25

I HAD TURNED OFF THE SWAMP COOLER AND THE LIGHTS IN the stage stop and was just getting in my truck when Martín rode in. He looked exhausted, as though he hadn't slept all night. Judging from the sweat on Shorty, the ranch horse he was riding since Chapo was laid up, he'd also been riding a while.

“I turned that bull out,” he said. “Pushed him up to the north tanks.”

“Is he moving any better?”

Martín shrugged. “At least it's not anything serious.”

“Did you get hold of Prego?”

“I finally got his mother early this morning. He's fishing up at Big Lake and won't be home until Sunday night.”

Yes! If Prego didn't get home until Sunday night there was no way he could even touch Martín's truck until Monday at the earliest. While this didn't seem like a very sophisticated way to delay the inevitable—Martín's leaving—I'd take it.

“Is there anyone else?”

“Sure, but you know Prego's prices.”

Of course I did. Prego was cheap, dirt-cheap. That's why we all used him.

“Chi Chi Tapia offered to help out while I'm gone,” he said.

“The chickenshit cowboy?” God, we all knew Chi Chi. He was a standing joke—a cowboy who was scared to death of cows. This guy would be working in the pens and if a cow looked cross-eyed at him, he'd climb the fence and anyone in his way to get out. He was a tentative and lousy roper. On the ground he never stayed close enough to the cattle to get a decent brand on them. He didn't ride very well either. Overall he had a rotten report card and the only reason any of the ranchers put up with him was because his wife was an excellent roundup cook.

“He overheard me talking to some of the guys and volunteered,” Martín said with a grin.

“You just want to make sure you'll have your old job back.” As the words came out, the sick feeling was back in my stomach. How would I ever manage without Martín? It wasn't all the work he did—which was tremendous—as much as I'd miss his company. The thought of his leaving was not dissimilar to the thought of losing one of my own body parts. “Don't worry about it, Sanders will help out,” I said.

“Another thing. Quinta doesn't want to go.”

“Well, she's over twenty-one.”

“Yeah, that's what she tells me. But she won't be any safer here than she was in Mexico as long as they're looking for her mother. I was wondering if you'd talk to her.”

Now that was a pickle. I didn't want any of them leaving, well not entirely true. Cori Elena could hit the road anytime and I wouldn't shed any tears. “I'll see what I can do.”

He nodded. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“You look pretty tired.”

“I'm not sleeping too good.”

“Has Cori Elena heard any more about Carmen?”

“Nothing. But I still jump up and look out windows.”

I knew what he meant. The whole business with Rafael Félix had me fairly jumpy too. I was sleeping with my .38 on top of the bedside table instead of leaving it nestled safely in the drawer.

“I guess another week won't kill us,” he said.

I shuddered at his choice of words. “You know, Martín, if they were coming after Cori Elena, it seems to me that they would have already done it.”

“You never know with those guys, chiquita. You just never know.”

With that he rode off toward headquarters and I drove into town.

Dr. Samuel Mullon's office was in an old medical complex off Tucson Boulevard not far from the Arizona Inn. The room was empty when I walked in and I wondered what kind of a practice he had that his patients weren't stacked up to see him.

So far I saw nothing but a few dying plants and a receptionist who looked almost as old as the building. Her eyes were rimmed in red and the crepey skin around them was blotchy, as though she'd been crying. She was nonplussed when I handed her my card.

“I've been hired by Mr. Calendar,” I said, “to investigate Abigail Van Thiessen's death.”

“Oh yes, I read about that in the newspapers,” she said. “It was a terrible thing. She was one of our patients, you know.”

“That's why I'm here. I'm wondering if I might have a quick moment with Dr. Mullon.”

“Oh dear, I'm afraid that's not possible, not possible at all.”

“He's not in?”

“I guess you didn't see it in the paper?”

Sometimes, I must confess, I only glance at the morning newspaper. I've even been known not to read it at all.

“See what?”

“Dr. Mullon's been killed. It was a terrible thing. Shot to death just outside his house in his carport.”

I did remember reading about someone who had been shot and the ensuing neighborhood panic that incident had incurred. Since the name Mullon hadn't meant anything to me at the time, I hadn't stored the information.

“That was Samuel Mullon?”

The receptionist grabbed a fistful of tissues and blew her nose heartily into them. “Yes. He was a lovely man. I don't know why anyone would want to take his life.”

“When did he die?”

“June 6th. Sometime after midnight.”

I pondered this for a minute. Dr. Mullon, Abby's doctor, had been killed the same night as she had. That was too close for coincidence. What in the hell was going on? Had someone murdered Abby and then taken out her doctor? And if that had really happened, why? I tried to collect my thoughts.

“Have they arrested anyone?”

She shook her head and swiped at her eyes with the same Kleenex she'd used to blow her nose.

I stayed silent for a minute trying to figure out a way I could frame what I was going to ask her next.

“I'm sure he was well loved,” I began. “I know Abby thought an awful lot of him.” So it was a lie. It was a harmless one and it might even cheer her up.

“Oh yes,” she sobbed.

“He helped her when she was so depressed, when she went through that awful time.”

She kept quiet.

“I mean he gave her that medicine and all.”

She barely nodded.

“And it did wonders for her, it really did.”

Shit, where could I go with this?

“Of course, when your husband's cheating on you …”

She was now giving me an interested look.

“I mean J.B., you know.”

She picked up the card and looked at me suspiciously. “I thought you were working for Mr. Calendar.”

“Oh, I am. But you have to uncover every stone, know what I mean?” I gave her a wan smile.

She stiffened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The other woman, you know …”

She shook her head. “Anything that Mrs. Van Thiessen told Dr. Mullon would have been in complete and total confidence and I will not disclose anything, anything at all, even if I knew what specifically you wanted to know.”

Damn nobility.

“So I suppose that the chances of glancing at Abby's chart are out of the question?”

She gave me a horrified look and waggled her finger at me. “Not very funny, miss.”

“Even if it meant saving an innocent man from going to jail?”

“Hah. What man is ever innocent?”

I tried a while longer, but if the receptionist knew anything about why Abigail Van Thiessen was taking an antidepressant, she wasn't talking.

As I left the medical complex I knew the pressure on the case had ratcheted up a few notches. Now there were two people who had known each other who had been murdered. Who was going to be next?

Finding Uncle C wasn't hard, since I knew he had Wednesdays and Thursdays off. After going through the requisite catch-up with Aunt Josie, I trotted through their backyard to the converted garage. I let myself into the light-filled studio.

My uncle, the bad-ass homicide detective, was hunched over a drafting table, rendering a fine pen and ink drawing. His sketches of some of his cases had started out as a hobby, but now he was selling some of his work in a downtown gallery. While Uncle C must have heard the door open, he completed a few strokes before looking up.

“Hey, Trade, what brings you out?”

“The usual.”

“I don't know nuthin' 'bout no murder,” he said in a mock imitation of Prissy in Gone With the Wind.

“Right.”

“But, if I was you, this is hypothetical of course, I'd be sure some of my accounts were paid up pronto.” He snapped his fingers, then grabbed a rag and rubbed at the ink stains on his right index finger. “Hypothetically.”

“Well, hypothetically, I've wondered if the police could ever make a mistake and arrest an innocent man,” I said with a bravado I did not feel. I had no evidence, one way or the other, that J.B. had not killed his wife. What I was getting was a lot of heads-up on him.

“My lips are sealed, sweetie.”

“Well let's not talk about that one, then.” I picked up a jar of his India ink and studied the label. “Let's talk about Sam Mullon.”

“Who?” He feigned ignorance.

“The internist.”

“Oh that doc that got whacked at home. That Samuel Mullon.”

“Abigail Van Thiessen's doctor, one and the same.”

“We know.”

“Hell of a coincidence, isn't it?”

“We're looking into it, Sherlock.” My uncle has never been all that fond of my chosen profession. He loves me, but has admitted on numerous occasions that I can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to this murder stuff.

“Any leads?” I swirled the ink around in the jar.

“The guys are working on it. They've canvassed the neighborhood, are interviewing his friends and family, going through the motions.”

“And patients?”

“Some of them. Others, as you've pointed out, ain't feeling so hot. There was a guy who was pretty unhappy because his wife died and Mullon was her doc. He was on a camping trip, but could have driven into town, boom, boom!” He pretended he was firing a gun. “And then headed back out to the sticks.”

I rocked the India ink back and forth in the bottle.

“Couple of days before the trip he and the missus went to a movie and then caught a late steak at McMahon's Steak House.”

“So? Is there a law against that?”

“Ah, I love your optimism.” He leaned over and looked at his sketch. “Aren't you gonna ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“Which missus?”

Shit. What was he talking about? “Abigail.”

“Bzzzz. Play again.”

“Not Abigail?”

“Ding, ding, ding, correct. Not the missus, but a missus.”

“He was out with someone else's wife?”

“Nope. His own. His former wife.”

Jesus Christ. I didn't have to look at J.B.'s list to know that there was no mention of a former wife on it. “He was married before?”

“Right. To a cute little thing who used to dance at T.D.'s.”

I knew the place. I'd seen the ads in the paper. Nudes! Live Girls! As if anyone would pay to see dead ones. The former Mrs. J.B. Calendar had been a topless dancer.

“At least she used to dance there when she could. When she wasn't too bruised to perform.”

I was afraid I knew what was coming next.

“Your boy's a real charmer, sweetie. He likes to beat the shit out of women.”

I sank into a chair next to the drafting table. “Shit.”

“We're thinking maybe Mrs. Van Thiessen didn't fall off her horse all that often.”

“But nothing was fresh, right?”

He gave me an incredulous look, as though how could I side with such a scumbag?

“Not that weekend, if that's what you mean, but Jackie Doo Dahs told the investigating officer that Calendar did hit her.”

“Jackie Doo Dahs?”

“That was her stage name. She took it back after they got divorced.”

“Which was?”

“About a year ago, right before he came into the victim's life.”

“But he was still seeing Jackie?” This was getting hard to assimilate. First there was Jodie Austin, now Jackie Doo Dahs. How many more were there? Could I hope that J.B.'s philandering was just limited to women whose names began with J?

“Nah. She was squeezing him. She's been trying to get alimony out of him ever since she discovered he married Mrs. Candy Bar.”

“So you think there's a connection between Mullon's death and Abby's?”

“Hell, I don't know what to think. I've been in this business long enough to know there's rarely a rational rhyme or reason to murder. Kids whack other kids for their Chicago Bulls jackets or Nike tennies, people stab each other over parking spaces and recipes, and sometimes people just put holes in each other's heads for $43.12.”

“Maybe Mullon knew something about Abby's murder.”

“Maybe we'll find a connection, maybe not.”

I replaced the bottle of ink on the drafting table.

“Why was she depressed?” I asked my question carefully, not wanting to mention either the Prozac or the ketamine.

He gave me a strange look. “Who said she was depressed?”

I smiled. “Okay, so maybe I'm wrong.”

I thought, briefly, about mentioning what Ramona Miller had told me. That Abby was dropping things. But then I decided not to. Ramona clearly had some developmental problems and so far I hadn't been able to substantiate what she had told me, so maybe it was just a red herring. I'd wait. I wasn't going to mention the bull tracks that Sanders had found either.

We talked a while longer, but neither of us were willing to just come out and say what we were thinking, so it turned out to be a polite waltz, nothing more.

As I left, I was furious with J.B. Calendar, not only for letting me get blindsided by my uncle on the issue of his former wife, but also for withholding such vital information from me. Did he think I was so inept that I wouldn't find out that he'd been married before? That he used to beat his first wife?

There was also the immediacy of the whole thing. He'd had dinner with Jackie a few nights before his camping trip with Abby. Why didn't he think that would be uncovered? Hadn't he seen enough TV cop shows? Didn't he know that they'd resurrect his life and certainly the week or two before his wife's death?

I was really beyond furious. I was super-pissed. And as I thought about everything, I realized that I was also really angry with myself. Why had I trusted J.B. so completely? Was it because he'd hired me? Or was it because his world and mine weren't that far apart? We were part of the same tribe and he had let me down. I should have seen it coming. First with his not telling me about the million bucks Abby'd given him. Then he'd neglected to tell me he'd slept with Jodie Austin. And now, conveniently, he'd forgotten to tell me about a little thing like an ex-wife. What a great client I had.

Not only was I too trusting, but I also wasn't digging hard enough or deep enough. Shit. What kind of private eye was I?

One thing was for sure. There was a lot more to J.B. Calendar than I'd first thought.

And like peeling an onion, I was about to get deeper into his layers.