Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "That's crazy."

  Finny frowned. "I didn't say she was sane, Chris. I'm just saying that she's not a killer. Maybe Bianca Lopez is."

  * * *

  One murderer in the hand was worth two in theory, or so Barelli seemed to think. He and Finny had continued their discussion long enough to make for an impressive headache, at least on her part. After his phone call to headquarters they'd found bad coffee and limp sandwiches at a mom-and-pop diner on south Broadway. Finny picked over the meal, her appetite absent despite having missed lunch.

  Her protestations about Twee's motives hadn't moved Barelli. "If you start out trying to find a motive, you're working from the wrong end of the thing. You need opportunity and means. If you're lucky, the motive will fall into line behind the two."

  "But she wasn't anywhere near Zuni and Thirty-eighth last night."

  Barelli looked at her impatiently. "How do you know that?"

  "You just told me you'd checked with her driver as a 'part of the routine investigation,' and that he hadn't taken her there," Finny snapped. "How the hell—"

  "Presumably the lady can drive, she could've called a cab—there are ways, you know." Barelli made a tent of his hands and leaned toward her, sitting across the table from him. "Look, Finny. I can't afford to let my liking for Twee—or my relationship with you, for that matter—affect my thinking about this. Twee was out of jail, Twee's still claiming to have killed Sarandon, Twee tried to kill herself last night—and that, by the way, would probably convict her in just about any jury's eyes. What better reason can you have to kill yourself than remorse for killing someone else?"

  "How about trying to clear a friend of murder? Seems like a hell of a reason to me." Finny rubbed at her temples with her fingers. "Dammit, Chris, you said yourself that you thought whoever killed Gutierrez wanted negatives and pictures that were at his studio. That's got to eliminate Twee. Why the hell would she worry about incriminating photographs—she's already confessed to killing Sarandon. Who knows what's going on with this Bianca Lopez? Especially now that the connection with Elena Parmetter's come up?"

  "Speaking of which," Barelli slid out of the booth and dug in his pocket for change. "Eddie ought to be back by now. Maybe he's found out something about Parmetter and Lopez."

  Finny was digging through her handbag for aspirin when he came back to the table. "Did he get anything?" Her voice trailed off as she got a good look at his face. "What is it?"

  Barelli folded his long legs under the table and met her concerned gaze squarely. "You aren't going to like it, babe. Mike Guiterrez was Elena Parmetter's cousin. He and Bianca Lopez have been living together for the last six months or so. Elena went over to tell Bianca after Guiterrez's parents were notified about his death. Bianca never came home."

  "Maybe she didn't need to be told."

  Chris frowned. "It won't wash, Finny. According to Elena, Bianca Lopez is pregnant with Guiterrez's baby."

  Finny's eyes widened. "So where the hell is she?"

  "I wish to God I knew. Eddie said Elena's frantic, trying to figure out where she'd hide."

  "Dammit," Finny exploded, "Why—"

  "She's an illegal alien," Barelli said. "She's scared to death that if the authorities get hold of her, she'll be deported."

  TRIP WIRE

  She had to go back for the money. It wasn't much but it was all she had.

  The shadows from the old elms across the street were lengthening in the dusk, lapping over the sagging fence when she went through the gate. She looked behind her, then to each side before she pushed the key into the lock. The knob twisted under her hand and she shoved against the warped door to force it open. She slid through the opening, her eyes searching the room, looking for changes, for evidence of someone's presence.

  Bianca saw the paper pinned on the sofa back almost immediately. Her heart gave a jump and she stopped, holding her breath, striving to hear any careless sounds from the other rooms.

  The silence was a threatening thing, almost worse than the unknown that waited. She ran trembling hands down her thighs, pressing the limp skirt against them. Miguel, she thought, Miguel.

  She took a step toward the sofa and the crackle of paper under her foot filled the quiet room. Bending down, she picked up the day's mail where it had fallen from the slot in the door.

  Without interest she glanced through the envelopes, the photography magazine. What difference did these make to her? His letter was on the bottom, the neat, slanted writing spelling out her name in black ink.

  The sound of the ripping envelope was loud in the room. She unfolded the paper and two dark strips fell to the floor, misshapen leaves that shone in the anemic light from the hall. They were photographic negatives, four frames on each strip.

  Just in case things go wrong, these are your insurance. I love you. Miguel. The words hurried across the unlined page. She dropped the paper and cried.

  When she could, she leaned over, picking up the strips. She carried them to the gooseneck lamp and turned it on. When she held up the negatives, she could see a person coming toward the camera. Behind the figure, on the ground, lay a man. She stared through tear-washed eyes until the realization chilled her like a cold, slow draft: this must be the person who'd killed Judge Sarandon. The face was unrecognizable, its identifying features neutralized by the negative into bits of color, a code of light which she couldn't break. When had Miguel sent them?

  The image of the words he'd written on the floor in his own blood flashed into her mind.

  She started for the kitchen. The paper on the sofa fluttered with her movement and she stopped short, staring at it as though it held danger. She again read her own name, this time in large, dramatic letters. Pulling the paper from the pin, she read the rest. Call me as soon as you get home. Miguel was killed last night. Please let me help you. Elena. Her phone number was scrawled under her name.

  Tears filled Bianca's eyes. Yes, she would want to help her, but how could she? The policia had contacted her—how else could she know about Miguel? And they were probably watching her, because of the case in court—didn't they always watch the people who had come to their attention, she thought bitterly. If she went to Elena for help, they would take her, and if they didn't accuse her of killing Miguel, they would send her back to Mexico. She pressed her hand against her belly. Her baby would be raised in America.

  She walked quickly to the kitchen, pulling open the cabinet door over the stove, rooting through the cans and bags for the sack of flour. A cockroach skittered under the shadow of her hand, a running watermelon seed seeking the dark. She dug into the flour, pulling out the small package wrapped in plastic, dusting it off against her skirt.

  Her trembling fingers unfolded the paper and bills fell onto the counter. Fifty-four dollars. That was all.

  She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and looked again at the negatives. My insurance, she thought. He'd wanted equality, he'd gotten death. What had he thought she could do with them, these pictures of a murderer? Send them to the policia? They wouldn't help her. Elena could do nothing—look what had happened to her. Mrs. Garrett had deep trouble herself.

  The woman who had come to Mrs. Garrett's house: she wanted to help Mrs. Garrett. She had told her to call if she had any other information.

  Bianca half ran to the tiny bathroom. She had thrown the woman's card into the wastebasket.

  She dug out the card and let the wastebasket drop to the floor, FINNY ALETTER. 888-4746. No address. She ran back to the kitchen and grabbed for the phone book, leafing rapidly through the As. Here it was—

  The rattle of the doorknob made her heart stop, then race into a tumbling rhythm. She snatched up the negatives and Finny's card, then forced the money into her pocket. A thud against the door sent her running out the back, holding the screen door to avoid its gunshot snap against the frame. She slipped down the alley.

  Behind her in the kitchen the phone book sprawled open on the counter, its pages barely rippling at th
e opening of the unlocked front door.

  Chapter 17

  The traffic signal flashed green and Finny downshifted into first. She turned onto Eleventh, crossed Cherry Creek, flowing silent and shining beneath her, drove past the empty Rocky Mountain Bank Note building. Traffic was light; most intelligent people were home having dinner, thinking over their plans for the night. She had a more exciting life than that. She got to drive home wondering about a poor Mexican kid who was on the lam because her lover had been killed and she was afraid to go to the cops.

  "Why do you suppose she didn't apply for amnesty?" Finny had asked Barelli before he left for police headquarters.

  "If you'd been afraid of being kicked out of the country for the last six years, how willing would you be to go to the authorities, no matter how safe they told you it was?"

  Finny saw his point. It'd be like hearing a school principal yell, "Olly-olly ox in free." Not bloody likely. Especially after she'd seen the system at work in Elena's case.

  She turned into the alley beside her house, heard the splash of the tires in the water streaming by in the gutter, saw the sprinklers at work next door. She'd better set out some of her own this evening.

  The sun was just a memory now, and the evening cool was unfurling across the lawns and flower beds like fresh sheets spread on a mattress.

  She was tired. The images that highlit this day should be put in a box and mailed on a slow boat to Bulgaria. If she hadn't gotten some new gray hairs from morning to dusk, then somewhere in the attic there had to be a portrait of her that looked like shit.

  The automatic garage door opener worked its electronic magic, and she drove into the garage. She caught a glimpse of light from the kitchen window. Hmph. Chris must've beaten her home.

  She levered herself out of the truck and went out the side door, shutting it firmly behind her. As she reached the middle of the yard, the kitchen light blinked off, leaving her in heavy shadow. Finny stopped, irritated. She hadn't turned on the yard light from the garage because she hadn't needed it with the kitchen light on. Damn the man. Sometimes he made the average absentminded professor look like a mental steel trap.

  She made her way to the back door, grabbed the knob, and tried to open it. It was locked. Dammit, where was her house key? She shoved one hand into her jeans pocket. There.

  The lock twisted and the door swung open to darkness. And suddenly something felt wrong. "Chris?"

  She reached for the light switch just inside the door and her hand brushed against someone. Before the scream could leave her throat, she was hit hard in the gut. The air whooshed out of her and she doubled up, falling toward the floor. A large shape charged for the door, a heavy weight coming down hard on one of her feet as she fell. Through the ringing in her ears she heard the slam of the door, and then she did some serious concentrating on breathing.

  A century or two later, Finny figured she was probably going to live. She'd be breathing shallowly for the next year or so, but she'd live. She struggled to a hands-and-knees position and made an attempt at standing up. The staying power in her legs would have made al dente spaghetti look like steel girders. If at first you don't succeed...

  She ended up crawling across the floor to the wall with the light switch. She might have to spend the rest of her life hunched on the floor, but, by God, she wouldn't do it in the dark. Of course, that meant she had to get to her feet in order to turn on the light. Evolution must have felt like this.

  Finny had just prepared herself for the ascent with a couple of careful breaths when the kitchen light went on, a bar of it shining through the door glass to the back porch.

  "Finny?" Barelli's voice was urgent.

  "Here," she croaked.

  He pushed through the door. "Jesus." He surged across the porch to her and knelt at her side. "Are you all right?"

  Before she could nod, he'd run his hands over her arms and legs and was peering into her eyes. "Can you move your hands, your feet?"

  She complied and he pulled her up gently, swinging her up into his arms. "What the hell is going on here?" he growled. He strode into the kitchen and carried her on through the dining room to the sofa in the living room, where he set her down carefully. "Tell me what happened. Does it hurt anywhere?"

  "Throw up," Finny managed and Barelli lunged for the wastebasket next to the couch. He braced her while she lost the remnants of their early dinner. "Sorry," Finny gasped after a short, nasty interlude.

  "It's okay." Barelli grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table and handed them to her. "You done?"

  She nodded.

  "I'll be right back." He eased her back into the sofa and carried out the wastebasket. When he came back he had a wet washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Here, babe." He dabbed at her face with the washcloth and the coolness brought her back to life. "Take a sip of this." He held the water to her lips.

  It helped.

  "Can you talk now?"

  "Yeah." When had she started sounding like Walter Brennan? She cleared her throat, wincing at the pain in her stomach muscles.

  "What happened?"

  She told him about the lights, the door being locked.

  By the time she got to the monster who'd run over her, he was furious. "Didn't it occur to you that something weird was going on?"

  "The whole damned day's been weird," Finny said. "I figured you'd gone out of the kitchen and turned off the light automatically. You do stuff like that all the time."

  "Was it a man or a woman?"

  "I don't know. He or she looked huge, but I was on the floor."

  "Shit." Barelli glared at her. "You should never have come into the house after the lights went out. You have to use your instincts or you're dead meat."

  "My instincts got bludgeoned today. Quit yelling at me."

  He drew her against him carefully. "You scared me, dammit," he said above her ear. "When I saw the kitchen I thought you might have been attacked."

  "What's wrong with the kitchen?" Finny nuzzled against the cool cotton of his shirt. Tears collected in her eyes.

  "Looks like somebody was cooking up a storm—using the kitchen as the bowl."

  Finny pulled back. "What?"

  "Come see."

  She let him pull her up and limped through the dining room, pushing on the swinging door to the kitchen. Inside was a disaster. The flour and sugar canisters had been upended over the table and every cabinet door was open, giving a full view of dishes pushed hither and yon, of packages emptied, of piles of pasta, spices, everything. Papers, envelopes, and receipts were scattered like oversized confetti, and both volumes of the phone book sprawled debauchedly beside an empty baking powder tin. Several of the plants that screened the greenhouse windows overlooking the backyard lay amidst their pots, limp at the indignity. A small mound of coffee rested on the floor in front of the refrigerator, the emptied bag at its summit.

  "Julia Child meets The Exorcist," Finny said in a thin voice. "I think I'll throw up again."

  Barelli's gaze met hers. "Me first."

  He went to the car for his kit, then dusted the doorknobs and plates and the glass of the back-door windows for fingerprints, but nothing showed up. "Either our friend wore gloves or wiped everything on the way out."

  "Wonderful." Finny's gaze moved over the debris.

  "I'll file a report tomorrow for insurance, but I don't see any reason to drag anybody over tonight."

  Finny nodded. "There are advantages to having a cop around."

  "Especially when it comes to picking up the pieces, right?"

  Two hours later Finny's breathing still wasn't normal, but not because of the jab in the solar plexus. "I'd like to get my hands on whoever did this," she growled. "Strictly in the interest of rehabilitation, you understand."

  Barelli glanced at the thick bottle of olive oil she brandished like a truncheon. "Yeah, you'd rehabilitate 'em right into next week." He twisted the tie around another garbage bag. "I wish I kne
w what the hell this is all about."

  "Beats me." Finny grabbed the broom and swept the last of the comingled sugar and flour into the dustpan. She stood up wearily. "If whoever did this was looking for food, I'd sure as hell hate to see him eat it. He'd probably send Miss Manners into a coma."

  Barelli picked up a head of lettuce that had been ripped nearly in half, then tossed it into the sink. "Looks like somebody was looking for something. I just wish I knew what." He hoisted two trash bags and headed out the back door.

  Finny limped to one of the wicker chairs and sat down with a groan. "I think the son-of-a-bitch broke a couple of my toes," she said as he came back into the kitchen.

  "You want to get them looked at?"

  "What can they do for toes?"

  "Not a hell of a lot." He went into the dining room and brought back the brandy bottle. "Here. I probably should've given you some earlier."

  "I wouldn't have been able to keep it down, anyway."

  Barelli got a couple of glasses out of the dishwasher and plunked them onto the table. "Knock some of this back and then it's bed."

  "You know," Finny said. "This has been one of the crummiest days I've ever lived through."

  Barelli rested his hand on her hair for an instant. "At least you're alive."

  "Yeah." Finny forced the image of Michael Guiterrez's body out of her mind. She took another swallow of brandy. "Did you find out anything about Bianca Lopez?"

  "No. There's no sign of her."

  Finny blew out a breath. "Let's get some sleep. Tomorrow, as they say in the trade, is another day."

  "Ain't it the truth." He pushed back his chair and held out one hand to tug her up. "You want me to carry you?"

  "It's as big a thrill as you're going to get tonight."