Minor in Possession (14 page)

For a sickening moment I was back in the cabin at Ironwood Ranch looking down at a regurgitated pile of fur and tail. I'm not scared of dead mice, but if a mouse could be concealed in my dirty clothes bag, I wondered what else could.

Dreading what I might find, I left the mouse where it was and went back to the laundry room.
Gingerly I shook out the entire bag, emptying the contents onto the floor and then kicking through the resulting heap to see if there were any other unwelcome surprises. There weren't. The only things left in my dirty clothes bag were moldy, dirty clothes.

By now the machine was full of hot soapy water, agitating wildly because no clothing had been added. I gathered up the white clothes, stuck them in the machine, and closed the lid before going back to the kitchen to deal with the mouse.

I located a plastic sandwich bag and put the mouse inside, lifting it by its tail when I picked it up. The plastic didn't succeed in containing all the odor, so I took bag and mouse outside and placed the malodorous package on the patio table.

For some time I stood looking down at it, trying to sort out what it meant. It was a clue of some kind, a message, but where had it come from and what was it trying to tell me? How had it gotten in my laundry bag? Who would have put it there, when, and why? Inarguably, the mouse had something to do with Joey Rothman, his rattlesnake Ringo, and hence the murder itself. But what? And what did all of that have to do with me?

Feeling more than a little silly, I went back into the house, picked up the kitchen telephone, and dialed information to get the number of the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department in Prescott. What the hell was I doing? Calling a goddamn homicide detective to report finding a dead mouse, for Chrissake? But gut instinct told me that
the mouse was somehow related to Detective Reyes-Gonzales' case, and I couldn't afford to piss her off by withholding information no matter how trivial that information might seem at first glance.

The dispatcher told me the detective wasn't in. As a matter of fact, she was on the road, possibly somewhere between Wickenburg and Phoenix at that very moment. I left my name and phone number on the off chance that sooner or later Detective Reyes-Gonzales would check in with him.

“If it's an emergency of some kind, I can try patching you through,” he offered helpfully.

An emergency? About a dead white mouse? Not likely. Not even I had that much nerve.

“Don't worry about it,” I said quickly, giving him my name and number. “And don't go to any extra trouble. But if you do hear from her, tell her I called. There's no big rush.”

I hung up the phone, drained the final cup of coffee from the carafe, and paced around in the kitchen, thinking and trying to decide what to do. Sitting still and doing nothing would drive me crazy. Homicide cops are action junkies, but in this instance, taking any kind of action at all could get me in a whole shit-pot of trouble.

I kept thinking about the dead mouse, cooking now in its plastic bag on the sunny patio table, and Ringo, the rattlesnake, starving to death somewhere on the banks of the swollen Hassayampa River. A dead mouse and an equally dead snake. Suddenly those two thoughts collided in my head, and a light bulb came on. Surely Marsha
or JoJo Rothman would know when and how Ringo left their house. Why hadn't I thought to ask them about it earlier?

Quickly I searched through Ames' white laminated kitchen cabinets until I located a drawer full of telephone books. The number for James and Marsha Rothman listed a Carefree address. I dialed. Jennifer Rothman answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Jennifer, this is Detective Beaumont, from Ironwood Ranch. Remember me?”

“I know you. You're the one who helped me get to ride the horse.”

“That's right. Are either one of your parents home?”

“No, they both had to leave for a while. The babysitter is here, but she's watching television. Cartoons. Want to talk to her?”

I tried to conceal my disappointment. A cartoon-watching babysitter wasn't going to be much help. I started to ask Jennifer when her parents would be home and to tell her that I'd call back later, when I thought better of it. Maybe Jennifer herself could provide some of the information I needed.

“Jennifer,” I said casually, “do you remember Joey's snake?”

“Ringo? Sure, I remember him. Sometimes Joey let me feed him. I did it while he was gone.”

Of course. I couldn't believe my luck. “You mean you took care of Ringo while Joey was away at Ironwood Ranch?”

“My brother showed me how to do it,” she answered proudly. “And he paid me, too. Twenty bucks. I was always real careful, though. Rattlesnakes are poisonous, you know. I always thought Ringo was kind of creepy. I like kittens.”

“When's the last time you saw Ringo?” I asked.

“The night Joey came to say good-bye.”

“He what?”

“When he came to say good-bye and to get his books. It was in the middle of the night and he woke me up. He had Ringo in a bag. He said he was leaving, that I wouldn't ever see him again. Did he know he was going to die, Mr. Beaumont? Do people know they're going to die before it happens?”

Her distress radiated through the phone lines. My questions had reopened a painful wound.

“Sometimes they do,” I answered.

There was a pause. Someone was speaking in the background, on the other end of the line. I heard Jennifer say, “No, it's for me. It's a friend of mine,” followed by another pause.

“Jennifer?” I asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice small, tremulous.

“Tell me again what happened.”

“I was asleep. Joey came into my room and woke me up. He had Ringo with him in a pillowcase that was tied shut. He told me that he came back for Ringo and his books. He said he was going away, so far away that I'd never see him again.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn't want him to leave, and I started to cry. He said to keep quiet or I'd wake Mother and Daddy. So I kept quiet.”

“And he left?”

“Yes. He got his books and left.”

“What books?”

“You know. Like a diary. I always kept them for him.” She laughed. “He always said the best hiding place is in plain sight, and that's where I kept them for him. On my bookshelf.”

“And then what happened?”

“Like I said, he took the books and the snake and left. The next morning, I tried to tell Daddy about it, but he said it was all a bad dream or I made it up. That Joey would be back as soon as he got out of the hospital and that I shouldn't worry about it.”

“Did you tell him about Ringo?”

“No,” she answered. “I didn't have a chance. He was in a hurry.”

Again someone was speaking in the background on the other end of the line. “The babysitter wants to use the phone,” Jennifer said. “I have to go.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “You've been a big help.”

“Is Ringo dead too?” she asked suddenly. “Is he dead just like Joey?”

“I don't know,” I replied honestly. “He may be all right, but then again, I'm not sure.”

“I didn't like Ringo,” Jennifer said softly, “but
I don't want him to be dead. If he came back home, I'd take care of him, all by myself. No one would have to help me.”

Jennifer Rothman was a little girl whose unappreciated goodness knew no bounds. My heart ached for her.

“Do you want me to have Mother or Daddy call you when they get back?” she asked, her voice brightening once more. “They'll be home pretty soon.”

“No,” I answered. “That won't be necessary, Jennifer. You've really been a big help.”

I
put down the phone and stood looking at it for a long moment. Out in the laundry room, the washing machine rocked crazily into an uneven spin cycle, but I barely heard it. It was the morning after my forty-fourth birthday, and I was damn lucky to be alive.

Joey Rothman had indeed tried to kill me. His mother's worst suspicions were now confirmed by the innocent revelations of his adoring half-sister. But why? Had he been acting on his own authority or on somebody else's orders? Was it because he had truly believed I was there working undercover, or was it due to some other reason entirely? It was impossible to tell.

In twenty years of police work, I had no doubt racked up more than my share of enemies, people who wouldn't have blinked twice at the idea of Detective J. P. Beaumont being rubbed out of existence. Ostensibly, most of those people
should
have been in Washington State, preferably behind bars, but the justice system doesn't necessarily work that way. Creeps get out of jail all the time.
Sooner or later, they're back on the street, most likely still harboring grudges against the people who locked them up in the first place. Was it some pissed-off penal system graduate who had hired Joey Rothman to do his dirty work? If so, how had he known where to find me? Although I suppose that's a naive question. My checking into Ironwood Ranch had to be one of the worst-kept secrets of all time.

The wobbling washing machine rocked to a stop. Grabbing the clean clothes out of the tub, I took a whiff of them before placing them in the dryer. The dose of bleach had done its magic—the moldy odor was gone. Restarting the washer, I poured in another cupful of bleach before adding the lightly colored clothing. So what if some of the colored things faded? I much prefer faded to smelly.

When I came out of the laundry room, I could hear a voice speaking somewhere in the house. At first I thought Ames had returned, bringing someone with him. Then I recognized Detective Reyes-Gonzales' disembodied voice saying, “I guess you must have gone out, so I'll try back later.”

Evidently I hadn't heard the ringing telephone over the laundry room's noisy equipment and running water. I dove for the phone and snatched it up. “I'm here,” I said quickly. “Don't hang up.” I caught her just in time.

“Detective Beaumont? Is that you?”

“Yes. The washer and dryer were both going full blast. I didn't hear the phone ring.”

“I got a message from the dispatcher that you wanted to talk to me.”

“That's right. Something's come up. We need to talk. When can I see you?”

“Not right now,” she said. “I'm just now parking at the Department of Public Safety crime lab. The guy I need to see will be here for only a few more minutes. What about later, after I finish up with him?”

“Sure. Tell me where you'll be,” I said. “I'll meet you.”

“You have wheels?”

“At the moment,” I replied.

I could almost hear her smiling. “Does that mean you convinced Alamo to rent you another car?”

She was having a little fun at my expense, but I didn't blame her, and I was operating under no delusions. Alamo would never have given me the keys to a second vehicle if Detective Reyes-Gonzales hadn't gone to bat for me over the telephone.

“As a matter of fact they did,” I said dryly. “Thanks for the help on that score.”

“No problem. I was happy to do it. Do you know your way around Phoenix?”

“A little,” I replied. “Enough to get back and forth from the airport.”

She laughed. “The DPS headquarters is at 19th Avenue and Encanto. Know where that is?”

“No, but I'm sure I can find it. Alamo gave me a map.”

“Good. How about meeting me at La Piñata? It's a Mexican restaurant at 19th and Osborn. I'll be there by eleven-thirty or so, if that's all right.”

Why wouldn't it be all right? I thought. I sure as hell wasn't doing anything else, although I was wearing a little thin on an almost steady diet of Mexican food. “That'll be fine,” I said.

I found the restaurant without any trouble. A Yavapai County Sheriff's Department car was already parked outside. Going into the darkened, cavelike vestibule, I was temporarily blinded by the gloom. I gave my name to the hostess, who led me into the dining room. Detective Reyes-Gonzales, with two colorful menus on the table in front of her, was seated in the far corner of the room.

When I approached the table, she stood up and held out her hand in greeting. “Good to see you again, Detective Beaumont.”

“Call me Beau, would you?”

She smiled. “Sure. And I'm Delcia.”

The careless toss of ebony curls as she sat back down hinted that under the lightweight camel-colored suit she wore, with its carefully tailored ivory silk blouse, lived a fiery woman. A fiery and temptingly feminine woman.

Something uncomfortable stirred inside me. I remembered what Calvin Crenshaw had told me about the aftermath of his own years of drinking—the long-term damage. Maybe it was just a case of dry-out paranoia, but I wondered if I too had risked any permanent ill effects in that depart
ment. However, this was hardly the time or place to deal with that thorny issue.

“What's the matter?” she asked quizzically.

Caught without a plausible lie on my lips, I gave her a lopsided grin. “Nothing,” I said more or less truthfully. “I was just thinking that you're probably the best-looking homicide dick I've ever seen.”

Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales gave no evidence of being either amused or complimented.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked, easily cutting through any attempt at sociable small talk. Before I could answer, our waitress, dressed in a bright yellow, flared Mexican peasant's dress, came by to deliver Delcia's coffee.

She reached up to take the proffered cup and saucer. When she did, I noticed a slight but telltale bulge under her left arm. The small swelling told me she was wearing a not-so-feminine loaded shoulder holster next to the elegant silk blouse. Seeing that, I found myself suddenly very lonesome for the comforting presence of my own AWOL .38.

In answer to the server's question, I ordered a cup of coffee as well. “Any chance of getting my Smith and Wesson back?” I asked once the waitress left our table.

“Not any time soon,” Delcia replied with a smile. “You know how those things go.”

Unfortunately, I did know—only too well. It was highly unlikely that I'd ever again see my old faithful handgun. Although I had more than qual
ified to carry a new semiautomatic when Seattle P.D. switched over, I had hung onto the .38 like a child clings to a worn but familiar teddy bear. If by some miracle it was actually returned to me, it would only be after a suitably long and paperwork-laden wait.

“Know where I could get a replacement?”

She studied me levelly before answering. “Lots of places, but only with the usual three-day waiting period. Why do you want one?”

“I feel naked without it, for one thing. And for another, I now know for sure that Joey Rothman was the one who tried to kill me, but just because he's gone doesn't mean somebody else won't try to finish the job.”

My words had an electrifying effect on Delcia Reyes-Gonzales. Her eyes flashed fire and her whole body was electrically alert.

“Joey?” she asked, controlling her reaction enough that she put her coffee cup down without spilling any. “You say you know that for sure? How?”

The waitress returned and took our orders. As soon as she left us, I launched into the story of my enlightening conversation with Jennifer Rothman. By the time I finished, Delcia was nodding her head thoughtfully.

“The problem is, there's no way to tell if Joey Rothman was acting alone or in conjunction with someone else.”

“Or why,” I added gloomily.

“It's too bad snakes can't talk,” she said with a
half-amused smile. “If they could, maybe Ringo could clue us in.”

“Ringo?” I demanded in surprise. “What about Ringo? You mean he's still alive?”

“Didn't anybody tell you? It's one of the main reasons I'm in Phoenix today—to drop Ringo off at the Phoenix Zoo for safekeeping. I did that first thing, before I drove over to the crime lab. I didn't much like driving around alone with him in the car. In fact, that was my last stop before the Department of Public Safety.”

“How did you find him? I thought he was a goner for sure.”

“He was never lost. Shorty Rojas had him the whole time. Louise may have given orders to the contrary, but Shorty's too softhearted for his own good. He was afraid the poor old snake wouldn't be able to make it on his own. He hid him in the barn and planned to take Ringo down to a museum in Tucson on his next day off.”

“Oh,” I said. “The one where his cousin works—the desert museum, or whatever it's called.”

Delcia nodded. “The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum,” she corrected. “Well, according to the keeper at the zoo here in Phoenix, Shorty was probably right to be worried—about the snake, I mean. Ringo's old—somewhere in his mid to late teens—which is pretty old for a snake. The keeper said Ringo would have died if he'd been left on his own in the wild, especially since he would have been so far outside his natural habitat.”

“He may be old for a snake,” I muttered glumly, “but age didn't make him any less scary when he had me cornered in the cabin. And it didn't slow him down enough so your guys found him when they searched my cabin, either.”

“I asked about that this morning. At the zoo. The guy told me he probably found a hole somewhere and hid out in that until he thought it was safe to come out.”

“Not a comforting thought,” I said.

“No,” Delcia agreed. “I suppose not. Anyway, Shorty kept Ringo out of harm's way until I picked him up, and now he's being held in protective custody at the Phoenix Zoo. The Yavapai County Sheriff's Department isn't exactly equipped to take care of live snakes in our evidence room. That's why we farmed him out to the zoo. Come to think of it, I believe it's the first time we've ever had a live deadly weapon in a felonious assault case.”

Delcia looked at me across her raised coffee cup while her dark eyes sparkled with humor.

“Somehow I don't find it nearly as entertaining as you do,” I pointed out. “And if you ask me, that damn snake seems to be getting a helluva lot more attention than yours truly, who just happened to be the intended victim.”

“Sorry,” she said evenly. “I didn't mean for it to sound that way. Believe me, Beau, nobody's treating this as a joke.”

Mollified, I backed off. “I guess I'm a little edgy,” I admitted, disgusted with myself for try
ing to pick a fight with someone who was offering to be an ally at a time when allies were in short supply.

“Perfectly understandable.” Delcia nodded. “Don't worry about it.”

I went on to tell her about the books Jennifer had said she kept for Joey, the ones he had retrieved from her along with the snake the night he came to tell her good-bye.

“From the way she talked, there must have been several volumes,” I said. “In fact, I'm sure he was working in one like it while we were together at the ranch.”

“He was?” Delcia asked, thumbing back through her notebook, scanning several pages. “What was it like?”

“Cloth-covered. Looked like a regular book almost, but the pages are blank inside so people can write on them.”

Delcia frowned. “That's funny. I don't remember seeing anything like that either in his room or at the crime scene. It could be important.” She paused long enough to write another brief note in her small spiral notebook.

Our food had come. I had ordered something they often call
taquitos
at Mexican dives in Seattle. In Phoenix they seem to be known as
flautas
. They were equally good if not better than the ones I'm used to having back home. For a while we ate in silence.

“Any idea when he put the snake in your room?” she asked.

I shook my head. For a moment Delcia sat chewing pensively before she spoke again. “I remember what Mrs. Attwood said the other night, that the snake could have been in your room for as much as a day or two, without your being aware of it. Do you think that's possible?”

“Beats me. It seems as though I would have heard something, noticed or sensed something, but then again, maybe not. It had been stormy for several days with lots of wind, rain, and thunder. The cabin has a tin roof and it's noisy as hell, so I could have missed it.”

“Did Jennifer tell you what day she spoke with him?”

“No, and I didn't think to ask. The babysitter was bugging her to hurry and get off the phone.”

Delcia made another note. I was sitting there watching her write when an odd thought occurred to me, one I hadn't considered before. Maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion. What if Joey's leaving the snake in the room had been nothing more than an ugly practical joke? According to Rhonda, he hadn't been above that sort of thing.

“What's going on?” Delcia asked.

That's why I never play poker. My face always provides a dead giveaway of whatever's going on behind it.

“Just a thought, that's all.”

“What kind of thought?” she insisted.

“Is it possible he did it as a joke after all, to see what I would do? Remember what Rhonda told
us about him turning Ringo loose in the house and her finding it a week or so later?”

“I remember all right,” Delcia said with certainty, shaking her head, “but this is no practical joke, Beau. The two incidents happening in such close proximity have to be related. I can feel it in my bones. All we have to do is figure out the connection.”

“We?” I said.

“I,” she corrected.

But her comment had made me feel better, less paranoid somehow. And it was apparent that her earlier skepticism about me and my story had been replaced by belief. During our interview in Prescott, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had clearly doubted my veracity. Now she was on my side.