Chapter Seven

Idrove to the convenience store that had been robbed. Greg Rodriguez had been killed less than two weeks ago, and it was back to business as usual.

The Cactus Stop had a couple dozen locations throughout Sunnyslope and central Phoenix, and a few scattered downtown and in Glendale. They were known for being clean and kicking out loiterers, plus they gave teenagers opportunities for first jobs. There was one down the hill from my house and I often stopped there instead of the grocery store if I needed one or two things. I paid more, but they called them “convenience” stores for a reason.

I’d never been in this location, and it was older than others in the chain that I’d seen. Hand-painted ads filled the barred windows and door, announcing which beer was on sale for what price and which tobacco products could be found inside. Beer and tobacco was the bread and butter of the business, but they also sold bread and butter.

Andy’s file on the victim had been thin: Greg Rodriguez was twenty-three, had worked at the Cactus Stop for six months, and lived alone in a dive apartment walking distance from his work, putting him in the same geographic circle as Sergio. There was no known connection between Greg and Sergio, but after the confession, I wondered if the police had even looked for one. They should have run Greg’s record. Had he ever been in prison? Arrested? Any gang associations?

It was well after three, area schools were out, and I saw a half dozen teens going in and out, mostly singles and in pairs. A couple sketchy twentysomethings who looked like they were coming off a high, a mom with a stroller who came out with a paper bag of groceries in the pocket under the stroller seat. One Phoenix PD cruiser rolled by, heading east, on patrol, not riding hot. Even in the bad areas of Phoenix, violent crime in the middle of the day wasn’t common.

After fifteen minutes of observation, I went inside.

This Cactus Stop was definitely more run-down than the Stop by my house. Not as clean, crowded aisles, more alcohol, tobacco, and junk food and less bread, butter, and milk.

Any sign of the robbery and murder had been cleared. The cigarette cage had been replaced. The only other people in the store were two young teen boys in faded jeans and rock band T-shirts inspecting the large selection of chips.

The clerk had a name badge on his green Cactus Stop shirt.

D. Cruz.

Don Cruz was the clerk who had told police that Sergio had kicked a display and left angry after Cruz refused to extend him two dollars in credit.

I went over to the cold beer wall and noted most were cheap and American, with a small shelf for Dos Equis and Modelo. I’m a beer snob. I like dark microbrews best. My brother drinks Coors Light. I would prefer not drinking anything to light beer, but Jack has been helping me with renovations so I try to keep his preferred beer in the fridge. I grabbed a six-pack and headed to the counter.

Cruz looked me over, gave me a cocky grin. “I’m sure you’re over twenty-one, but I gotta card ya.”

I showed him my ID. He stared at it a little too long and I had the creepy feeling he was memorizing my address.

“I heard you had a murder here a couple weeks ago,” I said.

“Yeah, sure did. Some gangbanger came in and killed Greg.”

“Wow,” I said with fake shock. “For reals?”

Cruz nodded. “This asshole comes in a couple times a week, always a jerk, you know? So, I’m not surprised he went postal. But you don’t have to worry about nothing. We got new cameras and stuff.” He motioned to a lit panel behind the counter.

“How awful. Was he your friend?”

He shrugged. “Naw, not really. I barely knew him.”

“Did you know the guy who killed the other clerk?”

“I’d had a couple run-ins with him. He kicked over a display last time he came in, the week before he killed Greg.” He gestured toward the door. There wasn’t a display there now.

I nodded to the beer. “How much?” I asked because he still had my license.

“Oh, yeah, ten fifty-nine.”

I grabbed my license, paid cash, left.

I had some questions, and wondered if my brother would help me out. He couldn’t actually give me information, but maybe if I asked a bunch of hypotheticals, and if he could just look up some rap sheets for me—not give them to me—it would be a gray area. We had a dinner tonight at Mom and Dad’s, but I didn’t really want my parents to know what I was doing.

Sometimes, I felt my family didn’t approve of my decision to become a PI. It wasn’t prestigious like law school for Tess, or public service like Jack, the cop. My dad was a doctor and Nico had loosely followed in his footsteps, becoming a forensic scientist through U of A and now working at the Phoenix Crime Lab. Lulu, the youngest of us five, was graduating from high school in June and had already been accepted to three of the five colleges she’d applied to. The other two would probably accept her as well—she had above a 4.0 GPA, took every honors class she could, and clocked more volunteer hours than the rest of us combined.

Maybe it was my own sense of limbo that had me thinking my family was also disappointed in me. Choosing not to re-enlist in the Army after six years was a surprisingly easy decision—everything since had been fraught with introspection and doubt, leading me to think my initial “easy” decision had been wrong.

Pushing all that aside, I texted Jack.

You going to be at the family dinner tonight?

He responded.

Yep. Lu has an announcement.

First I heard of that. I asked, Which college she picked?

Jack texted, That’s my guess. Five bucks she picks U of A. Far enough to be independent, close enough to visit. And mom and dad’s alma mater.

I laughed. I’ll take that bet. She’ll pick out of state to get away from all of us.

Lulu had been accepted to Baylor and Notre Dame, with scholarships. I had a feeling she wanted to spread her wings.

I didn’t do as well in school as my siblings. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do the work, but I really didn’t like sitting at a desk all day. It’s the primary reason I didn’t go to college. The thought of listening to people lecture at me for hours on end made me physically ill. Not that basic training was easy. There were nights I was so sore and exhausted that I wished I had opted for college or, honestly, anything but the Army. But when I graduated I felt like I had accomplished something worthwhile through my own grit and will.

And, for the first time in my life, the Angelhart name didn’t mean anything. I was one of many, not expected to do better or worse than my fellow soldiers.

I suppose I could have gone to college now on the GI Bill. ASU had a great program for veterans. But the idea of being twenty-five in college didn’t appeal to me any more than listening to lectures. And what would I study?

I knew what I wanted to do—at least, I thought I had when I first got my PI license.

Now I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know if anything I was doing would prove Sergio didn’t kill Greg Rodriguez. Or if I even fully believed he was innocent. Sergio was doing everything in his power to spend the rest of his life behind bars. If he didn’t care, why should I?

Except...if he was innocent, that meant a killer walked free. Because Sergio had pled guilty, the police wouldn’t be looking for anyone else. That really rubbed me the wrong way. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, the idea that a killer might get away with murder grated.

Besides, I’d promised Andy I would find out one way or the other, and the one thing I couldn’t do was let down a friend.