Vendetta

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Sorry,” Turnbull said. He was in his fifties and had held the office of district attorney for seven years. He’d been an A.D.A. before that and was a fishing buddy of Marion’s father. According to the local gossip, that was one of the main reasons Turnbull had hired her into the D.A.’s office.

“It’s all right,” Marion said. “I was only…sleeping.”

Turnbull chuckled. “I was, too, when I got the call.”

“What call, sir?”

“Stop calling me ‘sir.’”

“Yes, sir.” Marion had tried. She didn’t automatically give a lot of men respect, and she didn’t give many offices immediate respect, either. Turnbull was a lot like her dad, though, and she gave men like that respect.

Turnbull sighed. “I hate to ask this, Marion, but I need you to handle something. I hadn’t planned on a murder taking place when I spent last night drinking. Driving over to cover this is out of the question. I’m still half in the bag.”

Marion wanted to say, Only half? But she didn’t. Turnbull was well-known for his drinking proclivity, though he’d never let it interfere with his job. A lot of deals were made over drinks and cigars. Marion knew that from waiting tables to put herself through law school.

“And I damn sure didn’t think a celebrity would go and get himself killed,” Turnbull added.

“‘Celebrity’?” Marion repeated. The part about the killing didn’t surprise her. A phone call late at night had already brought that possibility to mind. No one called the D.A.’s office at night to ask legal questions.

“An honest-to-God war hero.” Papers rustled. “His name’s— was—Tom Marker. He was a colonel in the army. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes.” It would have been hard not to have heard of the man. Marker had brought back Brian Ellis, the scion of the Ellis airline empire, only a year or so ago. The story of the father and son’s reunion after nearly eighteen months in a Vietcong war prison had been in all the papers and on television. “Who killed him?”

“A woman. The sheriff’s office caught her at the scene.”

Marion switched on the lamp next to her bed. The bright light hurt her eyes. She opened the nightstand drawer and took out a notebook and pen.

The notebook was a five-by-seven bound edition. All the pages were numbered. That had been one of the things Turnbull had insisted on when she accepted the job. Everything was written in bound notebooks and with a pen. The notebooks were part of the evidence chain the prosecutor’s office might have to provide.

Marion turned to a clean page and made a notation of the day and time. She wrote Tom Marker’s name, then Death Investigation.

“Do we know who the woman is?” Marion asked.

“Not yet, A.D.A. Hart,” Turnbull replied. She heard the grin in his words. “That’s going to be one of the first things you need to let me know. In the morning. I’m going back to bed. From what Fred Keller says, this thing should be a slam-dunk. If you need anything, try to wait till morning. I’m going to be hungover as hell and I have to be in front of Judge Ferguson at ten o’clock for an arraignment.”

“All right. But what am I supposed to—”

“Just get to the Kellogg Motel, Counselor. Talk to Fred. He’ll walk you through the crime scene. Oh, and take your camera. The sheriff’s office will have a photographer there taking pictures, but I always like to have our own photos in a murder investigation. Especially if it involves celebrities. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turnbull hung up before Marion could say anything. She took the phone from her ear and stared at it for a moment.

Then the shock wore off and excitement flared again. A murder. And Turnbull was letting her handle it. Grinning, she cradled the phone and climbed out of bed. She grabbed a suit from the closet on her way to the apartment’s tiny bathroom.

It was her first murder case. And she’d take a slam-dunk any day. Court cases were all about the win.

Thirty-seven minutes later, freshly showered and feeling more awake, Marion pulled her 1965 Mustang Fastback off the highway and into the Kellogg Motel parking lot. The pavement glistened like black ice from a recent light rain.

The motel was laid out in a large U so that the two legs encompassed the parking area. The manager’s office was in the right leg at the front. Red neon tubing marked the office and gleamed from the front of the Pepsi machine.

A tall deputy in a yellow slicker waved her down with a flashlight.

Marion pulled up next to him and rolled down her window. She hated letting the rain into the car. Although it wasn’t new, it was new to her. The old Rambler her dad had helped her buy and repair had finally given out a week after she’d gotten the job in the D.A.’s office. The payments came dearly and she still occasionally winced over the doubt she’d seen in her dad’s eyes. Both her parents were schoolteachers. Money had never been plentiful in their household.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the grizzled deputy said. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to move along. This here motel is closed.”

“I’m with the district attorney’s office.” Marion switched on her interior light and showed him her identification.

The man read the identification, then scrunched down and took a better look at her. “But…you’re a woman.”

I am, Marion thought fiercely. And you’d better get used to it. There’s a new world coming.

“Gee,” Marion said, “you stay sharp like that and I’ll bet you make detective someday.” The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. She regretted them at once. Creating ill will with the sheriff’s office wouldn’t endear her to anyone. A fast-talking, sarcastic woman definitely wouldn’t be appreciated.

But she hated the condescending attitude men had toward women. She’d faced it the whole time she’d put herself through law school. Most of the men there had waited for her to fail out or break down from all the pressure. Instead she’d graduated near the top of her class.

But the deputy wasn’t angry; he grinned. “Well I’ll be. A woman. And you’re young, too. This should be interesting.” He stood up and backed away. “You go on ahead, ma’am. Sheriff Keller will meet you at the room.”

“Thank you.” Marion put her identification back into her purse. “Which room?”

“I expect it’ll be the one with the dead body in it, ma’am.”

Okay, you had that one coming, Marion thought sourly. She gazed through the rain-dappled windshield at the motel rooms.

Sheriff’s cars and an ambulance sat in front of only one of them. The red and white lights cut swaths through the neon-spattered darkness. The mercury vapor lights made the blue cars look purple.

Marion eased ahead and parked well short of the traffic congestion. She didn’t want to chance any door dings. She got out of the Mustang, slung her purse over her shoulder, skidded for a moment on her pumps and crossed to the motel room.

Sheriff Fred Keller of Maricopa County was a no-nonsense kind of guy. Even though Marion knew Turnbull had told Keller she was coming, it was obvious that the sheriff didn’t approve of her presence.

She tried to ignore that, but it was a fierce struggle. He was the kind of aloof male that drew fire with just a glance.

He stood almost six feet tall and was solid and muscular. From the look of his craggy face and iron-gray hair, Marion guessed he was in his late fifties. His dark skin offered mute testimony that he spent a lot of the day under the hot Arizona sun. The pistol on his hip looked massive.

“You mind if I smoke, ma’am?” Keller asked. Before Marion even had time to reply, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lipped one and lit up with a Zippo lighter. The wavering flame drew his features briefly out of the shadows. He blew a plume of gray smoke out into the rainy night.

Marion knew she could be no-nonsense herself and decided to show the man. She stepped under the eave out of the rain and opened her notebook.

“What happened?” Marion asked.

Keller looked at her over the hot orange coal of his cigarette and then lowered his hand. “An unidentified woman came to this motel room—” he pointed with his cigarette to indicate the unit Marion stood next to “—that would be unit thirty-seven—and used a .357 Magnum to nearly blow off Colonel Tom Marker’s head, ma’am. That’s what happened.”

Marion took quick notes in shorthand. She’d learned that while still in high school when her parents thought she was going to be a teacher like them. At the time, she hadn’t known how helpful it would be in her job as an attorney.

“Were there any witnesses?” Marion asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The night manager’s name is Bud Overton. I’ve got a man down to his office who’s taking a statement.”