plastic skeleton dangled from the rearview mirror.
“Nice. So they took the party inside, eh?”
“Yeah, and they stepped it up a bit from the looks of it.”
The detective left the car and followed Escalante under the hotel’s low awning to the open room. He caught himself as he was about to ask if Escalante had touched anything, but he knew that his friend would be insulted at the suggestion.
Conover lifted the tape and stepped into the dark room. He stopped just inside to let his eyes adjust, and as the objects in the room materialized, he took stock of the scene.
“Our girl was definitely fucking somebody,” Escalante said from outside.
“It would appear so, wouldn’t it?” Conover agreed, noting the empty packet of Trojans on the bedside table. The bedspread had been pulled off and lay in a pile on the ancient, grayish-brown carpet. He leaned over the bed and peered at the cigarette butts in the ashtray—five or six lipstick-stained Marlboros and several Kool menthol filters. This last detail gave the detective pause, and he stood in the middle of the room for a moment, thinking.
“Be careful in there, man. You can get crabs just driving by this dump.”
Conover didn’t respond.
“So, what, you think la chiquita and her boy had one last laugh and then wandered across the street to kill themselves?”
Escalante said, breaking the silence. “I just don’t see it, bro.”
“Neither do I,” Conover answered finally. “And it turns out that the kid who died with her out there wasn’t her boyfriend.” He nodded toward the castle.
“Well, whoever he was, looks like he was nailing her too.”
“A distinct possibility,” Conover said.
“Then again, how many white boys you know smoke Kools?”
“Not many, these days.” Conover looked around the room more closely and his eyes focused on the waste basket. He lifted it with his fingertips and dumped the contents onto the carpet: a bit of tin foil, some wadded up, blood-spotted tissue paper, and a disposable hypodermic needle.
“I’m thinking they had a visitor,” Escalante said.
“I’m thinking you’re right.”
Later that morning, the detective left the crime scene at the Tovrea Castle, checked in with his lieutenant, and then drove out to Paradise Valley to inform Ed Hodge of his daughter’s death. He’d arranged to have another detective, Dan Apkaw, meet him there at the Hodge residence. Conover followed the stories over the years like everyone else, the allegations of mob connections, money laundering, drug trafficking. Each time, Hodge’s extensive team of lawyers had gotten him off the hook. Hell, there was that
Conover followed a narrow street north of Lincoln Drive into the foothills and found the address at the end of a cul-de-sac. He parked behind a new Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham with tinted windows. The homes in this exclusive enclave sat on acre lots, the residents a combination of old Phoenix money, like Hodge, and newer blood —professional athletes, media personalities, and foreign investment bankers. Many of the sprawling mansions sat empty during the hot summer months.
Apkaw pulled up in an unmarked Caprice and parked next to Conover. He stepped out of the car, slipped on his sport coat, and adjusted his tie.
“Thanks for coming along, Dan,” Conover said.
“No problem, man.”
“Well, I guess we should just get this over with.”
The two men proceeded up the drive, passing between white marble columns to an enormous front door. After a few moments, Hodge himself answered. He wore a navy-blue polo shirt over tan linen slacks, and his silver-white hair looked freshly cut and styled. Hodge stared out at the detectives with a frown on his face.
“Edward Hodge? I’m Detective Gene Conover, Phoenix Police Department.”
“Yes, what is it?” the man snapped.
“Mr. Hodge, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have to tell you this, but it’s about your daughter. She’s been the victim of—”
“What is this, some sort of goddamn joke or something? Who the hell is
“My name is Detective Daniel Apkaw, sir,” Dan said quietly.
“I wish it
“That’s absurd,” Hodge replied. “Where is she?”
“She’s been taken to the medical examiner’s office downtown.”
“This is absurd!” the old man repeated, but this time his voice sounded less certain and his shoulders visibly sagged. “Kelly?” he said. “What did that fucking punk do to my little girl?!”
“Do you mind if we come inside for a moment?” Conover asked gently.
Ron Wheeler sat in the interrogation room across from Detective Apkaw. Tears streaked his face as his shaking fingers lit one cigarette after another. Grief and outrage alternated in his expression, struggling for dominance.
“I can’t believe he was fucking her! That fucking asshole! Jesus Christ!”
“You mean you didn’t know that Kelly Hodge was sleeping with Brian Cortaro?” Apkaw asked. “Wasn’t she
“Yes! Yes! She was my girlfriend. I loved her!”
“Did you kill her?”
“Kill her? What, are you fucking kidding me? No, I didn’t fucking kill her!”
“But you were mad at her, weren’t you?”
“Why would I be mad at her?!” Wheeler started to cry again. “I loved her. She was so beautiful,” he sobbed. “That son of a bitch!”
“Your boss said that you left work early last night … at, let’s see, approximately 2:45 a.m.” Apkaw said. “Is that correct?”
“Yeah, but I was sick! You can ask anyone, I was puking my guts out.”
“Boss said you were too drunk to work.”
“He did? Shit, yeah, I guess I had a few too many.”
“So here’s what I think,” the detective explained. “You get off work early and Kelly comes to pick you up. Brian was with her in the car. You’re really pissed off. This dude’s hitting on your woman. You go for a little ride, party a bit more … then—”
“No! Goddamnit, I went straight home. Boss called me a taxi. You can fucking check!” Wheeler slumped forward on the table with his head in his hands.
“—then you guys score some junk, shoot up a few speed-balls—”
“Speedballs? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
The door opened and Conover motioned for Apkaw to come out into the hall.
“Thanks, Dan. That’s enough for now.”
“No problem, Gene. Kid’s exhausted. You make him for this?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“I don’t believe Ron Wheeler had any idea what he’d gotten himself into.”
Several weeks later, Conover was in his office sipping a cup of coffee when the telephone rang. It was Blankenship. Some hikers had discovered a badly decomposed body out in the Harquahala Desert. The dead man hadn’t even been buried, just dumped out there. He’d been shot execution-style with a .45, and his face was nearly gone, but dental records identified the man as one Anthony Everett, a.k.a. Everett James, a.k.a. James Anthony, and various other aliases.
“Son of a bitch had a rap sheet a mile long.”
