Shadow Play Read online

  “Six.”

  “You’re freaking me out, Nathan.” I said. “Should I not go?

  “Yes. Go. There’s one other possibility we’re working on. Leon might have been working with a Nogales drug cartel. I’m going across the border tonight for a meeting with a DEA agent.”

  “Drugs?” I said. “That’s even more of a stretch.”

  “Depends on what you find on Leon’s computers. Listen. If you feel in any way troubled about being at Basaraba’s house, don’t go.”

  “I’m going,” I said. “If he’s got a lot of money, it may be the best meal I’ve ever had in Tucson. Something else is really bothering me,” I said. “My husband, my ex-husband, was Jonathan Begay.”

  “You’re wondering,” Bob said, “if you’re related?”

  “It’s probably not so, but…yes.”

  “Did you know his family?”

  “I lived in Hotevilla. On the Hopi mesas. Jonathan met me there, most of the time. Or I’d hitch a ride into Flagstaff and hook up with him.”

  “You don’t know his clan name?”

  “No.”

  “That makes it hard,” Bob said. “Navajo babies are born to their mother’s clan, they take her clan name.”

  “Not the father?”

  “You’re born for the father’s clan.”

  “Is Begay a clan name?”

  “No. I was born to Dichin Dineh, the Hunger People clan of my mother. Born for my father’s clan, Gah Dineh Táchii’nii. The Rabbit People of Táchii’nii.”

  “And Leon’s Aunt Sadie? Who’s staying with you now. Isn’t she a Begay?”

  “Yes, she might be able to trace back the name Begay. But she was born to Jaa’yaalóolii Dineh, the Sticking-Up-Ears People, and born for Honágháahnii, the One-Walk-Around Clan. It gets complicated really fast, but any Navajo can trace lineages back through their parents’ clans and their respective grandparents’ clans.”

  “I guess what you’re saying, anybody named Begay could be related somehow to half the people on the rez.”

  “It’s complicated, it’s really a complex interrelationship. Sadie, now, she’s down here in a strange place, she’s already calling around, checking on relatives so she feels like home. If Nathan hadn’t offered us a place to stay, Sadie wouldn’t take more than a few hours to line up rooms, food, whatever we needed.”

  “Why are you bothered about this?” Nathan said.

  “Because I never thought of it before Leon’s murder.”

  “Has your daughter been asking about her father?”

  “Spider hasn’t been home in almost three days,” I said. “I don’t know where she is, but it’s unlikely she’s concerned about either of her parents.”

  “I’ll ask Sadie,” Bob said. “Tonight, she can draw up her lineage. Will that help you?”

  “Maybe. Something else. Tonight I’ll work on Vincent Basaraba.” Nathan’s eyes widened. “There’s some connection between these brothers, I can’t work it out. And Alex still hasn’t called me about Leon’s computers. Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “You’re not starstruck?” Nathan said, stroking my arm.

  “Hasn’t made a movie in decades. Just think of my having dinner with him as a way to sharpen my people skills. That okay?”

  “You’ll come back to Casa Grande afterward?”

  “Yes, sweetheart,” I said. “There’s nothing in my having dinner with an old movie star. My biggest problem will be figuring out what to wear.”

  “Won’t matter. You’re a sexy devil.”

  “You ought to see me in a blue dress. I’ll be there to spend the night. In fact, I’ll have a movie for you to watch.”

  “One of his old movies?”

  “Gary Cooper. I’ll see you sometime between ten and eleven.”

  “Laura? Laura, you there?” Spider’s voice on my answering machine. “Pick up.”

  The message two hours old.

  “Okay, you’re not there. I’m in Mexico.”

  My only thought was that she’d run down there to marry Carlos.

  “This is the first working phone I’ve found in two days. Don’t worry about me, Laura. I’m in, I’m just a few miles north of Puerto Penasco. Rocky Point.”

  Don’t worry, I thought. What a stupid, stupid thing to say. And she had to call me Laura, she rarely said Mom.

  “I came through Sonoyta, and tomorrow I’m driving to Caborca.”

  Using the singular pronoun, I, I’ve, I’m…so is she alone?

  “I’ll call you somewhere on the road, I think I didn’t put enough pesos in this pay phone, don’t worry about me, Laura, I’ve got to do this thing, I’ve got…”

  A dull tonk over the line, the connection severed. Since she’d called outside the U. S. I couldn’t use star-six-nine to find out her number, and if it was a pay phone, by the time I might’ve discovered the number, she’d be gone.

  I played the message five times. At least she’d left a message, at least I’d heard her voice. Running through all the clothes in my bedroom, I tried to put her call out of my mind, hard to do every time I held a dress or blouse in front of the mirror, no idea what to wear, hardly noticing what the clothes looked like since my eyes kept straying from the mirror to Spider’s picture in an old plastic frame. Tall, model-slim and model-beautiful at the time, the picture I’d found in Jonathan Begay’s abandoned trailer at the Cocospera mission.

  Now I was thinking of both my daughter and my ex-husband. Too much. I shrugged out of my lacy bra, the only fancy bra I owned, and got into a familiar white sports bra. Tugged on an almost new pair of tight-cut low-rider jeans, a one-inch black belt I fastened an inch loose, tucking my Beretta inside the small of my back without thinking, removing the Beretta to hold it in my hands, not a pose for the mirror, just looking at its mirror image. I checked the clip, snugged it back into the handle, stuck it behind my back again and got into a short-sleeved, ribbed, and very lightweight cotton mock turtleneck pullover.

  Before leaving, I played Spider’s message one more time.

  Outside the casino, a parking lot, I backed the Cherokee into a slot, kept the engine running while I lifted back the driver’s-side floor mat, and unlocked the gun safe to leave the Beretta behind. Closing things up, I turned off the engine, the final bolt of the gun safe sliding into place. Twenty feet from the Cherokee my cell rang.

  “Laura, it’s Alex.”

  “Yes?”

  “Those computers. That disk-erase program on both hard drives?”

  “A serious erase program?”

  “No. A weak one. It only made one pass over the hard drive, scrambled some of the data sectors but left a lot of information.”

  “Telling us what?”

  “Not much so far. We just finished the defrag program and I ran a few keyword searches, see what might pop up.”

  “You found somebody’s name,” I said.

  “Fragment of a name. Four letters. Vee. Eye. En. Cee.”

  “Vincent Begay,” I said, heading back to the Cherokee.

  “Since it appears over a dozen times, I’d say that’s a good guess. Where are you now?”

  “About to have dinner with him.”

  “You said, I think you told me, Vincent and Leon hadn’t seen each other for a long time, right?”

  “Right.”

  De-arming the Cherokee, I switched on the ignition, cranked the engine over, retrieved my Beretta from the gun safe.

  “I wouldn’t get too excited about this, Laura, we’ve got a long night ahead, making sense of what readable data we’re able to recover.”

  “Not a problem,” heading back to the casino, “just call my cell if you find any meaningful data.”

  “Ten four, good buddy.”

  27

  Xylophone music rolled out of the casino, swelling every time the automatic doors opened. Unsure where Vincent could be waiting, I moved inside, hit by a blast of refrigerated cigarette smoke.

  In a lounge opening off the main flo
or, seven women flailed wooden mallets at all kinds of xylophones, some no longer than three feet, two bass ’phones longer than pool tables. A young woman in a cotton print sundress and hi-tops jumped up and down on a platform behind the largest bass phone, raising herself on tiptoe at the top of each stroke, hopping onto the other foot when the mallet struck.

  Crowds moved back and forth at the slots, few people taking time to listen to the band as they switched from a slower tune with an African beat to some salsa. I went to one of the cashier cages to ask about Vincent. While waiting, I watched a young man whoop as a blackjack dealer paid him in stacks of red and blue chips.

  The dealer swept cards out of the shoe without looking at them, pitched them over in a fluid motion to the three older, bored men slouched down near third base of the table. The dealer a young kid, neutral features, expressive smile, talking to all the players but looking more like he belonged surfing a California beach. I kept watching the pit boss, an Indian woman somewhere in her midtwenties, skin almost cliché color brown sugar or molasses, and row-of-dominos smile, she glowed without making any effort, checking all her tables in a continuous, easy flow of her head from side to side. Her nametag said OFELIA.

  “Ever wanted to deal blackjack?” Vincent said in my ear.

  “Hello. No, I don’t even know the game.”

  “Wish I could say that. My car is outside.”

  “I’m surprised, I didn’t know that dealers could talk to players.”

  “The dealer chats up the players, but not much. Mostly, he deals, and he listens, stays pleasant so winners will tip him. The players, a lot of them don’t talk.”

  “Why? I thought this was fun.”

  “Bill and Sally St. Louis, they come here expecting to lose a few hundred. They talk, they laugh, they give us their money and we show a good time. Some players come to take our money. Most of them don’t talk. Trying to pick up something.”

  “Pick up what?”

  “Dealers are just…there, you know? In the background, like a waiter, a service person that mainly exists to do something for you. People talk all around them, like they don’t much exist except to provide the service.”

  “Talk about what?” But I could see him working the possibilities.

  “Well. They’re all looking for an edge. Once in a while, they’re not even gamblers. Keep their money, check out the winners. Money winners like to whoop and shout, let everybody know they’ve hit big. And their possessions talk. What kind of jewelry, is that a Rolex Oyster, real gemstones in the necklace? Say their room numbers out loud. They just play their cards, bet the dice, they don’t know what they’re telling you about themselves.”

  “It’s a long shot,” I said. “I’m sure it happens, but it’s too random. Almost too petty. We’re not after some cat burglar, has a digital master key to all the rooms.”

  “Agreed. Plus, there’s no real systematic connection between gamblers and stealing their money. Or jewels, or credit cards. It’s a random payoff. Anyway. Let’s eat. You hungry?”

  As hot as it was outside the casino, at least the air was fresh. A few people smoking cigarettes never had bothered me, but the reeking miasma inside the casino, no matter how powerful the ceiling aircons and fans and air scrubbers, the smell remained on my blouse. On either side of the automatic doors, two huge leaden trays suspended on top of fake marble pedestals, the trays full of sand and cigarette butts.

  Chavez Sliding opened the rear door of a car entirely different from anything I’d ever owned. From the front, the grill looked like a Lincoln, but without the familiar Lincoln ornament. Long and huge, both front and back sloped down in a deep silver exterior finish, polished so exact that the car glowed in the entrance-area lighting.

  I slid into a supple cream-colored Italian-leather seat, not even a bench seat in the back, but as luxurious as any first-class seat on any airplane. Chavez shut the door, no thunk, just a soft click. Vincent got in the other side, pressed a few buttons, and his seat stretched out slightly.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “It reclines, you could even sleep back here.”

  As Chavez Sliding got behind the wheel, I realized that somebody was sitting in the other front seat.

  “Marvin,” Vincent said. “I’d like you to meet Miss Laura Winslow. Laura, this is Marvin Katz. My Hollywood agent, my manager.”

  “How do you do?” Katz said. An elderly man, probably in his seventies, wearing a light green polo shirt, no tie or jacket. He swiveled awkwardly around to offer me a hand. I scooted forward on the seat so I could reach the hand.

  “Do you live in Hollywood?” I asked.

  “Oh, lord, no. I’m retired, moved up to Santa Barbara.”

  “Marvin came out of retirement to help me set up the movie,” Vincent says. Marvin shrugged, turned around to fasten his seat belt. “We’re talking to a few people for the other leads in the movie, I’m not saying names yet.”

  “Please,” Marvin said, raising his hands, “let’s not go saying names.”

  “Are you joining us for dinner?” I asked.

  “Lord, no. I eat early, go to bed early. Had the buffet dinner at the casino. Now we’re going home, wherever that is.”

  “He means the Arizona Inn,” Vincent said.

  “Are you here long?” I asked.

  “Long enough,” Katz said. “This rain, this humidity, forget about it.”

  On Sunrise Highway, headed east to the foothills, the night lights of Tucson spread out for miles, black patches from the older neighborhoods without streetlights, orange-yellow low-glare street lighting along the major north-south and east-west routes. Vincent pressed a button and the roof suddenly disappeared.

  “How did you do that?” I said, moon hovering faintly above us.

  “An electrotransparent roof. LCD crystals, either artificial or natural lighting.” Flipping another button, he slowly rotated a dial with his thumb, the moon disappearing, artificial lighting now flooding the back of the car. Leather covered almost every square inch, except for smooth paneling. “Amboyna,” he said.

  “My Jeep has plastic wood grain. I’ve never heard of amboyna.”

  “Champagne?” A panel slid back, a tiny refrigerator opening between the two rear seats, just big enough for a bottle of Moët and two crystal flutes.

  “I once drove a Mercedes,” I said. “Finest crafted car I’ve ever seen, until now. What is this?”

  “A Maybach. Actually first made by Mercedes-Benz in the early twenties. This is brand new, took nine months to deliver once I placed the order.” He uncorked the Moët, held both flutes in one hand and poured the champagne.

  “I’m not going to ask the price,” I said.

  “Four hundred thousand.” He clearly enjoyed the luxury, but just as clearly took it for granted, not showing it to me like a toy as most boys would. The car turned at La Paloma Estates, wound through a divided two-lane road and stopped at the front door of a restaurant.

  “Janos,” Vince said. “Have you eaten here?”

  “Not before the restaurant moved from downtown.”

  “You have your choice of two restaurants. Chavez, we’ll be an hour and half. Check on those issues.”

  The Maybach slid away from the entrance and Vincent led me to the huge wooden door, completely unpretentious. Inside, he gestured to the right and left.

  “Fancy, this way. But I actually like the bistro. Latino-Caribbean food in both places, the bistro is less froufrou.”

  My cell rang. “Excuse me,” I said. Flipping it on to take the call, hesitating with uncertainty who was calling about what, but unable to read the caller ID.

  “Bistro then. I had tables reserved in both places.”

  “Yes?” Twenty feet from the front door, sitting outside on a stone bench.

  “Recovered some more data,” Alex said. “Vincent Basaraba. His name’s all over these hard drives.”

  “Yes?”

  “Somebody listening?”

  “I’m not sure.”
>
  “Doesn’t matter, nothing of serious interest. I’d guess, and it’s really my gut that’s guessing, not my head, Steffi agrees with me, I’d say this Vincent is in hock up beyond his doodah.”

  “I just rode in a car, the roof can be transparent.”

  “That is so cool!”

  “It’s a Mayfly, no…Maybach.”

  “Hold one.” She chattered at somebody. “We’re Googling…hey, that’s reaching up to half a million. We’ll check to see if he owns or leases.”

  “My guess, it’s a lease. He’s used to Hollywood, catering to stars, I’d guess he uses it to quietly impress actors he wants for his movie.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Janos.”

  “Fabulous bistro. And after that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re looking up his financials right now.”

  Vincent appeared at the door, smiling. “All right, Pete,” I said, loud, “just go to the office, they’ll have contractual stuff, somebody will take care of you.”

  “Wow,” Alex said. “Wait until you see his house.”

  28

  Rich people move to the Tucson foothills, underneath the southern slopes of the Santa Catalina Mountains. The somewhat rich houses lie along the lower edges of the foothills, the fairly rich own more or less land but are higher up. The super-rich, those whose money is managed by others, live up in the canyons. During the disastrous Mount Lemmon fire two years before, firefighters drew their line in the desert when fire-fingers came down Ventana Canyon and threatened multimillion-dollar homes. Not that these firefighters valued property, the fire had burned too long, destroyed too many homes to allow it to continue. By chance, the richest homes in the path of the fire lay south of the fire lanes.

  I’d driven along some of these roads, seen the houses from the road and thought little of their value. Ten miles farther south, a million-dollar home might bring only a few hundred thousand. But I wasn’t prepared for Vincent’s hacienda.

  Somewhere off Sunrise, east of the restaurant, we turned south on a foothill road, lights from Tucson glinting in a one-hundred-eighty-degree panorama that disappeared momentarily as we dropped into a wash and to a cul-de-sac with four mailboxes. Cruising slowly up the far left drive, we came to a wrought-iron gate set between two massive stone pillars, an iron-bar fence stretching in both directions away from the gate. Vincent pushed a button near his seat and the gate swung open. We wound around and uphill, ending on a wide paved lot fronting a five-car garage.