Death in Tahquitz Canyon

By Gene Moneymaker

Retired Judge Jonathan Gallagher had never seen anyone prettier than the little redhead asking for help in his law clinic that morning. Though he was 40 years older, he could hardly take his eyes off her. Her brutish husband had noticed his interest and friction was building between them. A former Green Beret of Black Irish descent with a Comanche grandmother in his bloodline, Judge Gallaghers judicial demeanor concealed a temper that had recently forced him to retire in disgrace from the bench. Now he wondered if a man of his age and tarnished reputation might have a chance with a woman like this. The answer to that question would take him down a path of extortion, child pornography, psychotic revenge, and death in Palm Springs famous Tahquitz Canyon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 26, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469766553

Gene Moneymaker

Gene Moneymaker is a retired aerospace technical editor and publications department manager living in Palm Springs, California. His writing credits include short stories, magazine articles, and numerous novel reviews.

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DEATH IN TAHQUITZ

CANYON

Gene Moneymaker

Writer’s Showcase

presented by Writer’s Digest

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Death in Tahquitz Canyon

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Gene Moneymaker

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Writer’s Showcase

presented by Writer’s Digest

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

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Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-09540-2

ISBN: 978-1-469-76655-3 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

THIRTY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For JVC

My thanks to Judge Lewis Kent, Ms. Jane Shaw, CMA, and Carmen Merstik for their assistance with certain details of this story.

ONE

She was quite the little doll, sitting across my conference table from me, her incongruous, overgrown husband alongside her, both of them studying the bankruptcy pamphlet I’d given them. She looked so pretty and timid and vulnerable all at the same time, it plucked the rusty strings of my semi-hard old heart.

To keep my eyes from roaming toward her while they read, I studied the pictures on the wall behind them, restful ocean scenes chosen by my secretary. One in particular I liked, a water-color reproduction of a big white cruise ship sailing into a blue-green tropical harbor with primitive peaks piercing an infinite blue sky. My little art display no doubt betrayed a plebian taste, but there were reasons for it. I tried to imagine the sounds and smells of the sea through what seemed an unusually long reading time. Finally the husband looked up. His suspicious eyes flickered, then focused. It don’t say nothing about cost. What does this cost, Judge?

I tried to look pleasant for him, which wasn’t easy. There’s a small fee for filing the bankruptcy petition, less than a hundred dollars. For that you get hundreds of dollars of free legal help. He nodded, a bit skeptically, and resumed reading.

Winds from Mexico were piling tall, puffy clouds above the weathered crests of the southern hills, rattling my office windows now and then. Through some trick of optics, the sunlight bouncing off those clouds occasionally touched the girl’s long red hair with fire. Her eyes were a vivid, remarkable blue. She was a Hepburn type, but without the sauce, liberally splashed with freckles. She was even dressed like Hepburn, in a pale satiny pants suit that I thought might be the best of a limited wardrobe.

I liked her good Irish name, Shannon McGinty, but not the purplish bruise, dusted with pale coverup, beneath one eye. As if reading my thoughts, or maybe noticing my glance, she touched the spot with her fingertips. Had her husband done that to her?

Sitting next to her, he dwarfed her. A big, sloppy, round-faced guy, he had long hair combed heavily back in a low flip at the neck, ball-bearing eyes, and a sour, pouty mouth. Umpteen years on the judicial bench, exposed to many varieties of human flotsam, made me suspect that he was responsible for that bruise on his wife’s face. The mere thought of it had stirred the edges of my temper, always a problem for me.

My eyes wandered back to her and suddenly he looked up at me—and belched. It was a long resonant release of gas, with no covering of the mouth. Grinning, he said, Excuse me, Judge, meant to bring that up later. And I recognized the juvenile insult for what it was, an in-your-face payback for finding his wife so fascinating.

The McGintys, Shannon and Terry, ages twenty-five and twenty-nine, were residents of nearby Thousand Palms. The income figures on the interview form indicated they were in enough trouble financially to qualify for free legal assistance. I had to take their word for that, but we work on the honor system around here.

When McGinty finally set the pamphlet down, I said, Now’s probably a good time for this. Congress is talking about tightening the laws again. As I said, we don’t handle bankruptcies here, but I can refer you to someone who does.

He drummed the gray vinyl tabletop with neglected fingernails. I don’t know about this. It could ruin our credit, couldn’t it?

Listen, I said, and was startled by the animosity in my voice. Listen, I repeated, more pleasantly. I’m not advising bankruptcy, that’s not my job. I’m referring you to someone who can study your situation and help you as necessary.

His wife had kept her head down all through the interview, as if ashamed or afraid, or both, of her no-class husband. She’d started to speak a couple of times but he’d squelched her, talking over her, contradicting her. It had gotten my temper started. Now, suddenly, she sneezed. It was a delectable little sneeze, not much louder than a kitten might make. She turned a bright pink. She looked first at me, then at my not-too-clean office windows, then at her husband, peeking up through her lashes as if expecting to be scolded. The wind, she murmured. The dust. And again I was struck by her voice. Even pitched softly, it was a bit large for her, throaty, compelling.

Yes, I said, I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? I’ve been sneezing, too.

Her husband’s gaze fastened on me. I felt the hostility and suspicion there. I’d been the target of such looks before, though usually from men closer to my own age. Should a twenty-nine-year-old punk like McGinty be worried about the effect of a gray-haired old guy like me on his pretty little wife? Only if he were terribly insecure.

And maybe he was.

I’d almost reached retirement age, but had always been told I seemed younger. My skin is darker than average, like a good tan, and doesn’t tend to wrinkle much. This may have been a gift from my grandmother, on my mother’s side, who was a Comanche squaw. But my father’s skin was also rather dark and relatively unwrinkled into old age. He claimed it was a trait of the Black Irish, descendants of survivors of the Spanish Armada stranded on the Irish coast. The fitness habits I picked up in the service years ago may have helped, too. I’ve exercised all my life and been careful about nutrition. I should mention here that I was a Green Beret, one of the first, recruited into the Special Forces in nineteen-fifty-seven.

McGinty was drumming the table again, probably because he knew it annoyed me. I want to keep my car, he said, picking up a thread of conversation we’d dropped a few minutes earlier. The car was one of the first things I’d spotted on their interview form—representing a big chunk of money, in relation to their income, owed to a local dealership. I studied the numbers again, building up steam while trying not to.

This car is costing you an arm and a leg.

He drew back a bit and thrust his chin out. It’s a great car, Jack. A classic, an investment. Good as stocks and bonds. The girl seemed to shrink a little more, glancing from me to him.

I snorted. This car is an extravagance. And don’t call me Jack. It’s Judge Gallagher to you, Mr. McGinty.

The big oaf regarded me stonily while I let that sink in. I’d learned long ago that you have to step on these types at the first sign of contempt or you’re inviting trouble. If bankruptcy court is going to take you seriously, I said, you’re probably going to have to get rid of it and buy something more practical than that gas-guzzling hunk of tin. I admit I was trying to aggravate him. I needed to vent some steam.

It’s a nineteen-sixty-nine Rolls, he protested, drumming the tabletop.

I don’t care if it’s a fiery chariot with golden wheels. And will you please stop that noise? I was within a hair of doing something I’d regret. I didn’t want that. It’s what had knocked me off the bench and landed me here in the first place. I took a breath.

Studying the interview form, I couldn’t believe the money he’d squandered on this machine, buying it and fixing it up. Much of it no doubt supplied by his wife, working as—what was it? The form said she ran a pet-sitting and house-cleaning service. He was a construction worker who’d injured himself on the job. Now in the latter weeks of Workers’ Comp, he might be permanently disabled. Injured his back. Couldn’t lift his arms above his shoulders without pain, he said. And they had a small child.

The drumming stopped. I took another breath. Bankruptcy law is fairly lenient right now. You can set aside some clothing, furniture, tools, books, even jewelry. You don’t own a home, but if you did, you could protect most, if not all, of your equity. Anything the court doesn’t allow you to set aside will be sold by your trustee to pay off your creditors.

What about my disability benefits?

They can’t touch those.

A burst of sprinkles tattooed my windows with gentle fingers, announcing the arrival of the storm and offering a reasonable cutting off point for this meeting. I handed McGinty the referral form and Barbara Helwig’s business card. Call Ms. Helwig and set up an appointment. If bankruptcy is the right answer, she can handle everything for you. Pro bono. Free. If not, she can help you arrange debt counseling. It depends.

Again the rain drummed the windows, hard enough this time to make Shannon jump. She ran a hand over a bare arm. The sun-speckled skin on that arm was covered with chill bumps, though Lana, my secretary, had shut off the air conditioner an hour ago.

It’s the old monsoonal flow from Mexico, I said to her. It’s a warm rain, but it’ll keep the dust down. The office air was already pungent with the smell of it.

I hate the rain, she said.

You hate the rain, her husband repeated, mocking her voice. He said it off-handedly, pointlessly, as if it were a habit with him. She met my eyes briefly, then looked away. Just then Lana appeared behind her in the doorway. Judge Gallagher, she said, making Shannon jump again. Your doctor’s appointment…

Time had flown, as it often does when you least want it to. And why didn’t I want it to? Because of Shannon McGinty. You don’t often see a woman as pretty as that in real life. She was a bright spot in a gloomy day, which most of my days had become, rainy or not. What was she doing with a husband like this?

McGinty pulled his wife from her chair, took her by the shoulders, and turned her toward the door. Would you go stand in the rain if I gave you a quarter? He winked at me, and then, without waiting for an answer: You’d do anything for a quarter. With that he gave her a squeeze. Now, now, don’t get your butt in an uproar, copperhead. You know what happens when you do.

The big baboon was showing me who owned her. Obviously he didn’t know what happened when I got excited, but he was close to finding out. He didn’t expect to be back, now that he had the referral, and I hoped he was right. Except for her, that is.

I stepped around the desk and took his wife’s small hands in my own. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. She nodded, looking startled, and I almost kissed her cheek, mainly to see what her husband would do. Glowering, he pushed her out into the reception room and through the office door. I watched them go, unable to overlook the fine young rump bumping rhythmically beneath the pale, tasteful, well-worn pants suit.

***

It was a relief to have the office to myself again. The McGintys were the last appointment of the day. I was free to lock up and escape the cage of my law clinic, dubbed by my wife The Helping Hand, and take a breather outside, where the wind and the rain were blowing. I tidied up my desk, put on my jacket, and stepped into the so-called reception room, which was about the size of a large broom closet.

Nice young couple, Lana said. Do you suppose he beats her regularly?

Lana is a circumspect lady. Occasionally, however, she adopts an attitude of arch audacity, of which this was a milder example. She does so in the belief, I think, that it spices her appeal, as in a dame who would say things like that just might be game for anything. She sat at her desk now with her superfluous hot-weather sweater over her shoulders and her red-tipped fingers gripping her big black purse, all set to leave. A tall blonde in her mid-fifties who once had been a looker, she now needed a little too much makeup to hide the battle scars of the years. She was still easy on the eyes, for her age and mine, but there was no draw for me, no chemistry. Physical appeal was absent, though it might have been there for almost anyone else. Don’t ask me why. Ask the little man inside, that inscrutable arbiter of sexual taste who resides within most human males.

Lana was divorced, childless, relatively new in town, and hadn’t made many friends. At least, none that she ever mentioned. From prior conversations I knew that she lived alone, ate alone, and went to the movies alone. Though I saw no reason it couldn’t have been otherwise, if she wished.

Well, maybe I did see a reason. I was afraid the reason might be me. I say afraid, because what I wanted was a secretary, not a girlfriend, and I’d had the uncomfortable feeling for a long time that that’s exactly what Lana had in mind.

I don’t want to sound egotistical, or judgmental, though judging used to be my business, but it seems that when single women reach a certain number of years, more in some cases, less in others, they get a little desperate. That’s why so many men of my age have had the experience of being chased by women considerably younger, and I’m no exception. Even though married. Not happily, but married, to a lady not far from Lana’s age and, frankly, I saw no point in trading her in on someone with the same mileage.

I ignored Lana’s comment about the McGintys. After all, this was a law office, of sorts, with a need for decorum and confidentiality, virtues I’d sorely missed and abused in my own personal life not many months before.

Look, she said. Have you seen this? She opened her purse and pulled out a magazine. I’ve been waiting to show it to you. It came in the mail and I thought you’d be interested. I was wrong, it wasn’t a magazine, it was a glossy travel brochure. On the cover was a rendering of a cruise ship sailing into a tropical bay with jagged peaks in the background, rather like the picture on my wall, which Lana had selected weeks earlier.

It’s for a tour of those Australian Islands, the Solomons, the Tongas….

It was ironic, I suppose, that of all the people in the world, Lana was the only one who knew of my interest in the South Sea Islands. It had happened by accident. When she’d first come on board a few months ago, we’d gone to happy hour across the street. I don’t drink much, contrary to the Irish stereotype. My Comanche genes may be a stabilizing factor in this regard. I simply get too wild when I drink. I’ve scared myself a time or two, so I mostly stay away from the stuff, especially the hard stuff. On only the second or third beer, I surprised myself by telling her that someday I’d like to get away from it all, the rat race, the troubles of the past, and find an island to live on. She’d apparently found the idea appealing, almost as if I’d invited her along, and she continued to bring it up every once in a while. Now here we were again.

Thanks, I said, I’ll take a look.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about happy hour that evening. There was a surprise waiting for us downstairs. As we hurried along the colonnade toward the parking lot, light from the offices on our right reflected off fat little raindrops drifting in on our left. And there, just short of the exit, I saw something odd. I stopped and grabbed Lana’s arm. Hold it, I said.

Someone seemed to be sitting on the ground in the last office entrance alcove. The lights were out in that office and the alcove was dark. But I could see a pale pant leg, a little black shoe, and a bit of red hair. I recognized all three.

It was Shannon.

TWO

My heart was pounding as I knelt beside her in the cramped, darkened alcove. There was blood on her temple and her eyes were closed. She was lying half on her side on the worn carpeting, partially upright, with her back to the wall. I confirmed that she was breathing in the most direct and quickest way, by putting my hand on her narrow chest, feeling the gentle lift and fall. My first thought was to run upstairs and call an ambulance. But then Lana was standing beside me, speaking calmly. Let me have a look at her, Judge.

I shifted aside as she knelt and took Shannon’s wrist in a professional way. And then I remembered. Her resume listed nursing experience. After a moment she said, Fast but steady. She lifted one of Shannon’s eyelids, dropped it, and threw me a questioning look. I guessed it’s meaning: Had the husband done this?

Shannon moaned.

Lie still, I said. It’s okay. It’s Judge Gallagher.

Her eyes opened but didn’t focus on me. Where’s Ell? she said. Find Ell. At least, that’s what it sounded like. The words were slurred, dreamy. Lana stood and brushed at her skirt.

Let’s get her to my place.

Your place? What about an ambulance?

It doesn’t look that serious. I think maybe she just fainted.

I shook my head in disbelief. Why would her husband leave her here like this?

Lana shrugged. Strange things happen, human nature is an enigma. I wanted to accede to her, if only to avoid the spectacle of an ambulance with a siren, flashing lights, and uniformed attendants. There were still a few offices open, up and down the building, and I didn’t want the neighbors gawking. I’d already gotten some negative feedback from the landlord about the specimens of humanity my law clinic was attracting. But mostly I wanted what was best for Shannon, and I felt reasonably confident in Lana’s judgment.

Shannon grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip and struggled up against the wall. I pushed the hair out of her eyes. You all right? What happened?

I’m all right. She said it distinctly, in that imposing voice. I just passed out. But then she faded again, sagging into me.

I’ll pull the car up, Lana said. She’ll be all right.

But what if she has a concussion? They can be dangerous. I had a friend—

Lana walked off into the drizzle. Trust me, Judge, trust me.

***

We took two cars, Shannon with Lana. I turned off my radio. Too distracting, I had too much on my mind, too much anger to control. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who abuses women. It’s a temper trait that’s gotten me into trouble.

The rain was really coming down now, a slanting curtain of beaded silver in my headlights. The streets, busy with quitting-time traffic, reflected dazzling lights. Tires hissed on soaking asphalt, rivulets ran in the gutters, thunder rumbled in the mountains. The air conditioner filled my car with the musty smell of mildew. Rainstorms are dangerous here in the desert, not just because of flash floods, but because their rarity gives the natives time to forget how to drive on slippery surfaces. The atmospherics were doing nothing to lighten my mood. Rain holds the promise of a better tomorrow, but tomorrow can be a long way off.

For most of the short drive I saw only the shadow of Lana’s head through her rear window, frosted with raindrops. Then finally Shannon was sitting up beside her. At Lana’s complex we parked side by side. I opened the door on Shannon’s side. She was conscious but weak. Luckily the rain had slackened. I helped her out and supported her across the puddled parking lot, quite aware of the firm, very slender waist under my arm. Lana stayed close beside us, as if letting me know that she could have done this as well as I. It never occurred to me just to leave Shannon with her and go home. She was my client and this incident possibly had its roots in the interview in my office.

Inside the apartment, I turned her over to Lana, who walked her to a couch. Now just stretch out, dear, and relax, she said. I’ll get a blanket, you’re shivering.

Shannon did as she was told. To get my eyes off her, I studied Lana’s habitat. Lots of room, nothing out of place, not much on the walls. Low-pile gray carpeting with a little mud tracked on it now. Some of the furniture had the spare but sturdy look of early American antiques—a breakfront, a buffet, a round dining table with a heavy pedestal base. Investments serving a dual purpose, indicating shrewdness with money. I knew she had a little, from a divorce settlement, I think. Otherwise she couldn’t have afforded to work for what I paid her.

The Spartan air of the place had a smell of loneliness that depressed me. The fact that she didn’t date would mean she spent many a night by herself in these cheerless surroundings. I saw no radio or TV, but maybe she had both in her bedroom, or some other room. I hoped so, I really did.

Shannon made a sound. I’d been wanting to kneel beside her, to be a little closer to her, and now I had an excuse. Are you okay?

She tried a smile, but faltered. I’ll…be all right.

Good. Can you tell me what happened?

Yes. It was a seizure. I have epilepsy.

This little doll with the beautiful face had epilepsy? How sad. A seizure? And your husband just left you there?

Her voice was gaining strength. He didn’t know. It doesn’t happen very often. He was coming back for me.

I don’t get it.

She closed her eyes, giving me a moment to study the fine golden down on her upper lip, and the delicate interlacing of the hairs of her eyebrows, and how closely they matched the color of her hair.

We had an argument. He got mad and left. He does that sometimes. Please, could you call him? Have him come and get me?

Lana reappeared with a blanket. I’ll call. I got out of her way while she spread the blanket over Shannon. What’s your number?

Shannon gave it and Lana swirled away to a wall phone. The wait on the line was a long one. She rolled her eyes at me, then focused on nothing and spoke in the artificial way of someone talking to a machine.

Hello, Mr. McGinty. This is Lana Norman, Judge Gallagher’s secretary. We just want to let you know that your wife is all right. She’s waiting for you here at my place. She gave her address and phone number, then hung the up. Well, she said, he’s probably out looking for you right now. I bet he’s frantic.

Shannon, eyes closed, resting, didn’t acknowledge the remark. I stepped over to the door. Time for me to go, I said. I waited for a goodnight or some other form of dismissal, but neither woman replied, and I wondered if I was overlooking something. Will she be all right? I asked Lana.

I think so.

Well, then…

Shannon had shifted one leg so that the sole of her shoe was visible. There was a hole in it, and it touched me more than I like to be touched. This whole thing was more than I liked. Now I knew where Lana lived, her apartment and living style. Now we were co-Samaritans, joined in the process of rendering aid to another. It tightened up our relationship a little too much, maybe.

See you tomorrow, Lana said at last, but there was something tentative in her tone. Did she expect me to stay until McGinty arrived? Did she expect me to hang around after he left? Had she heard about my troubles at home and decided this was an opportunity to test me?

These questions bubbled around in my head in that moment by her door. God knows I didn’t have much waiting for me at home, but it was home. It was where I hung my clothes and ate and slept. I knew the problems and pitfalls and shortcomings there like my tongue knows the inside of my