Thicker Than Blood

by Penny Rudolph

  Eight times, in eight different ways, he had asked if she knew anything about what had happened at the office building across the street.

  No.

  Had she ever been inside?

  Yes, many times, delivering packages, mostly for the laboratory. If they took prints, this might explain hers.

  Half an hour ago, a woman had put her head in the door and summoned Officer Milton.

  Rachel wondered if leaving her alone in this vacuum was a ploy to increase her weariness, wear her down. She was certain he hadn’t believed her, certain he or someone else would soon appear, read her her rights, and lead her to the lock-up.

  The need for a drink rolled over her, an imperative, a promise that all would be well if she could have just one shot of Jack.

  Two sets of footsteps moved along the hallway outside. The door, its edge muted by many coats of paint, moved inward a few inches. The voices were low, but she caught, “All I know, there was enough M triple P and Adam and Eve up there to make winning the lottery look puny.”

  The door opened just enough for Officer Milton to nod in her direction. “Thanks for your time, Miss Chavez. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The after-work crowd had not yet begun to unwind at the Pig’s Whistle when Hank and Goldie slid into the booth where Rachel had been sipping club soda and reading a newspaper article for the fifth time. The bandages on her arms showed their bulk beneath the sleeves of her blue chambray shirt.

  The waiter put his tray on their table and retied his black apron. “Champagne,” Hank told him.

  Rachel touched his arm. “No.…”

  “But we’re celeb—”

  “No,” she said again, this time sharply.

  Hank lifted his hands toward the ceiling. “A saint, we have here. Okay. But the rest of us will toast her in style.” He folded a new fifty-dollar bill with its odd play-money look and stuck it into the waiter’s shirt pocket. “Best champagne you can find, even if you have to get it down the street. And for the lady.…”

  “Another soda,” Rachel said. “And maybe you could hunt up a lime somewhere?” The waiter agreed to produce both and sped off much more quickly than he had arrived.

  Hank pointed to the now dog-eared front page of the Los Angeles Times spread in front of Rachel. Just above the fold, the headline stretched all the way across the page: Laboratory Head Dead; Drug Factory Discovered at Water Company.

  “What a mind blower,” he said. “I hear half the lab staff, even a couple of techs and bottle washers, were getting a cut.”

  The waiter returned with three goblets, a tall green bottle, its sides misted with fog, and a bucket of ice, and with the flourish of a magician produced a white linen napkin to wrap it. The cork hit the ceiling when Hank released it, and everyone in the pub cheered. He poured two glasses, then reached for the third. “Come on, just a sip?”

  Rachel shook her head and covered the glass with her hand. “Gives me a headache.” He looked so crestfallen she reached for the goblet and held it out. “Okay, why not?”

  Goldie shot her a look, snared the glass from Rachel’s hand with strong brown fingers, and held it up to the light. “Look at that.” She pointed to the rim. “Lipstick.”

  Hank squinted at it. “Looks okay to me.”

  “Lots of flu going around.” Goldie spun the stem in her fingers. “She’s already trussed up with two cracked ribs. Don’t want her to start coughing. No, sir.”

  Hank raised his hand to signal, but the waiter was talking to someone at the bar. He slid from the booth. “I’ll get another.”

  Goldie put her own glass in front of Rachel and poured what remained of the club soda into it. The bubbles rose to the top, not a bad imitation. “I got three brothers always falling off the wagon,” she said. “You better tell that guy of yours or you’ll be watching that wagon making tracks from where you fell off.”

  Rachel dipped her chin twice and pressed her fingers to her forehead where her dark bangs hid the stitches but not the blues and reds that were emerging on her cheeks.

  “Bumpiest road in the world is paved with good intentions,” Goldie muttered.

  “What a piece of luck. Hello!”

  Rachel looked up into eyes surrounded by an artistry of black lashes. They seemed to make the heart-shaped face all the more pale. Alexandra Miller flicked a hand at the champagne. “Looks like you’re celebrating.”

  “Sure are.” Goldie brought her index finger down on the newspaper headline. “You see that? Well this little gal sorta helped it happen.”

  Rachel kicked Goldie under the table and said to Alexandra, “Not really. Had to do with a couple boxes we delivered.”

  “You’re joking.” Alexandra laughed, but her black eyes went serious as they took in Rachel’s face. “You look worse than after that mugging.” Eyes never leaving Rachel, she sat down next to Goldie. “What happened?”

  Rachel grimaced at the twinges of pain her effort to smile set off in her cheek. “Just a little wrong place, wrong time.”

  Goldie thumped the table. “I swear, girl, you would walk twenty miles looking for a basket to hide your light under.”

  People were streaming into the pub. Hank made his way back to the booth through the sea of shoulders.

  Goldie took the proffered glass, pointing at the one in front of Rachel. “She had a powerful thirst. Couldn’t wait to get that headache,” she said to Hank.

  Hank nodded at Alexandra. “Be right back with another.”

  “No, I can’t stay.” Alexandra glanced behind her. “I was supposed to meet someone, but it seems I’ve been stood up. And I’ve got a lot of work to do.” She rose, giving Rachel a smile liquid with concern. “You must take better care of yourself,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Goldie,” Rachel said, in a low voice. “Do not tell anyone else. I swore to the cops I was nowhere near that building when it happened.”

  Someone elbowed Hank as he poured, sloshing champagne over his shirt cuff. He mopped at it with a cocktail napkin, then held his goblet aloft. “To the woman who’s got more nerve than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “More like a lot less sense,” Goldie said around the glass rim as she tipped the still fizzing champagne into her mouth.

  Rachel tilted her chin like a prizefighter. “You were the one who said—”

  “I said maybe check things out,” Goldie cut in. “I never said you should trade that glass brain of yours for brass balls.”

  “Sure did set fire to the board of directors,” Hank said, obviously enjoying that fact.

  “What will they do?” Goldie wanted to know.

  “Have a king-size brawl over who to blame and how to duck the press. Probably name someone to replace Jason and dump the problem in his lap.”

  “They must be glad to be rid of that dirtbag in the lab,” Goldie said.

  Hank chuckled, relishing the notion of his superiors’ discomfort. “If it could be kept off the evening news, most of them wouldn’t care if he was barbecuing babies over Bunsen burners.”

  Rachel squeezed some lime into her soda, remembered it was supposed to be champagne and tossed the green wedge onto a napkin. “Jason stumbled onto something, so Harry killed him.”

  “And the boxes you found were the same as on that plane?” Goldie asked.

  “Same as thousands of others being sneaked in from Mexico,” Hank put in.

  Half-listening, Rachel stared at the napkin beneath her glass. One corner bore the image of a pig in a red frock coat.

  Goldie plunked her glass to the table. “But the plane crashed near the reservoir, right on land that belongs to your water agency.”

  Hank flung an arm along the top of the booth behind Rachel. “From what I hear, drug smuggling is so common that close to the border, the plane we saw crash may have been just a coincidence.”

  And Lonnie? Rachel was wondering. How did he fit in? She looked up to see Marty, just inside the
pub’s entrance, scanning the crowd. “Pop!” She waved. “Over here.”

  His hair looked straggly, but his eyes were snapping and bright. “And to what do I owe this extraordinary invitation to a toast?” Marty asked when Hank had put a glass of champagne in his hand. “You haven’t by any chance struck oil beneath that parking lot?”

  Rachel scratched her forehead where the stitches were beginning to itch. “Don’t I wish.”

  “What’s that?” Marty asked, forehead furrowing with alarm as he took in the exposed stitches. “What happened?”

  “Just a couple stitches, Pop.” She smoothed her dark bangs.

  Goldie flashed a white smile. “Your daughter, here, had a little tussle with an ape.”

  Marty was still frowning. “I take it the other guy looks worse?”

  “He’s dead.” Rachel leaned toward him and added quietly, “But don’t tell anyone, Pop. I’m serious. I broke the law and I don’t want to get caught.”

  Marty stared at her, puzzlement and fear seeming to rise and fall like waves across his face. His mouth worked at getting the words out. “You killed someone?”

  Rachel held his eyes until he fell quiet. “I’m fine,” she said. “The cops don’t know I had anything to do with anything.”

  “You thought you were raising a debutante,” chimed Goldie, “but she turned out to be a cross between a pit bull and a storm trooper.”

  Hank pushed the newspaper across the table and pointed to the cover story. “She had a hand in this.”

  “You don’t say.” Marty searched for his glasses, didn’t find them, and held the paper at arm’s length to read. “But this was about drugs. How’d you get involved in something like that?”

  Goldie shot Rachel a look. “He’s your dad. We can trust him, right? We can tell him?”

  Rachel held her gaze until she was sure Goldie understood it was to be the sanitized version only. Then, “Okay. But keep your voice down.”

  When Goldie had finished, Marty shook his head. “Now I need a real drink.” He signaled the waiter, ordered a double of Johnny Walker, drank it in three gulps when it arrived, then leaned over the table and hugged his daughter.

  “It’s over, Pop,” Rachel said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “No way I’ll ever get into anything like that again.”

  “If she does, I will personally chain her to her kitchen sink,” Goldie said. “That’s a promise.”

  Marty eased himself from the booth. “Sorry to cut this short, but I gotta get back.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Rachel watched him amble through the crowd, then took a sip of her phony drink and put it down.

  “How about we adjourn to Melrose?” Hank said. “I know a great little Thai place.”

  “You guys go ahead,” Goldie said. “I gotta get to work. More important, I got to hit the ladies’,” she said, and sauntered toward the rest rooms.

  Hank was settling the tab when Marty reappeared, lips pursed with frustration. “Damn car won’t start.”

  “You have Triple A?” Hank asked.

  Marty shook his head. “’Fraid not.”

  Hank glanced at Rachel. “We’ll drive you home. And we can look after the car tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Rachel took a ring of keys from her purse, extracted one, and handed it to Marty. “Take mine, Pop. It’s down a block and around the corner on Wilshire. I’ll get yours fixed tomorrow.”

  Marty looked at the key doubtfully. “Well, I am in kind of a hurry.”

  “I’ll get your daughter home,” Hank reassured him.

  Marty thanked them and hurried off.

  Rachel watched him thread his way through the crowd. Late for a date with an almost full house that doesn’t fill.

  The door closed behind Marty, then opened to admit another couple.

  “There’s one of your board members now,” Rachel said.

  Hank craned his chin over his shoulder. “Charlotte Emerson? The day must have been even worse than I thought. Never dreamed I’d see her at the Pig’s Whistle.”

  “I could swear I’ve seen her here before,” Rachel said.

  A tall, slender black man was eyeing the crowd over Charlotte’s head. The two made their way toward the back booths. Rachel gave a small wave as they approached.

  “How nice,” Charlotte said, sounding as though she meant it. “Good to see you.”

  Hank gestured to the seats across the table. “The place is pretty full. You’re welcome to join us.”

  The older woman’s smile was like that of someone on the Titanic who had given up a seat on a lifeboat. She looked around, then slid into the booth.

  “You know Andrew,” she said to Hank.

  The two men nodded.

  “Andrew Greer, our human resources director,” Charlotte said to Rachel.

  Either the shadows had hidden Rachel’s bruises, or the older woman was too preoccupied to notice. Charlotte raised her voice over the crowd. “We were hoping to discuss a little business, but I suspect we chose the wrong place.”

  Rachel dropped the wad of keys into her open handbag. “We were just leaving. Really,” she said over Charlotte’s protests and nudged Hank to stand up.

  “But I am pleased to run into you,” Charlotte smiled warmly at Rachel. “Saves making a call.”

  Rachel tilted her head. “Yes?”

  “About that business we discussed. I wonder if you would be willing to drive out to Riverside? I’m afraid I’m tied up for the next few days. But perhaps a week from Friday?” Charlotte was writing on the back of a business card. “My home address is on the other side. I promise some good wine and cheese. Shall we say six?”

  “Of course.” Rachel nodded and followed Hank out of the booth. At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. Andrew had moved to the other side of the table and the conversation looked intense.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  In the passenger seat of Hank’s Mustang, Rachel hugged herself, trying to forestall the barbs of pain that jabbed at her ribs when the wheels passed over a bump.

  “You hurting?” Hank slowed and eased the car around a corner while the impatient driver behind him honked irritably.

  “Just someone doing a bongo solo inside my head.”

  He put his foot on the brake, took the corner carefully and headed back downtown. “Can you hold out another fifteen minutes?”

  She shrugged, then screwed up her face at another bump in the road.

  Hank reached for her hand, didn’t find it and settled for her knee. “Let’s go down to one of those markets in Chinatown, pick up some stuff, and I’ll make you the best Chinese dinner you ever saw, right in the comfort of your own kitchen.”

  When they reached her apartment and turned on the light, he stared at the purpling shadows on her cheeks. “You look like a refugee from Baghdad.”

  “Bruises don’t show up right away.” She stared at herself in the mirror, then took some ibuprofen.

  He led her to one of the barstools at the counter, and with a big white dishtowel tied about his waist for an apron, chopped, sliced, and stir-fried while she watched. He set up a card table in the living room, covered it with three more towels and set out the food.

  “For this we need chopsticks.” She rooted four from a drawer.

  Hank frowned. “I might cook Chinese, but I don’t eat Chinese. How could a culture whose people eat with sticks ever amount to much?”

  Rachel had already managed some quick bites. “Hey, this is fabulous! You are a good cook. But you gotta use the sticks.”

  They shifted on the way to his mouth, dropping rice into his lap. “No wonder you never see a fat Chinaman.”

  “Your fingers should be back farther. It gives you more control. Look.” She demonstrated.

  He reached over and touched her wrist. “Thank God you weren’t hurt any worse. You going to tell me what really happened over there?”

  “I already did.” Goldie knew the real details, but the story she had given
Hank and her father, the only others who knew she had been there at all, was that she had realized she had lost her watch in the lab. The security guard was not at his desk. She went upstairs and happened upon a drug-making operation. In the fracas, Harry fell through a window.

  Hank had given up on the chopsticks and was making better progress with a fork. “Have it your way. But I get the distinct impression you’re leaving something out. I think it had something to do with Jason and that damn car.”

  Rachel paused, food midway to her mouth, and dodged the subject with, “How well do you know Alexandra?”

  “About as well as any business acquaintance.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You kidding? When that woman cries, chipped ice runs down her cheeks.”

  When Rachel had captured the last grain of the rice with her chopsticks, Hank stood, drew her to her feet, and looked solemnly into her face. “If you don’t want to tell me what happened, fine. But give me your word you won’t take those kinds of risks again,” he said, and pulled her to him.

  A tear puddled in the corner of her eye and dripped onto his collar.

  The phone rang. Rachel sighed and hobbled to the phone.

  “Is this Rachel Chavez?”

  She agreed that it was.

  “You related to a Martin Chavez?”

  Her lungs stopped pumping air and her heart tried to fast-forward. “He’s my father.”

  There was a pause on the line, then another voice. “Dr. Graham, County Hospital. I’m afraid your father has had an accident.”

  “How bad?” The words felt like shards of glass on her tongue.

  “He’s in surgery now. I’m not the attending physician. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

  333

  Above the flimsy hospital gown, Marty’s face, what Rachel could see of it, was the color of putty, his eyes a flat blue-gray.

  “Papa. What happened?”