punk kids.'
'Tell me a little about him,' she said. 'For instance, what do you mean by the term ‘punk kid'?'
'You know the type-a spoiled brat. His family has way more money than good sense. He was a braggart, especially where women were concerned. Claimed he could screw anything in skirts. And then, there were all those rumors.'
Detective Reyes-Gonzales seemed to become more alert. 'What rumors?'
I had opened my mouth and inserted my foot. 'About him being a hotshot drug dealer,' I answered. 'Legend has it that he was a big-time operator, that he was still dealing right here at Ironwood Ranch.'
The detective arched one delicate eyebrow. 'You're saying he was still dealing while a patient at the recovery center?'
'As I said, that was only a rumor. I'd take it with a grain of salt if I were you.'
'Why?'
'I'm telling you, Joey Rothman was a braggart. He thrived on attention. Bad attention, good attention, it was all the same to him. Joey knew I was a cop. I wouldn't be surprised if he started that rumor himself just to see if I'd try to do anything about it.'
'Did you?'
'I ignored him as much as possible. I'm not here dropping a grand and a half a week to play games of cops and robbers with some young twerp. Joey and I shared the same cabin, but that's as far as it went. I kept away from him except when absolutely necessary.'
'What happened last night? I understand from one or two people I've talked to that there was some kind of problem in the dining room just before your family went back into town to their motel.'
That was a lie. The detective hadn't talked to one or two people to get that piece of information. She had only talked to one-Louise Crenshaw herself. I remembered the disapproving glare Louise had leveled at me as she walked by Kelly and me just when our battle over Joey Rothman was reaching fever pitch.
'He was messing around with my daughter. Kelly's only seventeen. He was leading her on when he'd already-'
I broke off, but too late. Detective Reyes-Gonzales was on point. 'When he'd already what?' she asked sharply.
Lamely I shrugged my shoulders. 'I suppose by now you know all about Michelle Owens.'
'What do you know about Michelle Owens?' Detective Reyes-Gonzales returned.
'That she's pregnant and claims Joey Rothman is the father.'
'And how do you know so much about it? Did Joey tell you?'
'Are you kidding? Of course not. I talked to Guy Ownes, Michelle's father.'
'After he got the results back from the doctor?'
Clearly, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had already done a considerable amount of homework among the players.
'Yes,' I answered. 'After he got the results.'
'Where?'
'Where what?'
'Where did you talk to him?'
'At the cabin. Joey's and my cabin. Guy came there looking for Joey.'
'When?'
'Last night.'
'After lights-out?'
'Yes.'
'What time did he leave?'
'I don't know. It must have been around midnight. Maybe a little later.'
'And then what happened?'
'I kept waiting for Joey to come in, but I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up around four-thirty, that's when I discovered the car keys were missing.'
'And?' she prompted.
'I went up to the parking lot, expecting the car to be gone, but it wasn't. It was parked right where it is now. The keys were in the ignition.'
'You should have turned your gun in to the treatment center when you checked into Ironwood Ranch four weeks ago. It shouldn't have been left in the vehicle.'
Detective Reyes-Gonzales was no longer smiling. Deputy Hanson had already told her about the Smith and Wesson in the glove box, and her understated reprimand was well deserved.
'I know. I've been telling myself the same thing over and over all morning long. I just didn't, that's all. No good reason for it either except that we've been through the wars together, that. 38 and I. Maybe I'm paranoid. I don't feel comfortable if I can't get to it if I want to. If I need to. You know how it is.'
From the level, detached look she gave me, I wasn't at all sure Detective Reyes-Gonzales did know how it was. Maybe female cops don't have the same kind of meaningful relationship with their weapons that male cops do. Maybe they don't have to.
There was a sharp rap on the door behind me. 'Come in,' she called.
The door opened to reveal Deputy Mike Hanson standing outside, waiting anxiously for the door to open. 'Excuse me, Delcy, but could I have a word with you?'
Detective Reyes-Gonzales stood up. 'Do you mind?' she asked.
'Not at all. Go right ahead.'
She stepped outside and closed the door. For several moments I could hear them speaking urgently back and forth. When she came back into the room, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales was frowning.
'I'm afraid something's come up, Detective Beaumont,' she said. 'We're going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?'
It was my turn to smile. 'I'm not going anywhere,' I answered. 'What about fingerprints? The deputy said you'd want a set of mine for comparison.'
Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn't really listening. 'That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It's almost lunchtime. I'll get back to you later this afternoon.' She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.
'And if you don't mind, Detective Beaumont,' she added, 'stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?'
'Of course.'
She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw's office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own. 38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she'd come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she'd have to.
An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn't help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman's death. Homicide detectives don't break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there's some overwhelmingly compelling reason.
I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn't going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn't a detective at all. He was an outsider-a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.
More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…
The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too
