Desert Noir (9781615952236) by Betty Webb Page A

even ask about the bill.” 
    Which I knew would be considerable. “They might make a few comments when they receive it. How about our little insurance claimant?” 
    He was silent for a moment then said in an oddly even voice, “I think one of us ought to run some surveillance on her with a video camera. Those credit charges don’t prove a thing on their own.” 
    â€œYou looking to get out of the office?”
    Another long silence. Then, “If I do, will you promise to take it easy?” 
    â€œSure,” I lied, anxious for him to leave so I could do some work without him nagging at me. “Just remember what I told you the last time we discussed surveillance. Don’t ever, ever let her get a look at you or it’s all over. With your size, long hair, and tribal tatts, you don’t exactly blend in with the scenery.” 
    Jimmy agreed to rent a nondescript car and conduct the first day’s surveillance parked down the street, with his hair tucked under a baseball cap and his tattoos hidden by cosmetics. We both knew that the woman wouldn’t be foolish enough to sashay down the sidewalk in broad daylight but she might drop her guard at night. If so, Jimmy would be waiting. If she didn’t…
    Well, surveillance cameras weren’t exactly unknown in my profession. Nothing a little breaking and entering couldn’t take care of, although I’d have to wait until my shoulder wasn’t quite so stiff. I wasn’t about to send Jimmy in there to do my dirty work. He needed a police record like I needed another bullet wound.

    As soon as Jimmy took off for the car rental agency, I settled down to read his print-out on Jay Kobe. What I found had me boiling.
    After battering his art teacher girlfriend in Bakersfield, Kobe had split town and moved to Scottsdale, where he’d joined a private S&M club on the Scottsdale/Phoenix border. After a couple of incidents that shocked even their kinky clientele, he’d been asked to hand in his membership card. He was also deeply in debt and from the names and amounts Jimmy had managed to find, his drug problem appeared to be escalating.
    Ah, give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free, your hopped-up crackheads… No wonder we Arizonans owned so many guns: We were scared to death.
    More disgusted than ever, I picked up the phone and called Jay’s lawyer. “Thanks for letting me know Kobe was out of jail,” I snapped, after his harried-sounding secretary finally put me through.
    â€œCouldn’t,” McKinnon said.
    â€œWhy the hell not?”
    â€œBecause I drove straight from the jail yesterday into a court hearing and by the time it let out, the day was shot so I went home. I don’t make courtesy phone calls from home.” 
    Courtesy phone calls. I should have paid more attention to my instincts when McKinnon first entered my office. He might wear expensive suits, but morally he was a sleaze. “Your day was shot, hum? Well, so was I.” 
    For a few seconds I could almost hear the rats running through his maze-like brain, then he asked cautiously, “Meaning?” 
    â€œMeaning that somebody shot me last night, Mr. McKinnon. It might have been your client.”
    There was another lawyerly pause while he thought about this. Then he said, “I’m sorry you were shot, Miss Jones, but the wound couldn’t have been too bad or you wouldn’t be on the phone talking to me right now. Am I right in guessing that you’re calling from your office?” After I grunted in the affirmative, he continued, “I’d like to remind you that Mr. Kobe is your client, too. Why would he want to harm someone who is helping him?” 
    â€œWe didn’t exactly hit it off yesterday.”
    â€œJay seldom hits it off with anyone. He’s not the most personable man in the world. Artists seldom are.” 
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