Desert Cut by Betty Webb Page B

picked up a pencil and paper, and in delicate script, wrote MRS. GENEVA ROUSSE, 4210 SO. WICKIUP . “We was at Happy’s Cantina til they closed down Friday night, then we followed some friends over to their apartment and partied til noon. They’ll back me up. And yeah, you can talk to Shirley’s mom, too We had a big fight over me keeping her out all night, so she’s sure gonna remember. If that kid died when you said she did, I couldn’t a done it. I told the sheriff as much when he came nosing around.”
    Joleene spoke up again. “That bastard’s always been after good people like us.”
    I kept my smile in place. “Cops are like that, aren’t they?” I produced the newspaper clipping with Precious Doe’s picture. “Have either of you seen this girl?”
    The mother gave it a brief glance and snorted a negative, but Duane surprised me. “A few months ago I saw somebody like her standing in front of that mosque-thing they rigged up by the Unitarian Church.” He darted a quick look at his mother. “I used to go to Al-Anon meetings in one of the buildings.” He stopped, flushed, then tried again. “Anyway, she was talking to an Egyptian girl around the same age. The Egyptian kid was wearing one of those head scarves.”
    “Do you mean a
hijab
?”
    “Yeah, that’s the word. A black one.”
    Interesting. “Did you tell the sheriff this?”
    Joleene answered for him, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “I told Duane not to ever tell the cops nothing.”
    Not even when the information might help clear him? I didn’t know which infuriated me the most, the woman’s hostility or her prideful ignorance. She had accomplished a minor miracle by actually making me feel sorry for Duane. When I glanced at the cartoon strip above the sofa again, I saw that one of the teens being chomped by the werewolf bore a strong resemblance to her.
    “Your work?” I asked Duane, pointing. “It’s very good.”
    His false sneer slipped into a genuine smile, but before he answered, Joleene snatched the artwork off the wall, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it to the floor. “Shit stuff. Any five-year-old can do better.”
    A millisecond of hurt flashed across Duane’s face as he bent to pick up the cartoon.
    The corners of my mouth began to cramp, so I let my smile go. “Well, thanks for the help. I’ll check with Shirley and her mother, and if Duane’s story holds up, I’ll pass that along to the sheriff.”
    Joleene belched again. “Suit yourself, Miss Fancy Pants.”
    Fighting the urge to smack her, I asked Duane, “Anything else you know that might help?”
    He held his crumpled artwork in his hands and smoothed it the best he could. When he looked at me again, the sneer had returned to his face. “I told you everything I know, so why don’t you just leave?”
    With great relief, I did.
    From the trailer park, I drove to Happy’s Cantina, where the bartender said that, yes, the night Precious Doe died, Duane and his girlfriend stayed at the bar until closing time, when they left with a crowd of other drunks. He directed me to a booth toward the rear, where a group of Duane’s friends were sharing a pitcher of beer.
    Three were sober enough to agree that, yeah, the dude and the hot bitch had spent the rest of the night at their apartment, and by the way, why didn’t I join them ‘cause I wasn’t half bad myself. After declining their gracious offer, I drove to the Rousse house. While Shirley, clad in a skimpy middy top and crotch-hugging jeans, sulked in the background, Mrs. Rousse confirmed Duane’s alibi.
    “He brought Shirley home drunk past noon, for Christ’s sake. You tell him if I ever see his meth-smoking face again, I’ll take a shotgun to it.”
    Unless they were all lying, Duane was in the clear.
    By now it was almost seven, but on the off chance Sheriff Avery was still in his office, I stopped by. He was there, all right, standing in the reception area, staring at the picture of the dead