The Corpse in the Cactus Page 5

  Maggie watched as the javelina herder climbed up the slope and out of sight.

  Maggie, Jerry and Aaron descended and stood over the flannel wrapped arm. Jerry took

  more photos as Maggie walked over to the cluster of cacti. The rest of the body lay in a semi-fetal

  position, as if the corpse was just sleeping peacefully in cactus. On first observation, he appeared to have no wounds other than some abrasions from falling down the slope and the chew marks from the enthusiastic javelinas on his exposed flesh. But there were no head wounds. No bullet holes. No knife in his back. Maybe Jerry Montana was right. It could have been a freak accident.

  But Maggie was never one to accept first impressions.

  She’d wait for the coroner’s report before she wrote this one off. Something wasn’t computing. Something gnawed at her, that gut instinct that rarely failed. Autopsy and physical evidence put the icing on the cake, but it was a cop’s instinct that led it all in the right direction. And it was the cop who connected the puzzle pieces.

  Maggie motioned to Montana and Iverson.

  “Let’s get photos of the rest of this poor guy,” she said. Montana’s camera clicked away, capturing the body from every angle as Maggie and Aaron measured the distance from the bridge above to where the body lay in repose.

  “Get over here Iverson,” said Montana. “Help me turn this guy over.”

  As the color drained from the rookie’s face, she wondered how anybody could turn so white. He was whiter than new fallen snow, as if a bottle of bleach had been poured over him. But he walked over and helped turn over the body, doing his best to suppress his gag reflex. His sensitivity glowed in contrast to Jerry Montana’s callousness.

  The quiet town he’d come from hadn’t afforded him much practice in hard crime, but the kid might make a good cop after all.

  * * * *

  The camera sounded its final clicks, then Montana told the attendants in his usual, crude manner that they could clear the scene and put the guy in the meat wagon. He had no respect for the living or the dead. Maggie slipped on her rubber gloves, knelt over the body and felt his pockets. All they held were a half-empty pack of smokes and a disposable lighter. No wallet, no

  credit cards, no family photos, nothing. Strange. An unfortunate tourist? Someone just passing through? Someone with something to hide?

  “This is a real fresh one,” said Jerry, giving the corpse a nudge with his foot. “Still looks like an accident to me. Ripping off that arm was enough to kill him.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Aaron.

  Something tickled at Maggie’s brain.

  “C’mon over here,” she said, motioning Aaron to the body. “What do you see?”

  Aaron studied the still form and shrugged. Then he saw it too.

  “There’s no exsanguination!”

  “Do you know what that indicates?”

  “Sure,” he said. “He was dead before he landed. Otherwise he’d have bled out.”

  “That puts a different slant on things, doesn’t it?”

  Aaron nodded.

  “He could’ve had a heart attack,” said Jerry in defense of his initial opinion.

  “It’s a possibility,” said Maggie, “but I want every trash bin on the grounds gone through.”

  “Why?” groaned Montana, not looking forward to what he considered a menial task.

  “If it wasn’t an accident, it’s sure as hell easier looking for evidence here than sifting through mountains of trash once it hits the dump, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t want to get your own hands dirty?”

  “I don’t have to.”

  The three of them climbed back up to the bridge, and she walked the length of the railings, then back again. She leaned forward as far as she could from every angle. Once again, something didn’t compute.

  “Come over here, you two,” she said. “Montana, lean over the railing as far as you can.”

  “What for?”

  “Do you have to question everything? Because you’re taller.”

  Jerry leaned over the railing.

  “Now you,” she said to Aaron.

  The results were the same.

  Maggie pulled the tape measure from her pocket and handed it to Aaron, then pulled out her notepad.

  “I need you two to measure the height, here and over there.”

  They called out the measurements and she wrote them down.

  “That ought to do it.” She flipped her notepad closed and shoved it into her pocket. She ran her fingers through her short red hair, damp with perspiration. The day was warm and the sky was clear overhead, but roasted marshmallow clouds had begun to gather beyond the distant mountains, dark and threatening.

  “What are you up to?” asked Jerry.

  “You didn’t lose your balance.”

  “So?”

  “That ought to tell you something.”

  Jerry stood there looking stupid, while Aaron looked like a big, shiny lightbulb just went off in his head. He was a rookie, but he was definitely smarter than the cop who was showing him the ropes.

  Maggie gave him a wink as they headed off in opposite directions.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dancing with Devils

  The woman peered through the motel room curtain and smiled. She unlocked the window and slid it open. She wasn’t supposed to unlock it but she always did, just long enough to air out the smell of his stale cigarette smoke. The sun shone on the cars in the parking lot and the only remnants of rain were the puddles collected in the blacktop’s depressions. The previous afternoon she had turned off the tv a good hour before her husband’s expected return. There were times she’d seen him touch the top of the set when he walked in, like he was testing to see if it was warm. He wouldn’t understand that its noise made her feel less lonely. Or why she had disobeyed him. For the most part she watched cartoons. She couldn’t say why, but they comforted her like old friends. She knew that wasn’t right, that he was the only friend she needed. He’d told her so and that should have been enough. But she watched her animated friends just the same.

  She knew it was nothing but a bit of crazy somewhere inside her head, but sometimes she thought the characters whispered to her. As if they were trying to remind her of something from long ago, but it was a memory that refused to come to the surface no matter how hard she tried. He had come back last evening with his pockets full and a satisfied grin on his face. They’d gone out walking as he’d promised. They didn’t go far, just up and down the street, but it felt good to smell some fresh air beyond the oppressiveness of the small room. It was nice to see a face other than her own reflection in the mirror.

  Some of the people they passed on the sidewalk saddened her. Scantily dressed women flirted with men who drove slowly past, some stopping to talk to them. And sometimes a man opened his car door so a woman could slide into the passenger seat next to him. And there were panhandlers begging for change, mostly addicts and drinkers desperate for their next fix or their next bottle. Shadows spilled below the street lights like dark and ominous ghosts. They scared her, but it was better than being cooped up in their motel room. She loved the freedom of their walks. She smiled as a group of teens passed them, barely younger than herself. They wore baggy pants slung below their behinds and chips on their shoulders and spoke in a language foreign to her. She was fascinated by their strange body piercings and tattooes and the odd gestures they made with their hands.

  “Don’t look at them,” her husband said. “They’re Satan’s children.”

  She lowered her head so as not to make eye contact, glad he was there to protect her even if she was grown up. He told her the world was a minefield and maneuvered her safely down the sidewalk and into a small café and over to a table far from the entrance.

  They’d stopped for a special treat, burrit
os eaten at a real table instead of their usual meal sitting on the lumpy motel mattress sharing a bag of take-out. She’d been afraid of her first bite, convinced that Mexican food wasn’t meant to be eaten by anyone who wasn’t born to it. But it was good, unlike what she’d tasted in New Mexico. That food had burned like a branding iron on her taste buds and made her eyes water.

  Except for the occasional glance over his shoulder, he seemed more relaxed than he’d been lately. It made her nervous when he was antsy. She could never make sense of it and his edginess rubbed off on her like a contagion and grew into a gigantic knot in her stomach.

  After eating they walked to a small market and stocked up on odds and ends. He’d even let her pick out something. She’d chosen a box of cereal she’d seen advertised on the television. It had a colorful cartoon character on the front of the package who was smiling at her, surrounded by a rainbow of puffy, sugared grains.

  They’d stopped in the motel office on their way back. Her husband had pulled out some wrinkled bills and paid for a week in advance. She hoped that meant he was thinking of staying, of finally settling down in one place.

  The possibility lifted her spirits but she hesitated to ask, afraid his answer might break the spell.

  When they returned to their room he made love to her.

  And this morning he’d left early in search of another day’s work.

  Things were looking up.

  She slid the window shut, locked it and closed the curtains, then walked over to the dresser and grabbed the box of cereal. She tore it open and reached her hand inside. Little puffs of primary colors fell to the floor as she shoved a handful into her mouth. Holding the box, she plopped down onto the bed and reached for the remote.

  * * * *

  At The Mosaic Gallery the afternoon sun spilled across the room. Rocco La Crosse scowled at the blood stains on the wooden floor. The planks were dark where Armando’s body had lain, an outline of violence that refused to go away. Despite repeated scrubbings the tell-tale shadow remained, as if Armando Salazar’s ghost refused to leave.

  “It’s useless,” said Adrian Velikson. “You might as well give up.”

  Rocco rose to his feet and tossed the soggy rag through the air, where it landed dead-center into the waste basket.

  “Good shot,” said Adrian, “You should’ve been a basketball player.”

  “At my height? I’m about belly high to those guys and five times wider.” He looked around the room. “Give me a hand here. Let’s move these shelves to the other wall.”

  Adrian looked over at the empty shelf unit where Armando had displayed the Mexican artifact rip-offs that were the cause of all their troubles. If he hadn’t been smuggling cocaine in them, if Barbara hadn’t found out, if he hadn’t attacked her, then she wouldn’t be in jail waiting for a murder charge. So many ifs. The bastard was as much trouble dead as he’d been alive. He’d been Barbara Atwell’s blind spot, but being charged for his murder was overkill for not seeing through his charming demeanor and slick bullshit.

  Adrian missed her partner and prayed Rocco could somehow, someway work his magic.

  The tall shelf was more awkward than heavy, so after taking down some paintings to clear up wall space the two of them walked it across the room. The blood stain stood out like a guy in jeans at a black tie affair. “Let’s put the folding table right over it,” he said. “A little more rearranging and it’ll never show.”

  Adrian puffed from the effort as they dragged the table over, unfolded the legs, and placed it over the death stain.

  “Appropriate,” she said. “The table where the Latin lover poured the bubbly and served snacks and hit on damn near every female in the room. Next reception he can look up and see how unnecessary he really was.”

  “Learn to let go,” he said, but his words were shallow. “It’s unhealthy and resolves nothing.” But he couldn’t disagree with a word she’d said.

  Macy Friedman, the attorney he had on it, would do what he could. It was out of their hands and worrying would do nothing to change the outcome. But he worried too.

  “It’ll be okay,” he reassured her.

  “Do you have a crystal ball?”

  There was a loud banging on the front door. Adrian glanced down at her watch.

  “The meeting isn’t until five,” she said. “It’s barely three.”

  Rocco walked to the door, unlocked and opened it. Belinda Blume stood there, frizzy brown hair dancing chaotically around her scowling face.

  “Belinda? You’re early, but you know you’re always welcome. Come on in.”

  She shoved past him and stomped into the room.

  “Can the niceties,” she said. “Where’s Adrian?”

  Before he could answer, she had entered the second room and stood there, arms crossed and tapping her foot like a stubborn kid.

  “Hello Belinda.”

  She uncrossed her arms and held out her hand, opening and closing it impatiently.

  “My check. I’m here for my money.”

  Adrian walked over to the desk and sifted through the pile of checks she’d written. “Will you have something for the next show?” she asked, trying to hold her patience.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Rocco joined them. It sounded like Adrian was in need of a buffer.

  “Nice to see you,” he said.

  “Cut the crap, Rocco.” Then to Adrian: “Do you two really think I’d want to show here again? To be associated with a gallery where there’s been a murder? My Gaia is gone, thanks to Barbara. My works deserve more respect than that and so do I. I’ve made arrangements with a more upscale gallery where I can triple my prices.”

  “And reduce your chances of selling anything at all,” Adrian said. “And thanks so much for your concern over Barbara.”

  “Just give me my check and I’m out of here.”

  Adrian rose from the desk and handed Belinda her check.

  “For your Gaia. As promised.”

  Belinda looked down at the amount scrawled on the check.

  “This isn’t right,” she said. “The price I had on it was higher.”

  “Minus our commission.”

  “It’s your fault it was stolen.”

  Rocco interrupted and filled her in on her precious Gaia’s demise and the role it played in Armando’s murder. Belinda was unconcerned that Barbara was in jail.

  “That’s even worse,” she said. “My masterpiece wasn’t stolen, it was destroyed. I should have it’s full value. Or more.”

  “On what planet?”

  “You’ve got what you came for,” said Rocco, taking her by the arm. “I suggest you go now.”

  “I deserve more.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” he said as he led her to the door. Then very formally and totally lacking in sincerity, he added, “I wish you success in your new endeavor.”

  “You’re nothing but crooks,” she said, shoving the check into her purse. “And murderers. Do you really think for a minute this place is going to survive? You’re going to crash and burn.” Rocco slammed the door behind her before she could spew any more venom.

  “Is she gone?”

  “She’s gone.”

  Adrian was crying again.

  “Don’t cry,” he said as he re-entered the room. “People might catch on that under your tough exterior you’re mush. I think we should be rejoicing, don’t you?”

  “What if she’s right? What if we’re doomed to failure?”

  “I won’t let that happen and neither will you. We’ve just eliminated an artist who’s always been a thorn in our sides, so I’d say things are looking up.”

  The phone rang. Adrian took a deep breath before picking up.

  “The Mosaic Gallery,” she said. “Yes, he’s right here. Hold on a sec.”


  “It’s one of the docents,” she said and handed him the phone.

  “This is Rocco.”

  He held it to his ear and listened.

  “You’re kidding me, who was it?”

  The voice on the other end droned on.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he said and handed the receiver back to Adrian. She replaced it onto its cradle.

  “Now what?”

  “They found a dead body out at the Desert Museum.”

  * * * *

  That afternoon Detective Maggie Reardon sat at her desk at headquarters. She focused on the computer screen and punched in the numbers she had scrawled on her notepad at the crime scene. Her gut told her that it was, indeed, a crime scene and not some freak accident like Jerry Montana had assumed. And she was determined to prove it. First glances can prove deceptive and snap assumptions misleading. Any cop with experience should know that, especially someone who’d been around as long as Jerry. No wonder he was always passed up for promotions. If the pay wasn’t so lousy and they didn’t need every cop they could get, she was ure they’d have washed him out ages ago.

  She picked up the phone and punched in an extension.

  “Maggie Reardon here,” she said. “I was wondering if you’ve started on that John Doe from the Desert Museum yet. No? Could you do me a favor?”

  “For you, Maggie? No problem” said the woman at the other end.

  “I’m trying to figure something out here and need to know his height.”

  “Hold on, okay?”

  Maggie shuffled through her morning’s notes as she waited. She’d make sure the crime scene tape stayed up until she proved her suspicions, just in case they’d missed something and needed to go over the scene again. With their pr already in damage control mode, the Museum was sure to give her an earful about having to stay closed. Murder was inconvenient. Especially for the victim.

  She stared at the computer screen, waiting for the last set of numbers.

  “Maggie?”

  “I’m still here.” She jotted down the man’s height. “Thanks,” she said, hung up the phone and punched the information onto the keyboard.