“Such a sweet girl, smart and beautiful, too,” Hall said. “She’s at the teachers’ college in Tempe.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I said.
“It’s been almost a year. She didn’t come home last summer. I heard she got a summer job at the Biltmore Hotel outside Phoenix. Just as well.”
“And why’s that?”
She squared her small shoulders. “I’m the town historian, not the town gossip!”
I flashed my buzzer, and her dudgeon collapsed.
“Oh.”
“We’re looking for Carrie’s father.”
She shook her head. “Ezra. It’s no wonder Carrie didn’t want to come home. That man. Ezra Dell is a drunk.” She huffed. “We’ll have plenty more when Prohibition is over.”
Victoria gently asked where we could find him, and she gave us an address. It was different from the one I’d copied from the college records.
“I tried to get him in the Pioneers’ Home. But they wouldn’t take him, because he wouldn’t stop his drunkenness and cavorting with bootleggers.” She looked us over. “I hope you brought warm clothes.”
We thanked her and started out.
“I’m so glad Carrie is all right,” she said. “It’s better that she’s away from here.”
Town historian or gossip, I saw no need to set her straight. She would find out soon enough.
* * *
Outside the station, at the foot of Cortez Street, Prescott looked like a prosperous little city, despite the hard times and having one-tenth the population of Phoenix. Paved streets, sidewalks cleared of snow, streetlights, solid multistory buildings leading toward the Yavapai County Courthouse. More people were in Western wear, and not for show. It was how they dressed. A couple of horse-drawn wagons competed with automobiles for space at the curbs. These had mostly disappeared from Phoenix in the ’20s. The town was winding down for the night.
We checked in at the Hotel St. Michael at the corner of Gurley and Montezuma streets, using the names Mr. and Mrs. Gene Hammons. We decided to leave questions about the hotel as origin of the telegram about Carrie for later and went upstairs to get warm.
The next morning, a look outside the window showed more than a foot of new snow on the ground. My sweater, leather jacket, and jeans were maybe enough, but not my shoes. Victoria was similarly unprepared, as any Phoenician would be. After breakfast, we went to a store and bought winter boots with zigzag soles to keep our footing in the snow, mufflers, and gloves. The hundred bucks from Captain McGrath was drawing down.
Then we set off in search of Carrie’s father. I had done many death knocks. They never got easier, and you never knew how the parents, siblings, or other next of kin would react.
We walked several blocks west, beyond the Pioneers’ Home, to find the address on Park Avenue. Amid Prescott’s many Victorian and craftsman homes, this property was little more than a shack beneath a tall ponderosa pine. The snow leading to the porch had no footprints. But smoke was coming from the chimney, and one window showed the glow of a light.
We mounted the creaky steps to the porch and prepared to knock. I cocked my head for Victoria to stand away from the door. I did the same on the other side. You never knew when someone might shoot through the door. I knocked, three times, loud.
The door exploded with automatic-weapons fire, the unmistakable sound of a Thompson submachine gun. Victoria crouched, a terrified look in her eyes. I fell to the porch. She did the same. When the firing stopped, the bullet holes in the wood of the door outlined a cockeyed circle, which then fell out. It would have been funny, if the situation were not so deadly.
“Mr. Dell!” I called. “It’s Gene Hammons, Phoenix Police. I need to talk to you about your daughter! Put down the Tommy gun and open the door.”
I got on my haunches, the .45 in my hand, and waited. In a few minutes, the door squeaked open, and we beheld a gaunt man in overalls with a scraggly white beard that had tobacco stains on it. He was unarmed, so I holstered my weapon.
“C’mon,” he said, and turned back inside. We followed him. “Sorry ’bout that. Never know when revenooers will come back here for my still. Had to rebuild it twice already. Want some?”
We took a pass.
The living room, if you wanted to call it that, was crowded with ancient furniture, heavy and dark, and it smelled of gun smoke, alcohol, and piss. A surprisingly well-made fire presided on the hearth. I took the Tommy gun, removing the magazine and the round in the chamber. Then I joined Victoria on a sofa losing its stuffing. He sat across on a tumbledown love seat.
“Hello, pretty lady. Are you police, too?”
“Police photographer,” she said. “Victoria Vasquez.”
“Ah. Big-city stuff. Now what’s this about my Carrie?”