New River Blues (20 page)

‘What's his last name?'

Felicity appeared to think about it, shrugged, turned her hands up.

‘He's the owner?'

‘I guess.'

‘Where's the shop?'

‘Oh . . . somewhere on Speedway. I forget the street number . . .' She named some of the restaurants nearby.

‘What's the phone number?'

Felicity looked vaguer still. ‘They call me,' she said, looking into a corner.

‘Never mind, I'll find it.' Sarah turned a page in her notebook. ‘Will you clear something up for me? The night of the shooting, did you hear a scream before the first shot?'

‘I don't know anything about the shooting,' Felicity said quickly. ‘I was outside loading the van the whole time.' A second later, her horrified face showed she'd just realized that was not, after all, a great answer.

Panic hardware squealed metallically, and the director burst out of the darkened theater into the bright little foyer, saying, ‘Felicity, for God's sake will you quit farting around out here and get back onstage and
help
me?'

‘Felicity's not going to be able to do that,' Sarah said, tucking her notebook in the back of her slacks. ‘She has to come downtown and help
me
for a while.'

I ought to figure it out some time, Zack thought. It had always puzzled him why so many senior women – Red Hats, book-club ladies, long-time office workers at retirement parties – drove out for lunch at the Desert Diamond Casino, which quite assertively aimed its advertising at a younger, livelier demographic. The restaurant served good food at an affordable price, maybe it was as simple as that. And it might be just about far enough out on Old Nogales Highway to seem like an outing. But his hunch was that the funky bleeps and wheezes of the slots and the occasional squeal of a small-time winner added a hint of adventurous sleaze they enjoyed.

He had often wondered,
If I figured out the right party room, back of the store, would they use it?
They weren't big tippers but they wouldn't be hard to satisfy, either, salad and soup, you could do it in your sleep. He had never wanted to bog down in the everyday food biz – why compete with the chains? But groups like these, especially the ones that met regularly, they'd fill in some of the slow times between the big parties, help him keep a stable staff.

There was a long table full of women in there now, a cake coming in with many candles lighted and two dozen terrible voices screeching, ‘Happy Birthday.' As he watched them, his brain produced a rare treat for him – a happy thought.
If this deal with Madge works out, I won't have to worry about building up my crappy little business any more. My little party business will be just a cover for the blow.

He pictured himself in the van with the clown and balloons on the back door, the multicolored confetti and signs painted on both sides, ‘PARTY DOWN!' – the perfect front, silly and childish-looking, safe as a church. He could move a ton of product in that van, underneath the birthday cakes, and never give the narcs a reason to look at him twice. And launder the profits through a hundred fake orders for barbecues, crêpe paper, masks and boas and party tents. In fact one of the ironies he had already considered was that not all the orders would be fake, because his party business would actually need to grow so he had legitimate reasons for his vans to be anywhere in Tucson, at all hours.

He was already looking for one of those razor-sharp young saleswomen like the ones you saw around doctors' offices, selling the legal stuff Big Pharma was ruthlessly pushing on patients these days. A little downturn in that business – or maybe this soft spot in the real-estate market? – and he'd be able to afford one of those good-enough-to-lick chicks who had the knack of looking earnest in a mini-skirt. Put her out on the street selling parties and have half a dozen Felicity-types, actresses and students who needed irregular hours, doing the cooking and serving. Get them trained right, they'd keep the parties going with minimum supervision. And they were all so self-involved they wouldn't even notice the white powder he was moving under their noses.

Until Nino pushed him out of his own van, Zack was beginning to believe in his dream almost as fervently as Felicity believed in hers. He still thought he could salvage most of it, if he could get that nutcase actress out of town before she blew the whole thing to hell. Get Felicity on her way to LA, collect his own money from Madge and wave him off to wherever the hell he was going next, after that it wouldn't matter about Nino.
He shows his face in Tucson again, I'll whack him first and ask questions later.

While the birthday ladies clapped and sang at the long table, he surveyed the room and saw that Madge wasn't there. But that was Madge's '62 Jaguar XKE out front, not likely there were two of those around with the original leather seats. So he was in here somewhere. Zack walked out to the gaming floor, the windowless cavern that created perpetual night so that blinking and slithering lights could brighten it up again.

The usual seniors, and service people with night shifts, were perched on stools in front of banks of slots all around the big room, feeding their hard-earned pay and social-security checks into the machines. ATM windows on all the walls made it easy to buy more of the coupons that had replaced quarters. In the inner circle next to where Zack was standing was the nearly empty pit for the twenty-one tables.

Madge was sitting at the long bar to Zack's right, chatting up the bartender. He must have been in the john before, when Zack walked in. Behind him, the early shift was breaking out fresh decks of cards and stacking chips at the twenty-one tables. The dealers wore clean shirts and bright-colored vests, had fresh haircuts and perfectly disciplined hands that seemed to move of their own volition. Madge was watching them covertly in the mirror behind the bar, his eyes luminous with the special longing of the addicted gambler.

Zack stepped back into the alcove in front of the rest rooms, opened his cell phone, and dialed. The room was so quiet at this hour, he could hear the pretentious ring tones – the opening bars of fucking Bach's Something in A Minor, as Madge loved to explain to the untutored millions who didn't give a shit. Madge answered, ‘Yes?' in his snooty don't-bother-me voice, and Zack said, ‘I'm parked around back by the storage units.'

He folded the phone, put it back in its holster, and stepped out of the shadows. Strolling back through the tables toward the slots, he never looked toward the bar, but he could feel the burn of Madge's angry eyes on his back.

Felicity's nerves went to pieces entirely when Sarah read the Miranda warning. She jumped up, venting a panicked scream, and wailed, ‘Are you saying I'm under arrest?'

Sarah said, ‘No. But I have to tell you what your rights are before I can even ask you any questions. I know it seems kind of backwards, but it's the rule.'

Something about the word ‘rule' worked for Felicity. She said, ‘Oh,' and sat down.

Sarah had phoned ahead, so Delaney had detectives looking for outstanding warrants, an arrest record, anything she could use to hold the girl if she needed some time to check her statements. He had one of the small interview rooms set up, too, and one glimpse of its bleak light on cold stone and tile – ‘the entire spectrum from beige to taupe' was how Tobin described it – set Felicity stammering again. She fragmented further when she noticed the recording equipment beaming down from the ceiling. ‘Don't worry about that – it's for
our
protection, quite frankly,' Sarah said, hoping to put her at ease with inside information. ‘In case somebody decides to claim they've been mistreated in this building.'

‘Have they?' Eyes darting. Spooked.

‘Look at my hands,' Sarah said, holding out pristine nails. She sacrificed half an hour every week to the drudgery of keeping them manicured. ‘Do they look like they've been beating on anybody?'

‘Wow, nice,' Felicity said. ‘Are they the glue-on kind or—'

‘No. I take extra calcium and believe it or not I eat my jell-o . . .' By the end of a painfully boring conversation about nail care, Felicity seemed to be relaxing a little. The girl was so afflicted by her deep need to be admired, Sarah realized, that appearances took on life-or-death importance for her.

Menendez was waiting to be her backup in the interview room, and Tobin was watching the monitor outside. Delaney had a strong belief in the truth that emerged in the interview room, so he was standing by, waiting to watch as much as he had time for.

‘All right,' Sarah said when the three of them were settled, as much as you could settle on those little round stools, ‘let me begin by saying I understand you were just there to serve a party. You're a conscientious person, you were doing your job, I get that part. But now, clear up this timeline, will you? You didn't leave right after the birthday party, did you?'

‘Well . . .' Felicity helped herself to fresh tissues, dabbed her eyes. ‘No.'

‘You had to stay and serve the rest of the party, right? And that went on until . . . when?'

Felicity shrugged, thought, wriggled. ‘Ten thirty. Maybe eleven, by the time all the stragglers cleared out.'

‘Eleven o'clock.'
Two and a half hours before the gunshots
.
What were they
doing all that time?
‘And then you still had to clean up, I suppose?' She kept her voice sympathetic. ‘There's a lot of that to do after a big party, I bet.'

‘Well, sure. But it's an important part of the . . . part of the service.'

‘Naturally. Who else was there to help you? The couple that work at the house regularly, did they work the party?'

‘The first part.'

‘But they didn't stay to clean up?'

‘No. Seems like they have an understanding about night work. They stayed to the end of the birthday party, cleaned up the cake and ice cream, and disappeared.'

‘I see. So you were doing the clean-up with, um, Paul Eckhardt.'

‘Who?'

‘The victim. Isn't that his name, Paul Eckhardt?'

‘Oh.' She shrugged. ‘I always just called him Pauly because everybody else did.'

‘OK. Who else was there?'

‘Well, Nino, of course.'

‘Why, of course? Did Nino go wherever Pauly went?'

‘Seemed like it. Yes.'

‘Pauly and Nino were friends?'

‘Seemed to be. Room-mates, anyway.'

It took drudgery and patience, ten or twelve more careful questions to get what should have been easy information, that Pauly and Nino lived at the theater but were not actors, just muscle guys to move props and clean up. They had turned up at the theater more than a month ago, Felicity finally said. Madge brought them in and the director hired them.

‘Who's Madge?'

‘Just a guy who . . .' She had an odd habit of gently touching a spot under her left eye when they got close to a subject that made her nervous. It was faintly discolored, like the remnant of an old bruise. Had she been in a fight? Sarah wrote ‘Madge' in her notebook and ‘bruise.' Felicity said, ‘A guy who's been hanging out at the theater lately.'

‘That's an odd name for a man. Is it a nickname?'

‘I suppose it must be. It's what everybody calls him.'

‘He's an actor?'

‘No. Just kind of a groupie, I guess. He goes to our bar sometimes, too.'

‘You have your own bar?'

‘Oh, you know what I mean, a place where everybody goes after the performance. The Spotted Pony. I think that's where Madge found Pauly and Nino.' After the boys got their job at the theater and their room in the loft, she said, pretty soon they began to help at parties, too. For Party Down, yes. Zack's catering service.

‘And Nino's still there?' Sarah waited through a kind of vibrating silence. She added helpfully, ‘At the theater? I can talk to him?'

‘No.' Felicity plucked a piece of lint off her sweater. ‘He's not.'

‘You mean he's gone?'

‘Seems to be.'

‘For good?'

‘As far as I know.'

‘When did he leave?'

‘Oh, I . . . The day after the party, I think.'

‘The day after the party.' Sarah felt her ears get hot as she calmly wrote the date in her book. ‘That would be a few hours after the shootings, wouldn't it?'

‘Well . . . yes, I suppose . . . yes.'

‘Where did he go?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘Did he get fired? Is that why he left?'

‘I really don't know. I suppose he might have.' She shrugged and added irritably, ‘He's not a friend of mine, I don't have any reason to –' her eyes darted around the room – ‘keep track of him.'

‘I see. We're going to take a break now, Felicity, and check a couple of things,' Sarah said, getting up. ‘When I come back, can I bring you anything? More soda?'

‘Oh . . . no, thanks. Will this take much longer? Because I really should be getting back.' She slid a little sidewise peek at Sarah to see if that bluff had a prayer.

Sarah said, ‘We're doing great here, Felicity. Detective Menendez and I need to check with our sergeant now, I think he had one or two questions. Hang on – we won't be long.' Afraid her cheeks were flaming – her face felt hot – she locked the door carefully and the two of them hurried down the hall to where Delaney stood by Tobin's shoulder, watching the scene on the screen.