Patricide
Books by Elizabeth Fackler
Historical Novels
My Eyes Have A Cold Nose
Bone Justice
Blood Kin
Backtrail
Road From Betrayal
Badlands
Breaking Even
Billy the Kid: The Legend of El Chivato
Texas Lily
Mysteries
Lucinda’s Summer Vacation
Endless River
When Kindness Fails
Patricide
Barbed Wire
Arson
Poetry
My Turn
Chapter One
Detective Devon Gray parked his city-issued sedan circumspectly at the curb and took a deep breath, knowing he was about to walk into the chaos of murder. The house looked like his father’s, a red rock box set high off the street with a flight of stairs leading to the front door. Every room was brightly lit, none of the drapes closed, and the gyrating blue lights of the squad cars attested to an emergency within.
Threading his way through the uniformed patrolmen milling in the yard, Devon nodded a silent greeting, avoiding the eyes of the curious neighbors, then climbed the stairs to where a rookie was standing guard, looking inordinately proud of his uniform. Though they hadn’t met, the rookie evidently knew Devon because he didn’t ask for identification but merely said, “Sergeant Brent’s in the living room, sir.”
Devon started through the door then stopped, surprised to find himself in the kitchen. White metal cabinets over green formica countertops, a large gas stove and a small refrigerator. On the gray formica table, books were stacked on a red spiral notebook beside a black purse. The top title was Stories of Today and Yesterday. Three aluminum chairs with padded plastic seats matched the pearly gray of the table top. No dishwasher or microwave, not even a garbage disposal in the sink, which was empty and scoured clean. Two doors on swing-through hinges, one in front of him, past the refrigerator, the other to his right, beyond the sink, both open.
“Turn right,” the rookie said.
Devon nodded and walked into the dining room. A massive dark table with eight chairs tucked underneath, a bronze chandelier throwing an amber light to shimmer off the glass doors of a built-in china cabinet in the far right corner. To his left an alcoved mirror over a hutch, also built-in, a black telephone beneath the mirror. The whole room was painted a soft green, the carpet rose-colored, thin beneath his feet. A wide arch opened into the living room. The same carpet, same green walls and high ceiling, built-in bookcases at the far end filled with Reader’s Digest Condensed Novels flanking a recessed window with sheer yellow curtains open between heavy maroon drapes. Looking out the window with his back to the room stood a uniformed patrolman, slate gray trousers with a dark stripe on the legs, dark blue shirt, the large silver shield on his left breast pocket reflected in the pane of glass.
Also in uniform, Sergeant Brent stood in the middle of the room like an armed pillar of authority, the amber light from the chandelier reflecting off the scant metal of his gunbelt and coating the walnut hues of his complexion with honey tones. On the sofa sat a small, thin woman, maybe twenty years old. She wasn’t crying.
Meeting Devon under the arch, Brent whispered, “She’s the daughter. Found the body. Name’s Anne Truxal.”
Devon nodded, watching the daughter. Her shoulders were hunched under her white blouse, no jewelry or makeup, her dark hair cut short, a deep, lustrous brown, her face set with determination to maintain control of her emotions as she stared into a blackened hearth built of the same red rock as the exterior of the house.
Brent asked, “Want to see the body first or talk to her?”
“See it,” Devon answered.
“Excuse us, Miss Truxal,” Brent said, speaking up. “We’ll be right back.”
She swiveled her head to look at him, shifted her gaze to Devon, then looked at the empty hearth again.
Brent led him through the kitchen, out the other door and into a hall which ended abruptly on the right with closed french doors, their panes covered with tight white curtains. Brent turned left. The hall was painted the same green, dimly lit by a small lamp suspended from the ceiling. At the turn of the hall, the bathroom door stood ajar, the white porcelain commode stark in the shadows. To the left of the bathroom was a bedroom, cherry four-poster bed neatly made with a dark chenille spread. Brent turned right and stopped. The victim lay on the floor of the hall, sprawled on his back with his eyes open, his arms thrown wide, his chest bloody. His belt was unbuckled.
Brent said, “Name’s Theodore Truxal.”
In front of the victim were two doors adjacent to each other at the end of the hall. One was open, the other only slightly ajar. To Devon’s right a door stood open to a laundry room, more green formica counters, the white washer and dryer visible through the crack between the door and the wall. He looked at the corpse again. “Time of death?”
“Coroner’s not here yet,” Brent answered, “but the body’s not stiff and rigor mortis sets in at three to four hours.”
Devon nodded, knowing Brent was reciting a fact gleaned from his preparations for taking the detective test. “Weapon?”
“Shotgun. Both barrels from not more’n six feet. Haven’t found the gun, though.”
Devon looked at the door ajar six feet directly in front of the body. He stepped over the corpse, careful to avoid the blood, and used his pen to push the door all the way open then switch on the overhead light. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. One single bed, neatly made, a maple bedside table and matching chest of drawers, a small desk on spindle legs, a bookcase of wooden crates, literary fiction and one shelf of anthologies bearing titles like Modern American Drama. A Modigliani print on one wall, a woman’s elongated face, Picasso’s Mother and Child in blue on another. The closet door was open. Inside, he saw skirts and blouses, a few dresses, one with Size 7 showing on the label, a jumble of kneeboots and sneakers on the floor, on the shelf neat stacks of sweaters and sweatshirts, all dark colors. Turning around, he again caught the lingering scent of tobacco smoke, so looked for an ashtray. Not seeing one, he walked across to the bedside table and threaded his pen through the oval handle on the drawer, sliding it open. Nestled among a collection of barrettes and ribbons was a small, dirty ashtray holding two cigarette butts. On the filters of each, blue letters spelled out VANTAGE next to a tiny bullseye.
Devon closed the drawer with his pen, walked out and stood in the open door of the other room. It was considerably larger. Two single beds, one with a stuffed pink poodle propped against the pillows surrounded by a collection of well-worn dolls. An old mahogany chest of drawers, what his grandmother would have called a chiffonnier, nothing on top of it. The closet was closed and the knob not yet dusted for prints. He looked at Brent. “I’ll talk to the daughter now.”
As they walked toward the kitchen, Devon again saw the curtained french doors at the end of the hall. “What’s in there?”
“Family room,” Brent said. “Door to the back porch.”
Meeting Brent’s eyes as they entered the kitchen, Devon said, “Thanks,” dismissing him. Brent stayed behind as Devon walked through to the living room. The daughter was sitting as if she hadn’t moved since they’d left her, the officer still standing at the far end of the room, apparently looking out the window but probably watching the woman in the reflection. She was watching Devon now.
He sat in the wing chair closest to her and smiled sympathetically as he took his notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Her face was round, her nose snubbed, a red rash marring the bottom line of her lower lip. Her eyes were dark brown, glazed with shock and confusion. “I’m Detective Gray,” he began. “Your name’s Anne, is that right?”
Watching him write it down, she said, “With an e.”
He added the e, then asked, “Are you the victim’s daughter?”
She nodded.
“I understand you found the body?”
Again the silent nod.
“Can you tell me about finding it?”
“I told the other policeman,” she argued.
“Yes, I know, but I need to hear it from you, Miss Truxal.”
She sighed, staring into the blackened hearth.
“When did you find your father?” he asked gently.
She shrugged, looked at the mantle clock, then said, “An hour ago.”
He looked at his watch. “That would be around six?”
She nodded, lowering her gaze to the cold, empty hearth.
He wrote: 6 pm 5-21-93. “Do you live here?”
She shook her head. “Someone should tell my mother.”
“Where is she?”
“They went on a church retreat.”
“Who’s they?”
She raised her eyes, and he saw a flash of anger heightening their acuity. “My mother and sisters. I came home to study for finals, thinking the house would be empty, you know.”
He nodded, wondering if she was irritated by his questions or if her anger had a deeper source. In a more friendly tone, he asked, “Do you live on campus?”
She shook her head. “I live at 224 Schuster. Apartment B.”
He wrote it down. “When did your mother and sisters leave for the church retreat?”
“Four-thirty is when Mom said they’d leave.”
“Do you know where the retreat was being held?”
“Up by Cloudcroft. The Baptist Church has a camp up there.”
“Do you have a number where they can be reached?”
She shook her head. “The church will know. Glory Baptist on San Antonio Street.”
“What’re your sisters’ names?”
“Elise and Sunny.”
“How old are they?”
“Elise is fifteen, Sunny’s nine.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Attending UTEP?”
She nodded.
“What are you studying?”
“Elementary education.”
“Any other brothers and sisters?”
“I have a brother, Teddy. He’s married and lives up by Veterans Park.”
“What’s his wife’s name?”
“Wanda.”
“Any children?”
“Petey. Peter. He was a year old last September.”
Devon scanned the notes he’d taken, then said softly, “Tell me about finding your father.”
A tremor shuddered down her body. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pulling her blouse tight over their curves. “I came home to study,” she said, her voice flat. “When I drove into the garage, I saw Daddy’s car, but the back door was locked, so I came in through the kitchen. I don’t have a key to the back door since Mom changed the lock. I left my books and purse on the table and walked toward the bathroom. I saw him on the floor in the hall.” She shrugged.
“What did you see, Miss Truxal?”
Her eyes were dry as she bit her lip before speaking. “He was just lying there. I could see he was dead.”
“How’d you know that?”
“His eyes were open, and he wasn’t breathing.”
“Did you touch him?”
She shook her head, one vigorous shake.
“Then what did you do?”
“I went to the bathroom,” she said.
“To do what?”
She looked up as if he were stupid. “I had to go.”
“Did you close the door?” he asked, trying to visualize her sitting on the commode staring at her father’s corpse.
“Of course!”
He nodded, though it wasn’t any easier to picture with the door closed. “Then what?”
“When I came out, I looked at him again.”
“What did you see, the second time you looked at him?”
“He’d been shot.”
“You didn’t notice that the first time?”
“I guess I did.”
He nodded. “Then what did you do?”
“I called my brother. He wasn’t home, so I called the police.”
“And said what?”
“That someone had shot my father.”
“Did you love your father?”
She stared at him a long moment, then whispered, “No.”
Gently he asked, “Why not?”
She looked into the hearth. “I just didn’t like him.”
“That’s okay,” Devon said. Now her eyes brimmed with tears, meeting his. “What phone did you use,” he asked, “to call your brother and then the police?”
“The one in my mother’s room.”
“Didn’t your father live here?”
She shook her head and the tears fell onto her cheeks. When she wiped them away, he noticed her nails were bitten past the quick.
“Where did he live?” he asked.
“At his hotel.”
“Where’s that?”
“Downtown. The Cristo Rey.”
Devon nodded, knowing the hotel to be a dive for old men. “Were your parents divorced?”
“Just separated.”
“Did he have a key to this house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he knew your mother and sisters were going on the retreat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would that have made him angry, their going?”
She shook her head. “He was proud they’re religious.”
“Do you think they are?”
She shrugged. “They go to church.”
“Do you?”
She shook her head.
“How about your brother? Did he know they were going?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think maybe he went, too? And that’s why he wasn’t home when you called him?”
“Teddy wouldn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“He goes to his wife’s church.”
“Why did you call your brother before calling the police?”
She bit her lip again. “I guess I wanted him to tell me what to do.”
“But you knew what to do, didn’t you.”
She just looked at him.
“You knew you had to call the police.”
“I guess I wanted him to be here,” she said.
“Have you tried calling him again?”
She shook her head.
“Where were you before coming here?”
“In class.”
“What was the name of it?”
“Political Correctness in the Elementary Classroom.”
Devon suppressed a smile. “Who’s the teacher?”
“Dr. Cooper. Jane Cooper.”
“Can witnesses verify you were there?”
She stared at him.
“Did you see anyone you know in class?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Could they verify you were there?”
She nodded.
He smiled. “Why don’t you call your brother now?”
She stood up fast, as if she’d been sitting on a spring. He watched her hurry toward the phone in the dining room, then he asked, “Miss Truxal, does anyone in your family keep a shotgun in the house?”
She pivoted into an abrupt stop. “No,” she said, her voice shaky. “Teddy hunts, but he keeps his guns at home.”
“Go ahead and call him,” Devon said, smiling kindly.
She disappeared behind the arch, then he listened to the rotary dial of the phone, thinking this family had quit buying things about twenty years ago. He looked around the room again, seeing a photo of a baby on the mantle. Petey, no doubt. Besides the gold sofa and two matching wing chairs, there was a green naughehyde recliner in front of the television next to the front door. A green and orange afghan was draped across the back of the chair. Behind it were more french doors leading into the family room.
Devon stood up and saw the doors didn’t close with a knob but a bar-handled latch. Using his pen to push one down, he opened a door and stood peering into a large pine-paneled room with a maple bedroom desk, a chair from the kitchen set, a worn brown sofa and modular blond coffee table, a cardboard box of toys for a toddler. The windows were covered with only sheer curtains, the back yard dark.
Behind him, the daughter said, “Teddy, this is Anne. I’m at Mom’s.” A momentary pause, then she said, “Daddy’s dead. Someone shot him.” After a moment she said with a small, squelched sob, “Please.” She hung up. Devon resumed his seat.
Sergeant Brent walked through the dining room and across to Devon in the wing chair. “The coroner’s here and wants to know if it’s okay to remove the body now.”
“Not yet,” Devon said.
“There’s press outside. What should we tell them?”
“That we haven’t notified next of kin.” Devon beckoned him closer and spoke in a near whisper. “Call the Cloudcroft police. Ask them to send an officer to the Baptist camp to tell the family, and ask the officer to watch how they take it.”
Brent nodded, then left briskly.
Anne Truxal came back into the room and sank into the opposing wing chair. “My brother’s on his way,” she said.
“How long will it take him to get here?”
She shrugged. “Twenty minutes.”
He watched her a moment, sitting limp in her chair, then he asked, “Miss Truxal, could you make me some coffee?”
As he’d expected, she seemed relieved to have something to do. “Of course,” she said, again rising as if she’d been sitting on a spring. Or like a puppet, he thought, dancing on strings habitually jerked. He watched her walk out, then looked at the officer still standing by the window. The officer turned around, expectant of orders. “Go outside,” Devon said, “and tell Brent the brother will be arriving soon.”
The officer moved eagerly. As he passed, Devon said, “On your way through the kitchen, shut the hall door, but don’t touch it with your hands.”
The officer nodded and left. Devon relaxed into the curve of the chair, closed his eyes a moment and allowed his mind to fall slack, letting the information he’d gathered tumble through without judgment. Jumping to conclusions was the nemesis of detective work. Gather all the facts, then assemble them, hold your mind in stasis until the right moment, then pounce.
Sliding his notebook and pen back into his pocket, he stood up and walked through the french doors into the family room and through the open back door to the porch. Another officer stood at the bottom of the stairs in front of a screen door. Devon nodded at him, then asked, “Any sign of forced entry?”
“No, sir,” the officer said.
“What’s in the garage?”
“The victim’s car and the daughter’s. We searched ’em both but didn’t find anything suspicious.”
“Have you searched the yard?”
“Yes, sir. It’s surrounded by a six-foot rock wall.”
“Is there a gate?”
“One by the garage. It’s locked with a padlock but could be climbed.”
Devon gestured at the door behind him. “Was this locked?”
“Yes, sir. The front one too. The daughter let us in through the kitchen.”
“Any windows open?”
“No, sir. The house was shut up tight, as if the family meant to be gone a while.”
Devon nodded and retraced his steps to the living room. He stood in the middle of the carpet and looked around, not seeing anything he hadn’t noticed before except his reflection in the far window. To distract his mind, he studied himself as if he were a suspect. 5′10″, 175 pounds, brown hair and eyes, a pleasant, clean-shaven face and non-threatening demeanor, wearing jeans over scuffed brown boots, a pale yellow shirt under a tan corduroy jacket showing wear at the elbows. No wedding ring. No scars, distinguishing marks or peculiar traits. Mr. Nondescript, the type of Anglo seen everyday on the streets of El Paso, his dress western without being cowboy, of good enough quality to denote employment but not an exceptionally high salary, his manner the right degree of nonchalance to foster the impression of a man without much ambition or passion, a man pushing middle age with neither bitterness nor satisfaction. His soft belly attested to a fondness for beer, the lack of flash in his belt buckle signified a disinterest in playing the stud to lonely fillies in honky-tonks. In other words, a man the observer knew next to nothing about because the subject chose not to tell him. His appearance could as easily be a study in obscurity as genuine mediocrity, except for his eyes. If Devon Gray were a criminal meeting the eyes he met now in the window’s reflection, he’d keep his mouth shut. To the adept observer, intelligence was impossible to disguise. And in Devon’s experience, criminals were adept observers.
The killer of Theodore Truxal could be a simple burglar who’d noticed the family was leaving. The thing wrong with that was there wasn’t much worth stealing in this house. Even desperate burglars didn’t break and enter without some assurance the take would be worth the risk. But then no one had broken into this house. And in his six years as a detective, Devon had never heard of a burglar carrying a shotgun to work.
In Devon’s lexicon of values, the only unforgivable motive for murder was money. If a man was killed for any other reason he usually deserved it. Yet justice wasn’t Devon’s job. It was discovering the perpetrator, no matter what motivated the crime. The fact that the victim’s daughter hadn’t cried over his death didn’t mitigate Devon’s responsibility to pinpoint whoever had pulled the trigger. At the moment he suspected the victim’s son, only because he hadn’t been home when his sister called for help. But Devon shelved that suspicion, holding it in abeyance until he could meet the man.
When he arrived, he was tall and thin, sandy brown hair cut short, dressed in sneakers, jeans, a white tee-shirt and an open Levi jacket. Devon watched through the dining room as Teddy Truxal greeted his sister in the kitchen. They didn’t touch but merely looked into each other’s eyes in silence, then Anne led him into the living room. “This is my brother,” she said. “Teddy, this is Detective Gray.”
Teddy extended his hand, his blue eyes wary, blurred with neither grief nor shock.
Nodding an apology to Anne, Devon led Teddy through the family room into the hall by coaxing, “Will you come with me a moment?”
The corpse had been covered with a sheet. Watching Teddy, Devon told the officer to take the sheet completely off. The son looked down at his father with no apparent emotion despite the savage destruction of the wound, the ashen gray of the dead man’s face, the unbuckled belt probably indicating he was innocently on his way to the bathroom when someone intervened. Gently Devon asked, “Is that your father?”
Teddy Truxal nooded.
Softly Devon asked, “Do you own a shotgun, Teddy?”
He shook his head.
“Did your father or anyone else keep a shotgun here?”
“No,” he said.
“What kinds of guns do you own?”
“A .22 Remington and a .44 Winchester, both rifles, and a .357 handgun,” he said so quickly his answer sounded rehearsed.
“Your sister tried to call you when she first found the body,” Devon said, feigning compassion for her lack of success. “Where were you?”
“What time was that?” Teddy asked, meeting his eyes.
Devon smiled, recognizing the wiliness of his prey. “Around six o’clock.”
“Is that when he died?”
“We won’t know for sure until we get the coroner’s report. Six o’clock is when your sister says she discovered the body.”
“Don’t you believe her?”
“I have no reason not to,” Devon answered.
“Sounds like you don’t though,” Teddy said.
“I try to keep an open mind until I have all the facts,” Devon said, surprised at how intensely Teddy Truxal maintained eye contact. “Where were you at six o’clock?”
“Having a beer with a friend.”
“Where?”
“Rosa’s Cantina.”
“On Doniphan?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Earl Carter. We work together.”
“Where’s that?”
“Border Steel.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a mechanic in the fleet garage.”
“Did you love your father?”
Teddy’s face reddened but he didn’t drop his gaze. “Can we talk somewhere else?”
“After you answer the question.”
Teddy looked down at the corpse. “He was a sonofabitch.”
“In what way?”
“I feel sick,” Teddy said. “I need to sit down.”
“All right,” Devon said easily. “Go on back to your sister. I’ll be along in a minute.” He watched the man turn stiffly and walk away, then he took out his notebook and wrote down Earl Carter, Border Steel, Rosa’s Cantina, and the kinds of guns Teddy admitted to owning. Looking at the officer, Devon said, “Tell Brent he can take it out now.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, dropping the bloodied sheet over the corpse again.
Devon found the brother and sister sitting across from each other in the dining room. They each had a white cup of black coffee steaming in front of them, and there was a third cup at the end of the table. The saucers were sitting on placemats, brown and yellow flowers against the dark wood. Devon sat down over the third cup as he smiled his thanks at Anne. He took a sip, then returned the cup to the saucer, watching Teddy, who no longer looked sick.
“I won’t keep you much longer,” Devon said, hearing the gurney come into the kitchen. Neither of the people in front of him gave any indication they heard it. He sipped his coffee again, then asked, “Do you know of anyone who might want to kill your father?”
Teddy and Anne met each other’s eyes, then Teddy shook his head. Devon looked at Anne. “No,” she said.
“We’ve called the Cloudcroft police,” Devon said, “to notify your mother and sisters.”
“Thank you,” Anne said.
Devon noted they both held themselves as rigidly as if they were braced for a whack on the head to come out of nowhere. “It’s my job to discover who killed your father,” he said, “but as of right now, I haven’t much to go on.”
Teddy’s shoulders dropped a notch. Anne gave no reaction whatsoever.
“It strikes me, however,” Devon said, “that he won’t be missed by his family.” When they answered only by looking into their cups, he added, “At least not by the two of you.”
“You don’t know what we’re feeling,” Anne accused, her eyes bright with anger though still dry.
“That’s true, I don’t,” Devon said in a conciliatory tone. “But there’s no evidence of forcible entry into the house, which probably means he was killed by someone who had a key. Do you know of anyone outside your family who has a key to the house?”
Anne looked at Teddy, who shook his head.
“It’s possible,” Devon said, “that when your father came in he left the door unlocked and someone followed him, but that would indicate a person who had reason to kill him, not a burglar surprised in the act. It’s not unusual for a man to have fatal enemies and his children not know who they are, so I’m not ruling that out.”
“What are you ruling out?” Teddy asked sharply.
“Nothing, right now,” Devon answered. “Not even that you have good reason for your apparent lack of grief.” He smiled into their startled faces. “I assume you’re anxious to help me find the killer.”
They both nodded woodenly.
“Good,” he said, seeing their eyes warm at that tidbit of praise. “I’m afraid the crime lab people will be here for at least an hour yet, dusting for fingerprints mostly. It would be helpful if you could check for anything missing, but since neither of you actually lived here, your mother and sisters will probably be able to tell more easily than you if something’s been taken. If it has, of course, that would add credibility to the surprised burglar theory.”
“And if it hasn’t?” Teddy asked.
“Then we have to look for another motive,” Devon said.
“Maybe the burglar was interrupted before he had a chance to take anything,” Teddy said.
“Maybe,” Devon agreed. “But most burglars don’t carry a shotgun. If he found the gun in the house then used it to kill your father, I could understand that. But you’ve both told me there wasn’t one here.”
Teddy and Anne met each other’s eyes, their coffee growing cold in their cups. The phone rang, making both of them jump. Though it was directly behind Teddy, Anne got up and walked around the table to answer it.
“Hello,” she said, her voice shaky. Then, “Yes, he’s here.” She held the receiver toward her brother. “It’s Mom,” she said.
Devon watched Teddy stand up and take the receiver from his sister, who hovered nearby as if she could hear her mother’s voice.
“Mom?” Teddy said, then, “Yeah.”
Anne shuddered, watching her brother.
“She’s okay,” he said, then after a minute, “Don’t you feel up to driving?” He listened. “No, you’re right.” Another pause before he asked, “How’s Elise?” As Teddy listened to his mother’s answer, Devon waited for him to ask about his other sister, the baby of the family. But when Teddy spoke again, all he said was, “We’ll be here.” He hung up and met his sister’s eyes. “The Cloudcroft police are driving them home.”
Anne nodded.
“It’s a two-hour drive,” Teddy said, facing Devon.
He stood up. “I’ll be on my way. If there’s anything else you think of that might help the investigation, make a note of it, will you?” They both nodded dumbly. “I’ll be back tomorrow to talk to all of you. Like I said, the lab people will be here a while longer yet, but they should be gone before your mother and sisters arrive.” Again they both nodded. “Your father’s body will be taken to the morgue at Thomason Hospital. You can tell the funeral home that.” They looked chagrined, as if they’d committed an oversight by not asking. Devon took a card from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Here’s my number. Call me anytime. If I’m not in, they can always reach me.” He gave them a sad smile. “You’d think after having gone through this so many times, I’d have some wise parting words to offer, but I’m afraid I don’t.”
Anne laughed weakly. Teddy didn’t crack a smile. Devon extended his hand. “Until tomorrow,” he said.
Teddy took a step back at the same moment he accepted the handshake. His palm was sweaty. Devon started from the room then turned around in time to catch them exchanging an apprehensive look. “If you can think of anyone who knew him,” Devon said gently, “and also owned a shotgun, it might give us a lead.”
“Most of the men in El Paso own shotguns,” Teddy scoffed.
“You don’t,” Devon said.
“I’m not that kind of hunter,” Teddy said.
“Only go for the big game?” Devon teased.
Teddy frowned. “Deer and elk,” he said. “I don’t bother with birds.”
“Where do you hunt?”
“New Mexico, usually.”
“Near Cloudcroft?”
“No, that’s the Mescalero reservation. I usually hunt in the Gila.”
“Do your sisters ever go with you?”
Teddy shook his head.
“Not even for target practice?”
“Are you asking,” Teddy replied tersely, “if my sisters know how to use a gun?”
Devon smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“What’s there to know?” Anne demanded, her voice slightly shrill. “All you have to do is pull the trigger.”
“And hit the target,” Devon answered, watching Teddy.
“Neither of my sisters has ever held a gun,” he retorted.
“Which one of them has?”
“I just told you, none of them.”
“You said neither,” Devon said. He looked at Anne. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
“I watch TV,” she said.
Devon nodded. “Reality’s a bit different, isn’t it?”
Teddy snorted. “Are you suggesting Anne killed him?”
“At this stage of the investigation,” Devon replied softly, “I can’t disregard anyone.”
“Including me?” Teddy asked, a little too loud.
“Unless your alibi checks out.”
“It will,” he replied between clenched teeth.
“So will mine,” Anne asserted.
“Good,” Devon said, again seeing a slight warmth of gratitude in their eyes. “Depending on the time of death, and the time your mother and sisters arrived at the church retreat, hopefully I’ll be able to eliminate all of you as suspects. Believe me, I’d rather it happen that way.”
This time Anne’s shoulders hunched down a notch as if in relief, but Teddy’s stayed rigid. Devon smiled again. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, walking through the kitchen and out the door.
Most of the squad cars were gone, only two still casting their revolving blue lights onto the street. He walked back to his sedan, got in and started the engine. Letting it warm up a minute, he watched the dining room windows and wasn’t surprised when the drapes were closed. Family of the victim usually sought privacy right after the crime. It didn’t necessarily denote guilt.
Chapter Two
Devon drove slowly through the dark neighborhood. When he made the last turn and saw his house on the hill, he again thought of how much it looked like the Truxal home. But then, red rock was a common construction material in the Twenties and Thirties, and many of the older homes resembled each other. Multi-paned windows, generous front porches, red-tile roofs. With large rooms and high ceilings, they were houses designed for gracious living, but Devon hadn’t witnessed an abundance of happiness within them.
He parked his sedan in front of the single-car garage, which was also built of red rock, its wooden door painted yellow a decade ago. Walking through the waist-high wooden gate into the back yard, he made a right turn into the house, entering a utility porch still boasting a milk door in the wall, though the dairies hadn’t delivered milk since the Fifties. In the kitchen, he took a Budweiser out of the refrigerator and continued through the dining room, into the living room and out the front door, leaving it open behind him, to sit on the top step and look down the street.
Under a canopy of mulberry trees, the asphalt curved downhill toward Mesa, the main artery on the west side of town, which meant west of the Franklin Mountains, the last rumple of the Rockies. Mesa was a neon strip illuminating the sky, the Rio Grande Valley and the mesa for which the street had been named obscured in darkness beyond the glare of car lots and fast food restaurants. Devon popped open the can and took a refreshing sip of cold beer, then heard Laura call from behind him, “Connie?”
“No, it’s me,” he said over his shoulder.
Emerging from the hall to stand in the shadowed living room, Laura looked tired, her thin face creased with the wear of being married to his brother. Her dark hair was pinned with a barrette behind her neck to fall halfway down the back of her faded red sundress. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I made a pot of chile for supper. I could heat it up again, if you like.”
“Sounds good.” He smiled, then watched her disappear into the kitchen. She turned on the light, illuminating the walnut dining room table and chairs his parents had bought soon after they moved into this house. Their carpet had been torn out, leaving a wood floor in need of refinishing, but other than that not much had changed. Devon had lived here alone for over ten years. Then Connor came back from California with his wife and kids and Devon invited them to move in. He figured the house was as much Connie’s as his, though the will hadn’t stipulated that.
Laura’s bare feet whispered on the wood as she came to stand behind the screen door. “Rough day?” she asked.
“The usual,” he answered between sips of beer.
She came onto the porch and sat on the rock wall, leaning against the pillar. “Connie’s boss called this morning and said he hadn’t shown up for work. I haven’t seen him all day.”
Devon took another drink. “Where’re the kids?”
“Misty said she was gonna study with Arnette, and Eric’s hanging out with the guys, whatever that means. Prob’ly nothing good.”
Devon drained his beer and crumpled the can in his fist.
“Want another?” Laura asked.
“No, thanks,” he said, watching the shadows thrown by the streetlight dance on the asphalt beneath the trees.
“You think Misty’s really studying?” Laura asked plaintively. “I remember being thirteen and telling my mother I was gonna study with a girlfriend. But what we were really doing was meeting boys in places we weren’t s’posed to be.”
“Sounds like more fun,” Devon said, giving her a smile.
“Till she gets pregnant,” Laura answered.
“Haven’t you given her the lecture on safe sex?”
“I tried, but she said she’d already heard it in school.” She sighed deeply. “You’re lucky you don’t have kids, Devon. They’re a pain in the butt.”
“So are parents sometimes,” he teased.
She laughed. “Yeah, I know. My old man was, that’s for sure. But Misty and Eric love Connie more’n me. I think it’s ’cause in his heart he’s still a kid like they are.” She sighed. “This is his fifth job in two years, Devon. If he gets fired from this one, I don’t know who’ll hire him. Do you?”
Devon shook his head.
“How come you two turned out so different?” she asked.
“We started out different,” he said.
“Your father never liked Connie. Don’t you think it would’ve made a difference if he had?”
“It was the other way around,” Devon said. “Connie never liked the old man.”
“All little boys like their fathers.”
“I met one tonight who called his a sonofabitch.”
“A little boy said that?”
“Well, he wasn’t so little. Twenty-one or thereabouts. But the way he said it made me think he’d felt that way a long time.”
“Was the father getting him out of jail and that was how he thanked him for it?”
“No, the father was murdered.”
“By his son?” she whispered.
“I don’t know yet.”
“There’s a lot of that happening now. Kids killing their parents. Scares me to death.”
Devon nodded, watching the shadows. “Did you ever think about killing your father?”
“Sure. Those years Connie was in prison, Daddy was always giving me grief about it and there were plenty of times I wished I could just blow him away so I wouldn’t have to listen to it anymore.”
Devon remembered those years. He’d kept in touch with his older brother, writing letters that were never answered, and he spent every Sunday with Laura, who was still living with her parents as if her husband were a specter who’d come and gone, leaving only a son in his wake. Eric was three when Connie came home from prison and moved his wife and son to an apartment in the lower valley to which Devon was never invited. He was a cop by then, and Connie avoided his company. Laura sent him a photo when Misty was born. Devon had sent a check in lieu of a present, merely because he had no idea what to buy for a baby, but Connie returned the check with a simple scrawled note saying no thanks.
The same month his parole was up, he moved his family to California. Then Devon began receiving long lonely letters from Laura complaining that Connie was having trouble keeping a job and they were living in poverty. Devon had sent her small amounts of cash through a neighbor because she asked him to, promising she’d tell Connie she earned the money babysitting.
Devon had thought he understood what drove Connie to create a self-image built on being an outlaw, and Devon’s belief that he could convince a few young men that pride and autonomy were possible inside the system had been most of his motivation to become a cop, even though he hadn’t been able to change his brother. Now Devon didn’t believe in much of anything except doing his job well. He had a better conviction rate than any other detective in Homicide, and he was proud of that, if nothing else.
He turned around to study the face of his brother’s wife as the shadows flickered across her cheeks, the light catching in her eyes. “But you never did kill your father,” he said.
“Only ’cause I knew someday I’d get away from him,” she scoffed. “Murder’s something a person don’t ever leave behind. My Aunt Celia told me that and I believed her. She said her daddy used to come into her bed at night, and all a girl can do when her father’s a problem is hold her head up high and get out as soon as she can.” Laura laughed bitterly. “Course back then I thought there was someplace to get. Now it seems no matter where you turn it’s more of the same.”
Devon tried to give her an encouraging smile. “At least you married a man who stays out of his daughter’s bedroom.”
“He stays out of the whole damn house most of the time.”
“It’s not you, Laura. It’s his memories of this place.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m not about to move into some ramshackle apartment and have the landlord hounding us for rent all the time. In California, we had our power shut off every other month ’cause we didn’t pay the bill. Least here it’s stable. That’s important to kids.”
Devon looked away, knowing it was important to Laura too.
“I know it’s your salary we’re living on,” she said softly. “Don’t think I don’t know that, Devon. Sometimes I wish Connie would disappear and you’d take his place.” When he didn’t say anything, she laughed to cover her embarrassment. “I wouldn’t even have to change my name.”
He watched the shadows on the asphalt dancing in the same patterns he’d seen growing up, only then it had been his father sitting behind him on the porch complaining about Connie. His father had sat in a rocker smoking cigarettes, the scritch of the runners on the floor falling silent when he flicked his butts into the street. Watching their embers die as his father began another litany of grievances, Devon hadn’t had any more of an answer then than he had now. Connie was just restless, needing a high voltage of excitement in his life. To follow in his father’s footsteps would have meant spending his days in the copper smelter and his evenings smoking cigarettes on the porch. It was an honorable life, but the dreariness didn’t make for drama.
“I guess that chile’s hot,” Laura said. “You ready to eat?”
In his room upstairs, Devon switched on his answering machine and listened to the messages. Lieutenant Dreyfus wanting to know why Devon hadn’t filed his report on the Truxal murder. An Officer Malone from Cloudcroft saying he’d be at Chuy’s in Canutillo till ten if Devon wanted to talk. Devon looked at his watch and saw it was nine-thirty. As he walked back downstairs, he could hear the TV in the living room where Laura was watching a sit-com, the canned laughter rattling in the emptiness of her silence.