The man shook his hand. “Yes, I am.”
“I was admiring the Hilux. Is this yours?”
“Yeah. I bought it recently off eBay for $500.”
“One-point-five engine, right?”
“Yeah, they apparently didn’t make the one-point-six in America until later. I know it doesn’t look like much but it runs real good. The kid who sold it to me said his grandfather bought it when it was new. It doesn’t have a lot of miles on it for as old as it is.” Elliot walked up to the side of the pickup and ran his hand along the primer. “He said his grandpa saw some spots where the paint was thin, so he used white house paint to protect the metal. I removed most of the white paint. I’m hoping at some point I’ll be able to restore it, but for now it’s a work truck.”
“You got yourself a good deal.”
“That’s what I hear. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Leanne Johnson. You may know that her children were removed from her custody. I’m the private detective for the attorney who’s representing the children.”
“I heard Cole was missing. Have they found him yet?”
“I’m afraid not, but what I’m trying to establish is something very specific and I think you can help.”
“What’s that?” Elliot asked. He took a step to the left. “Would you mind if we go into the office? Then I can hear the phone if it rings. With this economy I’ve had to cut back on office help.”
“No problem.” JP followed him up the steps to a small office on the end of an unpainted building. The building looked steady enough. It was warm inside and the relatively new paneling on the walls gave it a clean look. “Leanne Johnson claims she got chicken feet from you for food. Is that correct?” Elliot hesitated and JP continued. “It’s important that we know the truth. The Department of Social Services thinks she’s performing some kind of satanic rituals because of the chicken feet.”
“She did get them from me. I gave them to her because I knew she and the kids were hungry. I don’t know for sure what she does with them, but as far as I know she uses them for food. She didn’t come here asking for them.”
“What did she ask for?” JP asked.
“She asked for the cheapest meat I had. I mostly have the chickens for eggs. I sell a few chickens when they stop laying or I eat them myself. I don’t eat the feet and I don’t like the gizzards or liver, so I give it all to her whenever I butcher a chicken. I certainly didn’t expect it to cause her problems.”
“Did you ever sell her any goat or give her any goat blood?”
Elliot looked directly at JP. His forehead wrinkled. “I didn’t give her any blood. I sold her some goat meat, but I told her it was beef. I didn’t think she’d know the difference.”
“She didn’t, but DSS had the blood tested.”
“I never meant to cause any harm. I sold it to her real cheap. The kids were hungry and I was afraid they wouldn’t want it if they knew it was goat.”
“It’s not your fault. You were just trying to help someone in need.” JP smiled at him. “Just one more thing. Has anyone from DSS been here to ask you about this?”
Elliot shook his head. “No one has talked to me.”
JP pushed his hat up slightly with his index finger and nodded his head. “Please just tell them the truth if they come asking.”
From the chicken farm, JP drove south on Interstate 15 to see his techie friend in Poway, where he had duplicates made of Apollo’s DVD. He left one copy behind so his friend could try to enhance the portly man’s face or anything else that might help identify him.
Then he drove straight up Highway 67 to Ramona. JP liked this small town. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of the livestock as he approached. It was the closest he would get to Texas living. Maybe one day he’d find a ranch for himself in this area. Before he reached the main part of town, which consisted of a few blocks, he turned left on a dirt road, past a row of about thirty mailboxes. He wound around for half a mile until he reached a house that was situated on his left in a clearing. A new metal garage, at least twice the size of the house, stood behind it. The yard contained a half dozen old cars in different states of disrepair.
JP drove around the house and pulled up in front of the garage. As he exited the car with the disc, he heard a loud banging noise. His friend stopped pounding when JP walked in. “Hi, Skip.”
“Nice to see you, buddy,” Skip said, as he pushed his goggles up to the top of his head with his left hand and reached out his right to shake hands.
JP looked around at the four-bay garage. One of the bays had a hoist hanging from the ceiling and three of the bays were filled with old cars—a 1956 Thunderbird, a 1952 Plymouth, and a 1938 Ford Club Cabriolet Convertible. “Whoa, that’s a beauty. Is it yours?” JP asked, as he approached the Ford.
“I wish. But it’s fun working on it, anyway. I can’t wait to see it when it’s completely restored. It belongs to a new collector, some trust fund baby.”
“Do you know most of the collectors in the San Diego area?”
“I know most of the collectors in southern California, at least the ones that have been around a while.” Skip took off his gloves and walked toward his desk at the end of the garage. “Show me what you have.”
JP followed him to the machine, put in the disc, and fast forwarded to the frame with the old car. “I need to know what kind of car this is and anything else you can tell me about it.”
“It’s a Plymouth Special DeLuxe four-door sedan, likely a 1948. Very few changes took place on these cars from forty-six through the beginning of forty-nine because of the war. The changes came out around March of forty-nine. Ford and Chevy had already come out with their new styles, but Plymouth didn’t bring theirs on the market until the spring. Anyway, this has the old grill and front lines so it was before 1949 for sure.”
“Do you have any idea who owns one around here?”
“Most of the Plymouths that I’m aware of are from the early forties or the fifties, like this one over here.” He pointed to the second bay. “There was a collector years ago who had every old Chrysler product ever made in the US. He lived in Fontana, and when he died I think some of the cars were placed in the Ro-Val Museum in Fontana.”
“I’ve never heard of that museum.”
“It’s been closed for many years. I believe the cars were sold to Bill Harrah, the founder of Harrah’s Casinos, who had them on display in his casinos. When he died they were going to sell them at auction, but the people of Las Vegas fought to keep them and they were ultimately donated by Harrah’s estate. A new automobile museum was established for them in Las Vegas.”
“You’re just smarter than a circus dog,” JP said, smiling.
“I couldn’t tell you how many of the Chryslers ended up in Las Vegas or if any of them did for sure.”
“Do you know the name of the man who had the collection in Fontana?”
Skip looked pensive. “It was Craven, or Cravitt, or Caret, something like that. I don’t know, man. I’m digging deep here.”
“Thanks, Skip. You’ve been a big help.”
“I do know the collector was a doctor. A bigwig with Kaiser, I think.”
28
Early Saturday evening before dark found Sabre at the park searching once again for Cole. She had been out earlier in the day, as she had every day since he was missing. She carried a bag of groceries with her in case she met Mama T. Sometimes she’d stop at a fast food restaurant and pick up a bag of one-dollar burgers. Lately, she had been trying to bring healthier food with more fruits and vegetables. Today she brought a loaf of bread, a large jar of peanut butter, and some jelly.
Sabre walked along the park showing Cole’s photo to everyone she met. Some people thought they may have seen him, but no one had any definite or helpful responses. About three-quarters of the way through the park, she spotted Mama T at a trash can working her usual “turn garbage into food” magic.
“Mama T,” Sabre called
as she approached her.
Mama T turned around quickly. She appeared more nervous than usual. “Uh,” Mama T said.
“It’s just me. Sabre. Are you okay?”
Mama T frowned and continued to methodically fish bags and cans out of the trash can.
Sabre held the photo of Cole up in front of her face as she had done so many times before. “Have you seen this boy, Cole, today?”
“Hmpf. Boy. Boy eats. Boy runs. Boy. Boy. Boy.” Mama T pointed toward three children chasing each other nearby. “Boy runs.”
Sabre looked carefully at the children, but Cole wasn’t among them. She held the picture up again. “Mama T, have you seen this boy?”
Another “hmpf” was all Sabre received in return, as Mama T continued shuffling through wet papers, cans, and broken glass in search of her dinner.
Sabre held the bag of groceries out to her. “I brought you some bread and peanut butter.” Mama T looked up and took the bag from her hand. “There’s a jar of jelly in there, too, in case you want it with your peanut butter.” Mama T caught Sabre’s eye before she looked away and although she didn’t smile, Sabre thought she saw a little sparkle in her eyes for the first time. She made a mental note to bring jelly again.
Sabre finished her trek through the park, still not finding anyone who could positively provide any information about Cole’s whereabouts. It had been so long since there had been news of him. He had not returned to Hayden’s school and no one had reported seeing him since then. That was four days without a word. Sabre felt helpless. She knew looking through the park and the neighborhood nearby was probably a waste of time, and talking to Mama T certainly was, but she didn’t know what else to do. Her mind raced as she walked to the car. What a pathetic way to spend Saturday night, not that I have a social life anyway.
Sabre rang Bob’s doorbell. He answered the door in a t-shirt, corduroy pants, and slippers. “You look comfy,” Sabre said as she walked in. “Is Marilee here?”
“Hello to you, too. No, she’s at the store.”
Corey, Bob’s son, darted into the room and hugged her. “Hi, Auntie Sabre.”
Sabre hugged back, tousled his hair, and said, “Wow, you’re getting so tall. You’re going to pass me up soon.” She turned to Bob. “Thanks for letting me stop in. I just came from the park looking for Cole and I wasn’t quite ready to go home.”
“Anytime. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, I’m good.” Sabre removed her jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. “I’m not staying long. I just needed a reality check.”
Bob put his hand on Sabre’s shoulder. “I wish I could help in some way. I spoke with Cole’s mother today. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through.”
“Neither can I, but it helps seeing Corey.” She turned to him. “Are you still playing your saxophone?”
“Yeah, I was just about to practice. Want to listen?” He tugged at her and then broke away, dashing up the stairs toward his room.
“You bet.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
Sabre laughed and they both followed Corey upstairs to his bedroom. Corey had already started playing when they entered his room. It was a new song and it needed a lot of practice, but Sabre and Bob listened patiently and clapped loudly when he stopped. Sabre glanced around at all the trinkets and fun things Corey had in his room. “I see you’ve made a few changes in here.”
“Yeah, Dad and I painted and put up some posters and things.”
“I see that. And you have the Justin Bieber poster I sent you.”
Corey just smiled. Bob said, “Some of his friends made fun of him for liking Justin Bieber but Corey held his own. I was very proud of him.”
Sabre’s forehead wrinkled. “What’s that?” Sabre asked, pointing to a partially covered black-and-white metal object on his dresser.
Bob reached over, picked it up, and held it so Sabre could see it. “It’s an old US Highway Shield. Route 101. Corey found it when we cleaned out the garage and he wanted to keep it. It belonged to Marilee’s father. I’m not sure if it had any particular significance to him, but it’s nice for Corey to have something that belonged to him,” Bob said. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, but look.” Sabre picked up a piece of paper and covered all but the edge of the shield. “Remember, I told you there was a bumper sticker on the back of the car in that video I received from Bailey? That’s the shape. It was a US Highway Route Shield.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Heck if I know, but I’ll bet JP can figure it out.”
Sabre drove down the hill that led to Bob’s house, calling JP as soon as she pulled out of the driveway. “It’s a US Highway Route Shield,” she told him.
“You’re right. It all makes sense now. It’s another connection to Scott Jamison.”
“What?” Sabre asked.
“Scott had a Route 66 shield tattoo. I saw it when I jammed my knee into his back. I bet the one on the car was Route 66 as well.”
“But we can’t see enough of it to tell.”
“I know, but it gives me another lead. It could be a car club or something. It might help lead us to the identity of the man in the film.”
29
The purple Jerry Garcia tie fit Sabre’s mood this Monday morning as she dressed for her court hearings. It was bright and aggressive—a “fighter” tie. She needed to be strong in the Johnson hearing. The children were still spread all over the county, sibling and mother visits were nearly non-existent, and Cole was still missing. And all this was brought on by a case that she wasn’t sure even warranted filing.
She wondered if she should take one last trip around the park and Cole’s foster parents’ neighborhood. She went twice each day on the weekends but saw no signs of Cole. She and Mama T were becoming buds … well, not exactly buds, but Sabre had spoken to her several times. Recently, when Sabre took her food, she seemed thankful in her own way. She mostly grunted when Sabre gave her something, but sometimes she could see a slight change of expression on her face. It wasn’t really a smile; it was more like a softening of her facial muscles.
The cuckoo on Sabre’s clock in the dining room stuck its head out and tweeted seven times. She was out of time; she needed to go straight to court. She finished dressing, picked up her files, and drove to the courthouse.
Parking was easy, but in fifteen minutes the lot would be packed. She exited her car and walked toward the front door, passing no one along the way. A young, uniformed sheriff greeted her at the metal detector. He was a sub, but she had seen him before. Sabre picked up her files from the belt and walked directly to the lounge/workroom where the new petitions for the detentions were housed for the attorneys. She rummaged through the petitions looking for bizarre cases, even though she wasn’t on the schedule. There were only two new cases. One was a tox baby, and the other was a child who had been purportedly hidden in a closet for over three years. Sabre’s stomach felt queasy and her face turned red with anger. No matter how conditioned she was to cases like these, some of them stirred up deep emotions. She took a deep breath, put the petitions back in the file folder, and checked her mail slot for the reports for her morning hearings. The reports should’ve been there several days ago, but Gillian, the social worker on Johnson and Lecy, had not filed them last week. That had surprised Sabre because although Gillian wasn’t her favorite social worker, she had to admit she was generally efficient and timely with her reports.
She pulled the stack of paperwork out of her mail slot. The Lecy report sat on top. It consisted of only a few pages with a recommendation to continue until the minor, Bailey, was picked up. That was no surprise. Neither were the recommendations on the Johnson case. The social worker wanted to keep the children in foster care. Sabre sat down on one of the metal folding chairs and looked through the rest of her reports.
Several attorneys came and went from the workroom, greeting her, gathering thei
r reports, and then leaving. Sabre separated her reports, placed them in the appropriate folders, and opened the door. She saw Bob, who was ready to enter the room.
“Hi, Sobs,” he said.
“Good morning.” Sabre stepped back and decided to chat with him. “We just received the reports on Johnson and Lecy.”
“Let me guess. The social worker wants to go straight to permanent plans and remove the children forever.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“That Johnson case should be a voluntary,” Bob protested. He picked up his copy of the report and flipped through it.
“You may be right, but the court isn’t going to even consider that until Cole is returned.”
“I know,” Bob said, as he glanced at the report. “Oh, look. It says she’ll consider return if everyone is exorcised.”
Sabre cuffed Bob playfully on the arm and chuckled. “It doesn’t say that, you nitwit.”
“The woman is nuts. Worse than that, she’s evil.”
“She’s not evil. A little off the page, maybe, but not evil.”
“When do you want to do these cases?”
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
“My client’s already here on the Johnson case, but Lecy’s not here yet. Who knows if she’ll even make it.”
“So, do you want to wait for her?”
Bob shook his head. “I don’t care one way or the other. We could wait all day for her, but there’s nothing we can do anyway until Bailey is picked up. I’m here all morning with other stuff.”
“I have a few cases in Department One, and I have one in Five. I’ll go do those and then meet you back in Department Four.”
Sabre walked out into the hallway, which was filled nearly to capacity. She wound her way through the crowd to the end of the hallway and went into Department One. She sat in the back of the courtroom, reading her reports until her cases were called. She pondered over the Johnson report and what to do with that case. It left her uneasy but she wasn’t convinced that there was ritual abuse going on. She certainly didn’t want to return those children to the home if there was, but her investigation hadn’t led to anything except poverty and hunger, both of which could be fixed. The children didn’t seem to know of anything strange in the home, but Sabre hadn’t had a chance to speak to Cole about it before he disappeared. Hayden certainly didn’t indicate anything but he wasn’t the best reporter, either.
The Advocate - 03 - The Advocate's Conviction Page 15
