Desert Cut (10 page)

He was so intent on delivering his message that he didn’t catch it. “Women like you try to get through life alone, which is always a mistake. Women simply aren’t capable of living a normal life without a man’s wise oversight. Independence in a woman is the root of all evil. Why, look at what happened in the Garden of Eden when Eve decided to act on her own. Mankind has been paying for it ever since!”

I knew a little bit about the Bible, myself. “Adam wasn’t at all culpable, Reverend?”

“Adam was blinded by love, Miss Jones. Women and their unholy desires will do that to a man. That’s why they need to be controlled.”

Unholy desires
? Eager to leave, I opened the door. Seeing that I was about to escape, he said one final thing, but in my rush to get away, I wasn’t certain I’d heard him right.

“Control women and you control the world.”

In the parking lot, a group of women were walking toward the parsonage, several of them wearing the kind of cowled white robes I’d seen on Trappist monks. The Women For Freedom? Most were fairly young, in their twenties or thirties. With one exception, a fragile redhead with a lost expression, none were even remotely attractive. Like all hucksters, the Reverend knew how to target an audience.

As I crossed the parking lot to the Jeep, I glanced behind me and saw him with his arms spread, a movie-star smile on his face, all traces of his former coldness vanished. The overt bully replaced by a slick manipulator.

A mile down the highway, I pulled into a rest area and checked my messages: one from my partner at Desert Investigations, and one from Martha Green, the librarian who had been so helpful the day before. No calls from Warren. Deciding to worry about him later, I returned Martha Green’s call first. She whispered into the phone so she wouldn’t disturb the library patrons, but I had no trouble hearing her, even with the traffic rushing by.

“Can you meet me for lunch at the Nile Restaurant, on the south end of town?” She asked. “The elementary school’s only holding a half-session today, and Peggy Binder’s anxious to talk to you.”

It took me a moment to remember that Binder had taught Tujin Rafik, the first child to disappear from Los Perdidos. Believing Tujin had been taken by the same person who killed Precious Doe and kidnapped Aziza, I agreed, and we made a date for noon.

Then I called my partner and discovered that Jimmy wanted to join me in Los Perdidos. “Lena, I’ve been watching the local feed on CNN. One dead child and two more missing? Why don’t I pack my laptop and continue these background checks down there? It sounds like you need all the help you can get.” His voice softened. “Besides, I’m worried about you.”

I missed his company, but he needed to stay in Scottsdale. “Jimmy, you’re more useful up there. Those background checks you’re doing for Southwest MicroSystems will pay the rent for the next six months.”

“The money from your TV show’s already paid it for the next two years. Besides, I’m portable.”

Unsettled as I was after my visit with Reverend Hall, I had to smile. “MicroSystems feels more secure knowing you’re within badgering distance. But there is something you can do for me. Run a check on a Reverend Daniel Hall, leader of a Los Perdidos church called Freedom Temple.”

“Non-denominational?”

“And how.”

“Don’t like him, eh?” We had been partners so long he could read me through the phone.

“You might say that. His daughter vanished last night.”

“
Another
missing girl?” he all but yelled. “Lena, you’re in danger. You need to come home. Or at least let me join you down there and give you some protection.”

“Calm down, Jimmy. The girl’s sixteen and probably just a runaway—the family car’s gone—but Hall was so creepy I want him and his church checked out. Get what you can on Mrs. Hall, too. Something there doesn’t add up.” Like two pale-eyed parents having a brown-eyed child.

“I’ll call as soon as I find out anything, but are you sure you don’t want me there?”

“I’m sure.” Knowing that I shouldn’t ask my next question didn’t keep me from asking, “By the way, how’s things with what’s-her-name?”

“Lydianna?”

I didn’t even like her name. It sounded too contrived. “Yeah. The gal you met at the pow-wow.”

“You asked the same question yesterday.”

I forced a laugh. “Maybe, but you move pretty fast.”

“Compared to you, a snail moves fast.”

“Do you mean Warren? C’mon, that’s not my fault. He lives in L.A., so we can only see each other every now and then.” We’d spent what, six weekends together since we’d met last spring? Half the time when I flew into L.A. for the
Desert Eagle
script meetings, he was so busy with his own projects that he didn’t have time to see me. Or at least, that’s what he said.

“How about Dusty?” Jimmy reminded me.

“That’s different.” Dusty, who cowboyed on a dude ranch north of Scottsdale, had been my first real love, but his bad habits—booze, gambling, and women—kept me from making a commitment until that relationship blew up in my face. What sane person moved fast with a man like that?

Jimmy spoke into my silence. “Let’s make a deal. You won’t ask about my love life and I won’t ask about yours.”

Now I felt hurt. “You make it sound like I’m always poking my nose into your business.”

He laughed.

“Okay,” I said, chastened. “No more questions. About women, anyway.” But I reserved the right to ask if he’d seen any good date movies recently. Or ate dinner at some candle-lit restaurant.

He must have known the way my mind was working, because he spoke quickly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. In the meantime, you take care. Los Perdidos sounds about as safe as a nest of rattlesnakes.”

Swearing I would watch out for myself, I hung up.

By the end of the day, I had broken my promise.

Chapter Eleven

When I strode into the Geronimo Lounge, I saw Clive Berklee, my elderly informant, sipping slowly at a Molson’s while he worked a crossword puzzle.

“It’s not Sunday,” I said, sliding into the chair across from him.

“I’m pretending it is.” He drained the rest of his glass, then called to the bartender, “Another beer. And put it on the blonde’s tab.”

“You’ll need to work for that.”

He called to the bartender again. “Make that
three
Molson’s, but keep two on ice.” Then, to me, “Whatcha want?”

“Your nephew, the one who assists the medical examiner. Where can I find him?”

“Herschel? At the hospital. He works all the time except for Sundays, and sometimes even then. Why? You wantin’ a date?”

“Funny man. All I want is his home address. I want to talk, not go to the prom.”

He grinned. “You’re pretty funny yourself.” Before I responded, he tore off a strip of newsprint and wrote down the information. “It’s in that new tract on the east end of town, where all the houses look alike. He works nights, so don’t go waking him up until around three or he’ll tear your head off, then mine.”

We bantered until it was time for me to meet Martha Green for lunch at the Nile Restaurant, a tiny but crowded Middle Eastern place that came as a relief from the town’s ubiquitous fast food joints. When I entered, I smelled the tang of mysterious spices. The gleaming copper hookahs and pots that shone down from shelves high on the burgundy-colored walls were considerably more attractive than prints of Ronald McDonald.

“Nice choice,” I said to Martha, after finding her at a table with the woman I took to be Tujin Rafik’s teacher. Peggy Binder was a dark, attractive brunette well into her forties, and as soon as we ordered from an elderly waitress—shish kabob for me with a couscous side, pita sandwiches for the others—I asked her how well she knew the first missing girl.

“As well as most teachers know their students,” Peggy answered. “She was sweet but shy. The family was in the first wave of immigrants to work at the chemical plant, and some of them had trouble fitting in. Tujin especially.”

“Any particular reason why?” As other diners came in, the noise level in the restaurant rose.

“She felt self-conscious about her clothing. Her family was very traditional and refused to let her wear Western dress. You know how girls are, they want the latest fads, no matter how ridiculous.”

Following up on the inconsistencies in the
Observer
newspaper article, I asked, “Was she having trouble in school? Her father was quoted as saying she did because her language skills were poor.”

When Peggy shook her head, a wisp of glossy black hair fell across her cheek. As her fingers pushed it back, I saw a large, silver-and-turquoise ring that matched her earrings and bracelets. Studying her more carefully, I noted the bronze skin, high cheekbones, and narrow nose. Her vowels weren’t quite as soft and broad as a Navajo’s.

Apache. Perhaps a descendant of Geronimo’s band. Today they sold insurance, ran casinos, and taught Iraqi immigrants.

“Poor language skills?” Peggy remained oblivious to my musings on the strange pathways of societal evolution. “Ridiculous. Tujin’s English was as good as the other children’s, better than most, actually. Like a lot of my English-as-second-language students, she took more care with her grammar than the average American does. As for having trouble in school, she was a solid B student.”

So Tujin’s father
had
lied to the sheriff. I would have pondered this development further, but the next thing Peggy came as a shock.

“Speaking of missing girls, are you aware that Aziza Wahab is one of my students? And that her sister, Shalimar, used to be, too?”

Martha and I both stared at her. “I didn’t know that,” the librarian said.

Peggy nodded. “They were both in my Advanced Learners Class. I called Sheriff Avery this morning and told him how alarming it was that two of my students were missing. Each one a minority, too, like Precious Doe.”

She went on to say that while Los Perdidos was an open-minded town, as Arizona towns went, it didn’t mean there were no pockets of racism among its populace. “The more traditional the immigrants appear, the bigger targets they make for assaults.”

“Aziza’s parents seemed pretty assimilated to me,” I said, remembering the electronic gear in their living room, the boys playing Scrabble.

Peggy shrugged. “They’ve been here six years and they’re pretty well assimilated, although Mrs. Wahab and the girls still wear the
hijab
. Look, something else has been bothering me. Aziza’s very attuned to her environment, so I can’t believe she just sat there passively while someone came through her window and snatched her. she would have fought back, or at the very least, screamed her lungs out.”

I had a ready answer. “Maybe she did, but no one heard her.” I described my visit to the Wahab’s house the evening before, and the music blasting out of Aziza’s bedroom. The Nile wasn’t that much quieter, I noted. Over the loud conversations of a room full of customers, Middle Eastern music played on the restaurant’s sound system. In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed the friendly din.

Remembering how shy the older Wahab girl had seemed, I said, “Aziza sounds a lot more outgoing than Shalimar.” I raised my voice as a quartet of diners near us began to laugh uproariously.

The noise didn’t bother Peggy. “God, yes. Shalimar, is shy and very restrained. I’m not sure she has many friends to speak of, at least few at school. Aziza’s just the opposite. She makes friends everywhere she goes, and she’s so smart a lot of them are years older than she is.”

The laughter died down and I was able to speak in a more normal voice. “Did Aziza have any black friends?”

“Plenty. We have a small Somali and Ethiopian population and most of them have kids. They attend prayer services on Fridays with the other Muslims. You’ll see them standing around outside the Unitarian Church where they meet, some of them in tribal dress. It’s very colorful.”

When I told her that Duane Tucker said he’d seen someone who looked like Aziza talking to a dark girl who might have been Precious Doe, she grimaced. “Oh, geez. Duane. There’s a hat full of trouble. He used to hang around my kid sister until Dad ran him off. Half the time the guy’s
non compos mentis
, if you get my meaning, so don’t put too much stock in anything he says. But I’ll say this about Duane. If he’s a child molester, I’m a Swede. He likes them young, but not
that
young.”

A conclusion I’d reached myself. “The victims were around seven years old, unless you count the last one.”

Both women shot me startled looks. “What are you talking about?” Martha Green asked.

“You haven’t heard?”

The librarian shook her head. “I’ve stopped watching the news. Too depressing. I get up, eat breakfast, go straight to the library.”

For her part, Peggy offered, “I was out late last night with one of the search parties, and I overslept this morning. By the time I hauled myself out of bed, I didn’t even have time for breakfast, let alone the news.”

I started to explain. “A girl named Nicole Hall…”

“Not Nicole!” Peggy looked distraught.

Several Nile patrons turned to stare, including our elderly waitress, who had just arrived with our meals. No, not just waitress. Her name tag announced:
ASENATH NOUR, MANAGER
. Eyeing Peggy carefully, she asked. “Are you all right, Miss Binder?”

Peggy gave her a wan smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Nour. I just learned something disturbing about one of my former students.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Nour said, sympathetically. “Children can break your heart, but Allah be praised, I have been fortunate in mine.” With a glance at Peggy’s slightly trembling hands, she added, “Today I suggest Seven-Up for your drink, not tea. It appears you need no more caffeine.”

When Mrs. Nour went to fetch Peggy some Seven-Up, I eyed the teacher with curiosity. “I thought Nicole was home-schooled.”

Peggy picked up her napkin, fumbled with it for a second, then placed it in her lap, making no move toward her sandwich. “I taught her from first grade until she entered middle school. She’s a sweet girl, one of my favorite-ever students. I used to have high hopes for her. Please don’t tell me something’s happened to her, too.”

I did my best to reassure her by saying that so far, the girl was suspected of simply being a runaway. Then I remembered something. “Didn’t you say you teach advanced students?”

She finally took a nibble from her pita sandwich, but with an expression of regret, put it down. “Guess I’m not hungry, after all. Yes, I teach the advanced class, which is how I wound up with Tujin and Aziza. Nicole, too, because believe me, that girl’s as smart as they come. But as she grew older, she became a real handful. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when…” She hesitated.

“When what?” I urged.

Mrs. Nour arrived with a Seven-Up. After thanking her, Peggy drank half the glass, then with a nervous gesture, tucked her hair behind her silver-studded ears. “It happened when Nicole was fourteen. She ran away from home and was gone for a couple of days. Nobody knows where she was during that time, but she eventually turned up at her boyfriend’s house.”

“A boyfriend?” Why hadn’t Reverend Hall given me that bit of information?

“She and Raymundo Mendoza had known each other since first grade, and you know the way these things go. She was pretty, he was gorgeous, and their hormones were raging. But as it turned out, she ran away because she’d skipped her period and knew that if she was pregnant, her parents would have a fit.”

Another item Reverend Hall had neglected to mention. “And was she pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“At fourteen?” My already dark feelings about Hall grew darker. “Whose baby was it?”

Peggy must have guessed where my thoughts were heading because she didn’t let me complete the question. “The baby, a girl, was Raymundo’s. He admitted it. As for Reverend Hall, while I’m no fan of his or that weird Freedom Temple, in all the time I taught Nicole, I never saw any indication of abuse, sexual or otherwise. She was well fed, and wore clean, if somewhat dowdy, clothes. There were no ‘she-fell-down’ bruises, either, and that’s something I’m always on the alert for. You can never tell with parents, can you?”

Taking our silence for agreement, she continued, “Nicole’s middle school teachers said the same thing, that they never saw any reason to suspect abuse. But back to the pregnancy. Raymundo and his family wanted to raise the baby, but Hal shipped Nicole off to an aunt in Idaho or Montana or someplace like that, and the baby was put up for adoption. The Mendozas were beside themselves and even made noises about contesting the adoption—after all, the baby was their granddaughter—but by the time Nicole returned to Los Perdidos, they’d decided not to break the adoptive parents’ hearts.”

“Raymundo himself could have contested it.”

“He was only fourteen, remember. Anyway, Reverend Hall pulled Nicole out of public school, and that was the end of that. Since then, on occasion I’ve seen the poor kid around town with her parents, but she’s different now. It was like she’d always blazed with light, then someone turned off the switch.”

A pregnant teenager, a powerless boyfriend, and an out-of-state adoption agency—the same old sad story. “Losing your first love and then your baby would be traumatic,” I told Peggy.

She nodded. “If you ask me, I’d say her very soul was damaged.”

I had no rejoinder for that. “Does Raymundo’s family live near by?”

“Sure. The Mendozas are descended from one of Los Perdidos’ founding families.” She gave me a half-humorous, half-bitter smile. “In fact, they like to brag that one of their ancestors shot one of my ancestors. Anyway, they own a pottery business at the edge of town and live right behind it. If Nicole did run away, and I hope that’s all this is, she’d head straight there. Especially now that Raymundo’s graduated.”

“I thought he was only sixteen.”

“Yes, but he’s as bright as Nicole and was able to skip a couple of grades. He’s working at the shop with his mother until he starts U of A this fall on a full-ride scholarship.”

I thought for a moment. When Nicole ran away the first time and turned up at Raymundo’s house, his father turned her over to the authorities. If she was as smart as Peggy said she was, she wouldn’t repeat the same mistake. Still, I needed to find out what was what. By now, Raymundo might have resources of his own.

Before I attacked my shish kabob, I asked Peggy one final question. “Is there any possibility that Nicole knows Aziza Wahab?”

She shrugged. “Nicole was friendly with Shalimar, her older sister, but as for knowing Aziza, I can’t say. I guess it’s possible their paths crossed, but I doubt if Nicole and Shalimar had any sleep-overs or anything like that. The Wahabs aren’t the type, and neither are the Halls. Since that pregnancy business a couple of years ago, Nicole’s father keeps her pretty much under wraps.”

I was sliding meat off the skewer when she added, “Come to think of it, Nicole did know Tujin Rafik, that Iraqi girl who disappeared.”

I put my fork down. “How?”

“When Nicole was around ten, we used her as a tutor in our Peer Program, where kids help kids. She drilled some of the immigrant girls on their reading, and Tujin was one of them. They were pretty close, and when Tujin disappeared, she took it so hard her father kept her home from school for a few days. When she returned, the school provided what counseling our budget would allow, which admittedly wasn’t much, and she seemed to get over it. At least she stopped crying all the time.”

There it was. A connection between the runaway Nicole and one of the missing girls.