The Last Place God Made

PROLOGUE

The deathly silence of the desert was shattered as the battered van appeared on the horizon. At first it seemed to be a specter, as it moved soundlessly in the distance. The two young men watched, with a dreadful apprehension, as the vehicle roared toward them, a trail of billowing dust forming an unholy halo in its wake.

Finally, the van screeched to a stop ten feet in front of the two youths. The driver’s door opened and a huge man with no neck walked slowly toward them. The three men stood in the flickering light of the van’s weakening headlights for what seemed like a long time; then the van’s passenger door opened and a short man wearing glasses stepped out.

He was dressed in a white suit, with shiny black wing-tip shoes and an eerie smile that appeared to glow in the darkness that surrounded them. He waved his hand toward the back of the van, and the two young men, instantly galvanized, moved in the direction indicated.

A minute later the two young men returned from behind the van, carrying a lumpy form in a white canvas bag. A few strands of long, blonde hair poked out from the top of the partially opened bag. They unceremoniously dropped it at their feet and waited for the man in the white suit to give them further instructions.

Use her for your next ritual, the man in the white suit said. He nodded to the driver and turned to leave.

But she’s already dead— blurted out one of the two young men.

Then she won’t mind when you kill her again, will she? The short, well-dressed man climbed back into the van.

The ancient van roared off and was swallowed by the darkness, returning the moonlit desert to its pristine silence.

CHAPTER ONE

Nick lived in a city full of millionaires. But he wasn’t one of them. He had to work for a living, like most of the people in Tucson—the land of roadrunners, saguaros, and retirees—who hadn’t won big in the state lottery.

He’d bet that most of the folks who came to the Old Pueblo to retire didn’t know that the same desert city which boasted an average of 3,800 hours of sunshine a year and crystal blue skies was also known as Cocaine Alley. Being only sixty miles from the Mexican border had earned the desert city of close to 500,000 people that dubious distinction. However, he didn’t think anyone would find that curious fact listed anywhere in the brochures the Tucson Tourism Bureau provided to its visitors.

Right now, Nick was sitting in Crazy Fred’s Cafe, drinking his zillionth cup of coffee and staring out the rain-streaked plate-glass window, wondering why the lottery ticket he’d bought yesterday wasn’t a big winner. Or even a little winner.

Hell, he knew the answer. Because life was a finicky bitch, and lately it had been kicking the shit out of one Nicholas Madrid: aspiring, part-time writer and full-time private investigator.

That’s me, thought Nick. Mister Lucky.

It was usually on wet, lonely nights like this that he began thinking about how the hell he ended up as a P.I. in a city where the drug dealers and hookers outnumbered the cops three to one. But no matter how many times he’d replayed the last ten years of his life in the little private screening room inside his head, the ending always came out the same.

He could’ve done things a bit differently, but unfortunately wisdom comes with age. Just when all the pieces fall into place, you’re either too fucking old to do anything about it, or you’re about to die and you don’t give a shit about anything anymore. Life’s a finicky bitch all right.

Being a private cop beats the shit out of parking cars at a fancy restaurant, or washing dishes in some run-down truck stop diner, thought Nick. He had done both of those things, and he wasn’t particularly impressed with either occupation. They were your classic dead-end jobs, so he’d moved on.

Eight years ago he’d spotted a tiny ad in the classifieds. WANTED: Assistant; some clerical work; must have own car. Call Harry at Greenfield Security Services and Investigations. Nick had a little red, beat-up Pinto and he could type a decent 40 words per minute.

So he’d called and made an appointment.

Harry Greenfield turned out to be a stooped, balding man in his late fifties, who smelled like an old ashtray and possessed a cranky disposition. But he was a nice enough fellow, once you got to know him. He and Nick hit it off right from the start. Well, sort of.

Ever done any detective work? Harry muttered, puffing on his freshly lit cigarette that seemed a tad shorter than an umbrella.

Nick almost told him about the time he had found a pair of old gym socks in the back of his closet, after he thought he’d lost them six months before, but Nick figured the old detective wouldn’t be amused. No, Nick said. Your ad said something about clerical work.

I know what the ad said, young man. I’m asking the questions here. He adjusted the silver wire-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his shiny pointed nose, and lit another cigarette, ignoring the one he already had smoking in the cavernous ashtray on his cluttered desk. He appeared to be a man who asked a lot of questions, and was in the habit of getting straight answers. Can you type?

Sure. Fastest in my high school typing class.

Been a while since you were in high school, he said in a cracked voice, as if he were on the verge of sneezing. You ain’t old, but you ain’t exactly a spring chicken either.

I’m twenty-five. I’ve always looked mature for my age. Nick remembered his mother telling him that once, when he had come home from high school one day, totally dejected, because he’d asked a girl if she would like to go to the movies. She explained to Nick that her mother didn’t approve of her dating college-age boys. Nick didn’t have the heart to tell her that they were in the same grade.

In the end, Nick figured it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. His misfortune with girls in school was legendary, and a popular topic of conversation in the boy’s locker room. Nick resented the fact that such a painful memory had been dredged up during his job interview. He was beginning to wonder if he should have bothered coming at all.

Harry’s face turned tomato-red and his cheeks puffed out, as he ground out the cigarette he’d had in his mouth into the ashtray already crowded with dozens of dead butts. He finally did sneeze, then spun into a combination of coughing, choking, and wheezing. He reminded Nick of his father’s old ‘52 Ford pickup on a cold winter’s morning. Nick tried to recall if he knew how to perform CPR—or was that only for heart attacks? Well, he didn’t have to worry about it. Harry eventually caught his breath and settled back into his chair, with a sickly, pallid look on his weathered face.

Tell me what you’ve been doing since high school, he said, placing his right hand across his heaving chest, his breathing finally returning to a normal pace. He spotted the other cigarette still sitting placidly on the far corner of the huge ashtray. He gently picked it up and gingerly placed it in the right corner of his mouth; the still-burning cigarette rolled into its usual slot, as if that corner of his mouth was reserved for such an item.

Nick fidgeted in his chair. "I had an English teacher tell me once that I had a talent for writing. He said that if I kept at it, I’d be published someday. I don’t know if he really knew what he was talking about, or maybe I was just at an age when I needed something to believe in. But I took his words to heart.

"After I graduated, I worked at all kinds of odd jobs. You name it, I’ve done it. I’ve driven cement mixers, washed dishes, bussed tables, cleaned toilets, swept hospital floors. I even worked as a relief bartender and a disc jockey for a while. But I managed to write at least two hours every day, no matter what job I had or how tired I was.

I took every writing and journalism class I could find. I probably read every book on writing ever written; I attended countless workshops and seminars. I received a B.A. in English Literature last year. I could go for my Masters, but I’m not interested in working on my thesis right now.

The old geezer just stared at him, expressionless.

So Nick continued: A few months ago I decided to try and write a mystery, with a private investigator as the main character. I found out that I didn’t know enough about how a real P.I. operates, to write a convincing story. I tried doing research at the library, but I couldn’t find what I needed to know. Then I saw your ad . . . a real detective, who needed an assistant. Well, you can see why I jumped at the chance. Nick ended his monologue. All his cards were on the table, and by the way the old man was staring at him Nick figured he’d be out the door in about ten seconds flat.

Harry paused long enough to light up another cigarette, from the smoking one that was still in his mouth. So you figured I could teach you sleuthing between filing away forms and running errands, he said flatly.

Something like that. Nick bit his lip and waited, while his heart turned somersaults inside his chest. It was pounding so hard, he was afraid the old detective would hear it and laugh at him. Maybe the old guy figured since Nick had worked at so many jobs that he was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none. A failure at twenty-five. Maybe he was right.

The old geezer stared stonily at him from behind his huge, battered oak desk and a curtain of cigarette smoke, then sat up and adjusted his glasses again. He was making Nick sweat, and enjoying every minute of it. Nick pretended to examine the wall behind the ancient desk, which was covered with certificates and plaques of every imaginable shape and size. From where he was sitting, he couldn’t quite make out the small print on them, but they looked impressive. Nick finally had enough of this silent treatment.

Look, mister Greenfield, I don’t have all day. Do I get the job or don’t I?

Harry smiled, displaying a mouth full of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. Nick now knew how Jonah must have felt, right before being devoured by the whale. Can you start tomorrow?

Sure.

Eight o’clock sharp. I don’t tolerate tardiness. He extended a bony hand across the desk and Nick shook it, sealing his fate.

Eight years later, Harry was dead from lung cancer. That was the final price he had to pay for smoking two packs of cigarettes a day for over forty years.

But before smoking himself to death, Harry taught Nick everything he knew about being a private investigator, not just how to be a good one, but also how to be an honest one, with a reputation that made people want to help you. And whether or not they did, they always respected you. Respect, that is the world’s most precious commodity—everyone wants it, but only a few ever legitimately attain it. Harry was one of those few individuals. His name was well known in Tucson, where he had practiced his craft for over forty-five years.

Aside from sharing his knowledge and expertise as a P.I. with Nick, the most valuable possession Harry had left him—besides the detective agency, which he signed over to Nick a month before going into the hospital (just in case I don’t make it, he’d said to his apprentice)—was a small, thick black ledger that Harry always kept locked in his office floor safe.

The book contained names, addresses, phone numbers, and other pertinent information about individuals whom Harry had dealt with during his forty-five year tenure as a private investigator. Favors, he once said. The world thrives on people doing favors for other people. Harry was a firm believer in the barter system. He carefully recorded the favors he had done for other people, and the favors still owed him. This was Harry’s true legacy, not a Book of the Dead, but a Book of the Living—the ones who had yet to pay the piper for services rendered sometime in the past.

The fact that he might be dead before getting a chance to collect favors owed him was of little consequence to Harry, because he knew that whoever possessed the book also possessed the ability to cash in those favors. Before turning the book over to his protege, Harry made Nick promise to use the information contained within its covers wisely, and only if he absolutely had to. Nick agreed, of course, not knowing whether he’d ever even look in the damn book.

All that mattered was that Harry was dying, and Nick was losing the best friend he’d ever known.

Eight years after their first awkward meeting, Nick sat in a hard, wooden chair at St. Mary’s Hospital and watched helplessly as Harry Greenfield, his friend and mentor, struggled for his last breath.

Nick held Harry’s weak, shriveled hand as he gasped his last breath of life. He died muttering what sounded like Angela. From many wonderful conversations over the past eight years Nick knew that Angela was Harry’s wife. She had preceded her husband into death ten years before, and now, finally, they were together again.

More coffee? asked the short, heavyset waitress.

Nick blinked, the past dissolving, the present returning like a sudden gust of cool October breeze. He could feel his eyeballs floating, but he said, Sure. His watch read 4:30 A.M. Thank God for all-night diners, as long as you keep asking for coffee, they won't kick you out. He just wanted to sit there and think some more. Maybe watch the sun come up.

It was Sunday morning, and it wasn't as if he had to get up early to go to mass or anything. If a practicing Catholic meant you had to go to church every Sunday, then Nick figured he'd qualify for just being a regular Catholic. He couldn't remember the last time he had been inside a church. Yes, he could. It was a little over three years ago . . . that was when his father had died. Dead from a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine, only a month after his doctor had given him a complete physical and had handed him a clean bill of health.

Nick couldn't understand how a benevolent God could be so cruel. He also couldn't comprehend how doctors could be so wrong. Despite heralded advances in medical science, people still died unexpectedly.

That was the last time Nick had been inside a church. His father's funeral mass.

CHAPTER TWO

Nick spent Sunday morning and part of the afternoon watching a couple of football games, then did some work on an article before declaring the remainder of Sunday a waste. Overcome with a mysterious lethargy he climbed into bed shortly after 7:30 P.M. and didn’t poke his head out from underneath the covers until daybreak.

Monday morning possessed a lingering coolness that Nick found quite appealing. Halloween was still two weeks away—traditionally the summer heat didn’t ease up until the end of October—but the nights had already begun to get milder.

He had just finished his second cup of coffee and the first chapter in the paperback mystery he was reading, when in walked a young girl. She immediately proceeded to pour herself into the chair opposite his desk, toss back her long, shiny black hair, flick a wet tongue across her brightly colored red lips, and smile at Nick as if they’d known each other all their lives.

Make yourself comfortable.

Thanks. She crossed her long, slender legs. The short red skirt she wore climbed up her leg, exposing a generous amount of deliciously tanned thigh. The black spiked high-heel on her right foot dangled seductively to and fro. I may want to hire you, but first, I would like to ask you a few questions, she said in a slightly accented voice that bespoke her Mexican-American heritage.

The word hire brought a smile to Nick’s face. It usually meant money, and that meant he could afford to pay one more month’s rent on the office, where he liked to drink his morning coffee and read mysteries by his favorite authors. He tried to do some work occasionally, however, at the tender age of thirty-three,

Nick still had trouble deciding what he wanted to be when he finally grew up.

Nick stood and refilled his cup from the ancient Mr. Coffee. I’d offer you some, but this is the last of it.

I don’t drink coffee. It’s a stimulant, she said, impatiently tapping her long, polished nails on her lap. They were the same color as her skirt and lips: blood-red.

Nick was beginning to like that color.

I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can we get on with this?

Nick sat down, leaning back in his brown executive swivel chair, which he’d bought from the local Salvation Army Thrift Store down the street. Most of the material on it was still in one piece. It fit right in with the rest of the office decor, which was Early American Impoverished. Sure. Ask away.

Her dark eyes scanned the office walls. Nick had a very attractive calendar he had gotten from Al, the butcher at Safeway, hanging on the left side of the wall directly behind him, next to the almost empty but impressive-looking