The Corpse in the Cactus Page 8

  “I like to cook,” he said. “I like the creative process. And the challenge.”

  “Just one more surprise from the enigmatic Mr. La Crosse.”

  “If you like to read you’ll find I’m really an open book,” he said.

  “But a very complex one filled with sub-plots and twists.”

  “And a few surprises,” he finished. “One of my specialties is in the oven.”

  Maggie faced him, standing a little too close.

  “I’m ready for chapter one,” she flirted, then took an awkward step backwards and changed the subject. “It smells wonderful. I’d guess something south of the border by the mix of spices.”

  “You have a good nose.”

  “I’m a detective. It’s my job.”

  “Tonight I’d like you to just be Maggie.” He looked at the bag he’d set on the hallway table.

  “That was pretty heavy. Did you bring an arsenal just in case I get out of hand?”

  “I almost forgot,” she said, reaching over and handing it to him. “A gift for the host.”

  Rocco opened it and smiled. It was filled with old hose nozzles, washers and bolts, pieces of broken wire.

  “Thank you, Maggie. I can make something special from these. Thoughtful and perfect.”

  He looked down at the tile floor, unsure of what to say next. He scratched his beard, betraying his nervousness.

  “We’re both feeling a bit awkward,” she said. “Let’s kick that big elephant out of the room so we can relax.”

  Maggie reached out and held her hands along the sides of his face, leaned in and gave him a kiss on the lips. The kiss was soft and sweet and gentle and tasted like wintergreen promises.

  “There,” she said. “The elephant is gone.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’ve seen the room with the leather furniture and the bookshelves, back when I was questioning you about Barbara and Armando. Why not give me the tour?”

  He led her through the den with it’s ceiling high bookshelves and through the glass doors that led to the back patio.

  “The rain’s coming down harder,” he said. “Maybe we should…”

  “A little rain isn’t going to stop me.”

  They stepped out onto the covered patio and stood side by side like old friends. The patio was nearly as large as Maggie’s entire house, complete with outdoor kitchen and sturdy furniture and a fireplace. Just beyond it was a large swimming pool framed by the Tucson mountains that loomed beyond the wall of giant boulders and cacti that edged the property line. She’d never been to one, but her only comparison was some fancy resort that catered to the ultra-rich.

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “That wasn’t my goal,” he said. “It looked like this when I bought the place.” He shrugged and smiled. “Okay, maybe I wanted to impress you just a little.”

  “Do you remember the first time we met each other? At The Mosaic Gallery? When you pulled up in that beat up van?”

  “How could I forget? You looked like a hard-nosed cop if ever I saw one.”

  His paunch had led the way as he walked toward her. With the tattoos, pony tail and piercings he’d looked like an outlaw biker who’d downed one too many six-packs.

  “You were disheveled with worry plastered across your face. And you comforted Barbara and Adrian like a protective father. That’s what impressed me. That and your eyes.” There was no doubt that electricity had passed between them when they first looked at each other.

  “I like a woman who can see past the window dressing.”

  Maggie was willing to bet he’d had his share of gold diggers, but she also bet that he could smell them out and toss them aside with equal aplomb. Being monied definitely had its down-side, for a man or a woman. One was never sure if some suitor’s aim was genuine or if money was the main attraction.

  “Any news on Barbara?” he asked, thinking of his friend sitting in a jail cell.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. Have you heard anything from your lawyer friend?”

  “Not yet. But he knows his business and he knows where the bodies are buried, if you get my drift.”

  “He’s got the right ammunition for the right war.”

  “Exactly.”

  The night air was muggy but held the hint of a chill.

  They went back inside.

  “It smells done,” he said, leading her through the dining room and into the kitchen. It didn’t escape her attention that he had set a beautiful table with wrought iron candlesticks, not fancy but elegant in their simplicity. The kitchen was huge but warm and homey. A large island in the middle was topped with a thick slab of smoothed mesquite wood and the counter tops and back splash were adorned with ornate, hand-painted Mexican tiles.

  Rocco opened the oven door, then slammed it shut. “Not quite yet. I’d say about ten more minutes.” He walked over to the blender and pulled out a bottle, then opened the fridge and scooped out some ice. “I think a frozen Margarita is in order, don’t you?” He whirled it up like a well trained bartender, poured the frothy mixture and handed her a glass trimmed in salt. “Let’s retreat to the den.”

  She followed him and they sat in comfy leather chairs, staring into the glowing fire that was sandwiched between the tall shelves filled with books on every imaginable subject.

  “This is my favorite room,” he said. “Except for my outdoor studio where I work. Both places relax me, no end.”

  Rocco hit the play button on the stereo and an old Julio Iglesias tape started working its magic, the romantic lyrics blending perfectly with the aromas from the kitchen.

  Maggie was feeling more at ease and relaxed than she had in a long time. Marty the ex was behind bars where he belonged, her old case looked like it could wrap up with a happy ending and she had a new case to focus on. But that could wait until morning. Tonight she wanted to concentrate on Rocco. The detective in her was more than curious as to where things might lead.

  She was ready to let her guard down and allow optimism in.

  And she was prepared to gamble, let the chips fall where they may.

  In unison, the two potential lovers sipped their Margaritas and leaned back in their chairs.

  “I could sit like this forever,” Maggie said. “This room is like, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like a prayer to the gods of serenity.”

  * * * *

  The warmth of Rocco’s special enchiladas filled their stomachs as he and Maggie pushed their chairs back from the table and rose.

  “You’re one hell of a cook, Mr. La Crosse.”

  “I’ll refill our Margaritas,” he said as he headed to the kitchen. “I think we should let the meal settle before we tackle dessert.”

  “You made dessert?”

  “Just something light. Flan. Whipped cream.”

  She followed, handing him her empty glass.

  The mixer’s whirr danced a salsa through the room then stopped abruptly. He re-rimmed their glasses with salt, poured the heavenly broth and handed her a glass. They clinked them together, then let the liquid chill slide down their throats.

  An awkward silence filled the space between them, pheromones mixing with the aroma of Old Spice and enchilada sauce and animal attraction.

  “It’s time for the rest of the house tour,” he said.

  Maggie was torn. The logical side of her brain begged for caution. She was still recovering from her last mistake and needed a break before venturing forward. Some breathing time. She felt like there was an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, each one arguing their point and whispering in her ears. She mentally listed her past mistakes, weighing the pros and cons. Then she told herself that when you get bucked off that horse, the best thing to do is get right back on. She’d been waiting for what seemed like
forever to test the waters with Rocco. He was puzzling and complex, he was simple and straight-forward. He oozed something she found irresistible. The tequila buzz relaxed her just enough to let her impulsive nature win out.

  “Let’s start with the bedroom,” she said.

  Rocco leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Snags

  Maggie Reardon’s last intention was to spend the night with Rocco La Crosse, at least not in the literal sense. Their lovemaking had been sweet but so intense that she had settled into his arms, exhausted. Despite the hairs that tickled her nose, his chest was a welcome pillow against her face. Before she knew it she’d fallen asleep, their bodies forming pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that fit perfectly together. One more surprise from Mr. La Crosse. And a very pleasant one. His skills as a lover were matched only by his culinary talents and his artistic creativity.

  Her sleep had been deep and dreamless for the first time in a long time.

  She awakened with a jolt, passed on Rocco’s offer of coffee and ran out the door. She drove home with a smile on her face and optimism in her heart. Her hasty retreat left Rocco wearing a quick kiss on the forehead and a look of confusion on his face, but she had no time to go into explanations. It was a work day and she couldn’t afford to be late. She didn’t have an artist’s luxury of sleeping til noon if the mood struck or inspiration didn’t, let alone the freedom of relaxing over a cup of coffee. Her job called the shots and the time clock was her canvas.

  Maggie flew through her front door, fed Prowler and gave her teeth a quick brushing. She stepped into fresh clothes and strapped on her gun belt, concealing it under a light-weight cotton jacket. There was just enough time for her morning stop to see Carlos before she went to headquarters. She was looking forward to filling him in. Talking to him was better than sharing with a girlfriend over a bottle of Zinfandel any day. Female friendships remained a mystery to her and she found their chatter frivolous. She didn’t care about fashions or celebrity gossip. They yawned at her tales of bad guys and gun battles. They gossiped about strangers, and even worse they gossiped about each other. If she hadn’t bowed out they would have excluded her anyway.

  She didn’t fit their mold nor did she want to.

  Men weren’t great conversationalists, but when they did say something it tended to be honest and direct. Unless they were bent on seduction, of course, but that’s just the way they were assembled. She found them easier, despite her occasional lapses in judgment. Cupid confused her and she found him as much of a trickster as the Norse god Loki.

  But this time she was ready to fight him head on.

  This time it might be worth it.

  She rushed out the door and into her car, daydreaming as the car followed its usual route.

  Maggie pulled into a parking space and exited her car. A lone rain cloud clung stubbornly to a distant mountain top and the morning air was filled with pollen and humidity.

  She inhaled, sneezed and entered the mini-mart.

  She stopped cold.

  Carlos wasn’t at the register.

  He was always there, but today she was face to face with a young man who looked like a gang banger. Her cop antenna rose and she instinctively reached down and rested her hand on the butt of her gun. Was he robbing the place? He wore a black t-shirt and low-slung khakis but appeared unshaken by her presence. It wasn’t until she looked into his eyes that she relaxed.

  He had Carlos’s eyes, soft and gentle.

  But where was Carlos? She imagined the worst.

  “How may I help you, señora?” the young man asked politely.

  She searched for words. She couldn’t lose Carlos. He was her anchor. She was still trying to come to terms with the loss of her parents. It was a long time ago, but made no more sense now than it had when she was a teenager. To be blinded by a haboob? A violent desert dust storm? Perhaps for some unfortunate Arab in the middle of the Sahara, but for her parents? Cancer would have made more sense. People got blind-sided by that devil all the time. Even little children. The grim reaper had a way of wrapping himself in irony and popping up with the most unexpected of demises. She saw it every day but his nasty bag of tricks never failed to surprise her.

  “Carlos,” she said. “Where is Carlos?”

  She was afraid of the answer. Was he sick? Was he in an accident? She was on the verge of panic.

  “He had something to attend do,” he replied calmly. “I am his nephew Ramon.”

  “Maggie.”

  “You are Maggie Reardon! He speaks of you so often that I feel I already know you and that you are one of our family.”

  Ramon reached across the counter and gave her hand a hearty shake.

  “Is he alright? Is something wrong?” She asked.

  “No, no Miss Reardon, he is fine. There was just something he needed to do today. Pardon me if I’m a bit slow at my job. I’ve never done this before but my Uncle Carlos says I am the only one he can truly trust.”

  Ramon’s English was measured and correct, which indicated he was probably born this side of the border despite the definite Spanish speech pattern. He was polite and he was charming but he was also determined to keep Carlos’s whereabouts a mystery. But why?

  “When will he be back?”

  “Mañana. He will be back tomorrow. I see worry in your eyes. There is no need for worry.”

  His smile was so like that of his uncle, but held stubborn determination. If he’d been sitting across from her in the interrogation room she’d still have gotten zilch from him, whether she was playing good cop or bad cop.

  Maggie walked down the aisle and poured an extra large black coffee.

  She returned to the counter and watched as Ramon fumbled with the cash register.

  “Forgive my slowness,” he said. “This is new for me.”

  The grime imbedded beneath his fingernails told Maggie he was more comfortable under the chassis of a car than dealing with the public.

  “You’re doing fine,” she said.

  “Gracias.”

  “It was nice to have met you, Ramon.” He handed her a receipt and her change and another smile.

  “Are you sure he’ll be back tomorrow? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “I will tell him you asked after him. That will bring him joy. And I am glad to have finally met his special Detective Maggie Reardon.”

  * * * *

  The Captain stood before the seated officers, winding up his morning pep talk. Jerry Montana looked at her with his usual smirk as Maggie and Aaron Iverson nodded at each other. Montana looked like the cat that ate the canary and she swore he did it just to irritate her. Animosity covered him head to toe like oozing muck, dripping from his eyes and obliterating what might otherwise have been a good-looking man. The ugliness that festered inside of him escaped through his every pore. He reminded her of some crazy that opened fire in a crowded room, a walking time-bomb ready to go off. She wondered if everyone sensed it or if it was just her imaginings because he found pleasure in aiming his venom in her direction.

  Maggie dismissed him from her thoughts and returned her attention to the Captain.

  “We’ve got to make some headway on the body from the Desert Museum,” he said. “And we need to find him a name other than John Doe. Somebody’s got to know who this guy was.”

  “Welcome to the Hotel Javelina,” Jerry mumbled the words to the melody of Hotel California by the Eagles.

  No one heard him except Maggie and Aaron, who both shot him a dirty look.

  “Any questions?” asked the Captain.

  Silence.

  “That’s it then.”

  The noise of shuffling papers and the squeaking of leather holsters followed everyone as they rose and headed out to confront another day.

  “Hold up, Detective Reardon
,” the Captain called.

  Maggie turned and faced him.

  “Yes sir?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Jerry Montana looked back over his shoulder and gave her a wink before heading out the door.

  She walked across the room and stood before the Captain, expecting to be chewed out regarding the lack of progress on the Desert Museum case.

  “We’re doing the best we can, sir. And they’re backed up, so I’m still waiting on the autopsy report.”

  “It takes as long as it takes,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Just keep on top of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, turning to leave.

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Something has come to my attention that we need to discuss. I’ll get to the point. You’ve been more than lax on proper procedure regarding the murder at the Mosaic Gallery.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I hear you’ve been fraternizing with witnesses. You know better than that Detective. It’s something that could influence testimony when Barbara Atwell comes to trial. If the judge knew you were maintaining an intimate relationship with a witness anything you’d say regarding the case would be jeopardized. And your testimony would be thrown out right along with you. We have a reputation and I expect you to maintain it.” He paused. “You disappoint me. I thought you were more professional than that.”

  How could he have known about last night? Unless…

  “What, was that creep Montana following me? He was, wasn’t he?”

  “The source is irrelevant.”

  “The source is everything.”

  “My instinct is to put you on temporary leave, but you’d probably spend it with that den of bohemians. We both know you have a problem following orders.”

  “Only when they don’t make sense, sir.”

  “Consider yourself warned. Distance yourself until this is wrapped up in a neat little bow. After that I could care less about your private life.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”