by J. A. Kerley
Breakfast was frijoles refritos with queso fresco and scrambled eggs cut in, the whole delicious mess lashed with a thick salsa roja and rolled in a twelve-inch flour tortilla. I was amazed at the variety of tortillas sold in the Southwest, from maize ones sized like saucers to flour versions fourteen inches across, some thin as dimes, others fat and puffy and a quarter-inch thick.
I nodded at Solero from across the room and made my way back to Novarro’s cube. Fishbach wasn’t in yet or was elsewhere in the building. She looked up from reading the newspaper and smiled, the teeth like pearls behind slender lips. I was about to say good morning when her phone rang.
“Hang on” she said, reaching for the handset. “Yes, this is Detective Novarro. Oh, howdy, Loot, I was gonna call you this morning and let you know what—”
She paused. Repeated the What? only louder. Then added a breathless When? and Where? Finally came How?
When she replaced the phone in the cradle she was ashen, her eyes staring at the floor.
“What?” I said.
“That was Lieutenant Stringer from Tucson. Thiago Carazo was found dead this morning. He was beaten to death at the auto yard. Probably with fists, personal. There was also torture involved. It would have been late last night or early this morning.”
“Escheverría,” I whispered.
“It was just us who knew we were there,” I said, reeling. “You and me and Carazo. You didn’t mention anything to the Tucson people, did you?”
“I was gonna call Stringer this a.m. and let him in on what we discovered. But I hadn’t spoken to him yet.”
“Did you mention anything to Fishbach?”
“I did. Since he put us on to Carazo’s vehicle.”
“Then four of us knew.”
“Carazo freaked maybe, confessed to a supposed friend who figured to get on Escheverría’s high side by snitching out the snitch.”
“Excuse me, El Gila, but Thiago Carazo just whispered to me that he told the police something about a car? I thought I should mention it, just in case you found it important …”
It was possible and I nodded assent. “Where from here, Detective?”
The nose wrinkled. “I’m not ready to smell that place again, but we’re off to Ortega’s Gym.”
This time the cholo gladiators remained seated, mean little smiles on their faces as we crossed the room. I had the odd feeling we were expected. To the side two women sat on a couch and looked like one had just told a joke, eyes alight as they stared our way. They were undeniably pretty, one verging on gorgeous. Whoever sold them make-up had a solid gig going.
I heard a toilet flush and Escheverría appeared from a side door. A second later Novarro was an inch from standing on his toes.
“Where were you last night, Ramon?”
The cold eyes glittered. “Why do we keep doing this, Detective Novarro?”
“Let me see your hands,” she demanded.
Looking like innocence personified, Escheverría held out thick paws, unmarked save for the tats. It occurred to me that the last time I’d seem Escheverría he’d had on thick black weightlifting gloves with leather palms and leather across the knuckles, perfect for keeping the skin unblemished while beating a man to death.
The monster canted its head in mock confusion. “What are you looking for, if I may so bold as to ask?”
Novarro pushed his hands away. “Last night,” she repeated. “Where?”
“In my bed, pretty lady.”
“Alone?”
Escheverría turned to the gorgeous woman on the couch. “Conchita … where was I last night? All night?”
She pointed to her crotch. “Here.”
Everyone in Escheverría’s crew laughed. Novarro strode over and stared into the woman’s eyes.
“You’re saying you can account for Ramon’s every minute last night?”
“Si.” A grin. “He never left me.”
“You can go to prison for lying,” Novarro said, dark clouds roiling through her voice.
The woman laughed like it was the funniest moment in an already delightful day.
“He did it,” Novarro said when we were on the littered sidewalk and retreating from the gym. “He and his crew whacked Carazo. Did you see them laughing at us?” We climbed into the SUV and drove off, Novarro scowling into the rear-view.
“I disagree,” I said after several blocks of consideration. “If Carazo was killed for ratting, Escheverría did it personally.”
We pulled to a red light and Novarro turned to me. “Why … when he’s got three large blocks of dumb muscle at his command.”
“No way a man nicknamed El Gila sends in a sub to whack a guy who ratted him out.”
The light changed. She thought it out. “It would be a matter of honor.”
I nodded. “Escheverría’d been betrayed, which demands personal attention. There’s also the matter of the killing itself. I read the cholos as stupid, nasty, and amoral, but not sociopathic. Chances are they’d race to Tucson, shoot Carazo down where he stood, burn rubber back to Phoenix and have a beer to celebrate.”
“Carazo was tortured. Which took time.”
“With Escheverría enjoying every second,” I added.
We arrived at Phoenix HQ and were heading back to Novarro’s cube when my cell rang, the screen showing HARRY.
“I’ll meet you inside.” I leaned against the side of the building, sunwarmed, bright, and pressed the phone to my cheek as I figured times: 11.15 here, 2.15 in Miami. Harry would have just gotten back from lunch.
“Hey, bro. You at HQ?”
“Home, but heading to HQ soon. What’s happening in Phoenix, Cars?”
“I got two more dead bodies; I have Escheverría playing us like fools; I have a crazy kid who sees flying girls and mechanical boys. It’s a mess in every direction.”
“You’ve been there before. How’s that lady detective you’re working with, Novolo?”
“Novarro. Tasha Novarro.”
“Tasha Novarro sounds Russky-Spanish, like Boris Mendoza.”
“Actually she’s a Native American. Mostly at least. From the Salt River Pima-Maricopa community here. It’s actually two tribes: the Pima or Akimel Au-Authm, or River People, and the Maricopa. Both tribes were wizards at irrigation and made swell baskets. The Pima are believed to be descendants of the Hohokam, or Those Who Have Gone. They lived in central Arizona over two thousand years ago and were known for—”
“Uh, Carson?”
“What?”
“This lady, Novarro. You enjoying her company?”
“Smart as a whip and an excellent detective. Plus she’s intuitive. Yesterday she—”
“Is she pretty, Carson?”
“I, uh, haven’t noticed.”
“Which means she’s pretty. And unmarried, I’ll bet.”
I frowned into the phone. “It’s not like that, Harry. It’s, we’re … we’re partners on a case together. Just like you and me.”
“I’m neither female nor pretty.”
As usual when Harry took this hectoring tack, I began to feel irritated. “There a reason you’re calling besides to tell me things I already suspected?”
“Yeah, I been doing some follow-up on the Bowers-Warbley killings, broadening a circle so to speak.”
“Oh?”
“Remember the bar owner saying Professor Warbley was married to his work? He may have been married to his job but he was having a casual affair with a former graduate student, a thirty-two-year-old guy named Beaumont Malone; Mr Malone now teaching in the Philosophy Department. He’s also married with a kid.”
“How’d you get that?”
“I met Malone at a campus coffee shop last night where I assured him I had no interest in his relationships, only in recent conversations with John Warbley.”
Harry was a genius at gaining trust fast, people somehow knowing he was being honest with them. “And?”
“Malone and Warbley met last week at a bar near campus, and
Warbley was puzzling out an ‘interesting ethical problem handed to him by a friend,’ in his terminology. Oh … and Malone said Warbley may have said, ‘friend of a friend’. He couldn’t recall.”
“Bowers would be the friend, Meridien the friend of the friend.”
“Here’s the gist of a brief conversation: the friend, or friend of, came into possession of a piece of information that seemed in direct conflict with what she thought was true. But she saw how the problem might have occurred, and if it happened that way, something illegal may have been transpiring. The only thing was, the situation also might have been exactly as intended. There was no way for the friend-of-friend to know which was which. I pressed Malone harder and he allowed that Warbley had gone into a bit more detail. The ‘information’ seemed to be in the form of a will. The friend-of-friend thought it was supposed to say one thing, but it said another thing. But that’s also what it might have been supposed to say. Oh, and there was also something about a pissed-off father. Malone said it didn’t make much sense to him, but Warbley was fascinated by whatever the conundrum was.”
“That’s about as clear as fog. Was there anything about doctor–patient privilege?”
“Yes. The ‘friend’ had acquired the knowledge through a relationship with a patient and—”
“Meridien. Bowers gave up seeing patients.”
“Anyway, the doctor suspected something might be amiss, but couldn’t do anything to verify her suspicion without going to authorities.”
“So Meridien discovers something in her practice that causes her to suspect a crime has been or will be committed, and she’s conflicted about going to the police.”
“Seems likely. But Malone and Warbley had a theoretical conversation, like math: ‘Doctor A sees patient B and suspects act C has occurred with a will’ … They only spoke about it for ten minutes or so, then Malone had to run off to class. I’m happy he remembered this much.”
“Thanks, Harry. I’ll pass this along to Novarro.”
“What tribe was she from again?”
“Pima or Akimel Authm. From the Maricopa-Pima community located down by the … What? Why?”
“Keep busy, brother.”
25
Adam was in his room tapping away at his computer, his fingers a blur. Isbergen walked in, a bottle of Diet Pepsi in hand.
“Cottrell just called. He’d like to see us at one. It’s when his secretary or whatever is at lunch. I don’t think he wants anyone to see us at his office. It makes sense if he’s going to go for our idea.”
“How can you be so sure, Zoe?”
“Intuition.”
“If this doesn’t work I’m gonna have to get a fucking job at Google or some shit. Hashtag: screwed.”
Isbergen kissed the top of Kubiac’s head. “Don’t gloom out on me, babe. I think you’re gonna win.”
Isbergen and Kubiac were at the lawyer’s officer at a minute past one, Cottrell gesturing them inside after locking the front door. Isbergen took the chair and Kubiac, per usual, dropped to the couch.
Here we go, kid, Cottrell thought, offering a concerned visage. “Nothing good can come of you getting cut out of your father’s will, Adam. Not good for Eli’s lifelong reputation as an automotive leader; nor for you, lacking any inheritance and spending the rest of your life hating your father.”
“It seems right,” Kubiac snapped. “He hated me.”
No, you little self-absorbed brat. He just couldn’t understand you …
“I firmly believe that he didn’t, Adam, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Cottrell stood and rocked on his heels, his eyes deep in thought, seemingly on the verge of a momentous decision. “It goes against everything I believe,” he said, his voice somber. “But I have never been in a position where someone has been treated so unfairly before. I believe in the ultimate triumph of justice, but this is triumphantly unjust.”
Did I just say that? Fucking Cicero!
Isbergen leaned forward. “Excuse me, Mr Cottrell, are you saying …?”
“It can be done,” he said softly, a man not yet convinced. “I can effect changes in the will.” He paused. “I can fix it so Adam receives everything.”
Kubiac didn’t appear to understand, his mouth drooped open and head cocked. The kid was a dolt who somehow understood computers.
“But … isn’t this very, uh, risky for you?” Isbergen said. “Like way against the law?”
Glad you asked that, little lady …
“It imperils everything I’ve worked for,” Cottrell said, his eyes filling with concern. “My license to practice law. My firm. My reputation. Even worse, I imperil my freedom. If caught I would end up in prison for changing Eli’s will. And when I finally returned to society, I’d be a broken and penniless old man.”
The sleepy-eyed kid looked wide awake now, Daddy’s money a $20,000,000 dose of smelling salts. Cottrell’s eyes shot to Isbergen’s for a split second, then returned to Kubiac. “I will take care of you, Adam. That’s my decision. What do you say?”
The kid looked lost for a moment. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome. But you also have to take care of me, right? So before I, um, revisit the will, I’ll need you to sign a document.”
Kubiac frowned. “What does it say?”
“First, it puts this firm in charge of all your upcoming legal work.”
Puzzlement. “I don’t have any legal work.”
“Yes, you will, Adam: investments, counseling, trademark searches, your own will and other documents, incorporation papers for your new businesses, advice and counsel for …”
“For what?”
“Work and counsel for which you’ll contract to this firm, first with an initial block of funds for, um, upcoming expenses – let’s say a flat million – then with an annual outlay for the services of this firm. What’s called a retainer.”
“Annual outlay?” Kubiac said.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year for fifteen years. A pittance, really, considering how much risk I engender.”
“That’s six and a quarter million dollars of my money,” he whined. “Hashtag: Whatthefuck?”
Cottrell paused and blew out a breath. He stood, muttering, “I can’t take this shit anymore.” He grabbed a sheaf of papers from his desk and held it out to Kubiac. “Remember the will, Adam? Read it again, you spoiled little pissant. Here …where it says you get one fucking dollar. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHIT!”
The pair returned to the apartment, Kubiac silent for the duration of the drive back.
“What is it, Adam?” Isbergen said, closing the door.
There was an empty can of Red Bull on the floor and Kubiac kicked it into a wall. “The bastard changes a few words and he gets like a third of my money. Hashtag: thief. You should have seen this coming, Zoe.”
“I should have what?”
“Call me Jeff, Ms Isbergen,” Kubiac said sarcastically. “He’s your buddy, Zoe. You should have known he’d screw me.”
Isbergen spun to Kubiac, her eyes blazing. “Yesterday you were getting nothing, today it’s going to be millions. You give $1,350,000 to Cottrell this year and have $18,650,000 left. Money makes money. It’ll make enough sitting on its ass to pay Cottrell’s retainer and still have NINETEEN MILLION DOLLARS! And if you ever decide to use that amazing brain of yours to do something, you’ll turn it into A FUCKING BILLION!”
“Jesus, Zoe, all right,” Kubiac pouted, crossing his arms and sinking into the couch. “Everybody’s yelling at me … Hashtag: kickAdam.”
Isbergen’s features relaxed and she sat beside Kubiac, stroking his tousled hair. “Be happy, Adam,” she whispered. “All I want is for you to be happy.”
Kubiac looked up and arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying it’s Happy Adam Time?”
“Whenever you want it to be,” Isbergen purred. “You know that.”
Kubiac grinned like an eight-year-old about to receive a cooki
e and unzipped his fly.
26
Twenty minutes later Adam Kubiac was walking toward the cybercafé, his mind analyzing possibilities, his face alternating between anger and elation.
“Adam,” a voice called to his back.
He turned. He’d walked a dozen feet past his destination, absorbed in his thoughts. He waved and walked back, a sheepish grin on his face.
“I was thinking, Cat. I got lost.”
Catherine Maruyama smiled. “I’m glad you called. Have a s-seat.”
Kubiac pulled out a chair, eager to be with Catherine Maruyama again. There was something about the woman that made him relax, like she understood what he was going through. He’d called her as soon as Isbergen had finished and was taking a shower, texting Zoe’s phone that he had needed time alone with his thoughts.
“You look happy,” Maruyama said. “The other d-day you looked sad. I felt so bad for you.”
“I was worried the other day. I’m still worried now. But it’s a different kind. Like everything has a chance. Like I have a chance.”
“C-cool, Adam. Y-you want to talk about it?”
Kubiac started wriggling in his chair. “If I talk about … it, I have to talk about him. I don’t want to talk about him.”
“By him, do mean … y-your-your—” Her face twitched and she gulped air.
“Calm down,” Kubiac said. “Take a breath, Cat.”
“Your fa-father, Adam. Is that who you don’t wuh-want to talk about?”
Kubiac’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”
“J-just a g-gu-guess. I-I-I’m suh-sorry.” Her hands waved helplessly in the air. “I c-can’ t-t-talk. Wuh-want to go t-t-to my place? I wuh-wuh want a drink of s-something. It mu-makes it easier t-to talk.”
Catherine Maruyama’s apartment was five blocks from the café, not far from the university. It was on the ground floor of a six-unit building of nondescript brown brick. Maruyama unlocked two deadbolts and Kubiac followed her inside.
“Why aren’t you living at home?”
“This is my home, Adam. I became an emancipated minor when I was seventeen.”
