Read Online Desert Run by Betty Webb - Free Book Online Page A

no police record in Mississippi or anywhere else—a dip into the AFIS database proved that—it might prove informative to find out the names of his Southern associates. Or maybe Jimmy would turn up an ex-wife or two. Exes frequently had interesting tales to tell.
    A glance at my watch told me it was now past six, but evenings were good for home visits. Kryzinski had given me MaryEllen Bollinger’s address, so I pulled off the red wig, threw it into the back, and pointed the Jeep north for a ten-mile battle through the remnants of rush hour to North Scottsdale.
    El Cordobes Luxury Condominiums was typical of the area, with storybook architecture and anal compulsive landscaping. Perfectly cared-for pink and purple petunias lined the narrow cement walk that curved around a cream-colored adobe complex designed to look like an Indian pueblo. Discreet ceramic signs decorated with Hopi symbols identified each of the fifteen buildings, but regardless of the community’s good looks and signage, the massive development was a hopeless maze. I wandered in increasing exasperation until I found Unit 220-A hiding on the second floor of the sixth building. The woman who answered the door studied my PI license carefully. An attractive, if rather plastic blonde, she stood in the center of the doorway as if loathe to invite me inside, but behind her I could see a sea of white: white carpeting, white walls, white leather sofas—the whole Marilyn Monroe deal. She identified herself as MaryEllen’s roommate and told me I was five minutes too late, that MaryEllen had already left for work.
    â€œShe just left for work?”
    The woman bared perfectly capped teeth. “She hardly keeps banker’s hours.”
    Implants, white apartment, non-banker’s hours. I was beginning to get it. “Perhaps you could tell me where she, ah, does what she does.”
    The teeth again. “MaryEllen does the same thing I do. You say you’re a detective, go detect.”
    I offered a smile of my own. “Cute. But why not help me out here?”
    More teeth. “Oh, you’re no fun. She’s at The Skin Factory, on Scottsdale Road.”
    Too bad I hadn’t known this before my trip north. The Skin Factory was less than a mile south of my office. A topless bar, it was the latest addition in a long line of so-called gentlemen’s clubs, massage parlors, and outright bordellos that were turning South Scottsdale into a sexual combat zone. The Scottsdale City Council, its tunnel vision focused on the glittering developments of the upscale northern section of the city, appeared content to let the southern end rot, ignoring the pleas of the neighborhood’s hard-working blue-collar families who resented the horny drunks driving down their streets looking for action.
    I thanked MaryEllen’s roommate for her help. As I started down the stairs she called out, “Tell MaryEllen that Clay called right after she left. And to be careful. He might show up.” Before I could ask who Clay was, she closed the door.
    Rush hour was over, so I made good time and pulled into the parking lot of the Skin Factory a mere fifteen minutes later. With its landscaping of Italian poplars and neo-Tuscan facade, the bar was trying for tasteful, but that’s always a losing proposition when the front of your building features a ten-foot-high pink neon sign of a naked woman in a pose similar to those found on the mud flaps of pickup trucks. The name SKIN FACTORY blinking on and off in purple neon did help, either. After parking the Jeep between a rickety Ford pickup and a sun-bleached Nissan, I made my way to the bouncer stationed outside the entrance.
    â€œYou looking for work, honey?” Mr. Bouncer was about the same size as my Jeep and probably every bit as tough, so I didn’t crack wise while his eyes expertly tracked every line of my body. “Jim generally likes them a little younger, but I say, hey, a few