The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “Meaning?”

  She nodded west, the horizon shimmering with the gold of a fading sun. “It’ll be dark soon. I want to show you my favorite place in the world.”

  We crossed the city as twilight fell and the cityscape bloomed with dazzling artificial light that blanked out the stars. As we swept southward I saw a mountain range looming in the distance, miles long.

  “South Mountain Park,” Novarro said. “Sixteen thousand acres. The largest city park in the continental US.”

  I looked out the window as the housing grew sparse and then we were on a road climbing toward a high-jutting part of the range, our headlamps illuminating saguaros which, with their upraised branches, reminded me of ne’er-do-wells caught in an act of crime and lifting their hands.

  “Come out with your hands up,” Novarro chuckled, seeing the same thing.

  And then we were at a gate with a small log cabin checkpoint. Novarro honked three times in quick succession. A door opened in the structure and a uniformed Phoenix cop leaned out, smile on his face,

  “Time for your, uh, scheduled park reconnoitering, Detective Novarro?”

  “Yep. Freddy Pence, say howdy to Detective Carson Ryder, on loan from the Florida Center for Law Enforcement.”

  “Go Miami Dolphins,” the guy grinned. “But go Dallas Cowboys first.”

  “Infidel,” I said, flicking a salute as Novarro gunned past the stop sign and headed up the steepening mountain. The long-fallen western sun still flung enough light to display the chiaroscuro of crags and cliffs of the mountain, rising to our right, dropping precipitously to our left. Topping the jagged peaks was a bright array of communications towers, red and white lights flashing against the cobalt sky.

  As we climbed, I felt a curious sensation, as though negative energy in the vehicle was being replaced by a positive charge. Seven minutes later we came to the end of the road, an overlook and parking lot.

  “We’re here,” she said. “Welcome to Dobbins Point.” Novarro pulled into the topmost slot and exited. I followed as she sat atop a rock wall and looked out across the vast white fire of the basin. “We’re about five miles from the center of town and a half mile up,” she said. “Sit and watch the show.”

  I sat beside her and we stared into the galaxy in the center of the desert, close enough to make out individual vehicles moving down distant streets. I watched a jet drop from the sky to land at the airport which centered Phoenix. The light shimmered against the night and seemed less an assemblage of towns and cities than a single glorious entity pulsing with harmony and good intentions.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” I said. “It’s like a holy place.”

  “These mountains are sacred to Akimel O’odham, as are the Sierra Estrellas.”

  “The mountains where Shackleton died.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m eaten up by this case, Carson,” she said softly. “Murders shouldn’t be committed anywhere, but especially not in holy places.”

  We sat quietly and watched the show. After a few minutes I cleared my throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you – despite the circumstances – how much I like working with you. You’ve been a detective for a few months, but it’s like you’ve done the work for years. You’re a natural.”

  Long moments passed before she blew out a breath. “Thanks, but … I nearly blew the case up a few days back. Kind of a personal thing, a mistake.”

  “Care to talk about it?”

  “Not really. I just needed to tell someone. My confession, I guess.”

  She rose from the bench and walked to the end of the parking lot, staring out over the luminous plains. And then she was back beside me, her face lit by the light of cities far below.

  “I think I have a genetic defect that makes me like alcohol too much, Carson. Like there’s a point I shouldn’t go past and when I do, the next thing I know it’s the next morning. I stay on guard, but stress screws with my protection mechanism. I’ve been able to keep it under control, but recently I got tanked twice, something I hadn’t done in years. Once was just a hangover, the other could have affected the case, maybe cost my job.”

  “But you got by.”

  “By grace and friendship. I have a younger brother, Ben. He’s twenty and has the problem, too, but can’t seem to find any control. It tells me a lot about how he struggles with his insecurities. And maybe influences how I handle him … I want to crash down on his head, but then I remember my own failings and …”

  “You go soft because you understand.”

  “He has so much potential. I don’t know much about geniuses, but I’m sure Ben’s one. He was doing much better a couple months back and I had high hopes. but … like always, he fell back into old ways. It’s just whenever he falters, I get so damn mad, but can’t bring myself to be hard on him. I wonder if I’m, if I’m …” Words failed and she shook her head.

  “You wonder if you’re giving Ben permission to fail because there but for the grace of God go you?”

  She didn’t answer and we resumed studying the dazzling valley. Five minutes later she laughed and slapped a hand on my knee.

  “You’re too much in my head, I think. Let’s go to my house. I need to take off my shoes.”

  33

  Sweat poured from Ramon Escheverría, the massive barbell rising and falling with mechanical timing, clank-one-two, clank-one-two … The burner phone beeped and Escheverría set the weight in the holder and grabbed the device from the stained concrete floor, tight-eying the caller’s name.

  “You have the information, Carlos?” he grunted.

  “There is a place he went today,” the caller replied. “A place for sad people like him, in the basement of the Metodista Church on Sonora.”

  Escheverría hawked and spat toward an antique cuspidor, missing and hitting the floor. “I know of it. There are always sick hombres on the steps.”

  “He will go back, I think, El Gila. Today or tomorrow. He will do this for days before he tires of it and goes back to old habits. It’s a weakness with such people.”

  “You’ve got someone on this place? Eyes.”

  “All the day. Are you going to … confront him?”

  The cholos pushed through the front door of the gym, bags of food and six-packs in hand, joking, laughing. Ramon Escheverría his finger to his lips: shut up! The crew fell mausoleum-silent.

  “It needs the correct time,” Escheverría continued as the hulking gangsters tip-toed across the floor.

  “Night is best. It hides many problems.”

  “Is he still walking or using that stupid—”

  A laugh. “Si. Like a little boy. He needs a bell.”

  “That makes for a very nice option. Quieter than gunfire. This place he frequents …”

  “He will go inside, El Gila. You might have one hour, you might have two. It depends. But he will come out and we will be waiting.”

  Ramon Escheverría returned the phone to his pocket and turned to his crew. “The last of the Meridiens has been located.”

  “You’re sure he’s the last one, El Gila?” It was an innocent question, unconsidered, the cholo squirting salsa picante onto a taco.

  Escheverría crossed the dozen feet as fast and quiet as a cobra, slapping the taco from the man’s hand, an explosion of meat and tortilla dappling the floor. “Que, Juan? You doubt my intelligence?”

  Juan Mercanto was over six foot four and two hundred thirty pounds. But his eyes turned to the floor and he became a little boy. “Forgive me, El Gila,” he said, swallowing hard. “I am estupido. I have no doubts.”

  “There was just the five,” Escheverría spat. “Shackleton, Mashburn, Trujillo, the Maruyama woman, and this one. Shackleton and Trujillo are muerte, the Mashburn is loco, the Maruyama woman is no longer a problem. We have just this one and my breathing becomes easier.”

  “What do you ask of us, El Gila?”

  Escheverría’s brow furrowed in thought. “Get Vela’s old van and paint it black, a soft c
olor, not shiny. It must hide in the night. Put a five-gallon can of petrol in the back. It must be burned afterwards. It is vital that the van be burned in Phoenix. Everything must be done in Phoenix. That way I can see it.”

  As if commanded by Zeus, the three men hustled out the door. Escheverría pulled a phone from a second pocket and pressed the single number on recall.

  “Hola,” he said. “Where are you?”

  He listened, crossing the floor and opening the refrigerator in the corner to retrieve a Negro Modelo. “Working? Is that what you call it? Not much longer. Soon we will be far from this desert.”

  He listened for a moment, continued.

  “It’s tonight. We have the last Meridien in our sights. I thought you would like to hear that.” He sipped from the beer, triumph lighting his face. “Now, my roving eyes … what can you tell me is the latest police report on Ramon Escheverría and his adventures?”

  He listened and laughed.

  Benjamin Novarro exited the AA meeting in the basement of a downtown church, the last meeting of the day, ten until eleven p.m. He’d also gone to the nine o’clock meeting, the eight, and the seven.

  “Hello, my name is Ben and I’m an alcoholic …”

  He stood on the street looking into traffic and blew out a breath. What he wanted was a drink; what he needed was to not drink. It was his ninth meeting in two days, but what else did he have to do … it wasn’t like he had a job anymore.

  And maybe not a future.

  No, he corrected. That’s my old way of thinking, the drinker’s thinking. Future, he thought. Focus on the future. A future, and a good one, once he dug himself out of the shitpile he’d built. He could do it if he finally believed in his own talents. Like Tasha told him. Like his teachers had told him. Like his employers had told him. Like everyone told him, but he’d never been able to believe.

  But would anyone else believe in his future, given his past? He’d promise Tasha to get clean and sober, and hold on for a month, his sister laughing and smiling and buoyed by hope. Then he’d have a simple beer, just a beer. But the beer called for an accompanying shot, a shot for a double, and pretty soon he was at the liquor store buying a bottle of grain alcohol to go with the Kool-Aid he’d just purchased. He’d fall apart. And Tasha would go back to wearing the long face.

  Four months back he’d been given a great gift, a chance. He’d been embarrassed by the charity at first, but was helped to see the events as a process. There’d been setbacks, sure. He’d fallen several times, hard, like the night at his sister’s when he’d danced around like an idiot and knocked over the lamp … but he’d been given a gift and could not squander it this time. The AA meetings would help. Six weeks free of alcohol, that’s all he wanted. Then he could surprise Tasha with his news.

  Christ, a drink would make me feel better. No. Just a little. No. A single beer, cool, wet … NO!

  He climbed onto the Trek Liquid 10 mountain bike and pedaled toward his small, cramped apartment. Since his car had been repossessed he’d gone back to riding the bike he’d bought at age twelve when it was an abused wreck, the toy of a rich kid who simply bought another. He rebuilt it in a day with used parts and a bike manual.

  With its knobby tires and mountain gearing, the Liquid was a workout on city streets, but faster than slapping shoes and better than spending money on public transportation. When you’re down to two hundred eighty-three bucks in your bank account and are unemployed, every penny counts.

  Ben looked ahead and saw the dancing lights in the windows of the Rio Salado Lounge, a favorite cheap dive. It was happy hour all night and a shot and a brew was four bucks.

  One, just one.

  KEEP PEDALING.

  And then the lounge was in the past and he was cranking toward home, sweat streaming down his face and soaking his tee shirt. Traffic blew past: buses, motorcycles, cars. He angled right, cutting down his street, past a pickup truck on blocks, past houses with grated doors and windows. Past cans and bottles and fast-food bags in the gutter. Not a single vehicle on the street was newer than three years.

  He wheeled to his place, one quarter of a house divided into four units, the door and windows grated against skulking burglars, the yard of sand and scruffy plants. Two of the units had Por Rental signs in the windows. He walked to the side porch, the door to his downstairs three-room unit, found a bright new lock on the door and a rolled piece of paper through the handle. He unrolled the note from Georgina Haluza, his eighty-year-old landlady.

  I changed the lock Ben. You’re two months past due on rent almost three. I need at least $400 by Wednesday or I’ll put your things out on the street. I’m sorry but you said you’d be a good tenant but you don’t hardly pay on time. I need another $30 for the lock.

  “Shit!” Ben Novarro spat, fruitlessly turning the knob. “Shit, shit, shit!” He shook his head in despair, leaned his back against the door and let his legs collapse until he was sitting against the house.

  If there was ever a reason for a drink …

  He heard a rumble and looked up to see a van going past, so dark as to seem part of the shadows painted between the buildings by the flickering, failing streetlights above. It was moving unsettlingly slow and Ben felt eyes behind the smoked glass. And then there was a blast of engine and the black van blew ahead of him, like called to another dimension.

  Ben returned to the bike and kept pedaling. There was only one thing to do: Throw himself on the mercy of his sister. He could get a loan maybe, his collateral being his sobriety, his promise.

  Did he have anything left in that account?

  Hoping against hope, Benjamin Novarro hung his head and pedaled harder, now in a darkened warehouse area as still and quiet as a corpse.

  He heard the soft rumble of an engine in the alley to his right.

  Followed by a roar.

  * * *

  “It’s a wonderful home,” I said as Novarro handed me one of the beers I’d bought on the way over. I wandered the living room, looking through the curtains and into the night.

  “In a crappy neighborhood,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “But it’s getting better. How about your place … what’s it like?”

  Like a waterside gem appraised at four million dollars and that I rented for almost nothing, courtesy of the landlord, my brother, a long story that started when my brother killed our father decades ago.

  I edited heavily. “A pretty house on Upper Matecumbe Key.”

  “I’ve only seen the sea once, in Galveston. I took my mother to visit an aunt when I was twenty. I sat on the sand and stared for hours. I’d seen pictures and movies of seas and oceans, of course, but they don’t show how alive it is. You can’t smell the salt water or feel how sand brushes through your toes when you walk.”

  “That’s about how I feel about your desert,” I said. “Still in awe.”

  “The desert is ordinary to me, as the water must be to you. That’s a statement on something, I think.”

  “I think we are surrounded by wonder, and we grow too used to our personal wonders. We lose them.”

  She looked at me and nodded. The past days eddied around me like a slow flood of images, some from here, some from Miami. There was one thing I had postponed too long.

  “I have to make a phone call,” I said. “It’s time.”

  She said nothing, though I felt her perplexed eyes follow me out the back door.

  I went outside and stood beside the lime tree, fragrant in the warm evening breeze. Or maybe it was the lingering scent of Novarro’s cologne, tucked in the back of my head, a gentle citrus air.

  When I turned to the south I saw the flashing array of white and red lights atop the dark peaks of South Mountain Park, where we’d sat and talked a half hour ago, a brief, peaceful respite after days of frustration and horror. Less than a mile south was the glide path for the east-west runway of the airport, to the west the sky was flashing with heat lighting from far behind the jagged White Tank mountains. I watched a big
jet settling in from the charged sky like a ship coming to port after time spent in dangerous seas. I hoped the passengers felt suddenly safe again, the earth stable beneath their feet.

  I called Vivian. I heard a change in her voice, though she was covering hesitation with false ebullience. “Hello, Carson. I, uh, great to hear from you. How are things out there?”

  “Who is he, Viv?”

  A pause. “Who’s who, Carson?”

  “The other. Him.”

  “How did you hear about—” A sigh. “A doctor I work with. Just … a guy. A nice guy. We work together a lot.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I, um, don’t know. It’s just …”

  “You’re sleeping together, right?”

  “I, I …” A muffled sob. “Yes.”

  I felt a long breath escape my chest. “We haven’t been doing very well the past couple of months, Vivian. We’re …” I couldn’t get the words to come out and blinked as another jet descended from the black sky.

  “It used to be so easy,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But we got thrown into different circles, different lives. Mine has changed so much lately. I almost never see you.”

  “And I don’t have much to talk about, do I?”

  “Neither of us do. It’s like what used to be a joyful space is filled with stale words and long silences.”

  It was the perfect description. “How do we leave it, Vivian?” I said.

  “We talk when you get back, I suppose.”

  “Think it’ll do anything but make us feel better about what went wrong?”

  “Probably not.”

  We balanced more stale silences with ameliorative words that I’d heard myself speak before. I dropped the phone back into my pocket, helped the sky bring two more jets to the ground, then went back inside.

  “How was your call?” Novarro asked, standing in the middle of the living room, her voice gentle. It was like she knew.

  “Some unsettled things became settled.”

  A pause as her eyes studied my face “Is that good?”

  “I think I want it to be.”