'Did you get a good look at her?'
Gretchen shook her head. 'It was dark, and she had privacy windows.'
'You said 'the first time.' What happened the second time?'
'The same car followed me tonight.'
'Are you sure?'
'Pretty sure.'
For a moment Matt looked thoughtful. Then his professional mask descended, and he gave her an inscrutable look. 'Tell me the rest.'
So she tried. She told him what Daisy and Nacho had told her. About the man who shoved Brett into the street's traffic, about the blue truck, and about Howie leaving the auction in a blue truck.
'You know how rumors start and spread,' Matt said.
'Still…' He looked thoughtful. 'I need the name of the witness who allegedly saw Brett being pushed.'
'I don't exactly have a name.'
'What do you have exactly?'
'A description.'
'Okay, let's start with that.'
'The man who saw Brett pushed into the street was sitting on the curb.'
'What was he doing on the curb?'
Gretchen paused. 'You aren't going to think he's credible.'
'Try me.'
'He's homeless.'
Matt smacked his head with an open palm. 'Jeez, Gretchen, that isn't what I wanted to hear. You know indigents are the worst possible witnesses? First of all, he probably won't even talk to a cop. If he does talk to me, he'll change his story. And a jury… well, I'm sorry if you don't want to hear this, but they won't believe him. Next I suppose you're going to tell me he was drunk. Gretchen, wait, where are you going?'
Gretchen marched off and joined a group of collectors standing by the makeshift bar. She saw several women encircle the handsome detective as he tried to follow her. Matt Albright was infuriating. Bullheaded, selfabsorbed, cynical, narrow-minded. She had almost shared the cryptic Kewpie doll messages with him. Imagine his response if he'd heard about
'Wag, the Dog.'
From now on, she'd manage just fine without his help.
22
Daisy pushes her shopping cart filled with all her earthly possessions and turns toward the viaduct where Nacho usually sleeps. It's dark now, and so she hurries. Another fruitless day on the hot streets waiting for a talent scout to pick her out of the crowd. Even her new getup, purple flowered sundress and feathered wide-brimmed red hat, like those Red Hat Society ladies wear, hasn't attracted any Hollywood-style attention.
And the cart! She doesn't need any more weight to push around, what with her back about to break, but tell that to a man. Work, work, work, while they sit around drinking cheap whiskey and telling outrageous lies to each other, leaving her alone to guard the treasures in her cart.
She struggles along, the beams of light from the overhead streetlights casting a false sense of safety. But she isn't fooled. More than ever before, she needs Nacho's protection through the long, moonless night ahead. Poor Albert Thoreau had been beaten up pretty badly, she's heard. Both eyes swollen and punched black, nose flat and repositioned to the left of center, lips puffed, he laid motionless in the alleyway surrounded by fellow outcasts. Only the sound of irregular and ragged breathing proved that he had not departed for hobo heaven.
'Lucky he isn't dead,' they say.
And if he has told, she will be next.
Has he?
'Cops! Don't trust them,' someone in the group had said, disgust apparent in the wad of spit aimed at the ground. 'Here's your proof. What did Thoreau ever do to anybody?'
Daisy has her suspicions about Thoreau's current condition. She hasn't lasted this long on the wild streets of Phoenix without her innate sense of imminent danger. The darkness of the viaduct's underbelly looms before her. Cars roar overhead even at this late hour. The shopping cart's wheels squeal as they jerk forward, and Daisy makes a mental note to find a little oil tomorrow and lubricate them.
She squints into the gloom as a form materializes from behind one of the viaduct's steel girders, striding toward her, arms swinging lazily, an unlit flashlight clutched in a muscular hand.
'Good evening,' Daisy says, fighting the fear. 'What brings you all the way down here?'
23
Gretchen rose before dawn, fed Nimrod and Wobbles, donned hiking attire, and headed briskly toward Camelback Mountain. Early morning was the only time of day to climb the mountain in relative peace.
Gretchen prided herself on her ability to tackle the most strenuous trails, so she struck out boldly for the extreme tip of Summit Trail. A quarter mile in, she passed a steep northeast-facing cliff and spotted creosote and brittle bushes clinging to the side. Only a few flowers came into bloom in October, but she did see scattered desert lavenders and yellow blossoms on a sweet bush. A Harris antelope squirrel scurried across the trail, its tail long and bushy, a white stripe along its flank. It stopped at a safe distance and scolded Gretchen as she marched upward. Monday morning. Back to work for millions of Phoenix residents. Soon, downtown traffic would be in gridlock, and sidewalks would crowd with bustling workers clutching coffee cups and newspapers. Except for Brett and Ronny. Ronny had written his last inflammatory news article, and Brett had worked his final auction. What secret did they stumble upon?
The groomed trail ended abruptly, and the only way up now was over rough rock. Gretchen dug into the red rocks with hands and feet, her mind on the two men. The place to start would be where their paths had converged. How did their deaths link to a murder in Boston? Percy O'Connor's unsolved murder must be connected in some way. She thought of the resplendent group of Kewpie doll collectors visiting from Boston. Helen Huntington and her son, Eric. Margaret Turner and Milt Wood.
And Steve. Hapless pursuer of unrequited love? Or impulsive killer?
Gretchen stopped abruptly as she was about to grab a handhold on a large rock ahead of her. She heard the ominous rattle before she saw the snake. A rattlesnake. She froze and eyed the tiny newborn, its single rattle threatening her from two feet away. Gretchen knew better than to underestimate it because of its small size.
In autumn, rattlesnakes congregated in crevices. She had read about them when she first arrived in Phoenix, educating herself about all the poisonous critters in the American Southwest. Gila monsters, tarantulas, black widows, scorpions, and rattlers. She'd hoped never to encounter any of them. The snake must be migrating along scent trails left by its mother and would winter with hundreds of others coiled for warmth in snake dens.
Find the nearest hospital within two hours if bitten, the literature read. She'd also read that most people were bitten because they tried to run away. She slowly pulled her hand back, shut her eyes, and willed herself to remain motionless.
When she opened her eyes again, the snake had resumed its journey, slithering steadily through the rocks. Gretchen shivered, although the October dawn was already radiating increasing heat into the Valley of the Sun. Today the temperature was expected to again pass the one hundred degree mark.
She stood tall and watched the snake vanish. What course would she choose now? To continue her trek, risking another encounter until she reached the apex, or retreat in fear and admit defeat?
Yesterday, she might have scrambled back down the mountain, vowing to hug the more civilized paths in the future. Today, with Steve still in jail and herself inexplicably drawn into the bloody puzzle, she set her sights on the
