Free Desert Run by Betty Webb

appeal to someone’s good nature, even a topless dancer’s. “Please, MaryEllen. An innocent man has been arrested for Ernst’s murder, an Ethiopian immigrant named Rada Tesema. He has a wife and children back home who depend on him for financial support.”
    When she blinked, silver eyeliner sparkled. “Ethiopia?”
    â€œBorder wars, famine, the whole bit. Tesema is his family’s only ticket out.”
    She closed her eyes long enough to give me hope, so I pushed it further. “He has four sons, two daughters. All hungry.”
    Her eyes were a vivid blue, unclouded by drugs. “Does he love his daughters as much as he loves his sons?”
    The question caught me off guard.. “I…I didn’t ask.”
    â€œLots of men don’t, you know. Especially in those Third World countries. Women don’t count for much over there.”
    â€œJudging from that shiner you’re sporting, they don’t always count for much here, either.”
    She surprised me again by leaning forward and gently touching the scar above my own eye. “No, they don’t, do they?”
    The expression on my face must have been all the answer she needed, because she straightened and said, “I’m dancing a four-hour shift tonight. You want to talk, call me sometime Sunday afternoon. That’s my day off. Until then, why don’t you do a little research? If you really are a private detective, it should be a piece of cake. Bollinger. Scottsdale. Christmas Day. 1944.”
    With that, she left me staring at my own scarred face in the dressing room mirror.
    ***
    If there was such a thing as a wasted day, Saturday was it. I picked up a Lexus at Hertz, tucked my blond hair into a brunette wig, and again followed Jack Sherwood back and forth across the city, from shopping center to spa, from business lunch to business dinner. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of smiles and big tips. Yet I couldn’t get over my feeling that something was seriously out of kilter with the man.
    By the time I returned the Lexus and made it to the office, Jimmy, who had dropped in for a while, was gone. A search through the papers he left on my desk revealed no new information on Sherwood’s dealings in Mississippi. But private cases paid less than corporate ones, and Southwest MicroSystems’ background checks paid even more than the usual, so those came first. Still, I put a sticky note on his computer screen, reminding him to run the Sherwood file first thing Monday morning. From the conversation I’d had with Beth Osman on the way back from Hertz, I feared that she—despite her suspicions about Sherwood —was falling more deeply in love with him.
    Women were so crazy.
    My office voice mail was clogged with messages. My own relationship anxiety spiked when I came across a message from Warren asking me for another dinner date.
    Should I, or shouldn’t I?
    I considered it carefully before making up my mind, then punched in Warren’s number. He didn’t pick up on his cell, so I left my own message. Dinner sounds great, I purred into his machine. Seven o’clock, too. I’ll be waiting. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to recall them.
    Embarrassed by my own craziness, I didn’t.
    ***
    It was pointless to open Desert Investigations on Sunday morning, especially since I’d worked all day Saturday, so as soon as the sun was up, I put on some running clothes and took my usual six-miler down to Papago Park and around the Buttes. The film set was deserted, with all the camera, sound and light equipment locked securely in the trailers. The only person present was the security guard I’d hired, and he waved to me as I jogged by. A few blocks on, I passed Erik Ernst’s house, where a few pieces of yellow tape still fluttered in the morning breeze. I averted my eyes. Once back at my apartment, I took a long shower, but it didn’t wash my