Desert Vengeance Page 3

  “Does he look good for it?”

  “You’ll find out when we do, Ms. Jones. In the meantime, you have a nice day.”

  Cole snapped me a little salute. “And why don’t y’all give us a break and stay out of Apache Junction for the next few days?”

  In a neatly synchronized half-turn, the two detectives walked back to rejoin the others.

  I drove two blocks down the street, where I pulled into a Circle K parking lot and checked my cell phone. The GPS tracker on the Wycoffs’ Honda Civic told me it was parked in his driveway. Unless the car was impounded I would still be able to keep an eye on him. If he turned out to be the killer, no problem. He would go back to prison and that would be the end of that.

  If someone else had killed Norma, though…

  Hot as it was, I remained in the Circle K lot for another half hour until I spotted the same UPS truck emerge from Sarsaparilla Lane and head north on Apache Trail. I followed behind it until the driver turned onto Old Dutchman Boulevard, then a couple of blocks later, hooked a left into a sprawling retirement community. As soon as he pulled up to the recreation center, I parked behind him and waited until he got out.

  I walked over, flashing my PI license. “Just like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Jim, which is what his nametag called him, gave my license a deer-in-the-headlights look. He was in his early twenties and good-looking in a bland way. His arms had a deep tan, but the shock of his discovery had drained the color from his face.

  “The police told me not to discuss it with anyone.” His voice sounded wobbly, although he did his manly best to hide it.

  “Oh, they just meant anyone not officially involved in the investigation, Jim.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “How’d you wind up finding the body?”

  He cleared his throat. “The, uh, the door was open and I had this package, and, uh, the minute I walked up the steps I could see her. She was, uh, lying face-up in the hall and she, uh, she’d been shot. I think.” He swallowed. “She didn’t have eyes anymore.”

  “Her eyes were shot out?”

  “I’m thinkin’ yeah. Oh, they was drippin’ and I don’t feel too good.”

  “Her eyes. How big were the holes? Nickle-size? Quarter-size? Part of the forehead or cheek missing?”

  “I didn’t exactly measure, you know? They were just bloody holes and that woman was dead as shit.” Then he gulped and added, “I, uh, I don’t think any other, uh, parts of, uh, of her face or, uh, her head were missing.”

  Arrize and Cole had shown little interest in my .38 revolver, so I suspected that whatever had taken Norma down was something smaller. Still, with shots to both eyes, she was dead before her brain had time to register the impact.

  “Did you see anyone around? Hear any strange noises?”

  “Just the screen door in the rear. I could, uh, from the front door, I could see all the way down the hall to the back, and it was flapping back and forth.”

  During an earlier prowl-around the Wycoff property, I had discovered a Dumpster-lined alleyway cutting through their block. Odds were, the killer had come in from the back.

  “You’re sure, then, that both doors were open? Front and back?”

  He nodded. “What I said, isn’t it? And I, uh, I gotta get back to work.”

  “One more question. The delivery you were about to drop off. What was it?”

  At my mention of “delivery,” he began sounding more confident. “Single small package. DVD-sized. Cops took it.”

  Pornographic videos of children, maybe, the better to welcome Wycoff home with? “Was anyone supposed to sign for it?”

  “A Mrs. Norma Wycoff. Now get away from me. I’m done.”

  With that, he turned his back on me, hauled out a large box, and hustled up the walk to the rec center.

  ***

  On the way to my office, I sifted through the reasons Wycoff might want to kill his wife.

  He felt betrayed.

  She’d demanded a divorce.

  He got drunk or drugged and fried what was left of his perverted mind.

  None of those reasons worked for me. For starters, Norma had never betrayed her husband—just every foster child who had ever walked through their front door. As for asking for a divorce, if she’d wanted one she would never have waited thirty years to file. Like most women who knowingly live with child molesters, she loved playing the loyal martyr too much to give it up. And as far as the booze and/or drugs motive went, mood-enhancing chemicals had never been Brian Wycoff’s thing. In those terrible months I’d lived with them, I had never seen him take a drink, let alone indulge in pharmaceuticals. He played the part of an upstanding, church-going man, and showed up in the pew every Sunday. Wycoff’s only addiction was little girls.

  My suspicion was that someone else killed Norma. The question was—did I care?

  By the time I pulled into my private parking slot at Desert Investigations, I had decided to leave Norma’s demise on the back burner and concentrate on Wycoff himself. He might have served his time, but there was no way the man wouldn’t re-offend, and soon. Popular belief notwithstanding, there was no sure-fire treatment for pedophiles, not even aversion therapy. Once pedophiles started molesting children, they continued right into infirm old age, never stopping until their wheelchairs rolled down the ramp to Hell.

  My mission was to make certain Wycoff did not hurt another child. How I could accomplish that I wasn’t certain, but the research I had done on his extended family, aided by the GPS tracker slipped under the Civic, would help. I’d programmed the tracker to download the car’s position to my smartphone every fifteen minutes, and a glance at my Jeep’s own retro-fitted Nav screen confirmed that the Civic remained in the driveway at the Wycoff house. It wouldn’t stay there forever. Without his conscienceless wife to run interference for him, Wycoff would soon be on the move, and I doubted he would let a little thing like an ankle bracelet stop him.

  ***

  “Still haven’t been arrested, eh?” Jimmy looked up as I entered the office. It was blessedly cool after my long, hot drive on State Route 60.

  “Me or Wycoff?”

  “You, Lena. You’ve been asking for it ever since they let him out.”

  Jimmy and I have been in business together for years and have grown so close that my nickname for him is Almost Brother. Although we don’t look anything alike—he’s a dark, full-blooded Pima Indian, and I’m a green-eyed blonde of probable Caucasian heritage—we both share backgrounds in foster care. Jimmy lucked out, being adopted by a loving family, while I…well, I wasn’t so lucky.

  Although Jimmy and I can squabble like siblings, we understand each other, which is why his criticism hurt. “What do you expect me to do, Jimmy, sit back and watch passively while he starts up with kids again?”

  “Wycoff had years of therapy in prison. That’s why he was cleared for release by the Arizona Protection and Treatment Center.”

  When I laughed, I could see the beginnings of a flush underneath his dark skin. “The only thing sex offenders learn in therapy is to say ‘I recognize that I’ve done wrong, and now that Jesus is my own personal lord and savior, I see the error of my ways and I’ll never do it again. Hallelujah! Hell, Almost Brother, you know as well as I do that he’s been counting the days when he could get to the nearest park and the nearest unsupervised child.”

  He gave me a perplexed look. “You can’t save the world, Lena.”

  “But I can try.” I sat down at my desk and began checking my phone messages.

  Two were from clients, each wanting to know the status of their cases. The first was from Yolanda Blanco, who was trying to find her missing eighteen-year-old daughter, Inez. Two months earlier she had gone to the store for a pack of cigarettes and never returned. After a short investigation, the police learned from the daughter’s b
est friend that Inez had talked about her unhappiness at home with her too-strict mother, and was planning to run off and start a new life with her boyfriend. Since Inez was of age, there was little else the authorities could do, so they dropped the case. Ergo, Yolanda’s reach out to Desert Investigations.

  The second message, from Frank Gunnerston, was similar, except he was looking for his wife. Early into the investigation, I could see what the end game was going to be, so I wasn’t looking forward to calling him back, but I did anyway. I suggested he give up his search, adding that since his wife had vanished four years ago and no one had seen neither hide nor hair of her since, finding her was next to impossible.

  Which was a lie. A week after taking the case, a talk with Mrs. Gunnerston’s closest friend revealed that Mr. Gunnerston was an abusive husband. The friend’s story was backed up by a sister and two cousins. Later that day, Mrs. Gunnerston herself had called my office and confirmed what they’d told me. She had just been released from an out-of-state hospital after undergoing reconstructive surgery on her face, revising the scars put there by Mr. Gunnerston’s loving attentions. After seeing the before-and-after pictures she faxed me, I made my decision.

  Gunnerston wasn’t happy when I told him I would send Desert Investigations’ bill—a small one—the next day, but hey, you can’t please everyone, can you?

  The third message was from Brian Wycoff.

  He wanted to meet with me.

  Chapter Four

  I have a memory…

  I was nine years old and Brian Wycoff was hiding in my closet when I arrived home from school. I had gone upstairs to change from my pretty dress into jeans and a tee shirt. The moment I opened the sliding closet doors, he jumped out.

  “Surprise!”

  While I was still screaming, he dragged me over to my bed and…

  ***

  No point in getting clinical. Suffice it to say I was never the same again. I never screamed during the daytime again, either—not when I was shot in the hip during a drug raid gone bad with Scottsdale PD, nor the time I took a bullet in the shoulder while working a private case. If there was one thing Brian Wycoff had taught me, it was how to keep my mouth shut. Now, irony of ironies, he wanted to talk.

  I thought about the wisdom of a sit-down for a while, then returned his call. “When and where?”

  “Lena, Honey…” His voice quavered. Whether from age or fear, I couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t ‘honey’ me, you child-raping son of a bitch. You want to talk, tell me when and where and never call me ‘honey’ again.”

  “You don’t have to…”

  “When and where or I’m hanging up.”

  “Someplace private.”

  “Bullshit on private, you creep. It’s public or nothing.”

  “Please, I’m not a cre—”

  “When and where?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “What time?”

  “Nine-ish? In the morning?”

  “Nine on the dot. Where?”

  “The Denny’s on Apache Boulevard? They’ve got a quiet area in the back where…”

  “See you at nine tomorrow.” I slammed the phone down.

  Then I ran into the bathroom and threw up.

  Jimmy was waiting for me at my desk when I emerged. “I was on the verge of breaking down the door.”

  “Good thing you didn’t. I’d hate to have more repair bills around here.”

  “Please tell me that wasn’t Brian Wycoff on the phone.”

  “Okay. That wasn’t Brian Wycoff on the phone.”

  The tribal tattoo on Jimmy’s temple always darkened when he was angry and it was beyond pitch-black now. “Sit down, Lena. We have to talk.”

  I’ve never had a conversation worth having when the other person started it by saying, “We have to talk,” so I did the only thing possible.

  I left.

  ***

  By the time I got back from Scottsdale Fight Pro—yes, I belong to two different gyms—Jimmy had gone home for the day. It was, after all, eight-thirty p.m. God knows how long he’d waited for me, but I was good at the waiting game, too, only my waiting tends to be more active. I had begun taking Krav Maga classes at Fight Pro a few months earlier, and the Israeli martial arts classes had already come in handy on a couple of occasions. Still, when I met with Wycoff tomorrow, I would be armed to the teeth. Memory is a great teacher.

  As soon as I reached my apartment upstairs from Desert Investigations I went through my weapons cabinet and reloaded my tote with the necessaries: my faithful Colt .38, a can of wasp spray, a Taser, a Fury Tactical Leather SAP, and my beloved Vindicator. Confronting Wycoff in a prison parking lot was one thing, sitting across from him was something else.

  ***

  I didn’t sleep at all that night, but in the morning I was so hopped-up on adrenaline it didn’t make any difference. Borrowing Jimmy’s Toyota pickup—this was a good time for vehicle anonymity—I arrived at the AJ Denny’s a half hour early. It was right down the street from the Apache Junction Public Library, which I found interesting. A few family sedans, a couple of minivans, three pickup trucks, and a Harley sat in the parking lot. The hidden GPS tracker on the Wycoff’s Honda Civic assured me the Civic remained parked at the Motel 6 near his house, but by beating Wycoff to the restaurant, I would be able to scout out the perfect seat for our encounter. The front of the restaurant was filled, but only one booth had been taken in the overflow section at the back. Perfect. I headed for the booth closest to the rear exit, taking a seat that faced the entrance so I could see Wycoff before he saw me. I kept my right hand on the can of wasp spray in my tote. If necessary, I would work my way up the munitions ladder, finalizing our conversation with a statement from the Vindicator.

  No shooting, though. There were too many families in the restaurant enjoying a late breakfast, and I especially didn’t want to hurt the little girl sitting with her parents eight booths away from me. Blue eyes, red hair done up in pigtails, pale face accented by a faint dusting of freckles. Adorable. She appeared to be about nine, the age I’d been when CPS placed me with the Wycoffs.

  An elderly waitress who looked like her feet hurt took my order for coffee and Danish, then limped toward the kitchen. She returned almost immediately with the Danish and a full carafe of coffee.

  “Enjoy, Hon.”

  I never mind when waitresses call me Hon; it makes me feel less alone. This would be a short meeting, so I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my billfold and left it under the carafe. Then I settled back to wait.

  Wycoff walked through the door promptly at nine. Saw me. Froze.

  He gave me a wobbly smile. His steps were hesitant as he walked toward me, but I noticed how his eyes kept flicking to the child at the other table. So much for years of court-mandated “treatment.” He was still the same old Papa Brian. As he neared, I could see how red his eyes were. Mourning his wife? Or mourning his enabler?

  “Take a seat,” I ordered.

  He slid into the other side of the booth.

  “Now, Lena, Honey…”

  I took my hand out of my tote and spread my fingers so he could read the label: WASP KILLER. “Call me ‘Honey’ one more time and you get this in your face. Now, why’d you want to see me? And by the way, put your hands on the table so I can see them.”

  Prison being a great place to learn how to take orders, he complied.

  He cleared his throat. “I asked to see you because I wanted to tell you that you, uh, you need to stop doing this.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “Stop harassing me.”

  He flinched as the waitress limped up to take his order. If she saw the wasp spray, she didn’t let on.

  I waved her away. “Nothing for him. He’s just passing through.”

  As she limped off, I added another twent
y to the one underneath the carafe. Discretion should always be rewarded.

  With his jailhouse pallor and red eyes, Brian Wycoff looked a decade older than sixty-five, but multiple experiences with ex-cons, many of them elderly, had taught me to never assume anything. Wycoff’s arms may have been thin, but the ropey muscles proved he was no stranger to the prison’s weight room.

  He waited until the waitress was out of earshot, then said, “Harassment’s against the law.”

  “Cry me a river.”

  “You don’t have to be so…”

  “Where were you when Norma was killed?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Where were you?”

  A child’s giggle from the only other occupied booth made him turn around. A smile crept across Wycoff’s face as he stared at the little redhead. Taking him for nothing more than a friendly old guy, she grinned. When he waggled his fingers at her, she giggled and waggled back. People who believe children can tell good from evil had never seen a pedophile work a room or playground.

  “Stop grooming the kid, Brian, and answer my question.”

  He whipped his head back around, put on an injured air. “I was just…”

  “I know what you were ‘just’ doing. Where were you when Norma was killed?”

  He clasped his hands into such tight fists the knuckles turned white. “Why is that your business?”

  I took the cap off the wasp spray, pointed the nozzle toward him, and put my forefinger on the firing button. “One more time. Where were you when Norma was killed?”

  “At the Pinal County Sheriff’s Office, getting fitted for my ankle bracelet!” Catching himself, he lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Several sheriffs’ deputies will back me up.”

  “No kiddies around to keep you company?”

  Color rushed to his cheeks. “You…you…”

  “Bitch. Yeah, I know. Before you left for there, did you walk past that sub-rosa child-care center at the end of your block? Did you pause for a while?”

  He pulled an aggrieved face. “Why do you always have to think the worst of people?”