“So the question is, if Matthew killed Cornwell and planted the drugs, how did he get the drugs?”
We looked at one another and said in unison, “Pete.”
“Pete Castillo would have no problem buying meth in this town.”
“And if Pete, it would be Matthew who would have access, not Cornwell or Faith.”
“Which supports your theory that Thornton killed Cornwell.”
I nodded. “But it’s just a theory. Know of anyone who could verify that Pete bought meth? It would be a way to test the theory further.”
Sampson rubbed his big hands together and pushed his empty glass aside. “This is dangerous business.”
“I know. But you know you can trust me.”
I was glad when he said, “Yes, I do know that.” Then he added, “But others do not. I would need to make some phone calls.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“You would have to be very discrete.”
“I know.”
He sat there, cracking his knuckles. It was an ominous sound. His hands were the size of baseball mitts. “This better not blow up in my face.”
“I can’t promise. But I’ll be careful.”
He glanced down at my broken finger and shook his head. “Trouble follows you.”
We sat for a few minutes without speaking. Some celebrity chef on the television was adding a pound of cheese to a gloppy white pasta dish that already looked like it could put you into cardiac arrest. Big Red stared at the screen, transfixed.
Sampson threw two twenties on the bar and stood up. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
30
True to his word, Sampson called the evening of our chat at Cactus Sam’s. He gave me a cell number and a name, that was it. No explanations, no warnings. He was trusting me not to get “Angel” pissed off at him. I decided to call the number immediately before I had too much time to think about it. This was Desert Rock, not L.A., but that didn’t necessarily mean that a major drug dealer here was any less scary.
Unfortunately, Angel would not deal with me over the phone. He insisted on me coming to his house. I would have thought he would want the anonymity of a phone call. Why risk meeting me? I would know who he was, where he lived. Then again, he would know who I was, what I looked like, what I drove. With my usual acumen, I grasped his reasoning. Great. If I wanted to get my questions answered, I was going to have to meet this man face to face—and be forever known to him.
Because I can be persistent and determined (or, as my mother used to say, pig-headed and foolhardy), I agreed to meet Angel on his terms. He gave me the address, we agreed on a time. I decided not to be intimidated by a small-town drug pusher. It was just a couple of questions, a few minutes out of my day. No big deal.
This way of thinking was all fine and good while sitting in my safe home on Lupine Avenue. It didn’t hold up that well when I pulled up in front of Angel’s dump out on Tamarisk Road, a dirt track bordered by the occasional ancient trailer and run-down shack. As I sat in my car in front of his house, engine running, I remembered: Bernard Cornwell’s head was blown away at close range, and the sheriff’s department thought a drug dealer did it. I had scoffed at this theory and had arranged to meet Angel precisely so I could disprove it. But now that I was all alone out here, with black clouds scudding across the sky and wind rattling the dead trees in Angel’s yard, the drug theory didn’t seem as implausible.
I gave my head a good shake. This was ridiculous. I was letting my emotions rule my brain—again. Drug dealers didn’t go around killing people with abandon. Straight-laced, otherwise law-abiding citizens bought drugs all the time without incurring harm. What was wrong with me? Disgusted, I turned off the ignition.
The house was yellow but just barely, most of the paint chipped and peeling from too many years under the relentless desert sun. A chain link fence surrounded the yard, which was choked with tumbleweeds and fast food bags and other detritus that desert winds pile up in neglected places. A shed at the side of the house had collapsed and was now just a pile of rafters and asphalt shingles. A couple of old metal trashcans lay buckled and rusting near the front porch. Lovely.
I sighed and got out of the car.
I was instantly accosted by a frigid wind and the snarling barks of two brindle pit bulls that galloped out from under the house to meet me. I stood immobile as the dogs tore across the yard and slammed into the bent metal gate. I held my breath to see if the gate would hold. It did, my signal to start breathing again. I glanced around the “neighborhood.” The nearest house, a place no more prosperous than this one, was a quarter mile away. The rest was open desert. I could be raped and murdered out here, and no one would hear my screams.
The dogs stared at me with alien amber eyes, their bodies exploding off the ground every time they barked. They had announced my presence in no uncertain terms, and I knew I was being watched by those inside the house. I imagined a bevy of hoodlums inside, training their AK-47s at me through the shredded draperies. The dogs stood their ground, bodies taut, eyes never leaving my face. I just knew they had rabies.
And I thought, Why am I doing this? I’m not a cop or even a private investigator. I’m just a writer with a knack for getting involved in messes that were none of my business. I should just get back in the car, drive away, let Trent and his buddies handle the whole thing. But it made me mad to feel scared. Sampson wouldn’t have put me in touch with this guy if he thought he’d kill me.
Would he?
I was about to find out. The battered front door opened and a lanky Hispanic man strolled calmly through it. He stood at the edge of the porch, crossed his arms, and stared at me. He didn’t look scary or cruel—or friendly, for that matter. His face was without expression. He merely observed me as a scientist would watch an insect.
“You going to stand there all day?” He asked over the barking, his voice loud but neutral.
I glanced at the dogs and stood rooted to the spot. “I’m Sam Larkin,” I hollered.
“I know,” he said, tone calm, nearly without inflexion. He waited.
I pointed to the dogs. “Do they bite?” Duh, Sam, of course they bite, that’s why he has the mangy beasts!
The man on the porch said, “Only if I tell them to.”
Such a comfort. With a shaky hand I opened the gate latch and murmured, “Nice doggies.”
Both dogs rumbled and vibrated as they circled around my legs.
“Laertes! Macduff!” the man on the porch said calmly but emphatically.
The dogs hushed immediately and ran back toward the house with tails wagging. Laertes? Macduff? I’d have expected Scar and Spike. I looked at the man as he bent down to pet his wiggling, slobbering pets. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and thin, with long black hair tied in a ponytail that ran down his back. His feet were bare beneath his jeans, and he wore glasses with sleek black frames. He looked like a poet, and in some odd way he seemed familiar. Could this possibly be Angel?
I wobbled my way up the cracked walkway, eyes never leaving the dogs. With eyes trained on the beasts, I didn’t watch where I placed my feet. My toe hit a crack in the sidewalk and I stumbled forward, losing my balance, heading face first toward the pavement. I did one of those crazy windmill things and got things righted pretty fast, but I could feel the red heat in my face. I swear the dogs laughed at me, but the man betrayed no emotion whatsoever. I finally arrived at the porch safely and said, “Angel?”
He nodded once and gestured me into the house. “Won’t you come in?”
I took one last glance at the surrounding neighborhood but saw no one. It was now or never.
I went inside.
Once in, I looked around, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. I expected to see junkies passed out in the corners, drug paraphernalia strewn about, beer cans and dirty paper plates littering cheap, soiled carpet. I thought the house would be cold and filthy and smell of offal. I was an idiot.
In fact, the place was immac
ulate and quite pleasant. The hardwood floors in the living room gleamed, and I could see real slate on the kitchen floor. The air was pleasantly warm and smelled of something spicy cooking in the oven. The walls were painted taupe and were decorated with black-framed playbills, most of which were of Shakespearean productions. The exterior of Angel’s house was just a front; this was the man’s true reflection.
Angel pointed to one of the matching leather chairs that flanked the sofa. “Have a seat,” he said. I sat down on the edge of the cool, slick leather, holding my purse with a death grip.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked. For the first time I noticed a porcelain tea set, hand-painted with tiny pink flowers, on the coffee table.
I nodded dully, completely disoriented by his manners, his house, and his things.
“Care for milk and sugar? Lemon?”
I actually hate tea. So naturally I said, “Milk and sugar, please.” What couldn’t be improved with the addition of crap that isn’t good for you?
He fixed my tea and handed me the cup and saucer. I had to release the purse to take it, which felt like letting go of a lifeline. I watched Angel as he took a sip of tea. “So,” he said, “you have some questions.” He voice was so toneless, it was hypnotic.
“Yes. I’ve been looking into Pete Castillo’s disappearance.”
At the mention of Pete’s name, I saw the first crack of emotion. It wasn’t much, just a flash of his eyes, a slight tensing of his body. I could have imagined it, but I don’t think so. His reaction made my first question seem superfluous. But I asked it anyway. “Did you know Pete?”
He drank more tea, crossed his legs. “Why do you want to know?”
He wasn’t going to make this easy. I took a sip of the nasty brew to build up our rapport and found that with enhancements, the stuff wasn’t bad. “It’s kind of a long story.”
His emotionless eyes stayed fixed on my face. “Tell it.” The words didn’t come out bossy, but I recognized it as an order.
So I told him. “Pete disappeared and is presumed dead. Less than three weeks later Bernard Cornwell, a therapist, was shot in the head, and drugs were found with his body. I believe the two murders are connected. The common thread is a man named Matthew Thornton. Matthew was a patient of Cornwell, who claimed to have “cured” Matthew of being gay. Despite this so-called conversion, Matthew met Pete during a protest and, I think, fell in love with him. And by the way, Matthew is married. If either Cornwell or Matthew’s wife Faith found out about Matthew’s relationship with Pete, either would have a good reason to want Pete dead. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s department is fixated on the drugs found with Cornwell’s body. They assume he was killed in a drug deal. That’s why I’m here. I want to disprove their theory.”
Angel nodded. If he found any of this confusing or surprising, he didn’t give it away. In fact, I got the impression that he knew it all already. He placed his empty tea cup back in its saucer and sat back. He pushed up the sleeves of his black sweater, revealing thin arms covered in fine black hair. What he said next took me by complete surprise. “When Pete ‘disappeared,’ as you put it, I immediately thought of his brother, Raul. Nasty character. No friend to Pete.”
So Angel did know Pete. And as more than a customer, it seemed. He knew that Pete had disappeared. He knew that Raul bullied and brutalized Pete. I nodded. “Pete’s sister, Gabby, had the same thought. I checked it out for her. No dice. ‘Nasty character’ that Raul is, he didn’t kill Pete.”
Angel had become very attentive. “You confirmed this?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, studying me, perhaps wondering how I had done this and if he should believe me. He poured more tea into his cup. “Then he was telling me the truth. Good, then I can put that to rest.”
“You talked to Raul about Pete’s disappearance?”
“Yes, we ‘talked’ as you put it. He found it quite unpleasant, I’m sure.”
Angel probably stuck an Uzi up Raul’s nose. Then I finally got it. No wonder Angel seemed familiar. “You were in some of the high school photos of Pete and his friends that Gabby showed me. I’m betting you were the guy in the bar who kept Raul from killing Pete three weeks ago.”
He tilted his head in affirmation. “Which is why I feel a potent interest in these theories of yours.”
The last thing I wanted was for Angel to gather up a bunch of thugs and ambush Matthew and Faith in their home. I was only spinning theories, after all. We already had two people dead, we surely didn’t need more. I said, “I appreciate how much you cared about Pete. He was lucky to count you as a friend. I hope you’ll trust me when I say I will find out who did this to him. You could help by answering a couple more questions.”
A tiny smile raised the corners of his mouth. He got it that I was asking him to back off. “Go ahead and ask.”
“Did you ever sell drugs to Bernard Cornwell?”
The wary look came back. He didn’t appreciate the directness about his illegal activities. But I could see the wheels turning. He knew who I was. He knew where he could find me if I screwed up. After weighing this for ten seconds, he said, “No. I would never have entered into a business relationship with someone who hurt my customer base. He was a despicable excuse for a human being.”
He seemed perplexingly protective of his customers. Were they all gay men? Was Angel gay?
“To your knowledge, did Cornwell obtain drugs from anyone else?”
“No. I find the likelihood of that quite small. He would not have been trusted.”
If Cornwell didn’t use drugs or even have access to them, obviously someone planted the meth in Cornwell’s car. Score one for my team. “Okay. What about Matthew Thornton? Did you sell him drugs?”
“No. Same issue.”
“Could he have gotten drugs from someone else?”
Angel ran a fine-boned hand across his jaw. He sighed, another bit of emotion escaping. “Pete, perhaps.”
Right. Angel would have had no qualms about supplying Pete. And Pete could easily have shared his stash with Matthew. “Do you know Faith Thornton, Matthew’s wife?” I added, just to cover the bases.
“Just that she exists.”
I set my teacup down on its saucer and placed them both on the coffee table. I had asked my questions. It was time to go.
Angel read my signs and stood up, ready to show me to the door like a gentleman. “Are you familiar with Hamlet?” He asked, looking down at me.
I glanced up at a playbill for a Hamlet production at the Old Globe Theater in San Diego. “Of course.”
“Then you know that not everyone is cut out for avenging a death.”
He was questioning my credentials to find Pete’s killer. I stood up, nodded at the playbill. “You know how the play ends. All those bodies. We already have two, don’t we? I would rather hope not to have any more.”
The tiny smile came back, but it faded quickly. In its place came a look of cold black anger. “Then let’s let Hamlet have a bit more time. But I assure you, I do not subscribe to the platitude that ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’”
The look in his eyes made my palms sweat. I made my way to the door, glad to have my questions answered but feeling a sense of having crossed a line. I had given Angel two names, Matthew and Faith Thornton, who, for all I knew, were completely innocent. I was now morally obligated to either clear them or implicate one or both of them as a killer. Then get to Trent before Angel took care of it.
“Well, thanks for seeing me,” I said as I got to the front door. When I looked back toward Angel, I caught a glimpse of two figures in my peripheral vision. Two huge men with necks the size of pilasters leaned on either side of the wide arched doorway leading to the kitchen. How long had they been standing there, watching us? I felt cold shivers run up and down my body.
Angel reached around me and opened the front door. “If you need help with your investigation,” he said, but didn’t finish. We both knew what he was offer
ing.
I smiled weakly as I passed through the doorway. His dogs rushed up to greet their master, nearly bowling me over. “Good doggies,” I muttered again as I dodged their muscled bodies. I stepped off the porch and plunged into the cold wind, eager to get to my car. I knew the dogs were still with Angel and that his goons were still inside, but the sense of danger behind me felt overpowering. I didn’t run to the car, but I wanted to.
Once in the safe confines of my Corolla, I ran a tape of the last fifteen minutes in my head. I had been taken in by Angel’s manners, intelligence, and taste. I had respected his protectiveness of Pete, his loyalty to his customers. Yet despite these reassuring thoughts, fear lurked in the background. Why had I so readily believed in Angel’s innocence? Partly because Sampson had put me in touch with him. I took that to mean Sampson didn’t think Angel would hurt me if I behaved myself. But what did Sampson really know about the guy? It’s not like they were lifelong friends who knew everything about one another. Angel was Sampson’s drug source—that was all. Angel actually looked good for Cornwell’s murder. I could easily see him killing the therapist to avenge Pete’s death. Yet Angel truly seemed to think that Pete’s killer was still out there, alive and well.
I turned on the ignition. I could feel the circle tightening on the case and felt a scary kind of urgency to wrap it up. Two people were already dead. This was the final act, the time in the play where all the events set in motion come to their logical conclusion.
I hoped it wouldn’t be a bloodbath.
31
I lost no time in going to see Matthew and Faith. There were so many other things that needed my attention—my book had languished, the house needed cleaning, I had errands to run—but these would have to wait. While driving away from Angel’s house earlier in the day, I had seriously considered handing my information over to Trent and washing my hands of the affair. I was feeling unnerved, a bit scared, really. But I couldn’t tell Trent about Angel. For one thing, I had promised Sampson that I would keep his contact secret. For another thing, Angel might kill me. I had set these particular wheels in motion, so this was mine to finish.
Half Life (A Sam Larkin Mystery) Page 21
