Thin Air

by Robert B. Parker

  "He won't want to talk about it," I said. "Except as a case."

  "Maybe you should help him, when he's able."

  "Some people," I said, and stopped and took a significant bite of the second sandwich, "even some very intelligent people, even now and then some very intelligent shrinks, sometimes think that not talking about things is a handicap. For the people who aren't talking about things, however, it is a way to control feelings so you won't be tripping over them while you're trying to do something useful. Containment is not limitation. It is an alternative to being controlled by your feelings."

  Susan smiled.

  "How artful," she said. "You're talking about men and women, but you don't specify."

  "I don't think it's necessarily gender differentiated," I said. "Lot of women are critical of a lot of men on the issue, and a lot of men feel that women don't get it. But I hate to generalize. You, for instance, are very contained."

  "And there are moments when you are not."

  Pearl came loping back from the house toward my second sandwich. There was an accusatory look to her as she came, unless that was just projection on my part. I got another large bite in before she reached me.

  "Like when?" I said around the bite.

  "You know," Susan said. "I don't wish to speak of it in front of the baby."

  "She has to know sometime," I said.

  Pearl rested her chin on my knee and rolled her eyes up to look at me. I gave her the remainder of my sandwich.

  "I think she knows everything she needs to know, now," Susan said.

  Pearl bolted down the remainder of my lunch and wagged her tail.

  "You won't tell the guys, will you?" I said. "That the dog bullies me?"

  "No," Susan said. "Or that you let me see your emotions from time to time."

  "Whew!"

  "Have you located this man Deleon?"

  "No. I've talked to the cops and a priest. He's somewhere in Proctor. Monday, I'm going to talk to a guy named Freddie Santiago, who's sort of the mayor of Hispanic Proctor."

  "Isn't that most of Proctor?"

  "Yeah, nearly all."

  "But he isn't the real mayor."

  "He may be the real mayor. But the official mayor is a guy named Harrington."

  "Is Hawk helping on this?"

  "Hawk's in Burma," I said. "Right now, I need someone who speaks Spanish."

  "Burma? What can Hawk be doing in Burma?"

  "Better not to know," I said. "Gives us deniability."

  Chapter 15

  When he came into the coffee shop at the Park Plaza, Quirk looked like he always did, thick bodied, neat, clean shaven, fresh haircut, hands like a mason. Today he wore a blue suit and a blue-and-white striped shirt. He slid into a seat across from me and ordered some coffee. "Deleon is dirty," he said.

  "Not a surprise," I said. "How bad is it?"

  "Pretty bad," Quirk said. "He's been arrested twice on assault, once on possession with intent… once for rape. He walked on both assault charges when the witnesses failed to appear. He walked on the rape charge when the victim recanted. He got a suspended sentence and three for the possession with intent."

  "The wheels of justice grind exceeding slow," I said.

  "Don't they?" Quirk said. "He is suspected of, but never charged with, several murders associated with the drug trade, and probably some homicides related to some kind of sporadic turf war going on up there between him and Freddie Santiago. Freddie's got them outnumbered, I'm told, and owns most of the city. But Deleon and his outfit are so mean and violent and plain fucking crazy that Freddie has never had the nads to go into San Juan Hill and dig them out."

  I nodded. A waitress came over and poured coffee into Quirk's cup.

  "Would you like a menu?" she said.

  Quirk said, "No, you got a couple plain donuts?"

  The waitress said that she had and went to get them.

  "You got any history on him?" I said.

  "More than you want to read," Quirk said. "Department of Ed's got core evaluations. DYS got counseling reports. There's a file in the Department of Employment and Training, the Probation Commission, Department of Social Services, Public Welfare, probably the Mass. Historical Commission. If there was a state service this kid used it."

  "How old is he?"

  "Twenty-six. Born in Puerto Rico, came here as a baby. His mother was a hooker, father unknown. Mother was a crack head, committed suicide ten years ago. No record of him finishing school. He was in an outreach program at Merrimack State for a while. Which is probably where he met Lisa. Started in 1990. Lisa was there then."

  The waitress returned with the donuts. She refilled Quirk with real coffee and freshened up my decaf.

  "Got a picture?" I said.

  Quirk nodded and handed me a mug shot, full face and profile. The first thing I noticed was that women would think he was handsome and most men wouldn't. He had a thin face with big dark eyes, and a strong nose. His hair looked longish and he was probably twenty-one or -two in the mug shot. I read his stats on the back: 6'5", 200 pounds. We were in the same weight class, but he'd have reach on me.

  "DYS counseling report says he shows signs of incipient paranoid schizophrenia and is deemed capable of sudden violent rages."

  "Sounds like you," I said.

  "Yeah, I'd probably have incipient paranoid schizophrenia, if I knew what it meant. You interested in the prints we lifted on Lisa?"

  "Isn't that cute," I said. "Yes, Lieutenant, I am agog with interest."

  "Nice of you to notice that I'm cute," Quirk said. "Prints belong to somebody named Angela Richard." He gave it the French pronunciation. "She was busted in LA in 1982 and again in '85 for soliciting."

  "No mistakes?" I said.

  "No, they sent us her pictures. It's Lisa."

  "Jesus Christ," I said. "Belson know?"

  "Not yet."

  "You going to tell him?"

  "No, you?"

  "Not yet," I said.

  Quirk picked up his second donut, leaned back in his chair and looked past me out the big plate glass window at Park Square, where the yellow cabs were queuing up near the hotel entrance. The doormen were opening their doors with a flourish and pocketing the tips deftly.

  Quirk said to me, "You got some connections in LA, don't you?"

  "Cop named Samuelson," I said. "LAPD."

  Quirk nodded.

  "You decide you want to bust that tenement up in Proctor, gimme a shout."

  "Sure," I said.

  Quirk finished his donut and left. I watched him as he walked past the picture window, a big, solid, tough guy, whose word you could trust. He swaggered a little, the way cops do, as he walked toward St. James Avenue.

  Chapter 16

  Susan and I were aboard American flight number 11 when it took off without incident at nine a.m. We ate breakfast on the plane and speculated between ourselves as to what it was. Then Susan put on her earphones to watch the movie. And I settled in to read the rest of my current book, Streets of Laredo, and worry about crashing. I worried less while we were flying along. They didn't usually fall suddenly from the sky. "It's just a control issue," Susan said. "The drive to the airport is probably more dangerous."

  "You think it's too early to start drinking?" I said.

  "Well." Susan looked at her watch. "It's about seven a.m. in Los Angeles."

  "Right," I said. "The movie any good?"

  "Oh God, no," Susan said. "It's hideous."

  "So how come you're watching it?"

  "So I won't think about how high we are," she said.

  "You're scared too."

  "Of course I am," Susan said and smiled at me. "But I'm a girl."

  Over Flagstaff, Susan took her earphones off and said, "Why was it, exactly, that we are going to Los Angeles?"

  "To check into the Westwood Marquis and have sex," I said.

  Susan nodded. "Check in, unpack, and have sex," she said.

  "Of course."

 
"Didn't you say there was something to do with Frank's wife?"

  "Quirk ran down her fingerprints," I said. "LAPD arrested her for prostitution. Twice, 1982 and 1983. At that time her name was Angela Richard."

  "My God, does Frank know this?"

  "If he does, he's kept quiet about it," I said. "We haven't told him."

  We were just above the San Gabriel Mountains now, so close that it seemed you could step out onto one of the peaks.

  "And you want to see if you can get some information out here that will help you find her?"

  "Yeah."

  "How's that going to work?" Susan said.

  "I don't know. Maybe it won't. I got no master plan, I feel my way along."

  "Why should you be different?" Susan said.

  We slid past the San Gabriels, drifted down over the San Fernando Valley, landed without crashing, got our rental car, and drove in from the airport on 405.

  "Do we know how old Lisa is?" Susan said.

  "Gave her age as nineteen in 1982," I said. "If she was telling the truth, makes her thirty-one."

  "I could have done the math," Susan said, "in time."

  "Yeah, but we're only here a few days," I said.

  The Westwood Marquis is located just out of West wood Village, across from UCLA Medical Center. It has two pools, a health club, and a spectacular brunch, and a lot of gardens. Our room was painted blue. It had a small sitting room, a bath, and a bedroom with a big bed and a bank of mirrored closet doors. Susan looked at them and looked at the bed.

  "Are you going to peek?" she said.

  "You bet your boots," I said.

  "Pornographer," Susan said and began to unpack.

  To watch Susan unpack was to witness a process as elaborate and careful as a spider weaving a web. While she carefully unfolded and shook out and hung each item behind the mirrored doors, I took a shower and put on one of the terrycloth robes the hotel provided. It fit me like a hot dog casing on a knockwurst. Susan finished her unpacking, ran a bath, and went into the bathroom "to fluff up." I closed all the mirrored doors she had left open, and checked the angle of reflection. After a while Susan emerged with a white terrycloth robe clutched voluminously around her.

  "First we'll have to agree that there'll be no peeking in the mirror," she said.

  "Of course not," I said.

  My voice was rich with sincerity.

  "Can you get your arms out of those bathrobe sleeves?" she said to me.

  "Probably," I said.

  "Well, why don't you?"

  Later in the afternoon we lay quietly in the bed together, with Susan's head on my shoulder.

  "What's the plan?" she said.

  "I know a cop out here named Samuelson," I said. "Met him when I was out here with Candy Sloan a long time ago."

  "I remember."

  "I called him a couple of days ago. He said he'd dig up Angela Richard's file and I promised him lunch at Lucy's."

  "And then?"

  "And then we'll see," I said.

  We were quiet for a time, listening to the faint hum of the air conditioner, watching the sunlight on the blue walls. Susan turned her head on my shoulder and looked straight at me from maybe six inches away. Amusement moved in her big eyes, and something else, a hint of depravity, or joy, or excitement, or all three, that I'd never quite been able to figure out.

  "Did you peek?" Susan said.

  "Absolutely not," I said.

  "Are you lying?" she said.

  "Absolutely am," I said.

  They walked out into the corridor. The guard was there. Not the same one she'd seen earlier; they probably changed shifts frequently. The floor of the hallway was linoleum which had been painted with maroon deck paint so that it had once had a shiny gloss. But the linoleum had buckled and there were cracks spidering across the enameled surface, and the sheen was nearly gone. She felt almost dizzy at coming out of the room into the daylight. It was like the way she felt coming out of an early afternoon movie. She had not seen daylight since he'd brought her here. Before them a small-boned, black-haired young man with two long braids and a blue bandanna tied into a headband like Willie Nelson was backing down the corridor ahead of them, the video camera leveled, the tape whirring faintly. The corridor walls were half paneled with narrow grooved red oak boards that had been varnished once, and were now almost black with age and dirt. The walls above were white-painted plaster grown gray by the same process that had aged the oak wainscotting. "Downstairs, Lisa mia, your people are waiting to greet you."

  My people, I don't have any goddamned people. Frank is my people. She kept her face composed. At least she didn't look as ridiculous in her safari outfit as she might have had he chosen to parade her about in her Moll Flanders outfit. They went down narrow stairs covered with frayed rubber mats on each step so you shouldn't slip. At the bottom was the kitchen, with a huge old yellow Glenwood gas range that stood on bowed black legs. The sink was soapstone, and two shabby-looking refrigerators stood side by side against the left-hand wall. One of them had the condenser equipment on top of it. A big table occupied the middle of the room. It was the kind that hotels use to set up banquet rooms. It had a splintery plywood top, and folding metal legs. There were some flowers in a coffee can in the middle of the table, and five or six assorted straight chairs set around the table. Five small children, three girls and two boys, were playing in diapers and little else, on the floor under the table. The slim woman in the pink sweatshirt who had brought Lisa's food was there, and a fat woman in a tight lavender sweatsuit. They were sitting at the table, minding the children, eating occasionally from a large open bag of Vincent potato chips that lay on its side on the table.

  Luis said something to them in Spanish. They stared at her and nodded.

  "Lisa," Luis said, "this is my cousin Evangelista, and my friend Chita."

  "Do you know that he has kidnapped me?" Lisa said.

  The two women looked at her without expression. "That is a bad word to use here, Lisa," Luis said. "I have simply reclaimed what is mine. And, of course, they do not speak English."

  Beyond the women at the table a door led into the backyard. Through it she could see small children, somewhat older than the babies in the kitchen, playing in the courtyard formed by the enclosing tenements. He walked with her to the door. She went volitionlessly, and stood silently beside him on the back step. There was a bent and rusty metal swing set on one side o f the yard, and a pile of sand on the other. The grass had been worn away and the earth was bare and muddy from the rain. Each of the tenements had a back porch

  on each floor and en masse they rose like balconies in a decrepit theater. On the first-floor back porch directly opposite her, seated among the pieces of wash hanging damp on the sagging clothesline, two young adolescent girls watched the children.

  "We use the courtyard for the children," he said. "They are safe here."

  Lucky them, Lisa thought.

  Chapter 17

  Lucy's El Adobe is a very ordinary-looking restaurant in Hollywood, right across from the Paramount Gate. When we got there Samuelson was already in a booth drinking coffee and looking at nothing and seeing everything. He was a rangy guy with a square face and very little hair. He wore tinted glasses and his moustache was trimmed shorter since I'd seen him last. He nodded when he saw me come in and stood when he saw Susan. I introduced them. "You're the one he went home to," Samuelson said.

  "I believe I am," Susan said.

  "Can't say I blame him," Samuelson said.

  Susan ordered a frozen margarita, with salt. I glanced at her and she smiled serenely. Samuelson had more coffee and I ordered decaf. Samuelson looked disgusted.

  The waitress brought the drinks, took our food orders, and went away.

  "You ever hear from Jill Joyce?" Samuelson said.

  "No. Vincent del Rio still around?"

  "Like death and taxes," Samuelson said. "I never figured how you didn't irritate him."

  "Same way I didn't irrit
ate you," I said.

  "You did irritate me," Samuelson said. "But the consequences aren't so serious."

  The waitress brought the food. Samuelson had a taco salad, I had chicken fajitas. Susan had the combination special: chile rellenos, enchiladas, a beef burrito, refried beans, cheese, sour cream, guacamole. I stared at her.

  Susan looked at her plate and said, "Yum."

  "You going to be able to handle all that, little lady?" I said.

  "I think so," Susan said. She grinned at me. "But thanks for asking, Peekaboo Boy."

  "Why you asking about del Rio?" Samuelson said.

  "I need a favor from him."

  Samuelson said, "Good luck," and handed me a manila envelope from the seat beside him.

  "Angela Richard," he said. "Hollywood Vice busted her twice, 1982, 1983. Sheriff's department got her once in '85. When the Sheriff's department got her they sent her out to detox in Pomona."

  "Pomona?" I said.

  Samuelson nodded.

  "Busted her pimp, too," he said.

  "That's unusual," I said. "LAPD or the Sheriff's guys?"

  "Sheriff," Samuelson said. "I guess he hassled them while they were collaring her, so they hauled him in too."

  "What's his name?"

  "Elwood Pontevecchio," Samuelson said. "How many wops you know with a name like Elwood?"

  "Anybody named Vaughn involved?"

  "Nothing in the record," Samuelson said.

  "Elwood do time?" I said.

  Samuelson smiled at me.

  "Sure he did," Samuelson said. "And it don't rain in Indianapolis in the summer time."

  "Just asking," I said.

  "Un huh," Samuelson said. "It's just make-work, you know it and I know it, and anybody ever worked Vice knows it. Sweep 'em up, process 'em, let 'em out. Pleases the righteous, and keeps a bunch of Vice Squad guys from getting into trouble someplace else. Why you interested in the hooker?"

  "She's missing," I said. "Somewhere along the line she stopped being a hooker, changed her name, came east, and married a cop I know."