from cannibals.
“The scar doesn’t really matter, Ms. Jones. Your bone structure is quite marvelous.”
As the old woman continued her head-to-toe inventory of my “bone structure,” I wondered about her sexual preference. Then I dismissed the thought. In my experience, lesbians tended to be more subtle.
Inventory finished, Gloriana said, “Good, very good. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they look.”
Was she serious? “That’s what the women who trusted Ted Bundy thought, too, Gloriana.”
When she smiled, her desert-weathered skin creped around her thin mouth and eyes, making her look like an unwrapped mummy. “There might be an exception or two, but overall, breeding tells. That’s why the Alden-Taylors have flourished. As you know, we are not only descended from the Plymouth Brethren, but we can count a president and several senators and generals among our number. The recent research I’ve commissioned even suggests a genetic connection to Thomas Jefferson himself.”
“Through Sally Hemings?” I suspected the old bat might not be quite so thrilled if her genetic connection proved to be through Jefferson’s reputed slave mistress.
A faint snicker at my side alerted me that Jimmy, at least, noticed the acid in my voice.
Gloriana missed the sarcasm. “Personally, Ms. Jones, I doubt the entire Hemings story. Jefferson was much too fastidious to get himself caught up in such a scandal.”
For a moment, I considered another barb, but decided she wasn’t worth the effort.
“Your, ah, genetic theories are certainly interesting.” I turned to go.
She leaned forward and tapped my arm. “Oh, they’re more than theories, Ms. Jones.”
After I walked away, I brushed at my sleeve. It felt dirty.
***
The perfect March morning brought out the last of the snowbirds. Fat herds of Winnebagos, Airstreams, and Holiday Ramblers wallowed north up Hayden Road ten miles under the speed limit, tying up traffic and spewing diesel fumes into the crisp Arizona air. As much as Arizonans appreciate the money the snowbirds funnel into our economy, their turtle-paced driving makes commuters crazy. No wonder so many local vehicles sport bumper stickers that snarl, IF IT’S SNOWBIRD SEASON, WHY CAN’T WE SHOOT THEM?
I sounded the horn on my 1945 Jeep when a beige Wildwood with, ho ho, racing stripes, drifted toward my lane. At the very last second, its elderly driver remembered where he was (Driving. On a crowded city street. In a multi-ton vehicle.) and straightened his metal monster. Death once more averted, I unclenched my hands and continued north, Scottsdale’s narrow green belt on my right, ass-to-ass condos on my left.
When Scottsdale North, the police department’s main station, had been built a decade back, the city had pretty much ended at Bell Road. Now urban sprawl continued all the way to the foothills of the McDowell Mountains, more than twenty miles north of where the town first began. The pristine Sonoran Desert I loved was being replaced by tract homes and strip malls; the protests of various environmental groups had been unable to stop it. Not even the groups backed with Alden-Taylor money.
Gloriana had loved the desert, too, although this trait seldom endeared her to other environmentalists. She actually considered the wilderness her family’s private legacy, not a resource to be enjoyed by everyone, rich or poor, Anglo or non. I suspected that if Gloriana had had her way, the entire Sonoran Desert would have been strung with barbed wire and patrolled by armed militia to keep out the riff raff.
Come to think of it, that kind of thing was already happening down by the Mexican border.
The more I reflected on Gloriana’s self-involved life, the more I realized that her murder didn’t surprise me. Given her ability to make enemies, it was odd that no one had killed her until now.