Desert Vengeance Read online

  When I chuckled, Debbie grinned. “Yeah, it’s a bit much, and any woman driving a Jeep like yours might find Mustang, Cougar, or Fishin’ Frenzy more suitable, but those trailers are already taken.”

  Debbie—she said addressing her as “Mrs. Margules” made her feel old—was a comfortable, denim-clad woman somewhere in her sixties, with deep laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. She smelled like turpentine, which made me like her immediately. Madeline always smelled like turpentine, too.

  As I filled out the rental form in the office of her yellow house, I learned a little about my host. After retiring from teaching art at a Phoenix high school seven years earlier, she decided to fulfill her lifelong dream of running a B&B. Upon being shown this fifteen-acre property, which already had a run-down single-wide trailer in the back, she revised her dream. As soon as the sale went through, paid for by the sale of her Scottsdale condo, she bought several other trailers and used her artistic skills to renovate and decorate them. Recently she’d picked up a couple more at an auction, but hadn’t yet finished the renovations.

  “You’d be surprised how popular those little things are,” she said. “In fact, the only reason I have a vacancy is because the woman who originally reserved it was in a car wreck a couple of days ago and is still recuperating. Nothing life-threatening, just a broken leg, but she’s in traction for a while. Anyway, you can stay in Monarch until the eleven a.m. checkout time on Monday, if you wish. Just let me know as soon as you decide so I don’t double-book. Oh, and I serve breakfast between seven and eight, here in the dining room.”

  I booked Monarch through Sunday night, explaining that I was taking a back-to-nature break from a heavy workload.

  “Lot of that these days…people working two jobs just to get by.”

  While she ran Desert Investigations’ Visa card through the system, I looked around. For such a conventional-looking woman, she had surprising taste in art. On the way to and from Monarch, I had already noticed a series of large, non-objective metal sculptures scattered around the property. The largest stood in a clearing, a seemingly jumbled-together construction of iron, bronze, pipe fittings, barbed wire, and rocks soaring more than six feet high. Despite its bulk, the piece was graceful, and after studying it for a moment, I thought it resembled a weeping angel. The bronze plaque at its base said MEMORY.

  Here in the yellow house, the hallway showcased several Sonoran Desert landscapes, their loosely rendered style and vivid colors edging more toward edgy Expressionism than the tamer blurs of Impressionism. They were signed “D. Margules.” But the office—although standard, with its rows of file cabinets, bookcases, and utilitarian desk—was decorated with a portrait of a dark-haired girl of about ten. Unlike the desert paintings, the portrait, also signed “D. Margules,” was near-photographic in its realism.

  “My daughter, Lindsey,” she explained, when she caught me studying the painting.

  Given Debbie’s age, the girl could be in her forties by now. “She live nearby?”

  “Nope. Here’s your Visa back and your receipt.”

  In my line of work you learn what’s your business and what’s not, so instead of nosing into a possible strained relationship with her adult daughter, I asked, “What’s a good place to eat in town? Something not as busy as Rock Springs.”

  “You like Mexican food?”

  “You’re not allowed to live in Arizona if you don’t.”

  “Then I recommend Coyote Corral. The cook’s the real deal, came up from Hermosillo last year to join her son. He runs the thrift store in town—stop by there if you get a chance. Great bargains on books, knickknacks, tools, whatever. Anyway, the Coyote’s food is terrific and you get plenty of it. Margaritas are stellar. Oh, and you didn’t ask, but Black Canyon Creek is just over the hill, and the fishing is particularly good when the level’s up. If you take the right fork down in the valley, you’ll come to the public access area. Trout and bass, mainly. Some perch. ”

  Mainly to sound friendly, I said, “Shoot, if I’d known, I would have brought my gear.”

  “No problem. Each trailer is equipped with basic fishing tackle. Just return it when you’re through.”

  We discussed fish for a while, then I thanked her and left.

  Finding my way back to Monarch wasn’t as easy as I’d thought it would be. There were so many trees and brush—not to mention more metal sculptures with lofty names—between each trailer that I lost my way several times. First I ended up at the aptly named Gone Fishin’ (pale blue with paintings of trout, bass, etc., swimming all over it), where a beautiful redhead with a dazzling complexion sat gutting a brook trout on the stoop. She looked up, gave me a wave, then returned to her bloody business. Then I stumbled across Mustang, where the brunette inhabitant wasn’t as friendly. I liked the paintings of horses on the desert-tan trailer, though. After taking two more wrong turns and passing by several more cutely decorated trailers—Arizona wildlife was a recurring theme—I finally arrived at Monarch.

  After showering and drying myself off with a butterfly-patterned towel, I slipped into fresh clothes: black tee shirt and black jeans, my usual wear. Then I headed into town.

  ***

  Coyote Corral was everything Debbie promised. A surprisingly large combination restaurant and bar, the two rooms were only slightly separated by a half-wall of wood latticework. In the cozy dining area, red leather-ish booths lined the walls, leaving a space in the middle for a few tables, all filled. From my booth near the latticework, I could easily hear several conversations in the bar, most of it about horses or trucks.

  The woman who cooked the delicious chiles relleños I wolfed down might have been from Hermosillo, but the Coyote’s owner certainly wasn’t. Mario Genovese tended the standing-room-only bar while an attractive ash blonde who strongly resembled him waited tables. Shana Genovese Ferris. That meant Grace Genovese was home with the children. Not good.

  As I mopped up the last grain of rice on my plate, I considered my wisest course of action. I could talk to Mario and Shana here, then drive back to their house and issue a warning to Grace. I hadn’t liked what I’d seen earlier in the day, and suspected Grace was an enabler, albeit an unconscious one. It might be a good idea to pay a late-night visit to Wycoff, too. Yank his chain again. Get a few more food pellets.

  In the best of all possible worlds, I wouldn’t have to do anything. The GPS system on Wycoff’s ankle bracelet would alert the computer at the Pinal County sheriff’s office that he was on the lam and the authorities would take immediate action. But this wasn’t the best of all possible worlds. Court-ordered ankle bracelets are notoriously easy to ditch. Chances were that Wycoff’s remained at the Apache Junction house, making it appear he was obeying protocol. Then again, Wycoff might still be wearing the bracelet, but so were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of other felons across the greater Phoenix area. With so many to track, it could take days for some glassy-eyed computer geek at the sheriff’s office to notice that this particular felon had flown the coop.

  And by then…

  I called for my check, and when Shana dropped it off, slipped her my business card along with a twenty. “Please tell your father to call me as soon as the crowd clears out.”

  Worry lines appeared at the corner of her hazel eyes. “This is about my uncle, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Your daughter isn’t safe around him.”

  The warmth left her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

  “If your dad would prefer to talk in person, I’m staying at Debbie’s Desert…”

  “Oasis,” she finished. “I doubt he’ll have time for that, because he’s pretty busy. We’re busy, but I’ll give him your card and have him call you.” As she turned to take my Visa to the bar, I heard her mutter, “Not that it’ll do any good.”

  ***

  When I returned to the hilltop overlooking the Genovese house, my worst fears were
confirmed. Grace was speaking to Wycoff across the pasture fence and she had Bethany with her. Grace’s eyes were only for her brother—they’d obviously been close, I suspected too close—but Wycoff never took his eyes off the little girl. How could Grace not notice? Perhaps she was so wrapped up in her own sisterly agenda she’d become blind to the obvious signs? They’re all wrong about him, Honey, he wouldn’t hurt a fly…the theme song of enablers and co-dependents everywhere.

  Someone had to stop this.

  Chapter Six

  Because my trailer is not visible from Debbie’s yellow house, I was able to park the Jeep on the far side of her turquoise truck and make my way on foot through the trees without anyone seeing me. While I had been scarfing down chiles relleños at Coyote Corral, fat black clouds had gathered to the southeast, edging the humidity into the near-unbearable. One of Arizona’s infamous monsoon storms was in the offing, but you can’t order up weather to suit your needs. Fortunately, I had a clear plastic rain slicker in my backpack along with other necessities, so whatever Ma Nature threw at me, I felt prepared.

  The zigzag hike up the hill to a sheltered spot overlooking the narrow valley took longer than planned, and by the time I scrambled into a thicket of brittlebush and scrub pine, the wind had risen. After donning my rain slicker, I hunkered down at the base of a tree, set my cell on vibrate, and settled in for a long wait.

  Wycoff’s beige Honda Civic had been moved off to the side to let Genovese and his daughter take the pickup to the restaurant. Bethany’s Pink Princess bicycle now lay on the long veranda, sheltered from the coming rain. A towheaded boy, probably Luke, the little girl’s brother, was busy replacing the bike’s chain. As I watched through my binoculars, Grace Genovese came out the front door carrying a large covered platter, trailed by Bethany. The two started toward the pasture gate before a shout from the boy stopped them both. With the wind so high I couldn’t hear any of the ensuing conversation, but it was clear the boy didn’t want the girl to follow her grandmother to the RV. It was just as clear that their grandmother took issue with his disapproval, and a long argument followed that left Bethany visibly distressed. The drama ended with the girl joining her brother on the veranda, and Grace walking alone toward the RV. My binocs were strong enough that I could read the look on the boy’s face. He knew exactly what kind of man his uncle was.

  Several times I checked my phone to see if Genovese had called, but came up nada. Just three calls from Jimmy, one from wife-beating Hank Gunnerston, but none from the grandfather of an endangered nine-year-old. Too busy to protect her?

  At ten, the lights in the house turned off. A few minutes later, the monsoon began. As monsoons go, the storm wasn’t too bad, but the lightning was near-blinding and the rain was heavy enough that despite my raingear, I got soaked. At one point the combined noise of thunderclaps and screaming winds grew so loud it sounded like a fleet of Boeing 787s overhead. Although semi-sheltered from the worst of the downpour, I could still feel the wind pushing at me, trying to blow me off the hill and into the narrow valley below.

  Around midnight the storm moved on, leaving the clean smell of ozone behind. It must have been raining just as hard in the mountains up by Flagstaff because the runoff turned the formerly gentle Black Canyon Creek into a raging torrent. Unfortunately, the torrent didn’t rise high enough to jump the banks and sweep Wycoff’s RV downstream. By the end of nature’s spectacular display, the RV remained hunkered down on the bank, a flickering blue light from a television set lending it a spectral appearance.

  Fleetingly I wondered what Wycoff could be watching. Reruns of Leave It to Beaver? The Mickey Mouse Club? A Shirley Temple movie?

  At twelve-thirty the blue light flicked off.

  Shortly after three, the Genoveses’ pickup passed within ten feet of me as it topped the ridge and headed down to the house. Mario and Shana, their work at Coyote Corral finished.

  Bethany was safe.

  For the rest of the night, anyway.

  ***

  Making a garrote is easy. You only need a strong cord or fishing line and duct tape, all in good supply at Monarch. A search through the kitchen cabinets procured each, along with a nice selection of fishing lures to go with the rod and reel I found in one of the closets. In less than ten minutes I had created a lethal and silent weapon.

  Not that I needed silence. After last night’s monsoon, Black Canyon Creek still raged, and the humidity in the air all but promised another whopper tonight. If Wycoff managed to get out a scream before the garrote tightened around his neck, the sound would be masked by the roar of the creek. Perfect. Now all I had to do was wait.

  Ordinarily I dress in black jeans, but on special occasions I switch to cargo pants. In anticipation of this day, I had purchased a pair of nighttime camo cargo pants and matching jacket. Topping off that day’s purchase had been the faux-leopard skin concealed-carry pocket holster for my .38 Colt revolver.

  Between the two articles of clothing, I counted twelve pockets. I wouldn’t need all of them, but it’s better to be over-equipped than under. On the off-chance Genovese decided he needed to take care of business in town, leaving the coast clear for his foolish wife to allow Wycoff to “get to know” his niece, I set my phone on vibrate. After a quick breakfast of oat cakes and fruit compote at Debbie’s cottage—the other tenants were nowhere in sight—I returned to my outpost on top of the ridge, an arsenal stashed in my new cargo pants.

  I had never killed in cold blood before, which is not to say I have never killed anyone. When you’re a cop and an armed suspect points a gun at you, you shoot first and ask questions later. But that’s a different scenario. This killing would be flat-out murder.

  At eight, Grace Wycoff Genovese took a covered plate out to the RV. A half hour later, she returned. At ten, Luke emerged from the garage with a motorbike. It roared to life, and when he passed my hiding spot, he came so close I could see he had his mother’s hazel eyes. At noon, Grace took another covered plate to the RV, this time staying for a full hour. When she returned to the house, she carried several dirty dishes. Through my binocs I recognized the Spode china pattern one of my foster mothers—the eighth, I think, or maybe she was my eleventh—had inherited from her grandmother. Faience Chinoiserie, or a good imitation. Nothing but the Sunday best for her precious brother.

  A little after eleven, Mario Genovese came out with Bethany. They loaded her Pink Princess bicycle into the bed of the pickup and drove off. This left Grace and Shana alone in the house.

  Nothing much happened for the next few hours, so I killed time checking my phone messages. Still no calls from Genovese, two more from Jimmy. Feeling guilty, I texted him back that something had come up necessitating my stay in Black Canyon City, and to hold down the fort. While I was still typing, he called again, the phone vibrating nearly out of my hand. I didn’t take that call, either. A string of text messages rolled in from Frank Gunnerston, who seemed to be having trouble accepting the fact that Desert Investigations would not help him find the wife he’d abused for so many years. Another text message came in from client Yolanda Blanco, who informed me she had followed up the lead we’d given her re her runaway daughter, and driven up to Flagstaff. Once there, she discovered that an hour earlier, Inez had bailed on the druggie boyfriend she’d been living with and split for parts unknown. Would Desert Investigations help locate her again?

  After texting Gunnerston back and telling him what he could do with himself, I composed a more careful message to Yolanda, assuring her that yes, we would track her daughter down. Again. Then I texted Jimmy and told him to give Yolanda a fifty-percent discount on her next bill, and not to let her know we were doing it. Like most single mothers, she had more love than money.

  So much grief in the world. So many people hooking up with the wrong partners. So many folks screwing up their lives for the most trivial of reasons.

  So much purposeful blindness.

/>   Ignoring another incoming call from Jimmy—he was about to set a new record for number of calls placed to me in a single day—I leaned back against an acacia and made myself comfortable, which was relatively easy in my loose cargo pants. Thanks to the padding in my new concealed-carry holster, my .38 didn’t poke me too much, either.

  About an hour later, when I was in danger of dropping off to sleep from sheer boredom, Genovese and his granddaughter returned. The truck’s windows were closed and they drove so quickly I couldn’t see their expressions, but when the truck started down the hill, I saw a purple-and-tan bicycle in the bed, its sales tag flapping in the wind. Requiescat in pace, Pink Princess. Soon afterwards, Luke came roaring over the hill on his motorbike. He looked upset.

  Just before five the wind shifted. Earlier it had been little more than the usual light breeze sent over from California, but now it pushed a sky full of dark clouds up from Mexico. Phoenix was probably getting another haboob, the most severe type of dust storm, but at this elevation, Black Canyon City would only receive rain. From the denseness of those clouds, though, it appeared it would be a lot.

  A little after six, Grace, clad in a rain slicker and carrying another plate full of food, headed for the RV while Genovese stood on the porch and watched her, Shana and Luke at his side. Bethany remained in the house. This time Grace exited the RV almost as soon as she went in. Once Grace rejoined the others, they all went back into the house together.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to…

  Wrong. At six-thirty Mario Genovese and Shana got into the pickup and drove up the hill on their way to work the night shift at Coyote Corral. As soon as they were out of sight, Grace came back out of the house holding Bethany’s hand. I stood up, ready to run down the hill to stop them, but that turned out not to be necessary. When they reached the pasture gate, Luke slammed out of the house, ran across the yard, and snatched the girl away from his grandmother. Words were exchanged, but I couldn’t hear them over the screaming wind. Their altercation continued for several minutes, finally ending with all three returning to the house.