Velvet Ropes

by Patricia Rosemoor

  When Mrs. Santos dropped her face in her hands and began sobbing, Stella knew she’d been right. She glanced back at Dermot and mouthed the words Manny’s brother.

  Dermot walked over to the couch and sat beside the woman. “I know this is very difficult for you,” he said, “but your boys don’t have to turn out bad. If you can’t get them out of the neighborhood, then ask for help to get them out of the gang.”

  “Who would help us? Not the police.”

  “Father Padilla at St. Peter’s. He helped me find a different path almost twenty years ago. He’s still trying to stop the gang wars.”

  Eyes wet, Manny’s mother gazed at Dermot with a mixture of puzzlement and hope. “You were a Viper?”

  “An Eagle. Just as tough.”

  Stella knew the gang called themselves Eagles because in the wild, eagles killed snakes. And in the neighborhood, Eagles sometimes killed Vipers. If she hadn’t seen his transformation for herself the night before at Skipper’s, Stella would be hard-pressed to believe Dermot had been one of them.

  She said, “A good start would be by weakening the Vipers themselves. Someone has a hold on the gang, and if we only knew who—”

  “But I don’t know!” Mrs. Santos cried.

  “Has Manny ever mentioned anyone asking him to do things…favors, perhaps?” Dermot asked.

  The woman’s face darkened. “Some guy named Paz. Paz Falco.”

  “I don’t know him,” Stella murmured. “Though the name is familiar. Then again, I’ve been away from this district for a while now. Not to say I ever knew everyone’s names anyway.”

  “Or he could be new to the neighborhood,” Dermot suggested.

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Santos said, but she didn’t sound certain.

  “Is Paz the only one who had influence over Manny?” Stella asked. “No one else?”

  The woman thought hard for a moment. “A few days ago, he got a call from someone I didn’t know. The minute he put that phone down, he headed for the door. I asked him to watch the little ones for me while I went to the store. He said he didn’t have time, that he had something more important to do.”

  “When was that exactly?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  The same day she’d gotten the written warning and Dermot had been followed. “You took the call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you remember anything about the caller’s voice or what exactly was said? Did the person speak English or Spanish?”

  “She was speaking Spanish, and she just asked for Manny. That’s all.”

  Stella’s pulse fluttered. “She? The caller was a woman? Or was she younger? Another teenager?”

  “Maybe.”

  But she didn’t sound convinced of that, either.

  Stella spent a few more minutes trying to get information from her, but the woman didn’t have any more to give. Stella indicated to Dermot that they should go. He nodded, then reminded Mrs. Santos about contacting Father Padilla for help with her sons.

  She smiled and murmured, “Gracias,” before turning to Stella. “I am so sorry for whatever my sons thought they would do to you. I will tell my husband, and together we will have words with both Manny and Pablo when they get home.” She shook her head. “Threatening a woman…”

  Hoping the woman understood the nature of the threat and would truly do something to show them the error of their judgment, Stella smiled and wished her luck before leaving the apartment.

  Out on the street, she said, “So some mystery woman snapped her fingers and Manny jumped.”

  “Now all we have to do is get a name.”

  “We only have one woman suspect in Tony’s murder,” Stella reminded him.

  Alderman Marta Ortiz.

  STELLA FOLLOWING close behind, Dermot fought the crowd that surged around the Mexican Fine Arts Center Museum as Los Dias De Los Muertos got underway. It was the day before Halloween, and the Pilsen fiesta would run four afternoons and evenings, combining the Anglo and Mexican celebrations. The street in front of the museum entrance had been barricaded, cutting off all but pedestrian traffic—residents and tourists alike.

  Dermot stopped at a vendor cart and bought two walnut-size calaveras—sugar skulls decorated with colored icing and candy beads, which were given to friends like Valentines. He handed one to her.

  “Souvenir?” She admired the workmanship before slipping it into her jacket pocket.

  “Appropriate for the occasion, don’t you think?” Dermot asked, popping his into his mouth.

  Other vendors sold skeletons, skull masks and other macabre toys; papel picado—intricate tissue paper cutouts; fancy wreaths and crosses decorated with silk flowers; candles and votive lights; and pan de muertos, a bread baked in the shape of a skeleton, person or animal, which represented the souls of the dead. Along with photos, candles, crosses and flowers, the bread might be set on an offerenda or altar such as the one that flanked one side of the museum grounds. The soul of the bread was to be consumed by the dead when they visited, and what was left was then consumed by the living.

  Many who didn’t understand the tradition found eating food in the shape of skulls and skeletons morbid, Stella knew, but the intention was that by eating them you were looking at yourself as a dead person and, in a humorous way, cheating death itself.

  “There’s the alderman,” Stella said, stopping and pointing to Marta Ortiz, who held court over several well-dressed people just to the side of the offerenda.

  Dermot pulled Stella closer, close enough to smell the subtle fragrance of spice in her hair that distracted him from coherent thought. That made him want to take her in his arms and never let her go.

  Then he pulled himself together. “Do you recognize her admirers?” he asked softly, bending slightly so his lips were close to her ear.

  Stella turned her head so quickly, their lips almost brushed. Dermot caught his breath and waited for her reaction as their gazes connected. A flicker in her eyes told him what he wanted to know. She licked her lips, and he swore he could smell musk blended with the spice. Gut knotted with wanting her, he nevertheless backed off.

  Stella blinked, took a big breath and returned her attention to Marta Ortiz and companions. “Another alderman,” she said, sounding a bit breathless. “A state representative. A museum board member or two.”

  “She certainly has clout.”

  “So she warned us. Why would she feel it necessary if she wasn’t trying to hide something?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  Since the festivities were traditionally late in getting started—today seemed to be no exception—Dermot escorted Stella through the crowd and into the museum to take a quick pass at the largest Day of the Dead exhibit in the nation. He was careful to stay close without actually touching her despite the number of people crammed into such a small space.

  “Death is such a serious topic. I wonder how it started—combining the seriousness of a holy day with humor and the joy of remembering loved ones.”

  Stella was examining a display of folk art, which provided a colorful and sometimes mirthful interpretation of death. Some of the people around them wore pins or earrings or even masks that played on the death theme. One guy dressed all in black and wearing a skeleton face was pretty spooky, and Dermot wondered if he weren’t testing his Halloween costume.

  “Probably they picked up on the Aztec view of death as part of the eternal cycle rather than as an end,” Dermot said. “Not all that different from the Christian belief in heaven. I guess that’s why the official Day of the Dead is the same as the Catholic All Souls’ Day on the first of November when we pray for those suffering in purgatory.”

  To his surprise Dermot found himself saying a quick prayer for Tony Vargas. The ex-con had been a lot of things, but he hadn’t been violent.

  “Maybe we should get back outside,” Stella said, starting to sound impatient. “We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Right.”

  Dermot
followed while still thinking of the man who was about to be eulogized. In his own bizarre way, Tony had tried to stop the planned attack on Stella. But no matter his personal philosophy, he’d died violently himself. And while Dermot hoped to clear his own name, he also wanted to find Tony’s murderer before someone else was killed.

  Would the killer be in the crowd outside the museum?

  Chapter Ten

  What Stella couldn’t miss when they found a spot within view of the altar was Marta Ortiz conferring with Luis Zamora. They stood off to one side of the museum, heads together.

  “Louie Z.,” she murmured.

  “Significance?” Dermot asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s natural that they would know each other since Luis patrols this part of her ward. Maybe he’s helping provide security.”

  But even as she said the words, they rang false for Stella. There was something…well, odd…about the way the cop and the alderman huddled close, expressions serious as if they were plotting together.

  Tony was Marta’s cousin…Luis owed Tony money…Luis might or might not be involved with Johnny Rincon. Now, if she found anything to connect Johnny back to Marta…what then?

  Stella simply didn’t know.

  “Do you see what I see?” Dermot asked as Marta broke from Luis and headed for the altar and podium.

  Detectives Norelli and Walker were standing off to one side. Stella figured they’d heard about the alder man’s intended eulogy and were scanning the assemblage to see who showed, just as she and Dermot were doing. But why? They’d nabbed their suspect—Dermot—and certainly hadn’t seemed interested in moving on to anyone new.

  “Yep,” she said. “And they see us.”

  Both detectives were staring their way now. With no guilt over helping an innocent man, Stella stared back. She sensed Dermot doing the same. And why shouldn’t he? He had no reason to feel guilty about anything. No reason at all.

  Norelli was the first to look away, and within seconds so did Walker. Both detectives drifted into the throng, past a couple of kids wearing skull masks who were strewing marigold petals along the sidewalk in front of the museum. The bright yellow paths were meant to create a bridge between the worlds of the living and the dead.

  But Stella wasn’t paying strict attention to the ceremony’s start, introduced by some museum board members. Instead, she scanned the assemblage, dozens of people deep in every direction, her thoughts following the detectives and their purpose here today.

  Had they simply wanted to see if Dermot would show up for Tony’s eulogy?

  What would that prove?

  Suddenly she became aware of Vipers in the crowd—small knots of them. Eagles to the west. Latin Kings to the east. Vipers to the south. She wondered if Manny was one of the tough-looking teenagers hiding his identity behind a skull mask. The thought made her uneasy, made her wonder what his purpose here was today. Could he be looking for her, meaning to finish what he’d started? If so, he had enough reinforcements to do the job.

  Shuddering, she was about to point out the gang members to Dermot, when Marta Ortiz stepped up to the mike.

  “Violence as a way of life, as a solution to our problems, is never acceptable,” she began. “Tony Vargas died violently last week, and I am here before you today to mourn my younger cousin.”

  The alderman was at her best—her voice husky with grief, yet strong with anger. The sincere politician appealing to the masses. As Marta went on, painting a portrait of a Tony that Stella had never met, Stella looked around and tried to figure whether or not everyone bought it.

  “Tony was not perfect, certainly,” Marta was saying, “but I remember him as a kid who tried to please everyone…until the Vipers got hold of him. Then he changed before my eyes into someone only out for himself. Protect your children!” she implored, her gaze meeting those of individual after individual. “And fight the gangs to extinction!”

  A murmur went through the throng, and Stella looked back to where present-day Vipers congregated. One of them sent a rude gesture the alderman’s way, but the others simply seemed to be amused. Or bored.

  “I don’t see Manny,” she told Dermot, “but I would bet he’s here, hiding behind one of those masks. Maybe Pablo is with him, too.”

  “If you do spot them, tell me. After what they did to you, I’d like to have a private chat with them myself.”

  A thrill shot through Stella. And a sense of dismay. While touched that Dermot still wanted to be her champion, she wasn’t a victim anymore. He didn’t have to fight her battles for her. Until he understood that…

  “Don’t start any trouble,” was all she said.

  “Me? Three gangs showed,” Dermot observed. “Now that has the makings of trouble.”

  “I sincerely hope not. Too many innocent bystanders could get hurt.”

  Stella scanned their faces—worried parents, concerned businessmen, indifferent teenagers. Her gaze lit on a pair of designer sunglasses, and the noise of the speech and the crowd’s reaction faded fast.

  Johnny Rincon was there, in the thick of things, his interested gaze not on Marta but on Stella herself. Why the interest? Simply because she’d shown up at Skipper’s the night before and asked too many questions? Did that mean he had something to hide? Continued gang activity? Burglaries? Murder?

  Johnny smiled at her, the scar splitting one side of his face, a macabre reminder of the kind of human being he wasn’t. He didn’t need a mask to fit in—he looked like walking death to Stella. He saluted her…then turned away to be swallowed by the masses.

  Heart thundering, Stella tuned back in to the alderman’s performance.

  “Tony isn’t the only one I mourn today,” Marta Ortiz was saying. “My younger brother was a tragic victim, as well. Two members of my family lost to gangs and violence! I say…enough!”

  The crowd roared to life with applause as Stella admitted Marta Ortiz’s words sounded more like a campaign speech than a remembrance of a lost loved one. But even so, she had said something telling.

  Lost.

  Lost to gangs and violence.

  Rather than looking to Dermot to accuse him of murder—to Stella’s complete surprise—the alderman had pinned the blame elsewhere. Why? Could it be that, without being the actual villain of the piece, Marta knew more about her cousin’s death than she’d let on?

  The more facts and suppositions Stella gathered, the more overwhelmed she felt by the responsibility of reading things right.

  The crowd quieted and the alderman concluded her speech. But even before the applause died down, Stella overheard a couple of young men’s comments.

  “She might have good intentions for her people, but she’s got better ones for herself,” one guy said.

  He and his friend looked kind of artsy—artists seeking cheap studio rentals being the newest element in the neighborhood mix.

  “I hear she wants to run for state office next,” said the friend.

  “She’d better have deep pockets.”

  “Or rich friends. I’ve heard she’s none too fussy about how she lines her campaign coffers.”

  The men laughed and moved on.

  The crowd in front of the museum broke up into small groups of families and friends intent on having a good time. Strolling mariachis lured a large group of laughing people to park grounds, thinning the num ber of warm bodies in front of the museum to something less than smothering.

  “Let’s check out the messages on the board,” Stella suggested.

  She indicated the big corkboard that was set to one side of the offerenda. There, audience members could leave photographs or written thoughts about whatever dearly departed person they were celebrating. Stella started to check the missives at one end, Dermot at the other. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.

  “Yep, here’s one about Tony.”

  Dermot drew closer so they were shoulder to shoulder before the board. For a moment she could hardly breathe. T
ouching him was too, too distracting. It took all her will to focus on the messages.

  “‘Tony, you were a great guy,’” she read. “‘We’re gonna miss ya.’ Sounds like a high school yearbook entry.”

  “How about this one,” Dermot said. “‘You didn’t deserve to die so young. You shoulda had that second chance.’”

  Stella read several more in the same vein. In death, his many sins forgiven, Tony Vargas was almost revered. Unfortunately, that wasn’t exactly helpful to the case.

  “Whoa,” Dermot muttered. “We might have something here. ‘Tony died as secretively as he lived. Look to the last person you would suspect to find his killer.’”

  “Marta Ortiz?” Stella asked softly. “That’d fit. And it’d be fitting, considering she just gave a campaign speech disguised as a eulogy.”

  “But more than that—” Dermot’s forehead pulled into a frown “—it’s almost as if someone was talking straight to us, trying to give us a clue.”

  “But not one that’s very clear.” Stella took the sheet from the board by its edge, carefully trying not to smudge it, folded it and slipped it into a pants pocket. “Fingerprints,” she said. “If I can get an ID on whoever wrote this, maybe we can get him or her to spill the rest. I’ll pass this on to Logan tonight. If we’re lucky, we could have a name tomorrow.”

  “Even if you do pin down the author, do you really think he or she would come clean?”

  She shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

  The area around the museum was quickly revving up into party mode. Not much more they could do here, so they bought plates of assorted Mexican food from one of the vendors and were able to get a spot at one of the temporary picnic tables set up in the barricaded street. Stella had barely bitten into her steak taco before feeling the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. She caught movement from the corner of her eye and swiveled on her bench just in time to see a figure in black wearing a skull mask turn and walk away.

  Still, her flesh crawled.

  “Something wrong?” Dermot asked.

  “I got the feeling I was being watched,” Stella told him. But when she glanced back again, the figure was gone. “My imagination, I guess.”