“Cool,” Brian said.
“And if you’re a good boy, I may even let you have some of it,” Kelly added, looking over the seat at him, a glint in her eye.
After a few moments, Ron came walking out of the convenience store. He smiled as he opened the shotgun door and tossed a twelve-pack of Coors on the front seat. “Ask and ye shall receive,” he said. He pulled a hard pack of Marlboro reds out of his pocket and handed them over to his girlfriend. Kelly eased the Toyota back out onto Seventh and headed north. She hooked a right on McDowell and they were soon parked behind Brookshire’s.
The trio sat in the car drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The back door of the Lucky Cue pool hall hung open and they watched two teenaged kids pass a joint back and forth. Finally, Ron looked at his watch, swore under his breath, and groped around in the backseat for his crumpled server’s apron. He was late again. Ron kissed Kelly on the lips and staggered off toward the restaurant to begin his shift.
Conover pulled into the Erotica Hotel on Fifty-Second and Van Buren. The sign outside offered hourly rates and free XXX movies. The city tried to shut it down many times, but somehow the old flophouse had survived. The place got a lot of business from factory workers at the nearby Motorola plant, who used it for nooners and after-work trysts. The Erotica sat diagonally across from the Tovrea Castle and marked the eastern edge of the Van Buren strip. Conover, who’d been on the force since the late ’60s, knew every square inch of the area. The detective spotted the patrol car as he pulled into the small lot. He parked the Polara and was relieved to see that the officer was Luis Escalante.
“Hey, Gene. Still drivin’ that heap, I see.”
Escalante stood with arms crossed outside the open hotel room door. Yellow crime scene tape had been stretched across the doorway. Conover noticed that one of the cars out front, a metallic-blue Toyota Cressida, had also been covered with the tape.
“Can’t bring myself to get rid of her, Luis,” Conover said, stepping out into the late-morning sun’s glare. It was nearly October and still well into the nineties.
“On your salary? Shit, you need to get you a flashier ride, homes,” Escalante said. “Like our man Bob’s.”
“Yeah, right. Me and Steve McQueen.” One of the other detectives, Bob King, had a green ’68 Mustang Fastback, just like the one McQueen drove in Bullitt. The vanity plate on the muscle car read: HEAT. Conover respected King as a cop, but he disapproved of all the flashy bullshit.
Conover and Escalante had come up through the academy and for years worked the streets of Phoenix together. When Conover got the big bump up to detective, first in robbery and then homicide, their friendship had cooled. Both men knew that Escalante would likely retire in his uniform, and it had caused tension between them for a long time, but things were okay now. It was just the way life had panned out. Conover still trusted him more than most high-ranking of-ficers he knew.
“You’re getting a little bit more snow on the roof, her-mano,” Conover said, walking up to his friend and shaking his hand.
“Shit, least I got some hair left, man,” Escalante said, completing their standard opening exchange. Conover ran a hand up to his rapidly receding hairline and grinned.
“I take it this is the Hodge girl’s vehicle,” he said, pointing at the blue Cressida.
“Registered in Daddy’s name, but yep, I’m guessing she’s the one who usually drove it. Take a look.”
Conover stepped up to the car window and peered inside. The backseat was littered with empty beer cans and cigarette packages. An assortment of cassette tapes lay scattered on the passenger seat and on the floor. A plastic skeleton dangled from the rearview mirror.
“Nice. So they took the party inside, eh?”
“Yeah, and they stepped it up a bit from the looks of it.”
The detective left the car and followed Escalante under the hotel’s low awning to the open room. He caught himself as he was about to ask if Escalante had touched anything, but he knew that his friend would be insulted at the suggestion.
Conover lifted the tape and stepped into the dark room. He stopped just inside to let his eyes adjust, and as the objects in the room materialized, he took stock of the scene.
“Our girl was definitely fucking somebody,” Escalante said from outside.
“It would appear so, wouldn’t it?” Conover agreed, noting the empty packet of Trojans on the bedside table. The bedspread had been pulled off and lay in a pile on the ancient, grayish-brown carpet. He leaned over the bed and peered at the cigarette butts in the ashtray—five or six lipstick-stained Marlboros and several Kool menthol filters. This last detail gave the detective pause, and he stood in the middle of the room for a moment, thinking.
“Be careful in there, man. You can get crabs just driving by this dump.”
Conover didn’t respond.
“So, what, you think la chiquita and her boy had one last laugh and then wandered across the street to kill themselves?”
Escalante said, breaking the silence. “I just don’t see it, bro.”
“Neither do I,” Conover answered finally. “And it turns out that the kid who died with her out there wasn’t her boyfriend.” He nodded toward the castle.
“Well, whoever he was, looks like he was nailing her too.”
“A distinct possibility,” Conover said.
“Then again, how many white boys you know smoke Kools?”
“Not many, these days.” Conover looked around the room more closely and his eyes focused on the waste basket. He lifted it with his fingertips and dumped the contents onto the carpet: a bit of tin foil, some wadded up, blood-spotted tissue paper, and a disposable hypodermic needle.
“I’m thinking they had a visitor,” Escalante said.
“I’m thinking you’re right.”
Later that morning, the detective left the crime scene at the Tovrea Castle, checked in with his lieutenant, and then drove out to Paradise Valley to inform Ed Hodge of his daughter’s death. He’d arranged to have another detective, Dan Apkaw, meet him there at the Hodge residence. Conover followed the stories over the years like everyone else, the allegations of mob connections, money laundering, drug trafficking. Each time, Hodge’s extensive team of lawyers had gotten him off the hook. Hell, there was that Arizona Republic reporter back in the mid-’70s who’d been shadowing Hodge for months, digging up all kinds of dirt. The poor guy ended up dead by a car bomb.
Conover followed a narrow street north of Lincoln Drive into the foothills and found the address at the end of a cul-de-sac. He parked behind a new Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham with tinted windows. The homes in this exclusive enclave sat on acre lots, the residents a combination of old Phoenix money, like Hodge, and newer blood—professional athletes, media personalities, and foreign investment bankers. Many of the sprawling mansions sat empty during the hot summer months.
Apkaw pulled up in an unmarked Caprice and parked next to Conover. He stepped out of the car, slipped on his sport coat, and adjusted his tie.
“Thanks for coming along, Dan,” Conover said.
“No problem, man.”
“Well, I guess we should just get this over with.”
The two men proceeded up the drive, passing between white marble columns to an enormous front door. After a few moments, Hodge himself answered. He wore a navy-blue polo shirt over tan linen slacks, and his silver-white hair looked freshly cut and styled. Hodge stared out at the detectives with a frown on his face.
“Edward Hodge? I’m Detective Gene Conover, Phoenix Police Department.”