"I've been thinking about that ever since she told me about the Corvette."
We stood for a minute, leaning against the Crown Vic, not speaking. The cars sped in and out of the Bamboo 33 lot, many of them the low slung Hondas with the noisy headers.
I watched them but didn't really see them. I was haunted by the image of Warren's red-and-white Corvette parked right here in this lot, and John Gaylen leaning toward the passenger's window.
Who was the Mystery Passenger in that seat?
Why were Warren and Mystery Passenger talking to Gaylen?
One of the little Hondas screamed across the asphalt, fishtailing, raising acrid white smoke from its tires, music pounding from the trunk woofer
It brought me back to the present.
"Sir, I told Ms. Lee that Ike Cao came out of his coma this afternoon, briefly, and talked. I said I hadn't been told what he said. That a doctor told me that kind of thing usually means a patient is going to pull out of it. That two homicide investigators would be there the next time Cao said anything. I said it all before I had time to think about going to prison for falsifying evidence."
Birch and Ouderkirk both stared at me. Then they started laughing. I wasn't sure how to take it. But they didn't stop. I turned away, not sure what to do.
"Joe's a cop," said Birch. "Look at that, a twenty-four-year-old new-jack and already a cop."
Ouderkirk was shaking his head. "I'll get a twenty-four-seven on Gaylen, Rick."
"Well done, Harmon. Well done, Trona."
"What did Lee look like when you told her that?" Ouderkirk asked.
"Like a white shark, sir."
Laughter again.
"Man, I love this job," said Ouderkirk. "Joe, when you're old enough to work homicide, I'll take you as a partner."
"I'd be honored."
Bernadette Lee strode quickly across the lot, a remote pad in her hand. I heard an alarm chirp and saw a light go on.
"Sirs?" I nodded at her.
"Let her get in," said Birch.
As soon as she did, we slipped into the Ford. I sat in the back and looked between Birch and Ouderkirk as Lee's black Jaguar slid onto Bolsa. Rick followed without the lights until he hit the boulevard.
"I predict seven-forty-one Washington Street in Garden Grove," said Ouderkirk. "That's Gaylen's place.
"But she didn't stop in Garden Grove. She sped out Bolsa until it changed into First Street in Santa Ana. Then a left on Raitt Street, and into the barrio. She made a quick right turn and I knew she'd see us if Rick followed, but he played it cool, passing straight through the intersection, then looping back fast, but not fast enough to screech the tires. We saw the Jag pulling into a driveway, through a wrought-iron gate opened by two Latinos in baggy clothes. Two pit bulls sniffed the car tires as it came to a stop inside.
Birch turned the other way, took another turn before coming back around. He parked on the opposite side of the house, four doors down.
"Let's magnify this situation," said Ouderkirk, pulling a small pair binoculars from the glove box. "Ah. Two unidentified males and the Dragon Lady, going through the front door. Dogs are Staffordshire terrier aka pit bulls. One brindle, one white. There's no street number on the house. Looks like two rooms lit inside. Iron gate, iron windows, iron door. Fancy filigrees on it, like it's trying to be decorative. Flowerpots on the porch, no flowers. Trees and hedges trimmed back—nowhere for a shooter to lie in wait. Floodlights in the side yard and over the driveway, hence my detailed reporting. Uh, floodlights out now—they're in lockdown mode.
"Come on," said Birch. "Can't you read the names on the dog tags'
"One says 'Gang,' the other says 'Banger.' "
"Descriptive," said Birch.
We sat and waited. We had to roll down the windows to keep the car from fogging up. Even with that, Birch kept wiping the windshield with his hand.
The house to the right had an address stenciled on the curb. Using that, I knew the two possibilities for this house, and I recognized one of the from the phone company call list for Will's cell phone.
"It's Pearlita's house," I said quietly.
Birch turned to me and I saw the uncertainty register, then resolve. "The call sheet," he whispered. "You've got a good memory, Joe."
"It's eidetic."
"That's a nice gift," he said. "So, now we've got a woman with Cobra King boyfriend, and urgent business with the Raitt Street Boys. This is interesting. Makes you wonder what would bring two gangs like that together."
"Money, money and money," said Ouderkirk.
Half an hour later the outside lights came on and Bernadette stepped onto the porch. The two baggy-clothed males were with her, and another, much wider guy. Maybe two hundred pounds, I guessed. He wore loose chinos and what looked like a Pendleton shirt, untucked, shiny black boots. His hair was cut short, no cap. Sunglasses, even in the dark. He walked Bernadette Lee to her car. His walk was loose, ambling. I could see that they were talking, but all I could hear on the damp summer air was the distant murmur. The pit bulls came to the gate and sniffed the air.
"No Pearlita," whispered Ouderkirk. "She's not home, or she stayed inside."
"That's her," I whispered back. "The guy is Pearlita. She dresses like a man. I've seen pictures of her face and that's her face."
"No way."
"Way, sir."
"If I was that ugly I'd shoot people, too."
"The others might be brothers," said Birch. "She's got two more. Twenty-one and twenty-five, something like that. Allegedly, no gang affiliation."
"Obviously not," said Ouderkirk.
Ahead of us, headlights swung onto the street and came our way. We melted into the vinyl, below the window line.
"I feel like a five-year-old when I do this," Ouderkirk whispered. "It's fun."
"You should try sleigh riding in the jail, sir."
"What's that?"
"I'll tell you later."
I listened to the car approach, saw the headlights wash through the Ford and continue down Raitt Street.
A moment later we all sat back up. Lee's Jaguar was backing out, the gate almost open. The fat gangster stood with her hands on her hips, watching. The two others turned and went inside.
Bernadette swung her car onto the street in a tight reverse turn, then put it into forward gear and sped off. Pearlita watched her. She shook a smoke from a pack in her flannel shirt, used a lighter on it. A moment later the floodlights went off but I could still see her standing in front of the porch, with the cherry of the cigarette slowly growing larger and small larger and smaller. Then the cherry dropped in a little shower of sparks. The door opened and Pearlita went in, the dogs barging ahead of her.
Five minutes later we pulled away from the curb and U-turned, heading out the opposite direction of Lee.
Gaylen and Pearlita, I thought. The Cobra Kings and the Raitt Street Boys. "Since when do street gangs care who runs the county government?"
"They don't," said Birch. "The question isn't who was helping Gaylen, but who hired him."
On the way back to Bamboo 33, all I could think about was Bo Warren and his Mystery Passenger, huddling with John Gaylen in the parking lot.
I told Ouderkirk about sleighriding—rolling down the guard walk Mod F of Men's Central, lying on the mechanics' sled, then sneaking look at what the inmates were doing. He said he wanted to try it and I to him to talk to Sergeant Delano.
Half an hour later I parked three houses down from Gaylen's home. Same faux Swiss window trim, same non-Swiss palms. Same lights inside and on the porch. I half expected to see Bernadette Lee's Jaguar there, but wasn't. I half believed that Lee would have already called him to say that Cao was getting strong enough to wake up and point a finger at him, that Gaylen would be packing up his Mercedes for a long trip.
Neither seemed to be true.
So I leaned my head back and watched.
Forty minutes later the front door opened. Gaylen came out, walked halfway across the yard
and stood under one of the palm trees. He was wearing jeans, no shirt, no shoes. He looked like a guy who ran a lot and lifted weights—ropey muscles but not big ones.
He got something from his pocket and looked down. Both elbows can up but I couldn't see what he had in his hands. Something small and white fluttered to the ground.
Then he looked up at the sky and lit a cigar, rotating the end in the flame of a lighter. He blew a cloud of smoke against the tree trunk.
A girl walked out of the house. Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen—hard to tell. Short, very slender, straight black hair. Black robe cinched tight, bare feet. She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his back. Her black hair fell down across her face. She reached around Gaylen with one hand, took the cigar, drew on it, and reached around him again to put it back.
She took his free hand and pulled him toward the door but he swatted her away. I could hear her quiet laughter.
A few minutes later they went inside. I waited another hour, then turned off the interior lights so they'd stay off when the door was opened. I got out and nudged the door shut with my hip.
I kept to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, then jogged a straight line across to Gaylen's yard. I found the white thing on the grass under the palm tree and cupped it up like you would a butterfly. I hustled back to the sidewalk with long light steps.
Once I got on the freeway I hit the reading light and pulled the white object from my coat pocket.
Pay dirt, just what I'd expected: a Davidoff cigar band cut neatly in two, curved into its original shape.
I wondered what Gaylen had talked to Alex Blazak about in the gun warehouse that night. Wondered what took a half a cigar apiece for them to decide.
You with Alex?
You're with Alex. Laughter. Little shit too scared to show his face, ah?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the morning I sat in my kitchen and arranged the contents of Will's safe-deposit box on the dinette table. Then I rearranged them. Then arranged them again.
The day was warm and I opened the windows to let the breeze come through. The orange tree in my backyard was heavy with fruit and I knew that the sharp sweet smell of citrus was around me as I sat at the table.
But I couldn't smell it. All I could smell was my own human breath, my own human body, and the faint metallic odor of blood. And all I could think about was Alex and Savannah Blazak, Luria Bias and Miguel Domingo. And Will. Always Will. First and foremost, Will, ground zero for everything in my life.
I moved the items around again, trying to put them in some kind order. Order. Reason. Logic. The rational. The understandable. Order--- least a small bit of it—spread on the table before me like some kind talisman against everything else that had happened in the last two weeks
There were seven items. Four of them were personal, and somehow surprising to me, given how commonplace they really were.
The first was a packet of love letters written to him almost four decades ago by a girl named Teresa. She was his high school sweetheart. He hardly told me anything about her. But I did remember him telling me on that young love is the purest. The letters were faded and frayed, very well read.
I fingered them lightly, set them aside, to my right, the side of goodness and love and light.
Next was a black-and-white photograph of Will, age eight or so, kneeling beside a dog. The dog was a mix of some kind, black, with a tongue lolling out of what appeared to be a large smile. Sparky, Will's first dog. I didn't know the dog had meant that much to him.
I propped it up against the bundle of love letters. Love and loyalty go together, I thought.
Then, an envelope containing color photographs of the war. One picture showed the inside of a bar or restaurant, four GI's around a table, four petite Vietnamese women with their arms around the men. Will looked very drunk, and too young to be in a uniform. He was so slender, then, with none of the weight he'd put on as a middle-aged man. I remembered him telling me about his unsuccessful days as a high school athlete, the way he played three sports every year and mostly sat out. Loved the games, but never made varsity.
Another was a picture of Will alone, in a hotel, maybe, with yellow sunlight coming in through the blinds. He was sitting on a bed, leaning forward slightly, naked to the waist. His dog tags had swung out from his chest. A cigarette burned in an ashtray beside him. The expression on his face was the most forlorn I'd ever seen. I'd never seen him look that alone. He hated to be alone. And a few other shots: a buddy smoking a giant joint; a couple of prostitutes hugging each other; an American soldier lying in a tree with his face and one arm blown off. The other arm was wrapped around a branch as if to keep him from falling out.
The last was a snapshot of Will sitting in a Jeep, his Ml6 on his lap. He was looking away from the camera. I noticed how he held the gun, tightly and away from his body, with the muzzle pointed down. Like it was going to strike at him. And I thought of how uncertain Will had always been around firearms, how they always looked wrong in his hands, even when he was a sheriff's deputy. I thought of Will introducing me to the department arms instructor when I was ten, so I could begin learning the basics of safety and marksmanship—things that a thousand other father’s taught their sons on every weekend of the year. Guns, I thought: one of the few things that scared him.
I put the pictures back in the envelope and closed the flap, then slid under the bundle of letters because love is stronger than war.
Next was a small empty turtle shell, painted white with red letter across the carapace. The letters said DEKEY! I looked through the frog’s leg holes, then the rear ones, holding it up to the sunlight coming through the window. Inside, the shell was smooth as the curve of a tablespoon. Will had never told me about the turtle.
I set the small shell behind the love letters, out of my sight. I'd had enough of things that used to be alive and now were not.
Sparky smiled.
The love letters lay intact, safe, well-read.
Item five was a folded sheet of white paper with a mini audiotape inside, and the following notes made in Will's handwriting:
Rup to Millie per B. convers. of 5/02/01:
1/22/01—25
3/14/01—25
4/07/01—35
Windy Ridge see att. tape made 5/12/01
I played the attached tape. There were ten seconds of hiss, then some pleasantries that didn't sound real pleasant. When those were over, this:
GRUFF VOICE, MALE: Okay, Milky, to business. It's the usual spot
CAUTIOUS VOICE, MALE: Got it.
GRUFF: It's better you don't send her.
CAUTIOUS: Let me handle it my way.
GRUFF: Can't tell you how important Thursday is.
CAUTIOUS: Might be some problems with this whole thing.
GRUFF: What in hell would those be?
CAUTIOUS: Basic security. I don’t know. Just a feeling.
GRUFF: The biggest problem would be a red light Thursday.
CAUTIOUS: Don't worry.
GRUFF: I hate it when people tell me that. Always means trouble. Just do your job, Milky. You want to blubber and whine, do it to your wife.
CAUTIOUS: Yeah, yeah. We'll talk.
I listened to it again. I recognized Rupaski's rough old voice. Milky. Millie was Dana Millbrae—Will's sometime friend and sometime foe on the Board of Supervisors. The B of line one was Bridget Andersen, Millbrae's secretary, and one of my father's very secret friends.
The conversation itself had almost certainly been caught by an intercept and recorder installed on Millbrae's office telephone line. I knew about that intercept and recorder because I'd installed them one Saturday while Will lounged in Millbrae's empty reception area, his feet up on Bridget's desk, reading a magazine. Will supplied the intercept device. I didn't know where he got it, though I had an idea. All it took was an electric drill, a couple of brackets and four screws. I mounted a micro-recorder to the back of Millbrae's center desk drawer. I hid the mi
ke in the mass of cables running up through the cable hole on the desktop. Then ran a line to the intercept. Any voice would start the recorder running, and the intercept relayed both parties of the call onto tape. Took about twenty minutes and Will said slick. That's for Bridget, son. You just did a good thing for the Bridge.
That was the last I'd heard about it, until now.
I thought about Bridget, a fortyish, handsome woman who had been Millbrae's secretary for all of his six years as a supervisor. She was extremely shy. Widowed. When I installed that tape recorder back in February of this year, I assumed that Bridget would be the operator, but I had no illusion that the tap was for her benefit and not Will's.
The next item was a letter-sized envelope, unsealed. Inside were two receipts for $10,000 cash donations from Will Trona to the Hillview Home for Children. Will and Ellen Erskine had scratched their signatures on the bottoms.
The last thing on the dinette table was another envelope. This one wasn't sealed either, and I couldn't feel or see anything inside. I opened it and shook out two strips of eight-millimeter-film, each containing twenty frames in sequence. They looked like identical photographs of the same thing: Reverend Daniel and a woman. He had both hands loosely around her neck, thumbs supporting her jaws. He was looking down at her slightly, his face up close. His expression was dreamy, looked like he was getting ready to kiss her, although he may not have been. She looked up at him with her eyes open in an expression of conditional surrender. She was young, black-haired and dark-skinned.
The room they were in looked like one of the hospitality suites above the lounge at the Grub.
I recognized the woman from the newspaper and TV stills: Luria Blas. She had the same big clear eyes as her little brother, Enrique.
I got up from the table and went into the backyard. The sun was getting high and there was a breeze that almost cleaned away the smog.
I sat on a bench by the orange tree and looked at the sky. A squirrel ran along the power line above me and I watched her shadow cross the grass. Then another, smaller one.
Silent Joe Page 21
