Authors: Dianne Emley
Arnold sneered. “It’s a toxic dump is what it is. Try and explain that to my wife. So you think somebody here knows something about a murder in Pasadena.”
“We’re following leads. Connie Jenkins’s name came up. She owns the Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go Market at the corner of Highway One-Eleven and Main. I want to see who’s around. Run some license plates.”
“I know that market out on the highway, but I don’t know anything about it.” Arnold turned to the deputy. “Villalobos, you know those people?”
“I know Connie Jenkins,” Villalobos said. “She’s a tough old bird. Winged a guy who tried to rob her a few years back with a shotgun she keeps behind the counter.” The deputy laughed. “Her son’s back in town, living there. Name of Jack Jenkins.”
“Yeah?” Kissick said. “You know anything about him?”
“Got a criminal record as long as your arm. Did a dime in Quentin for robbery, aggravated assault, and mayhem. Sprung last year. Jack’s a badass.”
“Was he ever in for murder?”
“No. But he’s the main suspect in his own wife’s unsolved murder. Buddy of mine handled the case. Jack married Debbie about twelve years ago. Eighteen months later, she disappeared. Two years after that, her partially buried bones were found by a couple of guys riding dirt bikes out in the desert. They never had enough to arrest
Jack. He’s one of those cool-as-a-cucumber guys. He’s got those dead eyes.”
Kissick knew those dead eyes well. “How old is he?”
“Late thirties.”
“Anything else of interest?”
Villalobos began to chuckle. “I don’t know if this is any help to you, but it’s pretty interesting. Jack likes to wear makeup. I’ve never seen him in a dress, but I know some people who have.”
The temperature dropped with the setting sun. The darkness brought out the stars in the clear desert sky, as well as the townspeople who’d been held hostage indoors by the heat. People sat in lawn chairs in front of their homes or with their feet dangling from pickup truck beds.
Mike Arnold pulled the Suburban up to the gas tanks at Jenkins’s and he and Kissick got out. Arnold unscrewed the gas cap and started toward the mini-mart to prepay. The old pumps didn’t have point-of-service devices installed.
Kissick saw the flickering of a TV through Venetian blinds over the mini-mart’s windows. Through the open door, he heard the sound of Hollywood gunfire, which was more sonorous than the clipped pop-pop of real gunfire.
Arnold opened the screen door, sounding a bell attached at the top. The bell tinkled anew when the screen door, affixed by a tight spring, slammed shut.
Kissick walked toward the house behind the mini-mart. He passed salvaged rows of airplane and movie theater seats positioned to face the mountains. Some were near a brick firepit, allowing a person sitting there to rest his or her feet on the bricks. Scattered around were fanciful statues of people and animals made of scrap metal and found objects. The artwork was primitive yet showed a touch of
whimsy. Some of the figures were dressed in clothing. Women’s clothing.
When he got within a few feet of the chain-link fence, it was as if he’d tripped an invisible wire. Two large mongrel dogs appeared out of nowhere and began barking and snarling, flinging themselves against the fence, their big paws lopping over the top, the fence bowing with their girth. They were old and overweight, an observation that cheered Kissick. Fitter dogs that size could have easily cleared the fence.
Almost at the same time, a motion light on the roof of the house clicked on, flooding the yard. The cacti and boulders cast eerie shadows on the sandy dirt.
On a notepad, Kissick quickly jotted information about the Saturn sedan and Triumph TR6 that he saw earlier. Hearing the small bell on the mini-mart’s screen door again ring, he turned, shoving the pad into his pocket.
“Slacker, Doobie, knock it off!”
Connie Jenkins approached. Kissick recognized her from her DMV photograph.
The dogs retreated to all fours and began whimpering and wagging their tails.
“Can I help you?”
Kissick had expected a rawboned, sun-hardened woman, and he was not disappointed. She was tiny, but her back was ramrod straight and her steps were sure.
She wore blue jeans and dusty Keds tennis shoes. Tucked into her jeans was a brown T-shirt imprinted with a drawing of a pistol and the slogan “We don’t call 911.” She wore a leather belt with a big turquoise-and-silver buckle where her waist used to be. She smelled of cigarettes. Her complexion was deeply tanned and weathered.
In contrast to her rugged attire, her nails were manicured
and varnished red. Her hair was done in a puffy coif, the silver tone enhanced so it was bright as a newly minted quarter. Blue eye shadow matched her eyes.
Kissick recalled a comment Alex Caspers would sometimes make when he saw a woman past her prime: “She had her day.” Meaning she’d been hot at some point. Kissick didn’t believe that Jenkins had ever had her day.
“I’m sorry for upsetting your dogs. My buddy’s getting gas, and I had to come over and check out this beautiful Triumph. I used to own one when I was in college, and I’ve wanted to buy another one ever since I sold it.”
Kissick had never owned such a vehicle, but he had a buddy who had.
“They’re starting up again.” Jenkins pointed toward the mountains.
He turned to see a spectacular light show across the darkening desert sky from the Chocolate Mountains live bombing area. Explosions shook the ground and echoed through the peaks.
“That’s enough to rattle your teeth,” he said.
“Don’t I know it? Sometimes I spend half the night putting stuff back on the shelves. Pretty though, isn’t it?”
They both looked at the sky scarred by slashes of light turning blue and violet.
Kissick now understood why the airplane and movie theater seats were facing the mountains. He also guessed at the source of the abundant scrap metal for the sculptures. Someone had ventured onto the restricted area to gather it.
Kissick held out his hand. “I’m Jim Crockett.” He cribbed the surname from one of the
Miami Vice
detectives, one of his all-time favorite TV shows.
“Connie Jenkins. Good to meetcha.” Her handshake was firm.
“I’d like to make an offer on this car. Are you the owner?”
“Belongs to my son. You’ll have to talk to him.”
“Think he’d be interested in selling it?”
“I doubt it. He’s had offers before.”
“Is he around?”
“Not right now. I don’t know where he is.”
“Is there some way I can get in touch with him?”
“Gimme your number. Maybe he should call you.”
“Sure.” Kissick felt his pockets. “I don’t have a business card.” He didn’t want her to see the spiral pad and pen he was carrying, fearing it would raise her suspicions.
“Let’s go inside the store.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Jack. Jack Jenkins. That’s his given name.”
“Does he go by a nickname?”
“Yeah. You don’t want to get into that.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
The dogs began whining as she departed.
Passing the firepit, Kissick stopped when he saw a partially burned book atop a pile of charred wood. It was
Razored Soul
. He commented, “Someone’s not a fan of literature.”
She harrumphed. “Jack. Said it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. Said he got it free anyway. I told him he could have sold it on eBay.”
They walked to the store. Near the door was an old-fashioned pickle barrel. Kissick opened the screen door for Jenkins. She went inside and gave Arnold a hard look; he was holding open the door to a refrigerated case. He grabbed a Red Bull and took it to the counter.
Jenkins cursed as she restacked bottles of aspirin that the explosions had sent tumbling to the floor. “They’ve been doing that half the day. About to rattle my dentures out.”
Kissick checked out the place. There were two rows of low shelves. Along the back wall were refrigerated cases. The hard liquor was stored on shelves behind the counter. An open door off the back led to what appeared to be a storeroom. Taped to the ancient cash register was a dollar bill, probably the first dollar the business had taken in. There were no other photos or mementos. A small TV behind the counter broadcasted a
Law & Order
episode. There was a desk chair with wheels. A glass ashtray was filled with cigarette butts. An open package of Kools and a matchbook was beside it.
Jenkins pushed buttons on the cash register. There was a “ding” when the drawer slid open. “That’ll be thirty-two dollars and seventy-six cents for the gas and the soda.”
While Arnold got cash from his wallet, Jenkins set a pad of paper and a pen on the counter. “Write your phone number down. I’ll give it to my son.”
Kissick wrote down the number for his personal cell phone. “You here all alone?”
“Why? You gonna rob me?”
“You’re not afraid?”
Jenkins looked from Kissick to Arnold, her big grin revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m not alone.” From behind the counter, she took out a shotgun. “I’ve got Betsy to keep me company.”
TWENTY-THREE
A
cab dropped
Vining in front of the Tucson police department just as the bells of St. Augustine Cathedral a block away chimed seven o’clock.
The police headquarters was a low-slung postmodern structure of bare cement, wooden beams, and glass and had stood in for a fictional city’s police department in an eighties TV detective series.
Standing on the walkway outside, Vining announced her business to an officer behind a bulletproof window and slid her shield into a pull drawer. As she waited to be let inside, she watched a young officer wand a well-dressed, middle-aged woman for weapons.
The lobby was airy, with a flagstone-and-glass staircase in the middle. A sitting area had couches, chairs, and large vases of silk flowers. Despite the sunny atmosphere, the place had an institutional tension, like a hospital where the most skillful interior decorating is always foiled by anxiety.
Antique police equipment filled a display case. In another, Vining took in the collection of weapons confiscated from the Dillinger gang when they were captured in Tucson in the 1930s.
Her mind kept returning to the lies she’d told Kissick. She’d lied about the significance of Nitro’s necklace and about why she had had to leave early. They weren’t huge lies, but lies were lies. If she could link Johnna Alwin’s
murder to the assault on herself, she would reveal everything. Then they’d go to Sergeant Early and up the chain it would go. The brass might call in the FBI, the G-men with their college degrees and suits who just had to know more and know better than the local cops. A full-blown investigation would ensue and her role would shrink. The battle with T. B. Mann would become others’ to fight even though she was the one who bore his scars.
The thought stuck in Vining’s throat like a slender fish bone. She felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach as if she was about to give away an heirloom that she knew the new owner would never hold as dear.
A tall man approached her as she gazed at the display cases.
“Detective Vining? Lieutenant Owen Donahue.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Call me Owen.”
“Nan.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers but she felt him sizing her up. She did the same. She found him attractive. His closely shorn brown hair was liberally sprinkled with silver. He was fit and had a slight tan, suggesting that he participated in outdoor sports, but it may have been a side effect of desert life as it was for beach life. Tans happened. His attitude was polite but standoffish and rightfully so. He’d closed a grisly murder of one of the TPD’s own. Vining’s visit suggested he’d made a mistake.
Vining understood how it could have happened and didn’t fault him. A likely perpetrator fell into his lap and Donahue went for him. Investigators bring a single-minded focus to a case. One has to act quickly and sometimes take a leap of faith before analyzing all the evidence. Time is the investigator’s worst enemy. Haste
can leave loose ends. Vining suspected her call out of the blue made Donahue recall such loose ends.
She walked with him to the elevators. On a nearby wall was a tribute to TPD officers killed in the line of duty, with photos above short descriptions of the circumstances. The first had occurred in 1892. Johnna Alwin’s was the most recent.
Vining had seen this photo of Alwin on the TPD’s Web site. It was her official portrait in uniform in front of the U.S. flag. She was not smiling, and her dark eyes were somber. Vining could not detect the essence of the woman from this uninspired representation on paper.
In the elevator, Donahue made no attempt at small talk and neither did she. They exited and walked down a narrow hallway decorated with large photos of Tucson’s historic buildings.
Behind the counter in Evidence, a banker’s box was waiting for him. He signed for it and carried it back to the elevator, which they took to the third floor.
At the end of a corridor, they reached a windowed door. A plaque beside it said
CRIMES AGAINST PERSONS DIVISION
. Donahue unlocked the door by flashing a Smart Card over the reader. They entered a large room divided into cubicles, the waist-high walls allowing full view across them, unlike the cubicles at the PPD. Most were empty. In the occupied ones, no one looked up as Vining followed Donahue.
A wall displayed a collection of patches from different police departments around the country. Detectives with cubicles on the perimeter had appropriated the extra wall space to post personal items and collages of snapshots. A banner pinned to one cubicle said “Remember. We work for God.”
It was the homicide detective’s maxim. They were the
last resort in this life to find the bad guys and mete out justice.
Donahue stopped at a table laden with two coffeepots, a coffee grinder, and an assortment of coffee, from gourmet beans to a can of Maxwell House.
He set down the box and raised an index finger and thumb toward a pot that was nearly empty. “Coffee?”