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was the cruelest month, but he didn’t live here. For us desert rats, April is by far the kindest month, the last breezy, balmy time before the temperature began its inexorable climb into triple digits. In appreciation of this perfect day, I had stripped off the Jeep’s bikini top and drove no more than ten miles over the speed limit. The landscaping bracketing Hayden Road was a riot of color, with pink oleander blooming alongside Mojave goldenbush. Sage and honeysuckle scented the air, which was only slightly tainted by the exhaust of the big, fat Hummer ahead of me which bore the bumper sticker, admit it—you’re jealous .
    Fighting down the urge to ram the Hummer, I concentrated on the problem at hand, which was to pump as much information as possible out of Kryzinski. Perhaps he would tell me why his detectives zeroed in on Tesema so soon, ignoring Mrs. Hillman’s statement about a big-bazookaed redhead.
    By the time I arrived at Scottsdale North, I had inhaled enough carbon monoxide to make me queasy so I did little more than wave to the officer at the front desk, an old friend. He buzzed me through and I rode the elevator up to the third floor, where Captain Kryzinski sat in his glassed-in office, wearing a gray suit as subdued as his face. The new police chief had swept the department clean of all expressions of style or originality, such as the Western-cut suits Kryzinski had once flaunted, and I knew that most of the cops were unhappy with the changes. So I paid little attention to Kryzinski’s dour expression.
    I didn’t bother with the basic pleasantries, but started right in, careful to keep my voice down so that passing brass couldn’t hear me. “Okay, so Rada Tesema lied about his whereabouts. Big deal. What makes you think he’s a good candidate for the Ernst murder? Why not Ms. Big Tits? You know, the silicone sister who showed up in the middle of the night and screamed the house down?”
    Usually Kryzinski kept his voice low, too, but not today. As if unconcerned who heard him, he fairly boomed his answers. “You must be talking about MaryEllen Bollinger, that’s B-O-L-L-I-N-G-E-R, lives in Scottsdale at 8175 East El Cordobes, Unit 220-A. For starters, her alibi’s a lot tighter than Tesema’s. At the time Ernst was getting his brains bashed in, she caught a speeding ticket way the hell up in Anthem, that planned-up-the-ass community off I-17, where she was headed to see her boyfriend. The DPS officer who wrote her up said she didn’t have a speck of blood anywhere on her, and considering the way she was dressed, he could see pretty much everything. Oh, and we found a neighbor—not your adorable Mrs. Hillman—who heard Ernst yelling at her when she ran back out to her car and took off like a bat out of hell. So he was still alive when she left.”
    â€œWho is this neighbor?”
    â€œGuy on the other side of Ernst’s house. A deacon in the Scottsdale Baptist Chuch.”
    I bared my teeth at him. “And deacons never lie.”
    â€œDon’t start. But your friend Tesema? He’s a whole different story. First, our same witness saw that old blue car of his pull into Ernst’s driveway not long after Ms. Bollinger left. And regardless of what Tesema may have told you, he spent a good deal of time in the house, too. Secondly, we matched Tesema’s shoes to some bloody footprints in Ernst’s bedroom. That and the kitchen both looked like they had been ransacked. And guess whose bloody fingerprints we found on all the drawers?”
    He didn’t give me time to answer. “Your precious Mr. Tesema’s, that’s whose. Thirdly, MaryEllen Bollinger, the ‘silicon sister’ you’re so snippy about, wasn’t the only person known to have had a screaming fight with Ernst. Our witness told the detectives that Tesema and Ernst went at it a couple of days ago, too, with Ernst yelling ‘You