Swift Horses Racing

by Victoria Kazarian

  You’d think days of rain would be a good thing. Droughts always seemed to threatened California, no matter how much rain fell in any given year. But these rains could be more than the dry valley could handle.

  “Anything new with the Schuler case?” Grasso asked as they crossed in the crosswalk and made their way into Monte Verde’s small downtown. The outdoor seating at the cafes they passed was empty, the heaters turned off and covered.

  “Reyna and I went to Schuler’s memorial service.” Ruiz began. “And the next morning I pissed off Karl Schuler’s son at breakfast.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him his uncle was a Nazi scientist, which is true. And that the family came over from Germany under a CIA program that scrubbed his Nazi past.”

  “Well now. That’s a pretty big family secret.” Grasso raised her eyebrows. “Maybe he knows at some level. He just can’t admit it.”

  Ruiz heard his stomach grumbling. “It’s not that I want to expose someone as a Nazi for the hell of it. I’m looking for reasons why someone would kill Karl Schuler. If you say Karl Schuler or his uncle had anything to do with Nazis, both of Schuler’s kids will deny it.”

  Ruiz had met with mothers of kids he’d arrested for rape or assault, amid stacks of evidence. It wasn’t him. My son’s a good kid. In the compartmentalized brain of an eighteen-year-old, he saw himself as someone who helped out mom, took care of his siblings. But he had this one annoying habit of assaulting people.

  “I met up with him the morning after Karl Schuler’s memorial.” Ruiz zipped up his jacket as the cold wind hit him and he got smacked in the face by a few fat drops of rain. “Karl Schuler would have been awarded the Nobel Prize after that service.”

  They stepped up onto the curb and Garcia’s loomed into view, with its faded sign and windows so covered with hand-drawn prices and images of tacos and Mexican dishes that you couldn’t see out of them sitting inside. The place used to be a breakfast diner until fifteen years ago, when the owner passed on and his wife sold the place,. In the upscale suburb of Monte Verde, Garcia’s tackiness was allowed because it was the best Mexican food within a ten-mile radius. Ruiz had seen the mayor, the police chief and local tech bigwigs eating here. If you wanted good food, you avoided the dimly lit foodie cafes and trendy spots and came to the Naugahyde booths of Garcia’s.

  They did what he and Grasso usually did—Ruiz stood in line and put in the order, while Grasso nabbed a booth. Grasso swore they got more beans and rice when Ruiz ordered in Spanish. Ruiz brought two plastic tumblers of iced tea back after ordering.

  “Hey, how’s Jacky doing?”

  “He won’t get off the damn computer. He’s obsessed with video games.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Grasso grinned. “What’s the problem?”

  “Reyna’s worried that he won’t do his homework. She’s always worried that he’s going to go off the rails.”

  “Video games aren’t going to do that. You guys are good about limiting his screen time. Remember, he’s eight years old—“

  Ruiz shrugged. “She worries. Jacky’s got good friends. She wants to keep him with the right kids.”

  “Video games aren’t a gateway to crime.” Grasso took a sip of iced tea and looked at Ruiz from over the glass. “You and Reyna doing good?”

  The words seemed to come at him from nowhere. Ruiz felt himself recoiling in his seat.

  “Any reason you’re asking?” Though he’d tried to modulate it, his voice came out sounding nastier than he wanted.

  Grasso raised her hands. “Whoa, dude. Just asking. I haven’t seen her in a while, that’s all.”

  “She’s fine.” Ruiz waved his hand. “Busy with work. She’s the head of the PTA landscaping committee at Jacky’s school.”

  Grasso was watching him, with what looked like pity in her eyes, though it was probably his imagination. Then he remembered the look Reyna had given Flores at the memorial service.

  “I don’t know how you guys do it. Keeping up the house, raising a kid, both of you guys working. The valley’s a tough place.”

  Ruiz laughed from deep in his gut and felt better as he released a huge load of tension. “Great coming from you. You wouldn’t know, would you?”

  Grasso was a good sport. She laughed good-naturedly, her young, smooth face crinkling up, as she played along. “My Mercedes has been giving me nothing but problems lately. And my butler quit to take a job working for Elon Musk. My life is hard right now. Like you care.”

  Ruiz laughed appreciatively and gave Grasso a fist bump.

  He heard his number called and went to pick up the food. He set the container with the carne asada burrito down in front of Grasso.

  “Drown your sorrows, my friend.”

  Reyna opened the fridge in the back room of the dental office, took out her lunch and sat down at the round wooden table. The office had originally been a house, built in the 1950s and remodeled. This room had been a small bedroom in the house. It was now decorated sparely, with a couch, a table and chairs and a small cabinet stacked with popular magazines that had made their way from the waiting room back to the office lounge. People, Us, Architectural Digest—and Golf Digest, which Reyna had never seen anyone, employee or patient read.

  The room had a view of the parking lot, a strip of four spaces at the back of the building that were tricky to maneuver into. Part of the entertainment value for staff eating lunch in the room was watching patients drive down the narrow driveway to the back then try to fit their cars into a spot. It felt mean to laugh at their predicaments, but sometimes it was funny. A stress release.

  Luckily it worked out today that her break followed Tiffany’s, so Reyna didn’t have to worry about running into her. She didn’t want to be confronted again.

  As she ate her bowl of chicken salad, she leafed through the office’s copy of Architectural Digest. The featured home today was a celebrity’s in Hawaii, a large open home with an outdoor dining area near a pool. Palm trees and orange and yellow tropical flowers surrounded the dining area and a path of smooth stones led down to the pool. Reyna imagined laying out by the pool, then going over to the cool shaded dining area, where her meal would be brought to her. Far away from teeth cleaning, budget meals and cars that didn’t start.

  She thought about the plan again. She would make it happen. She wasn’t sure when. She would have that life. She was still young. Things weren’t quite in place yet. Keeping her focus on the plan kept her from being too distracted by Mario Flores. She thought of him often, remembered the touch of his hand, his strong arms and tight, fit body. She imagined what would happen if they did get together. But he was a cop, just like Jimmy. A smart cop, with an education, rich parents and more potential. Still, a cop.

  That night of the shooting, she’d been in shock when she’d first met him, so his looks had been the last thing on her mind. The shooting still lived in her thoughts—surreal, horrific. It had all happened so quickly.

  She finished the chicken salad and took her clementine out of the bag and used the edge of a fingernail to make a cut, then peeled the spiral off. She looked up to see if anything was going on in the parking lot. An SUV had made its way down the narrow driveway, just as a grey Hyundai had backed out, only a few feet from the window. The SUV revved its engine. It was a standoff. The Hyundai was trapped. The SUV revved insistently.

  As she watched, she broke out in a sweat. It felt like it was all going to happen again. She felt the cold as she huddled in the truck with Jimmy, hearing the SUV rev then roar up behind them and swerve around them. She felt petrified. The peeled clementine sections fell from her hand.

  She saw it, the SUV swerving around them. The SUV pulled into the lane next to them, cutting so close to them she screamed. Jimmy was looking straight ahead—she saw his profile. He couldn’t have seen what she saw. She glanced quickly at the SUV as it passed. She saw a gun—and behind it a face. She had convinced herself that this was a young shooter. But now a face pulled i
nto clear focus in her mind. It wasn’t young. It was an old face, with gray hair. Maybe white.

  Reyna’s hands were shaking now. She slumped back in the chair and swallowed hard, wondering if this was the right thing to do.

  She picked up her phone, weighing it in her hand for a minute. The she decided. She had to call him.

  38

  Karl Schuler’s Journal

  When I used to walk Agnieszka to the bus after work in Peenemunde, I saw the work camp at a distance

  Some of the men from the work camp—Poles and Ukrainians—did maintenance and cleaning at the facility. I had felt good that the Reich was providing work for these men. When I commented on that to Agnieszka, she stared at me.

  “How can someone so smart not know this? These men are slaves. They live in hell.”

  One night a few weeks after we had moved down to Nordhausen, I walked into the study, where Hermann sat puffing on his pipe, reading a technical journal.

  “What is on your mind, Karl?” Herman laid aside his reading. “You seem thoughtful tonight.”

  I was afraid to ask it. As I realized later, we were being taught not to ask questions.

  “I was curious about something. The camps. I remember seeing the camp next to Peenemunde. There were facility workers living there.”

  Hermann pulled the pipe away from his lips and frowned.

  “What about it? Most of them were criminals. People who had caused trouble. We were kind to employ them. They showed their lack of gratitude by giving the RAF information for the bombing. You saw the results of that.” He raised his eyebrows as if the truth of his words were obvious.

  “But what did the men do that caused them to be put in the camps?”

  Hermann sat back in his chair. “They are the worst elements in our society. Poles, Jews, Ukrainians. They are not like us, Karl. If part of your body is diseased, you take medicine to root it out, so you can be well. These people are an infection that we must keep out of The Reich if we are to achieve the greatness we are destined for. We must isolate them. And in some cases, well—remove them. They will be hindrances to us if we allow them in our midst.”

  “I had friends in my town who were Jews. I had a friend at Peenemunde who was a Pole.” I was surprised at the strength in my voice. “You can’t tell me they were bad people.”

  Hermann let out a long sigh and gave me an amused smile.

  “Agnieszka Kaminski. Of course.”

  I’d been foolish to think that our friendship had gone unnoticed. I’d known instinctively it was something we needed to hide. When I walked her to the bus at the end of the day, we were in a crowd of workers, so I never worried. But there were the other times when we slipped away to the woods or down to the sands. Had we been seen?

  “After the war, Karl, there will be a world of women waiting for you.”

  “I don’t want them.” My face burned in anger. “You know her name. Tell me where she is.”

  “The Polish workers could not be trusted. You know how important our work is.” He was watching me to see how I was taking this. And I was watching him. He knew more than he was saying.

  “Was she sent to a camp?” My throat hurt, clogged with all the words I wanted to say. Hermann had known. He knew where she’d been sent.

  Hermann’s face had set in place, stony and immovable.

  “You must accept what has happened, Karl.”

  “I can’t.” I said it matter-of-factly.

  Hermann knew what had happened to Agnieszka. Maybe he had arranged it. In any case, I would never trust my uncle again.

  Shaking, I stood up and walked upstairs to my room, where I lay awake for the rest of the night, imagining where Agnieszka could be. I pictured her walking along a country road. Looking out of the back of a truck. Riding on a train.

  On her way to a country where she could be safe.

  Reyna Ruiz was still at work, at the dentist’s office near Rose Garden, a quaint part of San Jose filled with stucco-covered California bungalows. A neat wooden sign outside with gold script said, Dr. Robert Hansford, DDS.

  Flores drove down the narrow side alley, carefully maneuvering the car into a narrow spot in the back parking lot. It was 5 p.m., and he wondered why Reyna Ruiz was still there, and why she’d wanted to talk to him at work. He’d taken off right after their text exchange.

  Had he responded quickly because she always seemed to be lingering in his head, and he’d been all too ready to rush to her? This was business. A possible break in a hard-to-close case. He was getting dangerously close to Buckley’s deadline. He had to follow this up.

  As he approached the door, a tall blonde woman walked out, a large handbag over her shoulder. Her eyes blinked suddenly when she saw him, as if she recognized him. For all he knew, she was one of the ladies from Reyna’s girls’ night out a few days ago. He couldn’t remember much from that night.

  He smiled as he passed her.

  The waiting area was furnished with sleek, white leather couches and a glass coffee table with neatly arranged stacks of magazines. He went up to the receptionist at the counter, an older Latina with glasses, her tiny frame drowning in blue scrubs.

  “Detective Flores, here to meet with Reyna Ruiz.”

  The woman gave him one of those professionally polite smiles that receptionists must be given extensive training in.

  “Let me take you back to the break room, Detective.”

  He followed her down the narrow hallway, which thirty years ago had probably led to bedrooms. And there sitting at a table that looked as if it had sat in someone’s kitchen was Reyna Ruiz.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ruiz.” He kept his voice controlled and businesslike. “May I take a seat?”

  One look at her face, and his heart pounded wildly and sweat broke out on his upper lip. Despite the commotion inside him, he calmly pulled up a chair and took a seat across the table from her. He set out his recorder between them.

  The last time he’d seen her, at Schuler’s memorial service, she looked dressed for a night on the town. Today she looked washed out in her pale pink scrubs. In some way, she looked more appealing today, no makeup, her hair loose and unstyled. She had a vulnerability that he wouldn’t have thought was part of her personality. At the bar and at the service, she’d had a confident, playful, even aggressive vibe.

  The change was intriguing. He needed to know why she was different today.

  His conscience spoke to him in his sister’s voice.

  That’s not why you’re here.

  He clicked to start the recording.

  “Mrs. Ruiz, tell me why you called.”

  “It happened when I was eating my lunch in this room,” she began. She nodded to the window toward the small lot behind the office, where he’d parked. “I saw something that made me think of that night on the expressway. An SUV was trying to fight a small car for a spot. The little car wouldn’t move, and the SUV wouldn’t back out. So the SUV sat there and revved its engine.”

  She bit her lip and looked back out the window. The incident could have triggered a memory of that night. These things did happen. But he couldn’t help being skeptical.

  “That night everything happened so quickly. But when I heard the SUV revving, I remembered something. When the black SUV sped up on New Year’s— I saw somebody in the passenger side of the car.”

  Her hands were shaking. She picked up her water bottle and took a drink.

  Flores tried to calculate the odds of this being an accurate memory. It had been late. 1:30 a.m. She’d been tired. She’d been drinking. Eyewitness accounts were notoriously faulty. If Ruiz was questioned, could he back this up? Then again, he’d been on the driver’s side, probably looking ahead at the road.

  He leaned across the table toward Reyna. He kept his tone impersonal, on the verge of harsh. If this was the truth, he wanted to hear all of it. No coy looks, nothing else mixed in.

  “Describe to me what came back to you today. Can you picture the person you saw? Can y
ou describe him or her?”

  Reyna brushed her manicured fingers through her hair and scrunched up her eyes.

  “It was a man. He had a gun. Like a rifle.”

  “Give me details. What about the man’s age? Hair? Facial features?”

  “I could tell he was an older man. He had grey hair. The light from the streetlight was shining in on him. A kind of yellow light, but I could still tell his hair was grey.”

  “Mrs. Ruiz, again—how many drinks did you have at the party that night?”

  She turned red as if embarrassed, which also seemed unlike the Reyna Ruiz he’d met at the bar. “One drink.”

  “Your husband didn’t talk about what he’d seen with you at any time since then?”

  He noticed her lips twitched when he said husband.

  “No, he did not.”

  “Do you remember any other details of that night?”

  She shook her head. “That’s all.”

  As he jotted notes on his tablet, the thought entered his head. Maybe she’d conveniently conjured up this memory in order to see him. The times he’d seen her, she’d telegraphed her attraction to him.

  Dawn’s voice again. It’s all about you, isn’t it, Ro?

  “Mrs. Ruiz, there is a penalty for making a false statement regarding a criminal investigation. Are you sure you saw what you’ve told me?”

  She tightened her lips into a pout and looked offended. “I am sure. I thought it was important that you know.”

  “Thank you for calling it in.” He said it quickly, feeling now he’d accused her unfairly. Jesus, why did he care how she felt? If it was true, this moved the case in a new direction.

  He tried a smile, that one he’d used to smooth things over, the one that always worked. Sure enough, she visibly relaxed,

  “I want whoever did this to that old man to be caught.”

  He nodded. “We all do.”

  Flores would call Ruiz and follow up, asking if he’d remembered anything else from that night. Great if Ruiz could corroborate what his wife had noticed. Ruiz had the eyes of a cop. If he hadn’t mentioned it yet, he probably didn’t see it. Different people saw different angles of an incident.