Silent Joe

by T. Jefferson Parker

  The handwriting was cramped and difficult to read.

  Senora Catrin—Puerto Nuevo

  Senor Mark—Punta Dana

  Senora Julia—Laguna

  Senora Marcie—Puerto Nuevo

  The first three names had lines through them. Senora Marcie of Newport Beach did not. I read them twice.

  I remembered Bo Warren's words from that first time we'd talked in the Blazak living room: Marcie, that's the head maid here.

  "Jesus," said McCallum. "We missed this. What, just names and cities?"

  "Miguel was distraught. He was investigating Luria's death. Maybe these are contacts, or suspects."

  "Well, the Suburban driver was Gershon—Barbara Gershon. Her name was published. It wasn't withheld."

  I tried to come up with a logical explanation but I couldn't. Although I knew there was one phone call I'd have to make, soon.

  "Joe, I'll have to log this in, make sure Newport PD knows about it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You okay?" McCallum asked.

  "Yes. I'm just tired of bullets and blood and broken bones."

  "Job security," he said.

  I stopped off at the bank to retrieve the contents of the safe-deposit box. Crap. Nothing. Even if that was true, it was time to deal with it. I emptied the box into Will's briefcase, signed myself out and headed back over to the sheriff's department shooting facility.

  I drew and fired one hundred rounds through my .45s, half right-handed and half left. Fifty with the .32 on my ankle. I shot the Tall One and Whoever Beat Luria and Whoever Kidnapped Savannah, if someone even had. I shot Thor, but took less pleasure in it than usual. Then I shot some monsters and some ghosts and some demons. I shot Satan himself, right in the heart.

  I'm good with the left hand but there's less endurance. The last ten rounds went all over the torso at fifty feet, but at least they hit black. I don't use wad-cutters for targets. I use the full-grain loads, copper-jacketed bullets, factory brass. I don't want anything behaving differently if I have to hit something other than paper. The devil, for example.

  When I was done I broke down the guns and cleaned them. Light oil. Wonderful smell, Hoppe's gun oil. My left hand was buzzing and sore, and both of them smelled like gunpowder.

  "Luz Escobar," said Ray Flatley. "Aka Pearlita. That's her name with the Raitt Street Boys. She carried a pearl-handled derringer in her pocket when she was thirteen. Still does, for all I know."

  "May I see the file?"

  He handed it across to me. I looked at her mugs. She was five feet six, 170 pounds. Hair cropped short.

  "She dresses like a man," said Flatley. "We had her for a drive-by Santa Ana. But our witness was shot dead one night in his living room. Good-bye case against Pearlita. She's a shot-caller, Joe. Runs the hits and the retaliations. We've got our witness against Felix under protective arrest in another state. We keep waiting for Pearlita's punks to make a move, but so far, he's still alive."

  I looked at the picture again. Even with the killers and rapists I'd guarded in jail, I'd rarely seen such malice in a person's face. She didn't look like a woman. She didn't look like a man. She looked like something neutral and mean.

  "What's up?" Flatley asked. "What's your interest in Luz Escobar?

  "Will talked to her on the phone the night he died. I think she want to get him to influence Phil Dent."

  Flatley stared at me. "Rick know?"

  "I came clean, sir. Everything."

  "Good, Joe. Because Pearlita is bad company. And if Will wasn't willing to talk to Phil Dent on the behalf of a cold-blooded killer, may Pearlita's famous temper was tripped."

  "Do the Raitt Street Boys and the Cobra Kings mix?"

  "They hate each other."

  I spent a few minutes over in Mod F, locked in the plumbing tunnel. I sat behind a cell occupied by a low-level Asian hood named Hai Phan. I leaned back against the dusty wall and looked at the pipes and the ducts. Phan was talking to the guy next to him—another Asian gangster—but they we speaking Vietnamese. I remained still, trying to overhear anything that might relate to Will or Savannah or Alex.

  Nothing. I may as well have been listening to cats fighting or trees hissing in the wind. Then I went to the guard station in the mess hall and watched the inmates filing in for dinner. Dinner starts at four. It looked like it always looked: an institutional dining room, guards with their backs to the walls, a seemingly endless river of orange jumpsuits filing in and out. As usual, the Mexican car was the biggest, then the wood car, the black car, the Asians. Sullen. Quiet. Orderly. Another peaceful day, so far.

  I went to my cubby and picked up my mail.

  One item only: a postcard from Las Vegas. It showed a big hotel made to resemble an Italian city. The handwriting was neat and large.

  Dear Joe,

  You saved my life and I'm okay for now. I'm very afraid of

  what might happen.

  S.B.

  It was postmarked three days earlier. I called Steve Marchant.

  "I want you to do two things," he said. "One, put it in a paper bag, touching only the edges. Use tweezers or tongs. Two, bring that bag over here immediately or sooner."

  Marchant took me into the small FBI workroom on the third floor and shut the door. He took the bag and slid out the postcard, using his pen to right it on the light table in front of him. He swung an infrared lamp over the light table and clicked it on.

  "IR will illuminate the salts in body oil," he said. Then, "Look at this."

  He stepped aside and let me look. I could see the nice thumbprint. It looked like it had been rolled in a booking room.

  "Wait here."

  He slammed the door behind him on his way out, slammed it when he came back in. He set two fingerprint cards and a folder on the table next to the postcard, then swung out a magnifier that was clamped to the table.

  "Yeah, cute. Real cute."

  He whispered something I couldn't hear, then stepped away. I looked down through the magnifier at the print, then at the thumb cards, then at the print again.

  "To the naked eye, that's Savannah Blazak's," said Marchant. "I'll get Washington to run the points and make it official."

  He clicked off the IR light and pushed the magnifier back against the wall. He turned and looked at me, and I could see the anger in his face.

  From the folder he removed a handmade Mother's Day card a slipped one of the clear plastic holders over the top. It said "Mom, I love you more than all the stars put together. Your Girl, Savannah." March; pushed the postcard up next to the card, then used a pair of tweezers turn it over.

  I looked over his shoulder. The writing was identical.

  From the other folder he brought out a sheet of stationery with "Alex Jackson Blazak" embossed at the top, and his home address at the bottom I read the salutation and first two lines.

  Dear Chrissa,

  I can't tell you how long ago it seems since I saw you. That

  Valentine's Day dinner was dyno.

  "Savannah wrote the postcard," said Marchant.

  "And she's afraid of what might happen."

  He stood back and looked at me. "I'm going to get this guy, and I going to spring his hostage. You can quote me on that."

  I nodded.

  "Thanks, Joe. Thanks for the quick heads-up. Excuse me now, I've gotto get on the line to Las Vegas. Interstate flight with a juvenile, for immoral purposes. We've got so much mileage out of the Mann Act, you wouldn't believe it."

  "Do you believe the immoral purposes part?"

  Marchant thought a moment. "I'm going to tell you something I probably shouldn't. Don't let it leave this room. We polygraph the mom and dad as soon as they came to us about their daughter. They both passed, l didn't like some of what I saw with Jack. That's all I'm going to say right now."

  "I found out yesterday about the arrangement with Ellen Erskine."

  "Your father kept her in the dark, didn't even give her Savannah's name. Erskine wasn't sure if h
e was on the level about it or not."

  I waited for more, but Marchant said nothing. Then: "What about you? You still think he was on the level?" "Yes. I'd bet my life on it."

  On my way home I called Lorna Blazak on my cell phone. "Mr. Trona, have you heard from her?"

  "She sent me a postcard from Las Vegas. I got it just an hour ago.

  She's fine, Mrs. Blazak, but she's afraid."

  "Dear God . . . and my son?"

  "I can only assume he's there with her."

  "I don't know what to do. Tell me what I can do."

  "Wait, Mrs. Blazak. Help the Bureau help you."

  Silence.

  "Mrs. Blazak, did you employ a woman named Luria Bias as a house-cleaner?"

  "No. Why?"

  "I have some evidence that she was in contact with Marcie."

  "That may well be, but no one named Luria Bias has worked here in this home. She was the one killed in Fullerton, right?"

  "That's correct."

  "My heart goes out to her and her family, Mr. Trona. But please don't add her to our list of woes here."

  "I won't do that, Mrs. Blazak. I was just checking on a lead. It's important to follow through."

  "I understand."

  "Marcie is your main domestic help, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "May I have her last name?"

  Silence again. "Diaz. Mr. Trona, bear in mind there must be more than one Marcie doing domestic work in this county."

  "I will. And thank you. Ma'am, we're doing everything we can to find your daughter and son."

  "It's absolutely frustrating, Mr. Trona. They're seen, then they disappear.

  They're seen again, they disappear again."

  "Please be patient."

  "I need something I can hold on to."

  "Hold on to the knowledge that Savannah is alive. Hold on hard, M Blazak."

  "Thank you. And thank you for calling."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I wasn't sure what kind of gift to bring June Dauer on our first real date but I knew she liked rubies. I bought a bracelet with rubies all around it and had it wrapped up very nicely. Then I realized that flowers were customary, so I got some of those too, and some chocolates to go with them, and a big basket of gourmet coffees and liqueurs because the gift store had a sale on them.

  It all cost almost a month's salary, but I hardly spent my work money because my house is paid for. Will and Mary Ann bought it for me when I started working full-time. Mary Ann wanted me in on the dizzying Orange County real estate market as early as possible. It's worth about $50,000 more than they paid for it, and all I've really done is run the vacuum and water the trees.

  June's home was an upstairs apartment overlooking Newport Harbor. I stood on her porch and listened to the yacht lanyards ringing against the masts and the echoing cries of seagulls. My knees felt weak. I'd worn my best suit and hat. I rang the bell and waited.

  She opened the door and stepped aside to let me in. Her smile went funny when she looked at the gift basket and jewel box in one of my hands, the flowers and chocolates in the other. "It's great to see you again," I said.

  "Joe, nice to see you too, but you shouldn't have brought me all that.''

  "You don't have to take it."

  The darkness that crossed her face was genuine. I felt like my heart was about to stop beating.

  "Well, come in."

  "Thank you."

  The apartment was drenched in sunlight. The walls and carpet were white. Through the big picture window the harbor water twinkled and the bright clean boats rocked. A big yacht motored across the channel.

  "This is beautiful here," I said. "It's like being in a postcard."

  "They actually shot one from the roof of this building. Here, let me take these things, I guess."

  She took my gifts and set them on a glass dining table. She was wearing a silk, coffee-colored dress and brown shoes with heels. Her legs shone. I could smell the seawater through the open windows but I could smell her perfume too. She looked down at the basket and chocolates, the jewel box and flowers.

  "Overkill?" I asked.

  "Uh-huh. We'll figure out an appropriate response later. But I will put these roses in some water. They're beautiful, Joe. I've always loved the lavender-colored ones. They symbolize something but I forgot what."

  I watched her take a big crystal vase from a cupboard, put in some water, cut the stems and arrange the flowers. She carried it to the fireplace mantel. The tops of her arms were dark and the undersides were pale. I helped her move some pictures and get the vase arranged in the middle.

  She stood back and considered. The lavender roses stood out against the white paint of the mantel and the wall behind it. So did June Dauer. I'd never realized what a beautiful color brown was. Or how harmonious; two browns could go together: the flat dark brown of the silk and bright glow of her skin. She looked like something fresh and graceful being born out of something dry.

  The Unknown Thing again. It had me.

  "Nice," she said. She looked at me and really smiled for the first time.

  The sunlight coming through the window behind her caught her curls. Her eyes were dark and bright. "Thank you, Joe."

  "The pleasure is mine."

  She shook her head but she was still smiling. "You know what effect you have on me, the way you're so polite and always saying please and thank you and my pleasure and all that?"

  "No."

  "You make me want to scream profanities at the top of my lungs."

  I smiled and looked away. "I feel like that sometimes, too."

  "Really?"

  "The thought track that runs through my head while I'm speaking, it doesn't always match the words. I'll call a man 'sir' and feel like breaking his arm."

  "You ever do it?"

  "Once."

  "Really?"

  I shrugged. "I pretty much had to. Academy stuff, competition and hazing and all that. It worked out okay. They were going to wash this guy out anyhow."

  "Well, on that happy note, let's go eat."

  I'd picked a restaurant that was one of Will's favorites, a quiet Italian place on Balboa Island. The table was quite small, and it forced us face-to-face in a way that I would have found unbearable with anyone but June Dauer.

  She got prettier by the minute. We drank a bottle of Chianti that lasted all the way through dinner, then we had dessert and cognac. My ears hummed pleasantly and my body felt warm and light. Like I was filled with helium and I could float up and rest against the ceiling if I didn't clamp my fingers to the side of the chair.

  After dinner we walked around the island and June showed me the different places she'd lived in when she was a student at UCI. We watched the sunset from the west side, where the bay front windows threw orange reflections and the ferry chugged back and forth loaded with cars. Her skin went gold and her chocolate eyes turned to a light tan as she squinted out. Like the flank of a lion. More browns I'd never noticed—subtle and glorious.

  When the sun went down the sea breeze came up cool and she moved up against my side. I put my arm around her shoulder. I'd never done anything that dramatic with a woman before, but she didn't flinch or recoil. I started to take it away and apologize, but caught myself.

  Her skin was cool, with tiny bumps on it. I had never touched anything that exciting in my entire life.

  When she let us back into her place, it was dark. But you could see the silver water of the harbor and a pale bank of fog moving in from the west.

  She opened the French doors to the deck, then turned on a lamp by the couch, just one click. The room filled with soft light and shadow, and cool damp breeze. Then she took the jewel box off the table.

  "Come sit on the couch with me," she said.

  I sat at a respectful distance and looked out the window. The tops the tall masts swayed in the moonlight.

  June set the gift box on her right knee. "I'm afraid to open this."

  "It was just to show how
pleased I am."

  "You can overdo things, Joe."

  "I'm capable of that, June."

  She looked down at the box. It was wrapped in silver paper that caught the light. Her leg nearest the lamp was shot with the same light but the one closest to me was rounded with shadow. I looked at the place where her legs met her dress and felt a deep, rising ache.

  She unwrapped the gift as women will: slid off the bow, worked up the tape with her fingernail, peeled back the wrapping paper, folded it, set aside. The box was black velvet. She opened it. Even in the soft light I could see the red glimmer of the rubies stretched against the dark liner. Like a hundred tiny brake lights caught on a miniature freeway.

  "Ah, Joe."

  No way to read her inflection.

  "They're rubies," I said.

  "I see that. This is much too . . . much. Really."

  "Really?"

  She looked at me. "Yes."

  "Okay. Here."

  I stood and held out my hand. She put the box in it. I walked out to the patio.

  "Joe, no."

  I dropped it ten feet down into the bay.

  She was suddenly standing beside me at the railing, looking down.

  "Shit, Joe—my bracelet!"

  "It's floating."

  "Not forever, it won't! I'd rather have it on me than at the bottom of the harbor."

  "You could have said that before I threw it in."

  I pulled off my shoes and coat and handed her my wallet. I'd left my guns in the trunk of the Mustang.

  "Oh, man," she said.

  I dove in to make as little splash as possible. Then I surfaced and breaststroked over to the bobbing box. The water was cold but it felt good on my face. Like ice. I put the box in my mouth and turned to swim back.

  Then I heard a splash behind me and the surface broke and June Dauer's shiny wet head appeared.

  "Cold," she said.

  I tried to say yes, ma'am, but got only, "Yeah-meah."

  "What's that in your mouth, Fido, a box of rubies?"

  I nodded. She paddled up closer. Breathing in and out fast like you do when it's cold. I could feel her legs churning next to mine and smell the warm human breath on the surface of the water. Our feet knocked, then our knees. She locked one hand on the collar of my shirt and pulled the box out of my mouth. In place of it came her mouth, and a warm tongue. I pulled her close with one arm, felt the pumping of her legs echoed in the smooth muscles of her side. Started to sink. Had to let go and scull with my hands to keep our heads up. That made my body drift away a little. She laughed and grabbed my shirt and pulled herself closer, putting the box back in my mouth. She laughed low and kind of wicked, then confidently pressed a hand to my personal area.