The Desert Saint

Chapter 1

What an asshole. 

Detective Maria Varela looked through the one-way glass at Preston Millicent III. Even without the evidence, which they had a mountain of, Maria would have figured him for the guy anyway, and not because of the suit which probably cost more than Maria took home in a month, nor the face lift so well done, she could barely tell he’d had work done, or the watch, some brand Maria had never heard of and probably worth more than her car, no, none of the trappings of his substantial wealth were what had her feeling this way.

It was his eyes.

Maria had interrogated hit men who’d killed so many people the corpses blended together and human life had become equal to that of an ant. Those men displayed no emotion, just a flat stare, and they never confessed unless an attorney convinced them it was in their interest. But Preston looked around the world like he was judging whatever he saw, and everything he saw came up short. That was what had Maria sure he was the perp before all the evidence came in.

But could she really be sure that was why?

She wanted to believe she wasn’t judging him because he was born rich and had soared through life on family money and now believed everything he had was on account of his own intelligence and talent. Wanted to believe that badly. But a part of her wondered if her time on the job and her own arrogance were causing her to think she could scan people and know the truth. She didn’t want to become one of those detectives who was so sure of themselves they’d ignore evidence if it went against what they knew in their “gut.” She wanted to stay rational, rationality mattered, kept her from putting away the wrong guy just because it felt right. 

Michael, her partner, opened the door and stuck his head into the room. He was about six foot two, with the athletic, lithe frame of a boxer. The nose broken too many times to count confirmed his boxing past. He never talked about it, but Maria had seen pictures of him, hands raised in victory, some oversized belt around his waist.

“Just finished the deposition with the wife. D.A. says we have enough to arrest,” Michael said.

Maria turned back to the window. 

Preston looked at his watch. Tapped it as if it had stopped working. 

The door opened and an attorney came in, his suit as expensive as Preston’s. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Preston said.

“I got here as soon as I could,” the attorney said.

Preston opened his mouth to speak, but the attorney waved for him to be quiet.

“Not a word. They’re probably listening from next door,” he said.

“Smart guy, that attorney,” Maria said.

“How do you want to go about it?” Michael said.

“You go at him hard.” 

“You figuring that ol lily white Preston is going to have an issue with the uppity black police officer questioning him?”

“No, not really. I think he’ll have a bigger issue with me being forward, but I want to play it coy, draw him in. See if he’ll confess.”

Michael walked up to the glass. Looked through.

“He’s barely holding it together,” he said.

“Nah, that arrogance is real. I doubt he even thinks he should be punished for killing her.”

“Fifty bucks says he gives it up,” Michael said.

“You’re on,” Maria said.

“But winner has to do paperwork,” Michael said.

“Only a scared man hedges his bets.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been on a bit of a run with these, so maybe some fear is in order.”

Preston barely looked at Michael as they entered the room, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of Maria. She was used to it. No matter how hard she tried to look severe, no makeup, hair pulled back, men always needed to make some big deal about the good-looking police detective interviewing them. Like complimenting her looks was going to get her to go easy on them. Maria couldn’t decide if all men were this stupid or just the ones she ended up interviewing. 

“I admit, I’m flattered that the Las Vegas PD sent their reigning beauty queen to interview me, but traditionally, I prefer blondes. So many Mexicans around here, it makes me really long for a good old-fashioned American bombshell,” Preston said.

“I apologize for my client,” the attorney said.

“You have to do that a lot?” Michael said.

“Seriously though, Officer...” Preston leaned forward to read the name on the badge hanging from Maria’s neck.

“Detective Varela,” Maria said.

“Of course, Detective, Detective, how could I not have labeled you properly? But seriously, Detective, you shouldn’t have that black hair back in a ponytail. I’d probably be much more talkative if you let it down, maybe let it pool at your shoulders. And look at that lovely complexion. Was your father or your mother Mexican? Or both? One hundred percent beaner, are you?”

“Preston, be quiet.”

“My attorney disapproves of my behavior. Shocking.” Preston made a big show of putting his hands together and sitting upright. He put on an overly polite smile and inclined his head at Maria. “You were saying?”

Maria let the silence sit there. What she wanted was for Preston to be comfortable and chatty, but she couldn’t decide if it would be better to challenge him or to be slightly submissive. Maybe let her hair down, something to make him believe he really had control. She decided against it. He’d grow bored with her if he thought he could control her. She needed to keep him interested. Needed to keep him thinking he had something to prove. She looked up at Michael and nodded.

“Oh, so you’re the boss?” Preston said.

Michael reached into a folder and pulled out a photo, a glamor shot of a woman. Her name was Maribel Skinner, and she was originally from Ohio. She had moved to Los Angeles fifteen years ago to try to make it big and, after failing, had moved to Vegas to work as an escort. She went by the name Eva. In the photo, Eva was standing against a wall in a low-cut evening gown with a long slit up the left side. She was looking into the camera with what was probably supposed to be a look of desire, but to Maria, Eva looked scared, and Maria couldn’t blame her. So many women trying to become famous for their looks. So many women driven to misery by the pressure. Probably why Maria’s father had threatened to divorce her mother when she tried to enter Maria in a beauty pageant as a child. 

“Do you know this woman?” Michael asked.

“Looks like some hooker to me,” Preston said.

“We never said she was a sex worker,” Maria said.

“She’s not pretty enough to be a real model, and where do all the failed models end up? On their backs,” Preston said.

“So, do you know her?” Michael asked again.

“Why is my client here?” The attorney asked.

Michael pulled another photo from the file. This one was also of Eva but had been taken a few hours earlier. Eva naked and lying in a dumpster, her open eyes staring up at the camera, the bruises around her neck and the tearing of three fingernails revealing that she’d spent her last moments gasping for air and fighting to survive. 

The photo, as stark as it was, couldn’t convey the brutality of the scene. The stench of spoiled milk leaking from a carton next to Eva’s shoulder would be circling Maria’s dreams for months. A part of Maria wished she could be one of those cops who walled off her emotions behind bravado, sarcasm, and cynical jokes, but she just couldn’t. Her father worried about her burning out. Maria only worried about closing cases. 

“Dangerous job being a whore,” Preston said.

“Why do you keep saying that she’s a sex worker?” Maria asked.

“Who else ends up in a dumpster?” Preston said.

“Not another word,” the attorney said. “Is my client under arrest?”

“We want to know where he was last night,” Michael said.

“At home with my wife, all night,” Preston said.

“I’ll get an affidavit from the wife and make her available at her earliest convenience. Now if there is nothing else, my client and I are leaving,” the attorney said.

Maria let them both stand up before speaking. She enjoyed letting Preston have that moment of believing he was walking out of that room before taking all of that smug certainty away. Maybe she shouldn’t have relished it so much, but God, he was such an asshole.

“Do you know what I love about extremely wealthy men?” Maria said.

“We’re not interested in your personal opinions, Detective,” the attorney said.

“Oh, but I am,” Preston said.

“Wealthy men always overestimate their own intelligence,” Maria said.

Michael pulled out another photo, a front and back shot taken by a traffic camera. The front photo showed Preston at the wheel, the back photo showed the license plate: WLTHY.

“This was taken last night around one in the morning near an apartment you own. It’s on the other side of town from your house. Apparently, you weren’t home with the wife all night,” Maria said.

Michael pulled out a computer-generated map of Las Vegas with a blue line snaking across it.

“Your wife hired a detective who put a GPS on your car. Apparently, your prenup is void if you’re caught cheating,” Michael said.

“Good lawyer she must have had. What’s she, the second wife?” Maria said.

“Third. Looks like I might be searching for a fourth soon,” Preston fixed his eyes on Maria, “Perhaps, I’m growing tired of blondes.”

“Think this blonde was a little smarter than you gave her credit for. By the way, your car stopped where we found the body,” Maria said.

“And the victim shared all of her booking information with a friend,” Michael said.

“She arrived at your apartment at 10:00pm,” Maria said.

“Do you really think anyone cares about some whore?” Preston said.

“So you’re saying what? Because she was a sex worker, you had a right to kill her?” Maria said.

Preston opened his mouth to retort, but his attorney placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“My client isn’t admitting to anything. He’s a pillar of the community-”

“Pillar of the community? That’s what we’re calling murdering rapists now?” Michael said.

“Rape? I’ve never had to rape anyone. Women have always begged me for it,” Preston said.

“Interesting that you aren’t denying the murder, though,” Maria said.

“Not another word,” the attorney said.

For the first time since Maria had laid eyes on him, Preston seemed to realize he was in serious danger. He crossed his arms. Looked down at the table. All that cockiness was gone, and watching the shock spread across his face felt so good that Maria wanted to bottle that feeling up and save it.

“We didn’t need a confession. We just wanted to see if he was man enough to own up to it, and just like I thought, he wasn’t,” Maria said.

Maria settled into her desk and turned on her computer. Michael was standing against the wall behind her. The fifty dollars he’d lost was sitting on the desk. Maria hadn’t touched it yet. She was just letting it sit there, crisp and green. As she clicked on the link for an arrest report, she decided Michael had gotten the better of this deal. Writing a report was worth a hell of a lot more than fifty dollars.

“That guy might have been the biggest asshole we’ve ever arrested,” Michael said. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on the ceiling, and his jaw was tight, his cheekbone bulging.

“The Pakistani who killed his daughter was worse,” Maria said.

“The one who called you a stupid lady? Yeah, but that was a cultural thing.”

“Does that make him any less of an asshole?”

“I’m just saying that guy honestly thought he was doing the right thing. That’s messed up on a whole different kind of level, but this guy today, this aristocrat asshole, he knows better,” Michael said.

“Does he?” Maria said.

“Yeah, he does. He just doesn’t care,” Michael said.

Maria’s phone beeped, a reminder. She looked at the screen. 

“Shit, I’m supposed to be having dinner with my brother tonight. He invited me and my girlfriend over, and I just totally forgot.” She looked at the fifty dollars sitting on the desk, totally untouched. 

“I see you staring at that fifty like it’s going to go back in my pocket, but a bet is a bet. Besides, he’s your brother. He has to forgive you.” Michael pushed himself off of the wall and headed out the door without another look back. 

Maria knew he was right. The desert was full of shallow graves for people who’d thought they could welch. In Vegas, you paid your bets. She’d have to cancel dinner. She sent a text message: can’t do dinner. on a case. i know i suck. no my gf can’t go w/out me. 😂😂 talk l8tr. 

Maria turned her attention back to the arrest report. An hour later, she realized her brother had never even read her message. 

Then the call came in.