Desert Noir (9781615952236) Read Free

detective? “Mister-whoever-you-are, I’ve met Clarice’s attorney and she didn’t look anything like you.” Big Money gave me a sour look. “Is there some place we can talk in private?” For a moment I was tempted to have Jimmy throw him out—which he could have easily done since Jimmy, like most Pimas, was a large man—but my curiosity won out over my irritation. Matching the attorney’s sour look with my own, I led him into the small office set aside for client consultations, and used exactly twice since Desert Investigations opened. Gesturing him into a chair, I moved to the bleached oak desk I’d bought in a fit of temporary insanity. I took another sip of my coffee but didn’t offer him any.
    â€œOn Clarice’s behalf, you say?”
    He raised his shoulders. “In a manner of speaking. I’m actually here on behalf of Jay Kobe, her husband.” 
    I stood up. “You’ve got three seconds to clear out of this office, then I call Jimmy.” 
    The lawyer remained seated. “Whatever problems were between them, Clarice wouldn’t want her husband to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.” 
    â€œOh, come on. She was divorcing him, as you well know, because for years he beat the holy living hell out of her. And just in case your client didn’t tell you, there was a restraining order in effect against him when he killed her. And let us not forget the bloody shoes they found in his alley. His shoes.” Remembering Clarice’s savaged body, it was all I could do to keep from spitting in his face.
    Big Money smiled. “Now, Lena. You know better than that. Just because a man beats his wife doesn’t mean he’ll actually kill her.” 
    â€œTell that to Nicole Brown Simpson. And it’s Miss Jones to you.” 
    Another sour look, then he rustled around in his pocket, pulled out a business card and slapped it down on the desk. The card was Albert Grabel’s, CEO of Seriad, Inc. On the back was a note in Grabel’s handwriting which said, “Lena, Jay Kobe is my wife’s nephew. Please help him.” 
    I looked around the office, at my expensive—if tacky—furniture, all courtesy of the computer chip magnate who’d set me up in business after I took a bullet in the hip. True, I’d been shot getting his foolish, drug-addicted son out of a self-inflicted mess, but still…I was a cop and protecting fools was my job. Grabel hadn’t looked at the situation that way. After the doctors released me from the hospital, he shipped me off to a fancy clinic in California. And when the head of the Violent Crimes Unit moved me to a desk job despite my protests, Grabel stepped in again and convinced me my future lay in preventing computer crime.
    The fact that I was scared of my own Macintosh didn’t faze Grabel. He knew somebody who wasn’t, he said, an Indian genius with a tattooed face who had just spent the morning spooking the hell out of Seriad’s personnel director.
    I handed Grabel’s card back to Big Money and sat down again. “So what’s your name?”
    â€œHal McKinnon. Mr. McKinnon to you.”
    I smiled. “Well, Hal. Convince me that shithead didn’t kill Clarice.” 

    By the time McKinnon finished talking, I was worried. Jay was screaming frame—no surprise there—but some aspects of the case bothered me. True, Jay was an evil-tempered thug who’d beaten his wife on numerous occasions, a hearty partier with recreational drugs. And true, as a widower instead of an ex, he was now the beneficiary of Clarice’s will—one hell of a motive for anybody. Clarice was worth, what? Several hundreds of thousands? A million? Motive, means, opportunity. They were all there. But didn’t the whole case look a little too slick?
    Unlike detective fiction, real murder cases leave loose ends dangling