Free Desert Cut by Betty Webb Page B

happening?”
    “Not much.” I could almost hear his shrug. Something was wrong.
    He always liked talking about work, so I gave that a try. “How’s the Apache Wars documentary coming along?”
    His answer stunned me. “It’s scrapped.”
    “When you’ve almost finished the preproduction work?” I could hardly believe it. Warren had been enthusiastic about resuming his series on American history told from the Native American point of view. He saw Geronimo as a freedom fighter and was determined to correct the one-sided history we’d all learned in school.
    “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I’m kind of off Arizona right now.”
    “What do you mean, ‘off’?” How could a person be “off” an entire state?
    A deep breath, then, “I just don’t want to be reminded about, well, about what we saw out there in the desert. It’s not as if I’m in your line of work and stumble across dead bodies every day.” Then he caught himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
    There was no arguing the fact that detectives saw more dead bodies than the average person, so I accepted his apology, and for the sake of peace, changed the subject. “How are the twins?”
    Warmth returned to his voice. “Precocious as always.” Ever the proud father, he bragged about his girls for a few minutes, then asked, “Angel said she was going to ask you to fly out here tonight.”
    Since they shared the twins, living memories of their five-year marriage, Warren and Angel were always on the phone with each other. “Yes, she did,” I told him, “but I had to turn her down.”
    Now he sounded exasperated. “Angel
needs
you, Lena. That series of hers is in trouble. The only taste Speerstra has is in his mouth, and even there, nada. Blindfolded, he couldn’t tell a taco from a turd.”
    A pithy observation, but irrelevant. Even though it would upset him, I decided to be frank. “I can’t fly out there right now because I’m in Los Perdidos trying to find out what happened to that little girl.”
    “You’re involved in
another
murder case?” His exasperation mutated into fear. “Don’t you remember what happened last spring?”
    It’s hard to forget almost being killed, but that’s the risk P.I.’s take, I reminded him.
    He groaned. “Then move to L.A. and work in the film industry full-time.”
    I would rather be dipped in honey and staked to an anthill, but this was hardly the time to admit it, because my refusal to abandon Desert Investigations was becoming an increasingly sore spot in our long-distance relationship. “I’ll think about it.”
    Warren was no fool. “Lena, you might not mind living like a nun, but I’m no monk. There’s a limit to how…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    I certainly did, although I would describe the exclusivity of our relationship less religiously and more militarily, sort of like the Army’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. In other words, don’t ask me if I’m screwing around, Lena, and I won’t have to tell you the truth.
    “Understood, Warren, and remember, the agreement works both ways.” Not that I had any candidates in mind.
    He didn’t like my answer, and his voice turned frosty. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’ve got places to go, people to see.”
    I hated to leave the conversation on that note, but another ambulance came screaming up the hill, so I shouted a good-bye and rang off. The ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance and paramedics jumped out, ran around to the rear doors, and jerked them open. I was parked at least twenty yards away, but could still hear moans emanating from the ambulance’s interior. Carefully, but with great speed, the paramedics eased out a stretcher. On it lay a woman with hair as blond as mine. The sheet covering her was soaked with blood.
    Something terrible had happened to her, but at least she was alive.
    ***
    It being the middle of the