Free Desert Noir (9781615952236) by Betty Webb

decorating her yard’s “desert” landscaping, and leaned on the rake. She was slender, about fifty, with short auburn hair that revealed the ministrations of an expensive hairdresser. She had kind eyes.
    â€œNo one around here would ever hurt a coyote. We love them. They’re one of the reasons why my husband and I moved here from New Jersey. There’s nothing left back there but criminals and concrete.” 
    It would be the same in Scottsdale soon, but there was no point in disillusioning her. “Well, be careful. Some of those coyotes are getting pretty bold. I read in the paper the other day where one actually bit some kid.” 
    She shook her head. “That wouldn’t have been one of our coyotes. Our coyotes are harmless. Why, we can even feed them by hand.” 
    Which is exactly why the coyotes were becoming bold enough to bite children. As evidenced by the way the woman seemed to believe that wildlife could be tamed and owned— our coyotes—she probably also fed the bears bologna sandwiches in Yellowstone Park, then got her feelings hurt when one tried to bite off her leg. Deciding to skip my usual lecture on proper wildlife management, I gave her a friendly wave and headed up the walk.
    Up close, Alison’s house looked like it belonged somewhere else—like in a cheaper neighborhood. True desert landscaping (cactus, sage and dirt) was littered with old newspapers. A Babe Ruth candy wrapper had impaled itself on one of the spines of a dying prickly pear. As I climbed the short steps to the Territorial’s front door, I noticed that part of the tan adobe siding had begun to flake off and that the huge oak door stood in desperate need of repair. Holes had been gouged around the latch, almost as if someone had forgotten his keys and tried to let himself in with an ice pick. At the large picture window, the vertical blinds were missing a few slats, allowing anyone who so desired to look inside. I peered through one of the gaps and didn’t like what I saw.
    I pulled my head away and started banging against the door.
    â€œJay? Alison? Either of you in there?”
    Not caring that I had aroused the curiosity of the woman across the street, I leaned my ear against the door. After a few minutes and some more banging, I heard groans from inside, some shuffling, then the door squeaked open and a bloodshot hazel eye peered out. “What the hell are you doing here, Jones? Don’t you believe in calling first?”
    â€œI skipped Business Etiquette 101.”
    I pushed my way through the door to find a scene that looked like a major staging area for World War II. Vivid red stains marred the matching champagne sofa and carpet. A rosewood occasional table tilted drunkenly on shattered legs and a once-magnificent Victorian golden oak armoire looked like it had been used for target practice. Empty wine and beer bottles were scattered everywhere. Paintings hung crookedly on wine-splattered walls, their canvases slashed. Alison’s house looked like an upscale furniture store after a riot.
    I’d seen houses displaying this type of destruction before, but they’d usually been crack houses in South Phoenix. Scottsdale was better at keeping this sort of thing under wraps, mainly because its citizens could afford better lawyers.
    Kobe didn’t look any more upbeat than the house’s décor. Deep scratches marred his handsome face and his cheek sported a vivid purple bruise.
    It made me wonder what his girlfriend looked like.
    I didn’t have to wonder long. A slender blond woman wrapped in a dirty silk bathrobe limped slowly from the next room. As the sunlight streamed through the missing slats of the blinds and illuminated her, I had to repress a gasp. The woman’s face looked like raw meat. The gap in her front teeth told me she’d lost whatever battle had been fought here. I couldn’t tell if she’d ever been