Minor in Possession (4 page)

“Not at all,” he replied.

That gave me something to think about. Maybe the
NO FISHING
sign wasn't a joke either.

People were beginning to carry filled plates away from Dolores' serving line. I refilled my coffee cup, set it at an empty table near the window, and went to collect my own plate. In addition to the chorizo, eggs, and tortillas, there was also a selection of fresh fruit. Despite my earlier sampler burrito, I was still hungry. I carried my food-laden plate back to the table.

I had barely sat down when Michelle Owens edged into the chair next to me. She looked wan and sallow. Instead of a plate, she carried a cup of hot water and a fistful of saltine crackers. I've been a father, and I know the drill. Saltine crackers are the order of the day for someone suffering from morning sickness. Once more I was supremely grateful that this pale-faced young
woman and all of her problems were none of my concern.

“Where's Joey?” Michelle whispered. Evidently her choosing the seat next to mine was no accident.

I glanced at her. Michelle Owens was plain, amazingly plain, hardly the type of girl to appeal to someone with Joey Rothman's flashy sense of panache. Her hair, a dismal, cheerless brown, had a slight tendency to curl at the ends, but there had been no effort made to style it attractively. Her eyes were red and swollen. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her naturally pale complexion had a grayish tinge to it, probably as a direct result of continuing bouts of morning sickness. She still wore braces. Pregnant and still in braces. No wonder her father was pissed.

“Where is he?” she asked again, more urgently this time. “I went by the cabin to see him, but he wasn't there.”

“I'm sorry, Michelle, but I can't help you,” I answered kindly. “As far as I know, he never came home at all last night.”

Her lower lip trembled and she ducked her head while two fat tears spilled out of the corner of her eye and dribbled down her cheek. “What if my father…” she began, then stopped.

“What if your father what?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Never mind. It isn't important.”

Just then one of the counselors, a lame-brain named Burton Joe, brought his plate to our table.
He sat down across from Michelle and smiled at her beatifically.

“And how are we this morning?” he asked. It was the medical rather than the royal we, insinuating and saccharine. “Feeling better?”

Michelle Owens kept her eyes lowered and didn't answer. I was outraged. Surely the Ironwood Ranch rumor mill was fully operational, particularly among the counselors. There was no reason to give Burton Joe the benefit of the doubt. He knew good and well whereof he spoke.

“Leave her alone,” I snapped. “She's just fine.”

I looked around, vainly hoping that Guy Owens would show up and come to his daughter's rescue, but family members weren't encouraged to arrive until a few minutes before the morning counseling sessions began at nine o'clock.

“My, my, we certainly are touchy this morning, aren't we.”

“Yes,” I replied tersely. “We certainly are. I didn't have much sleep last night and neither did Michelle here, so why don't you bug off and leave us alone.”

Burton opened his mouth to say something in return, but just then several more people joined us at our table. They had been part of the expedition that had gone down to see the river, and they were busy speculating about how deep the water was and whether or not we'd have to evacuate some of the cabins if the water came up over the banks.

Under the cover of the table, Michelle Owens
reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Her gratitude at my small kindness was disconcerting. A forkful of egg and chorizo turned to dry pebbles in my mouth. I was no longer hungry.

“Want to go look at the river?” I asked.

She nodded wordlessly and rose to go, waiting for me beside the door while I took my plate back to the window to be rinsed.

We didn't speak at all as we walked down the muddy path to the Hassayampa. Somehow I got the feeling that there was something Michelle wanted to say to me, but every time she got close to doing it, she drew back, and I didn't force the issue. I couldn't think of any reason for her to confide in me with her problems, and I wasn't about to pry. She seemed to find a certain amount of comfort just being in my presence, and I was content to let it go at that.

When we got to the bank, the river was every bit as spectacular as the other clients had said it was. Off and on during the previous month, I had taken occasional walks along the sandy riverbed without seeing a trace of water, but now four days of rain had transformed it into a rushing, muddy torrent, running from bank to bank, seven or eight feet deep and at least a quarter of a mile wide. I never knew the desert
had
that much water in it.

Keeping well away from the bank, we stood there for some time watching in dumbstruck silence before Shorty Rojas joined us, shading his
eyes against a sudden burst of sunlight as he stared across the raging flood.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Is this as high as it goes?”

He shook his head. “I hear it's still raining up in the mountains,” he answered, “and the guy on the radio said it's running about seventy-four thousand cubic feet per second. They're calling it a hundred-year flood.”

Michelle Owens looked alarmed. “What does that mean?”

“A flood this bad only happens on an average of every hundred years or so,” I explained.

Shorty nodded. “That's what they say,” he observed laconically, “but this here's the third one I've seen, so their hundred-year call ain't exactly scientific. I may have to move them horses up to a higher corral.” He turned and walked away.

Eventually Michelle and I headed back as well. It was eight-thirty. People would be filtering into the various group-session rooms for the short, early morning mixed group with both clients and family members present. We had just passed Joey's and my cabin when I saw a patrol car go jouncing up the dirt road past the tennis courts. The lights were on. So was the siren.

It almost made me laugh aloud. An hour and a half late and the damn deputy shows up in response to my car prowl call with his lights flashing and siren blaring.

And to think Louise Crenshaw had called me melodramatic.

I
went on into the ranch house and hung around by the coffee table in the dining room, expecting at any moment to be summoned into Louise Crenshaw's presence to meet with the deputy, but that didn't happen. The deputy disappeared into thin air. Nobody bothered to come looking for me.

Karen and the kids showed up a few minutes later. Kelly still wasn't speaking to me, which didn't exactly make me feel terrific. She had her mother relay a message to ask me where Joey Rothman was, and I passed along the information that I didn't have the foggiest idea and couldn't care less. On that happy note we all filed into the portable, a semi-permanent, classroom-sized building which was the site of my group's mixed session.

I dreaded the morning's opening Round Robin when the counselors went around the room, calling on each person individually and inquiring after everybody's current state of mind. It was an exercise intended to bring out into the open whatever murky feelings might have surfaced over
night since the last session. During the course of family week, Round Robins often resulted in emotional fire storms.

One thing I had already learned from my three and a half weeks of treatment was that everybody involved, family members and addicts alike, had long since learned to function by putting on as normal an outward appearance as possible while keeping their real feelings buried far beneath the surface. In chemically dependent families, nobody dares say what they really think or feel for fear the entire house of cards will come tumbling down around their ears.

Living through Round Robins, “touching base exercises” as they called them in the Ironwood Ranch lexicon, is often a scary, treacherous process.

That particular morning it was especially so, and not just for me. I glanced around the room. Naturally, Joey Rothman was nowhere in evidence. Kelly, sullen and pouting, sat with her arms crossed staring moodily at the floor. Just because she wasn't speaking
to
me didn't mean she would have any compunction about letting loose with a full pyroclastic blast in front of the whole group. That unpleasant prospect made me more than a little nervous.

Directly across the open circle from Kelly sat Michelle Owens, still pale, red-eyed, and miserable. On Michelle's other side sat Guy Owens, tight-lipped and explosive, wound tight as a drum and waiting expectantly. Still searching for Joey,
he eagerly scanned each new face every time the door opened and closed. I idly wondered if that little twerp of a Burton Joe and his female counterpart would be tough enough to handle the ensuing donnybrook if Joey Rothman was dumb enough to turn up in Group that morning. There were enough people present that Rothman probably wouldn't get hurt too badly, but Guy Owens would scare the living shit out of him. Of that, I was certain.

So while part of me looked forward to the coming confrontation, relishing it, another part of me empathized with Michelle Owens and wondered what would happen to her if her father lit into Rothman and beat the crap out of him. I also worried how Michelle would take it if Kelly happened to mention that her quarrel with me was also about Joey Rothman, the father of Michelle's unborn child. So sitting in that room waiting for things to happen was very much like sitting on a keg of dynamite.

But somewhere along the way, a little of the dynamite was unexpectedly defused. Before the session officially got under way, Nina Davis, Louise Crenshaw's personal secretary, hurried up to where Michelle and Guy Owens were sitting, said something to them in urgent undertones, and led them from the room. As the door closed behind them, I let out an audible sigh of relief. Unfortunately, Burton Joe heard it. As soon as the Round Robin started, he called on me. First.

“I heard you mention at breakfast that you
hadn't slept well last night, Beau. Is there any specific problem you'd like to discuss with the group?”

Like hell I was going to discuss it with the whole group. “Not really,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible. “I was waiting up to talk with Joey, but he never came in.”

Kelly swung her head around and stared at me in disbelief. “Why don't you tell them the truth, Daddy?” she blurted passionately. “Why don't you tell them that you were mad at Joey because he's a really awesome guy? You caught us kissing and jumped to all kinds of terrible conclusions. You acted like I was a stupid two-year-old or something. I've never been so embarrassed in my whole life.” With that, she burst into tears.

Her frontal attack left me with no line of retreat. Everyone looked at me. Glared is more like it. I felt like I was totally alone, standing naked at center stage under the glare of an immense spotlight with every flaw and defect fully exposed. I waited, hoping a hole would open in the floor and swallow me, but just when I was at my lowest ebb, help came from a totally unexpected quarter.

Scott, sitting on the other side of Kelly, leaned back in his chair far enough to catch my eye behind the back of his sister's head. He winked at me as if to say “It's okay, Pop. I've seen these kinds of fireworks before. Hang on; it'll pass.”

For the first time in years, I could feel that ineffable bond of kinship flowing back and forth between my son and me. It lanced across the room
like a ray of brilliant sunshine, giving me something to cling to, putting a lump in my throat.

“Is that true, Beau?” Burton Joe asked.

That blinding sense of renewed connection with Scott left me too choked up to answer. I nodded helplessly. Misreading the cause of my emotional turmoil, Burton Joe nodded too, an understanding, encouraging nod. As far as he was concerned, my uncontrolled show of emotion demonstrated a sudden breakthrough in treatment.

“Just go with it,” Burton Joe said solicitously. “Let it flow.”

Other words of reassurance and support came from around the circle. Ed Sample, sitting next to me, gave the top of my thigh a comforting, open-handed whack. I couldn't explain to any of them what had really happened. Talking about it would have trivialized it somehow, when all I really wanted to do was grab Scott in my arms and crush him against my chest. But that didn't happen, either.

The outside door opened. Everyone shifted slightly in their seats, disturbed by the sudden intrusion into the privacy of the session. This time, instead of Nina or Louise Crenshaw, Calvin Crenshaw himself stood in the doorway.

“Sorry to disturb you, Burton,” he said slowly, “but I need to speak to Mr. Beaumont.”

Burton Joe nodded. “All right,” he said. “You can go, Beau.”

We were all used to Louise popping in and out, but for Calvin Crenshaw to interrupt a group was
unusual to begin with. Beyond that, and despite an apparent effort to maintain control, it was clear to me that something was dreadfully wrong. Calvin Crenshaw's complexion was generally on the florid side. Now his skin was livid—his cheeks a pasty shade of gray and his full lips white instead of pink.

I got up quickly and followed him from the room. I waited until he had closed the door to the portable before I spoke.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Before the session started, I had been ready to tear into the deputy for putting me off, for not calling me in to talk to him as soon as he arrived at Ironwood Ranch, but the emotional roller-coaster of the past few minutes had left me hollow and drained. I didn't want to fight anymore, but I did want to know what was going on. Calvin didn't answer right away. He seemed to be having some difficulty in making his lips work.

“Where's the deputy?” I asked. “I know he showed up, but I still haven't seen him.”

“Up there,” Calvin croaked, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the path that detoured around the ranch house and led up to the parking lot. He swallowed then, as if recovering control of his voice. “Where are your car keys, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Your car keys. Where are they?”

Something about the way he spoke, the timbre of his voice as he asked the question, put my in
terior warning system on yellow alert. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just tell me.”

“They're not in my desk,” I said, stalling for time, hoping for a hint of what was really behind the question.

Through the four weeks Calvin Crenshaw had come across as a fairly easygoing guy. He seemed content to linger in the background while Louise hogged center stage. Not everybody would have caught the slight grimace of impatience that flashed across his face in reaction to my answer. I could see in his face that Calvin Crenshaw already
knew
that the keys to the rented Grand AM weren't in my desk. Someone had already looked.

“What were you doing in my room?” I demanded.

Calvin turned to walk away, but not before I caught the giveaway blink of his eye that told me I was right. There was something else there as well, a hardened line of resistance that I had never seen before. He started up the path, but I strode after him and caught him by the arm.

“Look, Calvin, I asked you a question.”

“Go talk to the deputy,” he replied. “He's waiting for you in the parking lot. I hope you have the keys with you.”

Saying that, he shook off my restraining hand and hurried away. For a moment I stood there watching him go, then I did as I was told, heading up to the parking lot with the car keys in my pocket. Unwilling to give Joey Rothman another
chance at making a damn fool out of me, I had carried them with me when I left the cabin.

Once I reached the parking lot I saw a lanky man wearing a khaki uniform and a wide-brimmed hat standing next to my rental.

“You Detective Beaumont?” he asked as I approached.

I nodded. No one at Ironwood Ranch had called me Detective since my arrival four weeks before. For reasons of personal privacy, I had played down the police officer part of my life as much as possible. As I came closer I noticed that the leather snap on his holster had been loosened. He held one arm away from his body in a stance that would allow immediate access to the handle of his weapon. His bronze-plated name tag said Deputy M. Hanson. He studied me appraisingly for a moment or two and then relaxed a little.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

“Is this your vehicle?”

“Not mine. Rented, yes.”

“Mind opening it up?”

“Not at all, but what seems to be the problem?”

“Let me ask the questions, please, Detective Beaumont. Unlock the door and then step away from the vehicle.”

I did as I was told. As soon as I turned the key in the lock, Hanson pulled a penknife form his pocket and gingerly lifted the latch. When the door swung open, he leaned inside, carefully examining the floor mats of both the front and back seats. When he was finished, Hanson straightened
up and stepped away from the car, studying me carefully.

“Did you disturb the vehicle in any way when you found it here in the lot this morning?” he asked.

“I got in it,” I said. “On the driver's side. The keys had been left in the ignition. I took them out and put them in my pocket.”

“Did you touch anything else?”

“I unlocked the glove box to check the rental agreement. I wanted to see how far the car had been driven. What exactly is going on here?” I asked, exasperated. “I call to report a car prowl. You turn up three hours later and act as though the case has suddenly turned into a major crime and I'm somehow at fault for stealing my own car.”

“It has turned into a major crime, as you call it,” Deputy Hanson said seriously. “It's my understanding that you believe your roommate, Joseph Rothman, took your vehicle, drove it?”

“Joey. That's correct. I left the keys in my desk drawer. He must have lifted them from there.”

Hanson nodded. “That could be,” he said. “We'll have to check all that out later. In the meantime, I'll have to impound this vehicle. I'll need you to ride along up to Prescott with me after a bit. We'll need your fingerprints.”

“Impound my car! Take my prints! What the hell are you talking about? I tell you, I didn't steal my own damn car!”

Hanson looked at me first with a puzzled frown
and then with dawning awareness. “I'm sorry. I thought you'd been told.”

“I haven't been told a goddamned thing except to get my butt up here and bring my car keys along.”

“Your roommate is dead, Detective Beaumont.”

That stopped me cold. “Dead?” I repeated.

“That's right. A rancher just up the road found the body hung up on a mesquite tree along the bank of the river about six-fifteen this morning. That's why I'm so late getting here. It was right on the boundary, so it took a while to figure out if the body was found in Maricopa or Yavapai County. The line runs right through Don Freeman's ranch. Don's an old geezer, ninety-one if he's a day. He got all confused and thought it was on the Maricopa side. Then, when Mrs. Crenshaw called to report one of her residents missing, we started putting two and two together.”

The news staggered me. Joey Rothman dead? A parade of one-word questions, detective questions, zinged through my head like so many bouncing Ping-Pong balls in a lottery bottle: How? When? Who? Where?

“You said they pulled him out of the water. Drowned?”

Deputy Mike Hanson shook his head. “Nope.”

“What then?” I demanded, feeling a clammy sinking in my gut, remembering the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder in the car when I opened the glove box of the Grand AM at four-thirty in the morning, the smell that had told me the Smith and
Wesson had been fired sometime within the previous few hours, to say nothing of the two missing rounds.

“You can tell me,” I insisted. “I'm a homicide cop.”

“Not here you're not,” Hanson replied decisively.

He didn't add that here in this god-forsaken corner of Nowhere, Arizona, I was just another one of the suspects. Hanson didn't have to
say
it, because I already knew it was true.