Jones shifted, suddenly looking uncomfortable, as if his tight jeans were giving him one hell of a wedgie. “The historian-a kid really-provided me regular reports. He did original research, digging through old records, even traveling out to Rawhide once or twice to interview the town historian.”
He stopped talking. I waited. I sensed something ominous. I call this my sixth sense. Catchy, huh?
Jones’ expression turned pained. The mother of all wedgies? “Then the reports stopped, and I didn’t hear from him for a while. Shortly thereafter, his mother reported him missing. Soon after that, the sheriff’s department found him dead.”
“Found him where?”
“In the desert. Near Rawhide.” He took a deep breath. “And just this morning I received word from the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department that his death was being officially ruled an accident. They figure he got lost in the desert, ran out of gas and died of thirst.”
I sat back in my chair and rested my chin on my fingertips. Sweat had appeared on Jones’s forehead. His flashy showmanship was out the window.
“I assume you disagree with their findings,” I said.
He thought about it.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Why?”
He reached up and unconsciously rolled the brim of his Stetson, a nervous habit, which now explained why the thing looked like a Del Taco Macho Burrito.
My stomach growled. Lord help me.
“It’s hard to say, Knighthorse. It’s just a gut feeling I have. The kid…the kid was smart, you know. A recent college graduate. I was impressed by him, and not just by his book smarts. He seemed to have a sensible head on his shoulder; street smarts, too.”
“Too sensible to get lost in the desert.”
“Yes. Precisely. That’s exactly why I’m here.”
“That,” I said, “and you feel guilty as hell for sending a kid out to his death.”
He looked away, inhaled deeply. “Jesus, Knighthorse. Put it that way, and you make it seem like I killed him.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to look into his death. Make sure it was an accident.”
“And if it wasn’t an accident?”
“I want you to find the killer.”
“Finding the killer is extra.”
“Price is no object.”
“Zumbooruk!”
“Why do you keep saying that? What does it mean?”
“It’s a camel-mounted canon used in the Middle East.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.”
Chapter Three
I met Detective Sherbet at a sandwich shop on Amerige St. in downtown Fullerton. Sherbet was a big man with a big cop mustache. He wore an old blue suit and a bright yellow tie. He ordered coffee and a donut. I ordered a Diet Pepsi, but thought the donut idea was a pretty good one. So I had the waitress bring me three of whatever she had left, because when it comes to donuts, any flavor will do.
“What if she brings you a pink donut?” asked Detective Sherbet.
“Pink is good,” I said.
“I hate pink.”
“In general?”
He thought about that, then nodded. “Yeah.” He paused, looked away. “My boy likes pink.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me, too.”
“How old is your boy?”
“Eight.”
“Maybe he will grow out of it.”
“Let’s hope.”
The waitress brought me three cake donuts. Chocolate, glazed, and pink.
Uh oh.
“Are you okay with me eating this?” I asked, pointing to Sherbet’s arch-nemesis, the pink-frosted donut.
He nodded, shrugging. The man had serious issues. I ate the pink donut quickly, nonetheless. As I did, Sherbet watched me curiously, as if I was a monkey in a zoo exhibiting strange behavior. Funny, when I was done, I didn’t feel gay.
“Any good?” he asked.
“Quite,” I said. “And no gay side effects. At least not yet.”
“Maybe I’ll have one.”
And he did. One pink donut. After the waitress set it before him, he picked it up warily with his thumb and forefinger, careful of the pink frosting. He studied it from a few angles, and then bit into it.
“Your son would be proud,” I said.
“I love the kid.”
“But you think he might be gay.”
“Let’s change the subject,” he said.
“Thankfully,” I said. Actually, Detective Sherbet wasn’t so much homophobic as homo-terrified, as in terrified his kid might grow up to be gay. Someone needed some counseling here, and it wasn’t the kid.
“So that crackpot hired you,” said Sherbet. There was pink frosting in the corner of his mouth. Lord, he looked gay.
“Crackpot being Jones T. Jones.”
“A shyster if I’ve ever met one. Anything to make a buck. Hell, I even had my suspicions that he offed the historian just to generate more press for that damn store of his. Have you been there?”
I nodded.
He said, “Place gives me the fucking creeps.”
“So he’s clean?”
“Sure he’s clean. Everyone’s clean. Kid ran out of gas, wandered around the desert until he died of heat and thirst.”
“Hell of a way to go.”
Sherbet shrugged, and as he did so his mustache twitched simultaneously. Perhaps the motor neurons in his shoulders were connected to his upper lip.
“I hear Willie was a smart kid,” I said.
Sherbet nodded. “Smart enough to get a Masters in history from
UCI.”
“Probably smart enough to call for help on his cell phone.”
“Sure,” said Sherbet, “except he didn’t have one on him.”
“Who found his body?”
