"I'm sorry to hear about Brett," Matt said. "Tough break. He seemed like a nice guy."
"The best," Howie agreed.
"Any evidence of foul play?" Gretchen threw it out there to see what developed.
"Foul play?" Howie said. "Whatever gave you an idea like that?"
Both men stared at her.
Gretchen concentrated on running her finger around the rim of the wineglass. "Speculating, is all."
"Do you really think that little lady driver planned to run over Brett?" Howie said. "I've known him for years, all the ins and outs of his life, all the people he knew, and I never saw her before the accident."
"Maybe someone pushed him," Gretchen suggested. She wanted to mention the blue truck to gauge Howie's reaction but decided against it. Howie tipped the brim of his Stetson hat. "No disrespect intended, but they grow large imaginations in your family. I know your mother, and you're the spittin' image."
Gretchen chose to take that as a compliment. She noted that Matt watched her closely, amusement playing on his lips.
"Detective Albright," Gretchen said, "what do you think?"
"I'm glad you asked. I want to know how someone who talks as slow and relaxed as Howie Howard can become an auctioneer."
Howie chuckled. "You have to learn to chant in rhythm and practice tongue twisters. Here's one for you. A skunk sat on a stump and thunk the stump stunk, but the stump thunk the skunk stunk. Go ahead and try it."
Gretchen knew that Matt had intentionally redirected the conversation, and she appreciated his consideration. But what kind of detective would rather thunk skunks than solve crimes? She gave Matt a withering glance, which he didn't notice, and walked away.
She smiled with satisfaction when she realized that something really important had occurred: she had connected the two dead men. On Wednesday, one day before Brett died and two days before Ronny was killed, they had been together in Chiggy Kent's house.
"That was quite a bombshell you dropped on Howie," Matt said to her when their paths crossed shortly after in the kitchen. "He's grieving for Brett and doesn't need that kind of speculation right now."
"You changed the subject to protect Howie's feelings?"
"Least I could do."
"I have information that Brett was pushed in front of that car," Gretchen said.
"Tell me about your source. According to the responding officer's report, not a single eyewitness came forward. Everyone's attention was riveted on the auction."
Gretchen felt her face flush and tried to stop it from deepening. "I'd rather not."
"Are you withholding important information in an ongoing investigation?"
"Ongoing? Did you say ongoing?"
"Police business. My mouth is sealed. Now tell me who your source is."
"I promised I wouldn't tell."
Matt rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Oh, please. How about if I promise not to tell anyone else? Would that help?"
"Only if you cross your heart."
"You believe that Brett was a murder victim." He folded his arms across his chest. "Here's your chance to prove it."
"Even though you're going to laugh, somehow I'm involved in all this," she said. "I didn't imagine the scorpion at the doll show, and I didn't imagine the black Jetta. They were real."
"What black Jetta?"
"The one that's been following me. The first time it pulled up next to my car and a woman threatened me. She said I would pay."
"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.