The Mosaic Murder Read online

  She jotted down a few more questions she needed to ask the gallery owner then closed her tablet.

  Maggie turned off the ignition, exited the car and walked across the street. A scruffy looking man with a beard that looked like it was breeding cockroaches was sitting with a petite woman nearly as disheveled as himself. They sat with a large, lazy dog under the tall statue of Pancho Villa. The man strummed his guitar, the open guitar case on the ground in front of him, silently begging donations. Barbara had furnished a good description. He was definitely Crazy Jake. The two of them looked homeless and lost. As Maggie neared them, she could hear the music. The woman Barbara Atwell had called Mouse was singing an old Joan Baez folk song in a clear and beautiful voice. The occasional passerby would toss a few coins or a bill into the guitar case, never slowing their pace as they walked by. They didn’t stop but they should have. With a gift like that Mouse should have been charging admission.

  Maggie reached into her pocket and pulled a five dollar bill from her wallet. They smiled at her as she dropped it into the guitar case. She waited until the song ended before she spoke. As she introduced herself Mouse’s mouth twitched nervously and Jake looked at her with suspicion.

  “Are you here to bust us?” asked Mouse in a squeaky voice, nervously twisting her matted hair.

  Maggie wondered how she could sing so beautifully yet have a speaking voice as annoying as fingernails on a chalk board.

  “You must be Jake,” she said to the guitar player. He ignored her. She sat on the ground next to them and crossed her legs, trying to look non-threatening to this pair that obviously had issues with authority.

  “Barbara from the gallery told me I could find you here. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the other night.”

  “The reception? We never miss the reception. But we didn’t do nothin’ bad,” said Mouse nervously. “It’s okay if I took some food. It’s free, just ask Miss Barbara. She always lets me take some extra cuz I sing for her.”

  “You sing beautifully, too,” said Maggie.

  “Jake, she thinks I sing pretty. Ain’t that nice Jake, huh?” She smiled like a Cheshire cat, exposing a row of discolored teeth as Jake continued to eye her with suspicion. “It’s okay Jake, she’s a nice lady, I can tell. She says I sing good.”

  “Sometimes you’re simple,” he said.

  “That ain’t very nice, Jake.”

  The dog rose and stretched, then ambled lazily over to the side of the statue. He lifted his leg and pissed on Pancho Villa, reflecting the sentiments of half the citizens of Tucson to this odd gift from Mexico. Like so many other things in this town, Señor Villa was a point of contention, some people hating it, others finding a statue honoring a Mexican outlaw an appropriate addition to the landscape. Maggie thought it made about as much sense as if Chicago were to erect a statue in honor of Al Capone. But she was a cop and had a definite bias against the bad guys. The dog lowered his leg, trotted back and plopped down next to Jake.

  “Something terrible happened at the gallery night before last and I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Jake, finally acknowledging her.

  “Armando Salazar was murdered. His body was found in the gallery yesterday morning. Did you know Armando?”

  Mouse began to cry and her crying turned into high pitched shrieks.

  “’Mando is our friend,” she cried. “Oh ’Mando. Jake, what are we going to do without Armando?” Her demeanor edged on frantic as she clutched Jake’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. “What are we gonna do without our ’Mando?”

  “Shhh,” he said. “Just shut up, will you?”

  “But Jake....”

  “Who would want to kill Armando?” he asked Maggie. “Have you caught him yet?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Mouse was still weeping, the dog looking at her with confused, sad eyes.

  “Do you remember what time you left the gallery, Jake?”

  “I don’t wear a watch, lady. I don’t care much what time it is. Time is nothing more than a trap to make the masses march in time for the man. It’s a concept with no meaning.”

  “I know,” said Mouse, her face lighting up at the thought of being useful. “We play our music on the porch and we stay until it closes.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I dunno, when it closes, that’s all.”

  Maggie checked her notes. “Ten.”

  “Yea, ten, that’s it.”

  Sitting on one of the rare patches of grass in Tucson, Maggie’s eyes were starting to water and her skin was starting to itch. She was allergic to every kind of grass that grew and the lack of grass in Tucson was a blessing. She knew she’d never survive up in Phoenix where they plant lawns everywhere, the over usage of water be damned. Phoenix looked down on Tucson more than just geographically. They found Tucson backward and uncivilized. Maggie found it practical and down to earth. Water was a precious commodity, not to be wasted on lawns. Tucson was unique. Phoenix was trying to look like any big city anywhere and was succeeding. It lacked Tucson’s character. She scratched her arm, then released a sneeze like a burly truck driver, causing Jake to jump.

  “Bless you,” said Mouse.

  “What’s the matter with you Mouse? What’dya want to be blessing a cop for?”

  “Cuz it’s polite, Jake, and if you haven’t noticed I’m a lady!” She sat up straight and squared her shoulders proudly, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity in her worn rags. “I’m a lady and don’t you forget it.”

  Jake patted the dog on the head, ignoring her.

  “I’m sorry Jake,” she whined. “I didn’t mean nothin’”

  “Sometimes you just talk too much.”

  “But Jake,” she said. “You never told me what we’re gonna do without Armando.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Ain’t I always taken good care of you? Just shush up. People die all the time. Armando ain’t no different.”

  “But he was our friend.”

  The grass was starting to raise hives around Maggie’s ankles and the conversation was going nowhere fast.

  Maggie determined this wasn’t the time to ask for prints. Not with Jake’s paranoia filling the air. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’d really like to talk to both of you some more. Do you have an address where I could see you another time?”

  “What, do we look like we don’t have an address? We ain’t street bums.” Jake was on the defensive and itching for some sort of altercation to prove his suspicions about “the man.” The perceived enemy.

  And Maggie wasn’t about to take the bait.

  “No, I never thought that for a minute. I just thought we might all be more comfortable were we to meet more privately.”

  “So you can bring in the gestapo to tear our place apart? I don’t think so,” said Jake.

  Mouse lowered her eyes and pouted.

  “Just me. I promise,” said Maggie.

  “She’s okay Jake,” Mouse whined in his ear.

  Maggie could see the paranoia dancing in Jake’s eyes. She’d seen it a hundred times in as many faces. Looking at him, she fully understood why everyone referred to him as Crazy Jake. She’d had to hold back a few times from calling him that herself. And Mouse? The woman thought Jake was her protector but it was obvious to Maggie that things were really the other way around.

  Maggie handed Mouse her card.

  “And do you have a number where I can reach you?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t believe in telephones,” Jake said. “They put little things in them so they can listen in and spy on you.”

  “And they record everything you say,” said Mouse. “Jake told me so.”

  “Then I’d say it’s perfectly understandable that you don’t have one,” Maggie said to Jake, then added, “One can’t be too careful.”

  This conversation was going downhill faster than a junk bond.

  �
��I’d appreciate if both of you would think about the reception the other night, see if you remember anything that might help us catch the person who murdered Armando Salazar. My number’s on the card.”

  “Wow,” said Mouse. “You mean I’d be like a deputy or something?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mouse shoved the business card into her purse and looked at Maggie, eyes wide. “If I helped find ’Mando’s killer I’d be really special, huh?”

  “The way you sing I’d say you’re already pretty special.”

  Mouse beamed.

  “Could I have your address?” Maggie asked her.

  “No,” said Jake. “Unless you want to arrest us for something, where we live ain’t none of your business. I know my rights and you can’t mess with them.”

  “I don’t know if it has a number,” said Mouse.

  “Shut up,” said Jake, exasperated.

  Ignoring him, Mouse continued. “If you go down Convent Street, we live over there. It’s the only bright yellow garage door on the whole street. It’s as bright as sunshine or maybe somebody’s pet canary. It’s only a garage, but I like it there. I made it pretty, didn’t I Jake?”

  “Damn it Mouse. Why didn’t you just draw the pig a friggin’ map?”

  “Don’t be so rude, Jake. She’s being really nice to us.”

  “Pigs just pretend they’re nice when they want something. Didn’t I teach you nothin’ at all?”

  Crazy Jake was like a throwback to the hippie days. Did people even call cops pigs anymore? She’d been called a lot of things but couldn’t remember ever having been called a pig. Oh well, there was a first time for everything. Ignoring his insult Maggie rose to her feet, brushed the grass off her slacks, and walked toward her car.

  “Good bye nice lady,” Mouse called out. “Don’t mind Jake, he’s just having a bad day.”

  Maggie turned and waved. Her arms itched and the sunlight beating down on them didn’t help. She could hardly wait to get into the car and turn the air conditioner on full blast.

  From behind her she could hear Crazy Jake railing on Mouse.

  “I swear woman, sometimes you just don’t know when to keep your trap shut.”

  “Aw, c’mon Jake. Let’s play some music. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Guitar riffs and beautiful singing drifted through the thick, hot air as Maggie slid behind the wheel.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TATTOOS AND TEMPTATIONS

  The midday sun beat down from above as Detective Maggie Reardon drove through downtown Tucson headed for the mini-mart. What was the old saying? she wondered. Oh yes, “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” Well, she certainly wasn’t an Englishman, not with the name Maggie Reardon. And she wasn’t a mad dog either, although Marty the ex might vehemently disagree. Mad maybe. More than once she’d been accused of walking around with a chip the size of the Rock of Gibraltar on her shoulder.

  She was looking forward to a short visit with Carlos before getting back to the job of solving a murder. He had been her second father as far back as she could remember, then after her parents died in the car accident they’d become closer than ever. He filled the void effortlessly. Being an orphaned only child she considered him her family as well as her best friend. Carlos and Prowler the cat got closer to her than anyone else was allowed, lovers or co-workers or anyone. And she had a gut feeling that Mary Rose, the watercolor artist, might well become a new addition to her small, makeshift family. Okay, so first impressions could be deceiving but still she felt a welcoming warmth in the old woman’s presence. Considering this frail woman a serious suspect in a bludgeoning just didn’t compute on so many levels. She had to remind herself that everyone was a suspect until she sifted through the evidence and eliminated them one by one.

  Could she really eliminate Mary Rose as a suspect this early on in the investigation? Sometimes the person least suspect ends up being the perpetrator. But she was hard put to think of a motive. There were times when there was no motive. Juries loved to have a motive to sink their teeth into, but frequently the motive in a warped mind never surfaced. At those times forensics told all that needed to be told. The why didn’t really matter one iota.

  Maggie pulled up in front of the mini-mart and went inside.

  Carlos’s face lit up like a lighthouse in the darkness when he saw her enter the store. He walked around the counter and they hugged like friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

  “I miss you my Maggie.”

  “And you Carlos.”

  “Today you stay away from the candy counter,” he said. “I made for you a little surprise.”

  “A surprise for me? Gee, and it isn’t even my birthday,” she said.

  He walked back around to the cash register and reached below the counter, lifting up a brown paper bag and handing it to her.

  “What, no ribbon?” she said.

  “Every day you come in and fill up with caffeine and sugar and every day I worry for you.”

  He smiled as she peered into the bag.

  “When I was a little niño my mamacita made for me every day a very special sandwich. Today I make one for you. It will grow you big and strong like me,” he laughed.

  “What’s in it? No lingua or brains I hope.”

  “Boiled and sliced chayote squash with mayonnaise and onions. And good, toasted whole wheat bread. Is very good for you.”

  Maggie unwrapped the sandwich and cautiously took a bite, letting the subtle flavors dance across her taste buds.

  “Carlos, this is magnífico. I think you missed your calling. If you opened a restaurant I would be your first customer.”

  He smiled, pleased.

  * * * *

  Maggie drove up Ironwood Ridge, still surprised that Rocco La Crosse lived up here. She was even more surprised that he had to furnish her with a code that would allow her entrance into the gated community. He was full of surprises, that one. His address told her he was one artist that wasn’t starving. He seemed to break all the rules. It was difficult to get a handle on him and she didn’t like that—she prided herself in her ability to see through people. He was as opaque as milk glass. She hung a left and came to a stop at the entrance. She reached out the car window and punched in the security code, then watched impatiently as the huge wrought iron gate slowly opened, allowing her entry.

  The early afternoon sun half blinded her as she wove through the cobweb of streets. In her hand she held the directions she had scribbled hastily onto her notepad. Each house she passed was more magnificent than the last. The smallest one probably went for half a million with the prices climbing from there, depending on size and view and probably the size of the pool. She ascended the driveway to a large, two story pseudo-colonial Spanish estate, turned off the ignition and shoved her notepad into her briefcase. She reached in and grabbed her breath mints, tossing two into her mouth. She didn’t want the aroma of raw onions from Carlos’s sandwich assaulting anyone. Well, not anyone really. Rocco. She caught her trend of thought, nipped it in the bud and mentally kicked herself. It was time to put on her best detective hat.

  She had work to do.

  As she slammed the car door behind her she saw Rocco come out the front door to greet her. He wore a smile as big as his girth as he welcomed her.

  “I hope you found me without too much trouble,” he said. “I’m a little tucked away from it all up here.”

  “Your directions were perfect.”

  As they walked up the drive Maggie looked at the metal sculptures scattered among the saguaros in the front yard and along the walkway that led to the house. The double front door was obviously a Mexican antique, two stories high, heavy and impressive. She could only wonder what was beyond the entrance. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the change in light as they went inside. He ushered her across the terra cotta tiled floor into a large room. One wall was covered with bookshelves. She glanced at the book spines looking for a clue to the m
an. Renaissance was the word that came to mind. No politics. No science fiction. But there was a leather bound collection of Mark Twain, history books ranging from ancient Greece to the American Southwest, and poetry, as well as a stack of contemporary novels by Michael Connelly, Dave Zeltserman and Walter Mosely. And she thought she was the only one who’d discovered Zeltserman. A large book on desert flora and fauna rested beside a stack of well-worn western paperbacks by Ed Gorman. If Rocco La Crosse actually read them all, she had to conclude he was well-read and versatile. Poetry to pulp and everything in between.

  A tall river rock fireplace loomed in the far corner. The furniture was leather but as unassuming as the man himself. Quality but not flashy. Masculine but tasteful. They sat across from each other in comfortable leather easy chairs. She looked directly into his eyes.

  “I just wanted to ask you a few questions,” she said as she pulled out her notepad and pen from her briefcase. “Anything that comes to mind would be helpful.”

  “Ask away,” he said. “But before we get started, would you like some coffee or something?”

  “Thanks but no. I just had lunch.”

  “I guess it’s down to business then. Shoot.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary at the gallery the other night? Anything that may have caught your eye as unusual? Anyone who appeared out of place?”

  Rocco exhaled. As Maggie waited for him to break the silence she looked around the room. In an alcove was what had to be his ultimate sculpture. A naked man and woman intertwined, with the same amusing details that had caught her eye in the gallery. A spigot penis aimed upward. A vagina made of coiled wires. Once again she had to smile at the whimsy of it all.

  “It was busy,” Rocco said. “People were wandering in and out all evening. Most of the faces were familiar but there’s always a few new ones. Mostly one-timers that never show up again. Absolutely nothing I can think of that would raise a red flag. Mosaic just isn’t the kind of place where this sort of thing happens. I still find it hard to believe that Armando was murdered.”