Desert Vengeance Read online

  Unlike Jacklyn’s, whose voice wobbled when she said, “My son was seven. And Sophia’s daughter was eight.”

  Shaken to the core by this recital of misery, I asked, “Who’s Sophia?”

  “She was supposed to be here with us this weekend, but she’s in the hospital,” Nicole explained. “In traction from a car accident. That’s the only reason you were able to rent Monarch. She’d planned to stay in it. Butterflies are her thing.”

  The plot of one of my favorite mystery novels described how the victims of a heinous crime had gotten together to deliver the rough justice a murderer deserved. Had I, bent upon my own desire for revenge, stumbled into a similar situation? From past experience I knew that revenge killings aren’t only the stuff of fiction. They happen in real life, too. I also knew that women, either through anger or grief, were every bit as capable as men of being the perpetrators. Take the women at Debbie’s Desert Oasis. If what they told me was true, all three had lost children—four, counting the bed-ridden Sophia. Maybe none of them, including the hospitable Debbie, looked like killers, but at the time, Brian Wycoff hadn’t looked like a pedophile, either.

  In the kitchen area was a small stool that had doubled as a stepladder during my search through the cabinets. Without saying anything, I fetched it.

  Taking a deep breath, I sat across from the women whose faces I now recognized. “Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Years earlier Debbie, Jacklyn, Nicole, and Sophia had come to know each other through their attendance at the meetings of Parents of Missing Children, a Phoenix offshoot of Parents of Murdered Children.

  “At first we all belonged to PMC,” Jacklyn explained, “but our situations were different. Unlike the others, our children could still be alive, like Elizabeth Smart or Jaycee Dugard. At least that’s what we hoped.”

  I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain these women must have endured for them to actually hope their children were kept imprisoned as someone’s sex slaves. Yet I said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

  “We do everything we can to keep their cases alive,” Nicole said. “When another child goes missing, we allow ourselves to be interviewed holding up the age-progressed pictures of our children the police artist made for us, hoping that someone will recognize them.”

  That was why Nicole and Jacklyn looked familiar. At one time or another, I had seen them on television. The two had remained in their original homes—as did Sophia, they said—in case their children ever found their way back. Debbie, however, had lost all hope.

  My suspicious mind made me ask two terrible questions. “When exactly did your children go missing?”

  “Candice disappeared on her way home from school over eight years ago,” Nicole answered. “The school was only three blocks away. I’d originally planned to pick her up as usual, but that day she asked if she could walk home with some other girl, so I let her. As it turned out, the girl—her name was Robin—woke up sick and didn’t go to school, so…” When she shrugged, it was like she was trying to dislodge a hundred-pound weight off her back.

  Self-loathing tainted Jacklyn’s voice. “Stevie was taken from the park playground nine years ago when I had my back turned, flirting with some stupid guy.”

  “And Sophia? What about her?”

  They looked at each other, and a message of some sort passed between them. “Go ahead and tell her,” Jacklyn said to Nicole. “It can’t hurt Sophia since the poor thing’s been, uh, in traction for almost a week, remember.”

  Nicole sighed. “Sophia’s daughter, Trish, vanished thirty-two years ago. She was eight.”

  In other words, Sophia’s daughter had disappeared while Brian Wycoff was still free as the proverbial bird, free to terrorize and rape small children. Maybe even kill them.

  Until one of them grabbed a kitchen knife and…

  If the story about Sophia’s car accident checked out, it left one viable suspect: Debbie Margules, whose daughter also went missing before my nine-year-old self ended Wycoff’s predatory career. Debbie’s kitchen had plenty of knives, and from the various metal sculptures on display around the property, she owned an acetylene torch, too. No wonder she was still at the sheriff’s office.

  “Is that attorney in Bermuda really good?” I hoped Nicole would tell me he was Johnnie Cochran, risen from the dead.

  “The best,” she assured me.

  “It’s not a coincidence you two are up here in Black Canyon City at the same time, is it?”

  Nicole shook her head. “We’ve come up here at the same time every year since Debbie opened this place. August is when her daughter and my son both disappeared, different years, of course. She had the idea that all of us should be together around the anniversary date. Get away from it all, maybe fish a little, and in the evening, participate in healing ceremonies instead of sitting home and crying by ourselves. Strength in numbers and all that. It was working, too.” She paused. “Up until now.”

  After swallowing the lump in my throat, I asked, “So what do you want me to do?” But I already knew the answer.

  “Find out who actually did it.”

  ***

  It’s not often in my job that I come up against a moral quandary. In fact, it had happened only twice in my years in law enforcement. Frankly, I didn’t care who killed Brian Wycoff, but I liked Debbie Margules and respected what she had done to help these grieving women. But, here’s where it got complicated. I used to be a police officer, and police officers are sworn to uphold the law, however unfair that law might seem. We are never, under any circumstances, supposed to act as judge, jury, and executioner.

  Then again, the other night I had been prepared to execute Wycoff myself. Only the fact that someone else had already done it kept his blood off my hands.

  Cops do kill. They kill in self-defense and they kill to defend others, which is where things start getting gray around the edges. I had been ready to kill Wycoff in order to protect Bethany and any other child who might cross his path, but I wouldn’t have tortured him. And I wouldn’t have allowed suspicion to fall on anyone else. If necessary, I would have confessed.

  Did I see Debbie Margules as a murderer? I’ve always believed anyone is capable of murder, depending on the provocation, but did I see her as a torturer? Again, that depends. Would a grieving mother torture a man into telling her the location of her child’s grave?

  Possibly.

  But the number of those burn marks could suggest something else. Eight burns, seven known victims. There had been seven children on the witness list at Brian Wycoff’s trial; I was only one of them.

  Who else was out there I didn’t know about?

  ***

  “You always bring your work clothes when you go fishing?” I asked Nicole, as we zipped up I-17 on the way to Prescott, where Debbie was being interviewed. If actually arrested, she would be kept in a holding cell until transferred to the jail in Cordes Junction.

  Nicole smiled. “I spent five years in the Girl Scouts, where they taught me to always be prepared.” Catching my expression out of the corner of her eye, she added, “Some clients of mine are attempting to buy a stretch of land near Cottonwood, and before I left Phoenix we set up a Sunday meeting with the parties involved. Since I knew I’d be up here for several days, I packed my ‘work clothes,’ as you call them, to save me the drive back and forth. You have a problem with suits?”

  “Not on others. Myself, I find them confining.”

  “You and Jacklyn, two of a kind.”

  “I don’t own a Harley.” But maybe someday…

  Outside Nicole’s silver Lexus, scrub turned into pine and saguaros became few and far between as we climbed in elevation. Cattle grazed on the lush vegetation. It was, as Detective Yvonne Eastman had said, a pretty drive. When we took the State Route 69 turnoff, the cattle disappeared, rep
laced by new housing developments, then, as we passed through Prescott Valley, apartment blocks and trailer courts. Finally Prescott’s beautiful Victorians came into view.

  Nicole waved at one small, gingerbready house. “You wouldn’t believe what that thing cost. Nine hundred thou for an eleven-hundred-square-footer, two bedroom, one bath, no garage, built 1886 and in need of repair.”

  “I couldn’t even afford the heating bill.” Because of the elevation, the Snow God visited Prescott every winter. “It is pretty, though.”

  “You looking? I work with several realtors in the Scottsdale area and I can…”

  “I’m all set.”

  “A girl can’t live above her office for the rest of her life.”

  She had done her homework. I wasn’t sure whether I liked that or not.

  The weekend traffic, comprised mainly of Phoenicians escaping the worst of the August heat, slowed to a crawl as we made our way through the downtown area to the sheriff’s office, and it was only with difficulty that I warded off more offers of realtor referrals. To be frank, I don’t like houses, no matter how nice they are. Houses remind me too much of the places I had stayed back in the day when home ownership appeared to be the only requirement to becoming a foster parent. Yes, I know the system has changed, and yes, I’m aware that applicants now had to endure background checks that would freak out an NSA agent, but I’ll take an apartment any day, thank you very much. In apartments, your neighbors can hear you scream.

  “Here we are,” Nicole said, pulling into the sheriff’s parking lot. “Sure do love the weather up here.”

  She had me there. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the Valley’s heat, and if the interview with Debbie went the way I thought it would, I’d be back in the city while they were still frying eggs on car hoods.

  There are three ways you get immediate help in police stations. The first is when you’re a suspect, the second is when you’re bleeding, and the third is when you arrive with a briefcase-carrying attorney. Within minutes we were cloistered in an un-bugged room with Debbie Margules, who appeared strangely relaxed.

  “Took you long enough,” she said to Nicole.

  “I had to talk Ms. Jones here into coming in with me. You haven’t given a statement, have you?”

  “All they got from me was my name, telephone number, address, social security number, and date of birth. All of which they already had.”

  Nicole turned to me. “Told you so.”

  Debbie wasn’t finished. “You’ll be gratified to know that nice Detective Eastman ran out and got me a veggie burger, iced tea, and carob-dipped strawberries.”

  Nicole and I smiled. When we’d come into the room, Eastman had been stationed by the door, humming “Maria.” She didn’t have much of a repertoire but at least she was on pitch.

  “Eastman gone now?” Debbie asked.

  At our nods, Debbie continued, “Like I said, I didn’t tell them anything, although she did her best, and in a way it was quite entertaining, but I want to go home now.” The corner of her left eye twitched, proving her earlier calm a mere act.

  Nicole nodded. “I’m pretty certain that can be arranged. Wait here.” She stood up and went in search of Eastman.

  While we waited, we talked fish. They were biting.

  “It’s always like that after a storm,” Debbie said.

  “I’ve never done much fishing before.”

  “You should. It’s very relaxing.”

  “I thought you were a vegetarian.”

  “I eat fish. But even if I were a pure vegetarian, I wouldn’t force my dietary beliefs on anyone. Besides, fishing is rather Zen, which is why most fishermen—and fisherwomen—are such upright citizens. Things get them all bent out of shape, they don’t grab their guns and shoot up the local Elks Lodge, they just arm themselves with rods and reels and head for the nearest body of water.”

  We discussed the virtues of trout and bass until Nicole came back, Detective Eastman in tow. They were both smiling.

  “You can go now, Ms. Margules,” Eastman said. “But we’d appreciate it if…”

  “If I didn’t leave town.” Debbie smiled, too, although the twitch didn’t leave her eye.

  “Exactly. Now, do you need me to show you out?”

  “We can find it, thanks.”

  “Then have a nice day.” Eastman sauntered away to the strains of “Maria.”

  ***

  Once we were back on the road, fish disappeared from the conversation.

  “Nicole and Jacklyn have already told me about Parents of Missing Children and what happened to you all, so I’m up to speed there,” I informed Debbie. For ease of conversation, we were both sitting in the Lexus’ backseat as it purred down the highway. “What I need now is for you to tell me about the death threat you leveled at Brian Wycoff at the restaurant. And I want to know how you found out he was staying at the Genoveses’ in the first place.”

  Her calm demeanor had disappeared once we left the parking lot, and incipient tears welled in her eyes, whether from fear or relief, I couldn’t tell.

  “The gals had been up here since last Saturday, and by Thursday they were getting a little restless, so I suggested we go down to the Coyote Corral and have dinner and a few drinks, maybe pick up some tamales for Friday. Mario’s cook is terrific and the green tamales are vegetarian and…”

  Interrupting what sounded like the beginnings of a soliloquy about the excellence of Mexican-veg cuisine, I said, “I’m sure they’re delicious, but I need to know how you found out about Wycoff’s presence in Black Canyon City.”

  I could see Nicole frowning in the rearview mirror over my snappish tone, but I didn’t care. The minute we reached the B&B, I was packing up and driving back to Scottsdale. I wanted to get there before dark, heat be damned.

  Debbie swallowed. “Sorry. My nerves…” She swallowed again, then said, “It was just…just…kind of a coincidence, I guess. Midway through the meal I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room—too much Dos Equis, probably—and to get there, you have to pass by Mario’s office. Anyway, the door was ajar and I saw Grace in there with him, and even though they were trying to keep their voices down, I could tell they were having a fight. Um, I don’t mean a physical fight, although both sounded pretty heated. It was over Wycoff. He’d shown up at the house and Grace was all for letting him stay in that RV of theirs as long as he wanted, but Mario said he didn’t want him anywhere near his grandkids, that if he wasn’t gone by Monday he was calling the sheriff. He was furious, and Grace was crying….”

  She took a deep breath. “I was in shock, hearing that…that awful name again, but somehow I made it into the ladies’. I stayed in there so long Nicole came to check on me.”

  “Did you know he was Grace’s brother?”

  “Not when I first moved up here, that’s for sure, or I’d have found a different property to buy. In a different town. Maybe even a different state.” A note of sadness crept into her voice. “You know, Grace and I used to be friends.”

  “Until Grace told you who her brother was.”

  Debbie shook her head. “Mario told me.”

  Now we were entering “whore on the hill” territory. “This was when?”

  At first I didn’t think she was going to answer, but then she said, “Two years ago, Mario and I got, ah, close. He and Grace were separated at the time so I didn’t see anything wrong with it. And he was so lonely! Those two have always had their troubles. Even though their place is down in that valley, sometimes when the wind was right I could hear them arguing. But he didn’t want to break up the marriage. Catholics are like that where family’s concerned. Anyway, while they were separated and she was living with her sister down in Phoenix, that’s when we had our affair. And when he told me about his brother-in-law.”

  “Pillow talk?” It wasn’t hard to imag
ine. Your guard gets dropped when you’re lying in bed next to someone who’s just made you happy.

  Her face flushed. “He said she was all messed-up sexually, and he blamed her brother for it, said that he’d…he’d messed with her when she was a kid.”

  What a surprise. “When she was around nine, maybe?”

  She stared at me. “How’d you know?”

  I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “A lucky guess.” For the first time I felt pity for Grace. With Wycoff for an older brother, she’d really had no chance. When he started molesting her, where were their parents? Didn’t they notice something was wrong? But maybe they did. Maybe like so many parents of budding pedophiles, they decided to look the other way, to pretend nothing was happening. Or maybe they blamed Wycoff’s behavior on Grace. Just like Norma blamed his behavior on me and all those other children. God, I could only imagine what Grace had gone through as a child.

  On second thought, I didn’t have to imagine. I knew.

  As the exit ramp for Black Canyon City came into view, I asked Nicole, “When Genovese and Grace were arguing at the Coyote Corral, you were there. Did you hear it?”

  She kept her eyes on the road, but I could read her bitter expression in the rearview mirror. “Everybody heard.”

  “Jacklyn, too?”

  “What did I just say?”

  Oh, hell. A whole damn bar full of suspects.

  Chapter Twelve

  The more I thought about the Wycoff killings the less I believed they were perpetrated by some Johnny-Come-Lately vigilante who hung out at the local bar. Instinct told me the crimes were rooted in the past. If I decided to help Debbie, the past was where I needed to go.

  And I was not looking forward to it.

  During the drive, two names had occurred to me—both of them from my own past—so when Nicole dropped me off at the Oasis, I hurried up to the butterfly trailer and called Jimmy. “I hate to bother you,” I told him, “it being the weekend and all, but I need a favor.”