Charles Willeford - New Hope For The Dead
Page 12
"Why not?"
"He thought if he fastened the belt, people would think he was afraid. He finally fastened it when the stewardess told him the captain used his, too. But for a while there, they were radioing for clearance to taxi back to the terminal."
Hoke smiled, shook his head, and took out his cigarettes.
"But he's my father, Hoke. He's made up his mind, you see, and now he won't change it. Maybe, eventually, when he gets used to the idea, he might change it, but right now he's angry and bitter. He thinks I've betrayed and disgraced him, which I guess I have, but right now I need my checkbook, weapon, badge, and car."
"He knows, doesn't he, that a cop's supposed to have his--her weapon with her at all times?"
"Of course he knows that, but at the moment he isn't thinking rationally. Later on, after my mother works on him, he'll calm down a little, but it'll never be the same between us again." She shook her head. "Don't worry. I'm not going to cry again."
"What did you do to him? You don't have to tell me, of course."
"I'm pregnant, Hoke. Seven weeks. I've known for a week now, and this morning I told my mother. I -told- her not to say anything to him, but I should've known better. She tells him everything."
Hoke nodded and lit a Kool. "That explains why you started crying when I was talking to Captain Morrow in his room. You didn't know his wife was pregnant when he killed her--"
"Of course I knew!" Ellita widened her eyes. "I read the file. I'm not that unprofessional, Hoke. I was crying out of frustration because of the damned battery on the tape recorder..."
Hoke saw that he had touched a nerve. He decided to try to make Ellita feel better about having told her mother.
"You couldn't hide a pregnancy from your father, Ellita. He'd've found out sooner or later, unless you got an abortion. But you've still got plenty of time for that."
"I can't get an abortion, Hoke. A baby's got a living soul."
"Soul or no soul, a lot of women do. What's the father got to say about it?"
"The father doesn't know about the baby. He doesn't even know my last name. I don't know his last name either, but I can find out easily enough. His first name's Bruce. That's all I know right now."
Hoke smoked his Kool and sat back. He didn't have to ask any more questions. She was going to tell him about it now anyway, whether he wanted to hear it or not.
"I didn't date Bruce, Hoke. It was just one of those things that happens. All I ever do, it seems, is work, go home, sleep, and then pull my shift again. I should've moved out and got my own apartment years ago. But Cuban girls don't do things like that, because we can't give our parents a valid reason. How come, your parents want to know, you want to rent an apartment and be lonely, and go to all that expense, when you can live comfortably at home? It makes no sense to them for an unmarried girl to leave home. With a son it's a little different, but even then they don't like it. But it didn't make any sense to me either, economically. I'm very comfortable at home. I pay the rent on the house, but my parents pay for everything else--utilities and food. I've got my own bedroom, my own TV set and stereo. My mother works part-time in Hialeah, at the Golden Thread garment factory. My father's with Triple-A Security. He's not just a security guard, either. He's in personnel and hires all the Latin guards because he's more or less bilingual."
"He has a little English, you mean."
"Enough. Much more than my mother. We speak Spanish at home. What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I somehow got into a rut, a comfortable rut. But for the last two years, ever since my thirtieth birthday, I felt that life was passing me by. It was ridiculous to be a thirty-year-old virgin, and yet I never met anyone I liked, or who liked me well enough to--well, to pressure me. And it didn't help that I had to be home by ten-thirty when I did go out."
"You're kidding. Ten-thirty?"
"You don't know Cuban fathers. It's his house and his rules, I'm telling you."
"But you pay the rent--"
"That doesn't matter. What else would I do with my money--living at home? With three incomes, even though my mother just does piecework, there's plenty of money for whatever we need. My mother cooks and cleans the house, and I don't do much of anything. I studied hard at Miami-Dade. Except for the one F I got in philosophy, I had straight As."
"I know. I checked your records. And so, one night, you went out, and--"
"That's right. On a Friday night, which is the big night in Coconut Grove, not Saturday--"
"I know, Ellita. If you don't get something lined up on Friday night, you don't have anyone for the weekend."
"I went to the Taurus, and it was jammed. I met Bruce in the bar. He bought me a drink, and then I bought him one. He was nice-looking. Blue eyes. He wore a suit and tie. A detail man for a pharmaceutical firm, he said. We went to his apartment instead of getting a third drink. This wasn't any Silhouette romance, Hoke. We went straight at it, Bruce because that's what he does on Friday nights, and me because I wanted to have the experience. It was a little exciting, I guess, but not what I expected."
"And because you were drunk you didn't take any precautions."
"I wasn't drunk, Hoke. I wasn't even high. Bruce had a vasectomy, he told inc. I didn't believe him at first, and then he showed me the two little scars on his balls."
"On his scrotum, you mean."
"On his scrotum, right." She managed a little laugh. "We did it twice. Then I took a shower in his apartment, got dressed, and I was still home before ten-thirty. Bruce was very nice, a lot younger than me, about twenty-five, I'd say."
"But a liar."
"I guess so. Now. But he did have those two little scars. Maybe he had the operation and it didn't take."
"More likely, he didn't want to wear a raincoat. I can find out for you. Remember where he lives?"
She nodded. "I know where he lives, but I don't want to see him again. I don't want him to know I'm pregnant. I'll just go ahead and have my baby and take care of it. But right now I'm scared. I've never been away from home overnight before by myself, can you believe that? And I don't have my gun, my badge, my checkbook, or my car. I'll need my clothes, too."
Hoke sat for a moment, thinking. Then he put the car in gear.
"All right, let's go, Ellita. I'll get your stuff for you."
12
Ellita didn't want her parents or neighbors to see her, so Hoke parked a block away from the Sanchez residence and walked the rest of the way to the house. It was much bigger than Hoke had expected, a three-bedroom concrete-blockand-stucco house with a flat, white gravel roof and an attached garage. The front lawn was freshly mown, and there were beds of blue delphiniums on both sides of the front porch. Ellita's brown Honda Civic was parked in the driveway. Old man Sanchez probably kept his own car in the garage. His house; his rules.
Hoke opened the gate in the white picket fence and glanced curiously at the shrine to Santa Barbara in the yard. The shrine was fashioned of oolite boulders and mortar; in the recess there was a blue vase of daisies and ferns at the feet of the not quite life-sized plaster statue of Santa Barbara.
The front door opened before Hoke could ring the bell. Mrs. Sanchez waited in the doorway. If she had been crying, as Ellita claimed, she didn't look like it. She was a handsome woman, about two inches shorter than Ellita, and her black hair was streaked with gray. Her features were delicate, and she had brown luminous eyes.
"I'm Sergeant Moseley, Mrs. Sanchez. I've come to pick up some of Ellita's things."
"Come in, Sergeant." Mrs. Sanchez stepped back. "Ellita's told us a lot about you."
Hoke entered the living room. There was a bright yellow velvet couch against the wall; a matching easy chair was in one corner, and there was an abundance of black wooden furniture, carved with pear and leaf patterns, in both the living room and dining room. The wall-to-wall carpeting was pale blue. Dominating the living room, however, was a life-size plaster statue of St. Lazarus in front of the fireplace. A fireplace in Miami was rarely if ever u
sed, so the Sanchezes had probably decided that St. Lazarus was a better decorating solution than a pot of tropical plants. On the carpeting surrounding the statue, and beneath the saint's outstretched, imploring hand, there were dozens of coins, most of them quarters. It took eight quarters to park and four more quarters to ride the Metrorail, so St. Lazarus would be a good candidate as the patron saint of Metrorail, Hoke thought.
"Is Mr. Sanchez at home? I'd like to talk with him."
Mrs. Sanchez pursed her lips and shook her head. "He's in his room. This is not a good time, Sergeant. This is a very -bad- time."
"I understand. But tell him I'd like to talk to him later. Ellita's my partner, you know, and we think a lot of her in the department. And in the division. You should be very proud of your daughter, Mrs. Sanchez. I've got two daughters of my own, and I'd be happy if they turned out as well as Ellita."
"Thank you." She touched his arm. "I'll show you Ellita's room."
Ellita's room was the master bedroom at the back of the house, and on the right of the corridor. She had her own bathroom, too. Her parents, being so old, probably wanted their own separate, if smaller, bedrooms, and wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom. There were three sets of curtains on the bedroom windows. In addition to the layered curtains, there were heavy crimson draperies. The unmade double bed was layered with pink sheets, a blanket, a comforter, and a rose bedspread spaced with embroidered dark red roses. There were four pillows on the bed, and a reading lamp was clamped to an ornately carved black walnut headboard. The color TV was on a wheeled cart, so Ellita could watch it from the bed, or from the red velvet upholstered La-Z-Boy. There was an oil painting of the Virgin in a gilt frame above the vanity table, with a lighted votive candle on a shelf below the painting. There was a framed color poster of Julio Iglesias on the opposite wall. The stereo, in a blond wooden cabinet, was directly beneath Julio's poster.
Mrs. Sanchez slid back the louvered doors to the walk-in closet. "Her clothes are here."
"I'll need her purse, too. It's important that she has her ID, badge, and weapon. And her checkbook."
Mrs. Sanchez brought Ellita's purse from the dresser. The.38 and ID with the badge were in the purse, and so were Ellita's keys, checkbook, and wallet. There was a corner desk, and Hoke looked through the drawers. Ellita had a NOW checking account, as well as a regular checking account, so he added this checkbook to the purse. He also found two white passbooks; they were two $10,000 Certificates of Deposit. She would need them, too. He picked up Ellita's gold wristwatch from the bedside table, and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
"Does she have a suitcase?" Hoke asked. "Maybe you can help me pick out some clothes?"
"There's a box in the garage." Mrs. Sanchez hurried out of the room.
Hoke took two cream-colored silk blouses from the closet, the kind with long sleeves, and tossed them on the bed. He removed a black skirt and a red skirt from the closet, and added them to the blouses. That's all Ellita would need for a couple of days. In midsummer, she wouldn't need any jackets or sweaters. He went through her dresser, however, and picked out a purple silk nightgown, two pairs of black silk panties, and two brassieres. He took a peek at the size, 38-C. He added a jar of Eucerin, a toothbrush, and a tube of Colgate to the pile, but he did not include the atomizer of Shalimar or Ellita's bottle of musk. She was wearing enough perfume already, he thought, to last her for a week. Stockings, she would need stockings. There was a pair of pantyhose drying in the bathroom. He tossed the pantyhose on the pile, and then couldn't think of anything else.
Mrs. Sanchez returned with a cardboard box that had once held a dozen boxes of Tide.
"Ellita has a train case," she said. While Hoke packed the clothing into the cardboard box, Mrs. Sanchez got the train case, a red-and-blue plaid one, down from the closet shelf and packed it with cosmetics and vials from the vanity table, including the Shalimar and the musk and a plastic tree that held a dozen pairs of earrings.
"I guess this'll do for a few days," Hoke said, "but if you would pack the rest of Ellita's stuff, she can come by for it one day when Mr. Sanchez isn't home."
Mrs. Sanchez started to cry. She ran into Ellita's bathroom and closed the door.
Hoke decided not to wait for her to come out. He put the box under his left arm and carried the train case in his right hand as he walked down the corridor to the living room.
Mr. Sanchez, a short, stocky man with black hair and a gray mustache, wearing green poplin wash pants and a white long-sleeved -guayabera-, was standing in front of St. Lazarus. His short arms were folded across his chest, and he stared at Hoke without expression.
"Mr. Sanchez? I'm Sergeant Moseley, your daughter's partner."
"I have no daughter." Keeping his arms crossed, Mr. Sanchez turned his back on Hoke and faced the statue.
"In that case, we have nothing to talk about."
Hoke left the house, put the box and the train case down beside the Honda Civic, dug the keys out of the purse, and unlocked the car. He put the box, purse, and case on the back seat, then shoved the front seat back as far as it would go before maneuvering himself into the driver's seat.
He drove down the block and parked behind his Pontiac. Ellita was standing on the curb. Hoke handed her the keys and her wristwatch after he got out of the car.
"What do you want to do now?"
"I don't know," she said. "I guess I should find a motel or something, and then look around for an apartment."
"Don't you have a girl friend or a cousin or someone who can put you up for a few days?"
"I've got some girl friends, but they live at home too. Because of the situation, their parents wouldn't want them to get involved. The same for relatives--even more--because of my father, you see."
"Your father's a fucking asshole."
"Please, don't say that, Sergeant Moseley. You just don't understand him, that's all."
"I don't want to understand him. He wouldn't even talk to me, for Christ's sake. What's more natural than a woman getting pregnant? That's what women -do!-"
"My mother'll have the priest talk to him. That might help some. But I doubt it."
"Jesus!" Hoke said, laughing. "I forgot all about the girls. They're still down at the station, and I was going to suggest that we have lunch and discuss what you should do!"
Hoke told Ellita about his daughters, about how they had arrived in the middle of the night.
"Why not stay at the Eldorado with us over the weekend?" he said finally. "By Monday you can phone your mother and see how your father feels about things. Maybe by Monday he'll want you back, once he realizes that he'll be stuck for the house rent."
"No, he won't. He knows I'll continue to pay the rent."
"Even after he threw you out?"
Ellita nodded. "My mother lives there, too, you know."
"How much do you pay?"
"Five-fifty a month."
"You can rent a damned nice one-bedroom apartment for that much--already furnished."
She shook her head. "Does the Eldorado have any empty rooms?"
"Plenty. You know where it is. Drive on over, and I'll meet you in the lobby after I pick up the girls. But don't sign in--I'll negotiate a deal for you."
Hoke got into his car and let Ellita drive away first before he switched on the engine and the air conditioner.
He didn't understand women at all, he decided. He had considered Ellita Sanchez a mature, responsible woman, and he had discovered in her a young, frightened child, in some things no more grown-up emotionally than his own teenage daughters. But she was his partner, so he would have to look after her until she decided what she wanted to do.
And Hoke had other things on his mind. He wanted to see Loretta Hickey sometime this afternoon. There were only a couple of loose ends to tie up on Jerry Hickey's OD, and then he was almost certain he could get something on with Loretta. He could tell when a woman was coming on to him, and it wouldn't take much effort on his part to get Loretta bedded.
13
Slater and the two girls were at the lieutenant's desk. The executive officer was showing them slides of homicide victims on a viewer he had set up. Some of the slides were in color and others were in black and white, but the photos were graphically clear on the lighted, eight-by-ten-inch glass screen.
"I've been showing the girls some pictures, Hoke," Slater said. "Explaining some cases. You worked on the Merkle shotgun case, didn't you? The one we called the 'Laura' case because her face was unrecognizable?"
"That was Quevedo's case," Hoke said, "but I did some legwork for him. I think we all did. They caught the perp when he tried to sell the gold chain. It was a driveway killing, girls. This guy followed Mrs. Merkle home from the supermarket because she was wearing a heavy gold chain around her neck. He shot her for the chain and about forty bucks worth of groceries. Any woman who wears a gold chain is asking for it in Miami. And if she wears it every day, she can count on somebody snatching it eventually. But this guy was a crazy. He didn't have to kill her. You girls don't wear neck chains, do you?"
Sue Ellen and Aileen, still staring wide-eyed at the gory face on the screen, shook their heads.
"Don't do it, girls," Slater said. "They usually work in pairs, driving around town till they spot someone. Then one guy jumps out, snatches the purse and chain, gets back in the car, and they drive off. They're hard to catch because the woman usually gets hysterical and can't remember, half the time, whether the perps were black or white. Our problem with Mrs. Merkle was that even though we knew who she was, we couldn't prove it for a while. There were no fingerprints of hers on file either, so we couldn't get an ID. She was unrecognizable, as you can plainly see, and we were trying to identify her from an oil painting--a portrait--instead of a photo. But the people who knew her said the painting didn't look like her, and they wouldn't give us a positive ID. That's why we called it the 'Laura' case, from the old movie with Clifton Webb. It was a pretty good movie, too. If it comes back on late TV some night, you girls oughta see it."