First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery Read online

  Jimmy made up for not living in the country club by having a huge home outside its gates. The two-story, stucco McMansion took up all but a few feet on either side of the large suburban lot. The front yard featured a fake stream, rocky mounds to provide contour, and cacti spaced expertly. Every inch neat and tidy, like Jimmy. The entry was tall, grand, arched and columned. In all, an odd marriage of Southwest and Roman architecture that made people feel even wealthier than they were.

  The garage door was open partway, a black Lexus and a black SUV inside. I parked in the driveway and got out.

  I slipped under the door, walked through the garage and opened the door into a laundry room. Etta James crooned softly from somewhere deep inside the house. The laundry room opened to a short hallway. I followed it into a large formal dining room with more faux Roman columns and arches, painted to look like marble, cracks and everything. The floor was real marble, but my running shoes made no sound. An oversize dinner table was covered with bowls of chips and dips and plates with the remains of finger foods.

  I walked through the dining room into an Emeril-inspired kitchen, all granite and commercial-grade stainless steel appliances. I could hear voices but hadn’t seen anyone yet.

  An arched opening separated the kitchen from a cavernous living room fit for a toga party. I tucked behind a wall and approached the arch, then emerged partially obscured by a fake, potted tropical plant and leaned a shoulder against the archway. There were three couples in various states of undress. None of them noticed me. As a private eye, it was my job to notice things. So I commenced noticing as much as I could.

  Bo Rollins, the former pitcher, wore tighty whities and a Mets game jersey. Bo, all six-six of him, slow-danced with a much younger, well-tanned naked woman whose face was buried in his chest. To be precise, she wore two things. A Mets cap, from which a purple pony tail protruded perkily, and impossibly tall ankle strap heels that raised her just high enough so Bo’s hand could reach her ample but shapely alabaster bottom. The fingers of his left hand clutched stark tan lines in what looked to be a curveball grip.

  Rollins’ frosted-blond wife, in nothing but a pair of sheer panties, a laurel wreath on her head and expensive Scottsdale breasts, held a wine glass by the stem with two fingers. She was well-toned for a woman in her forties, no doubt a product of endless days on tennis courts, in gyms, at spas. She stood chatting with Jimmy Mendoza, who sported a gold chain around his neck, a gold Rolex on his wrist, a gold wedding band on his finger, and a partly erect but not oversized bit of manhood hanging out front.

  Jimmy drank beer from a bottle, eyeing the breasts made in Scottsdale. The owner of the breasts smiled and shook them gently from side to side.

  Jimmy’s nude wife Rachael, a natural redhead, sat on the couch kissing a much younger man I didn’t know, presumably Donovan Fisk. He had a naturally curly mop of brown hair reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David, biceps to match, and wore a toga tugged up farther than I cared to notice.

  Still in my jeans, t-shirt and running shoes, I folded my arms, and tried to grasp the allure of the lifestyle. The view from here, or at least three-sixths of it, wasn’t bad, I concluded, but I’d already swung beyond my comfort zone. It was time to stop noticing things, before it became just staring.

  I had a plan. It was simple. I’d used it many times before, as a reporter and recently as an upstart private investigator. When I didn’t have any real evidence, but I had some suspicions, I liked to surprise people, then watch their body language for hints of guilt or fear or whatever they might give away in that unguarded instant. It could save a lot of work, actually looking for clues and all that. I’d never employed the tactic with naked people before, so there was a lot to watch for when I said, “Anybody seen Joe Mack?”

  Bo Rollins’ wife turned away from Jimmy Mendoza and dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the marble floor, red wine pooling around the shards. Bo turned and narrowed his beady pitcher’s eyes at me without taking his left hand off the young woman’s backside. They stopped dancing but stayed pressed together. She was tipsy on her spindly heels. The big tall leftie tightened his grip on the curveball so she wouldn’t fall. She giggled and looked at me, her purple ponytail bouncing around, then her faced dropped. I gave a half grin so Becca would know I recognized her, not enough for anyone else to pick up on it. She buried her head back in Bo’s chest.

  Jimmy’s redheaded wife Rachael and the presumed Donovan Fisk both just froze, wide-eyed.

  “What the fuck,” Jimmy said, inadvertently aiming his manhood my way.

  “Who the hell is he?” Bo said.

  I took that one. “Eli Quinn, private investigator.”

  I liked to be straightforward with people whenever it served me well. If someone in this room knew where Joe Mack was, I wanted that person to know who I was. Make them feel cornered. People do stupid things when they feel cornered.

  Jimmy took a step my way, pulled himself up as tall as he could, handed his beer to Bo’s wife. His body, dark and shaved save the patch on top and another down low, bulged from years of pumping iron, shined like polished walnut.

  Bo’s wife took a step back and covered her breasts with her arms in a sudden onset of modesty. Jimmy’s wife and the presumed Donovan Fisk disentangled themselves on the couch. She covered herself with two orange pillows that clashed terribly with her hair. Fisk stood up, a good two or three inches taller than me, thankfully let his toga fall back into place as his muscular arms hung to his sides, relaxed, fists clenched tight. He looked even more like the statue of David now. They all looked to Jimmy, while Bo—notorious for beaning batters and starting fights on the field and off—just kept staring at me.

  All this I registered in the time it took to push my shoulder off the wall and prepare myself for whatever might come next.

  “What the fuck’re you doing in my house?” Jimmy said, his erection subsiding. His accent grew stronger as he spoke faster.

  “I told you. Looking for Joe Mack.”

  “That’s twice you get in my face,” he said.

  Jimmy should have thought twice before doing what he did next. But hotheads aren’t known for thinking twice.

  He came at me the way strong, overconfident guys will, barreling straight in, sans any strategy. I hoped this would be easy. I wasn’t in the mood to compound the damage to my body, just as I was recovering, just when I was about to get my first kiss from Sam Marcos. And I really, really didn’t want to wrestle a naked man.

  I blocked his sloppy punch with my right forearm, grabbed his other arm with my left hand and encouraged his momentum to carry him into the wall. He hit with a loud thud, a full body slam that stunned him without breaking anything. I wasn’t out to hurt Jimmy Mendoza. Yet.

  I shuffled to the right, careful not to turn my back on the outsized men in the room, an angry pitcher and a sculpture-of-David lookalike. I could handle two men at once, maybe three if I got lucky, but maybe not these three. The statue of David quivered like a dog waiting for a command, squinted, waited. Bo hadn’t moved.

  Jimmy Mendoza crouched and put fists up like a boxer. Clearly he’d never boxed. He moved in like a snail. I sprang forward like a grasshopper, struck him in the chest with a push kick that put him flat on his back, sliding into the couch, just missing the wine and broken glass on the floor.

  I landed on my feet, ready for anyone else who might want to go a round.

  The statue took a step forward, made eye contact with me, thought better of it and held his ground. Bo still clutched tan lines, watching me. Etta James finished her song and started another.

  “Joe Mack’s not here,” Bo said. “Nobody’s seen him since yesterday.”

  “So I heard.” I looked at Bo, then Jimmy, then their wives, then the statue. “I figured one of you might know where he is.”

  Bo shook his head once. “Nope.” Cool as a relief pitcher in the bottom of the ninth. I was surprised he hadn’t come at me. But I was glad. The best fights were usually the ones
that didn’t happen.

  “Why the fuck should we know where he is?” Jimmy regained his wits, rolled over and got up on his knees, keeping an eye on me. I relaxed my stance.

  “Joe Mack’s the local real estate king,” I said. “You guys are what, pawns? Maybe one of you would like to see him gone.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Rachael said, an edge to her voice that comes when a wife hears her husband might be up to no good. “Jimmy, what the heck?”

  “Nothing, hon. This guy’s a fucking amateur. Doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.” He stood up. Shook his head, glared at me. “You come in here, break up our party. Assault me. Tell me why I shouldn’t call the police.”

  “Correction,” I said. “You assaulted me. I was just enjoying the view from the cheap seats. But go ahead and make the call. It’ll make for a great newspaper headline. Jimmy Mendoza beaten up while naked at a wife swap.”

  “Dickhead,” he said. “It’s not a wife swap. It’s the lifestyle. Idiots like you don’t understand.”

  “No, we probably don’t,” I said. “Does Joanne Mack understand?”

  Jimmy’s eye twitched. A yes, according to my detective manual.

  Bo let go of Becca Jones’ bottom, took half a step my way. She nearly tipped over on her spike heels. Bo hadn’t stopped watching me, but now he looked into the middle distance, thinking hard, deciding something. He refocused on me. Donovan Fisk’s feet remained frozen, like any good statue, but his head was swiveling between Jimmy and Bo, appearing to search for guidance.

  “None of our business what Joanne does,” Bo said.

  I nodded. “I see.” And I had seen a lot. More than I needed to. And I’d learned some things. And I was pretty sure I’d made somebody nervous, maybe a couple somebodies. I nodded, turned and walked out the way I’d come in. Jimmy Mendoza cursed at the back of my head as Etta James sang me out.

  Chapter 8

  “You’re looking better,” my best friend Jack Beachum said. “Stitches out, swelling’s down. Still ugly, but better.”

  “Thanks Beach.” I finished the last of my scrambled eggs, wished for one more piece of bacon as I slid the plate away. I dug into a strawberry tart. It was unbearably delicious.

  Beach leaned back against the side of the building, his Denver omelet done, and bounced the red rubber ball off the outdoor patio at Lulu’s Grind. Solo stopped napping long enough to follow the ball, bobbing his head up and down a few times, until he remembered that Jack Beachum never gave up his rubber ball.

  Having recently killed a man, Beach was, per standard procedure, on leave. He wore civilian clothes—flip-flops, blue cargo shorts and a yellow Hawaiian print shirt that clashed with his fair skin and short sandy hair.

  “Loudest shirt I ever saw,” I said. “A man in his seventies oughta have more dignity.”

  “Ladies love it,” Beach said.

  “Your wife?”

  “Especially my wife.”

  I just shook my head and smiled. Over breakfast, my friend had listened to what I knew about Madison Mack, which didn’t take much time, and what I didn’t know, which was a lot.

  “I picked up on some rumors yesterday,” I said. “Lot of swinging going on in Pleasant.”

  Beach nodded, bounced the ball.

  I didn’t tell him about my adventures last night. Being a lawman, Beach didn’t always want to know how I knew some of the things I knew. And I’d promised discretion to Aahna Chaudhari, mostly for Becca’s sake.

  “Joe Mack, Jimmy Mendoza, Bo Rollins. Their wives. All swingers.”

  “Knew about Mendoza and Rollins,” Beach said.

  “And how’d you come by that juicy tidbit?”

  “I’m posse,” he said. “We’re aware of everything that goes on in this town.”

  The posse was a volunteer group within the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. Posse members, most of them retired cops, wore uniforms almost identical to sworn deputies, drove nearly identical cars. They carried the same crime-fighting gear, and many were allowed to pack weapons. But their duties were confined to crowd control, helping out at school crossings, and other support roles. They were supposed to refrain from making arrests or plunging into dangerous situations, instead calling for backup. Jack Beachum had been a lawman forever, first in Texas, then Scottsdale, and now in Pleasant, and he didn’t always follow the posse guidelines.

  “Almost everything,” I said.

  “Didn’t know Joe Mack was involved. But Mendoza and Rollins are known hotheads. We keep an extra eye on known hotheads.”

  “How about a guy named Donovan Fisk.”

  “Never heard of him,” Beach said.

  “How come you never told me there were swingers in Pleasant?”

  “You didn’t need to know,” he said, squeezing the rubber ball with his left hand, then tossing it over to his right and continuing to squeeze.

  I nodded. Beach and I shared a lot of information with each other. And we hid a fair amount. It was a necessary part of our friendship. When I was an investigative reporter, Beach gave me tips now and then, ran down the occasional lead for me. He’d helped me with my first two cases as a private eye.

  I asked him if the investigation into Joe Mack’s disappearance, a joint effort by the Scottsdale Police and Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, had revealed anything.

  “If it did I shouldn’t tell you,” Beach said.

  “But you will.”

  “How would I know anything? I’m off duty.”

  “You still talk to people on the inside,” I said. The law was not just a job for Jack Beachum. It was his hobby.

  Solo snored. He was used to Beach and me lingering after a meal. A waiter came out, poured more coffee and took our plates. Lulu would be inside on this busy morning, taking orders, clearing tables and helping the cook. We were the only guests braving the growing heat on the patio.

  “And what I tell you didn’t come from me,” Beach said.

  “Never does.”

  “Eyewitnesses confirm Joe Mack was at the Princess that morning. His cell phone records show he took a call at 11:30 from Joanne Mack.”

  “His wife.”

  Beach nodded. “Then nothing.”

  “Joanne know that you know about the call?”

  “Yep, guy working the case asked her about it. She said it was nothing, just checking in.”

  “Anybody see him after that?”

  “Not that we could discern.”

  “They find his car?”

  “In the hotel parking lot.”

  “And no other calls. No texts?”

  “Nada.”

  “His phone just go dead?”

  “Dunno.”

  “That all you got?” I grinned.

  “I’m just posse.”

  “Can a posse guy look into one Donovan Fisk, find out where he lives, what he does, check his priors, stuff like that?”

  “Darn tootin.”

  Chapter 9

  Madison Mack was on my growing list of people to talk to today. She had some explaining to do. But first I wanted to get a bead on her mother, see if she was as bad as people were saying.

  I left Jack Beachum at Lulu’s and drove to the country club, rang the doorbell at the Mack residence and waited. Was about to ring the bell again when Joanne Mack opened the door partway. She was barefoot in a terry cloth robe, tied loosely to invite plenty of imagination. Her short hair, blond with dark roots, was wet.

  She leaned against the edge of the door, rubbed her hair with a towel in one hand, looked me up and down. It felt like an appraisal. The act of toweling caused her robe to slip open more, revealing most of one plump, expensive breast, which I noticed with my excellent peripheral vision. I kept my focus on her face.

  “Well,” she said, her voice at the edge of husky, what any heterosexual man would call enticing. “Hello.”

  “Hi Mrs. Mack. I’m Eli Quinn, private investigator.”

  She stopped toweling her
hair. “And?”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

  “He’s not here,” she said, voice flat now, toweling again. “He’s goddamn missing.”

  “I know. Your daughter hired me to find him.”

  “Bitch.” She said it softly. I don’t think she realized she’d said it out loud. The toweling stopped. Her eyes, green like her daughter’s, took on an unfriendly glare identical to the one I’d seen in Madison.

  “Madison hired you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “But the sheriff and the police are already looking into it,” she said.

  “I understand that.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Looking into it.”

  “I don’t need you to.”

  “All due respect, ma’am, your daughter hired me. I’m working for her. I don’t need your permission.”

  “My daughter is not in charge. I am. We don’t need you.”

  “Yes ma’am. May I come in?”

  Joanne Mack just glared at me a moment. Then she blinked and made her eyes inviting again, curled the corners of her mouth up ever-so-slightly. She opened the door with a careless flick of a hand, walked toward the back of the house, dragging the towel on the floor. There were two Joanne Macks, and I’d met both of them in less time than it takes to undress.

  A prickly feeling on the back of my neck suggested a game had begun. I wasn’t sure what sort. I entered, closed the door and followed her.

  The floor plan was wide open. I could see from the entryway through the dining room, kitchen, and living room, and on through a wall of windows in a sunken living room that looked out on a kidney-shaped pool, with a spa and rock waterfall. The ceilings were high, the floors were slate, the furniture white leather with splashes of color in pillows and furry blankets.