January Justice

by Athol Dickson

  I should have guessed she’d do that. “In that case, how come you’re still here?” I asked.

  They looked at each other and then at me. Simon said, “It would not have been proper for you to return to an empty home.”

  Home.

  It was an idea I hadn’t thought of much. For thirteen years my home had been the Marines, whatever hooch or barracks I was sleeping in that night, and then home had become wherever Haley was. Maybe that’s why the word sounded so appealing in that moment. Or maybe it was the lingering weakness of my intellect, emotions slipping in where logic used to be.

  I had to get a grip on myself. I said, “I appreciate that,” and stood, and walked to the closest sink where I looked away from Teru and Simon and quickly wiped my eyes. I poured the rest of the lemonade down the drain. I rinsed the glass and put it on the counter. Without looking at them I said, “What do you think you’ll do now?”

  Teru said, “Find a garden I can work in.”

  Surprised, I turned to Simon. “How about you?”

  “I will seek another opportunity to buttle.”

  “Buttle?”

  “Indeed, sir. A verb. To serve or act as butler.”

  “Simon, you intrigue me.”

  “One is gratified to hear it.”

  “You both intrigue me. Why keep working if Haley left you well set up?”

  Teru said, “Money doesn’t make a life. For that I need my gardening.”

  Speaking to Simon, I said, “Is that how things are with you?”

  “I find I am most fulfilled by buttling.”

  The word struck me as funny. I heard myself laugh a little too loudly. I silenced myself a little too abruptly. My emotions seemed to swing from one extreme to the other. The doctors had warned me about that, but it was still embarrassing. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I moved toward the door. I opened it.

  “Sir?” said Simon. “If I might offer an opinion?”

  I looked back. “Of course.”

  “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but it does appear to me that you also find your work fulfilling.”

  “He ought to,” said Teru. “He’s very good at it.”

  Simon said, “Indeed. And extremely well qualified.”

  “That’s what I just said,” said Teru.

  “Actually, Mr. Fujimoto, I believe there is a substantive difference.”

  Teru began to stroke his chin. “Interesting. You’re saying he could be good at what he does and yet unsuited to the work?”

  “One does think of many instances. In your area, for example, Mr. Fujimoto, one might encounter a talented gardener with severe allergies to pollen.”

  Teru said, “And there is the area of buttling…”

  I smiled. I wanted to cry. I slipped out and closed the door. I walked across the estate to the guesthouse. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a Scotch, drank it in one swallow, poured myself another, and took the glass into the bedroom. I also took the bottle.

  10

  It was a couple of days later. I had boated across the harbor in the Boston Whaler, which was the tender to the Panache, Haley’s seventy-five-foot Fleming motor yacht. Or my seventy-five-foot Fleming, I supposed, although the idea still hadn’t quite settled in, and the situation was only temporary. I had tied up at a finger pier beside the marina seawall without asking anyone’s permission, and I was sitting in the large corner booth by the kitchen door at the Galley Cafe, with a glass of water on the table in front of me.

  The tiny diner was tucked away in a residential neighborhood about a quarter mile from the businesses along the Pacific Coast Highway. There were no other restaurants or shops nearby. Except for the office for the marina which the restaurant overlooked, and the Basin Marine Shipyard next door, every other building for blocks around was a multimillion-dollar home.

  The Galley Cafe was the only restaurant I knew of where they still mixed your Coca-Cola syrup with soda water, right in the glass, and they still knew how to make a proper malted milk. They were big on nostalgia at the Galley. They said it used to be a favorite of John Wayne, who had lived close by, and they had faded photos on the wall to prove it.

  I had begun to think about going ahead and ordering a cheeseburger and fries when Sergeant Tom Harper came through the door, nearly thirty minutes late. With him was another guy I vaguely recognized.

  “Sorry,” said Harper, sliding into the booth. “Traffic.”

  “Could’ve used the siren and the lights.”

  “Sure. A lunch emergency. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  The other guy slid into the booth beside Harper. “This is Sal Russo,” said Harper. “He’s on the job with the LAPD, handling your case. Sal, meet Malcolm.”

  “Sure,” said Russo. “We met already.”

  I stuck out my hand. “How you doing?”

  He ignored my outstretched hand and said, “All right.”

  He didn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t smile. I remembered he would have thoroughly investigated my background, so he knew all about Laui Kalay. At least he knew the official verdict. That probably explained his attitude. But the press hadn’t made the connection between Haley Lane’s bodyguard and the marine behind the camera at Laui Kalay. So he might not like me much, but that made two secrets the man had kept.

  I withdrew my hand and said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t of, except I was down here anyway on another matter,” said Russo, looking around. “Let’s get a waitress over here.”

  Detective Russo had an unhealthy, muddy complexion, and his hair needed a shampoo. Maybe five foot eight and about twenty-five pounds overweight, he carried a lot of that around his neck and jowls, which were thick enough to make his head look narrow. I doubted if he could still pass an LAPD fitness test and wondered how often detectives had to requalify, if ever.

  On the other hand, Sergeant Tom Harper of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department looked like a rough, tough jarhead through and through. His sandy-colored hair was cut so short on the back and sides his scalp showed, and it stood about half an inch straight up on top. He had a barely contained energy about him, as if he were made out of steel springs. His teeth were pearly, his skin was tanned, and the whites of his eyes were perfectly clear.

  Harper and I had met each other in the Corps. I had been temporarily attached to his office of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at Camp Pendleton. I never knew for certain why the Corps chose my deployments, but I assumed it had something to do with the covert work I had already done on several missions, including Guatemala. The NCIS had trained me thoroughly in police work, and Harper had been a big part of that. So when he had a difficult time with some corruption allegations that I believed were false, I worked hard to clear him. Harper had shown up before my court-marital, offering to return the favor, but by that time the press had made the situation utterly toxic to anyone who touched it. I had turned down his help. So I was pretty sure he felt he owed me. After Teru and Simon filled me in on Detective Russo knowing about Haley and me, I had called Tom to set up the meet.

  Looking at Russo, I said, “Didn’t we meet before, at the hospital?”

  Russo said, “Yeah, that was me. You were kinda out of it, but we had a few good talks.”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember much.”

  He waved a pudgy hand between us. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Would you mind telling me what’s happening with the case?”

  “It’s cold,” said Russo.

  “Cold? What does that mean?”

  “Means we worked every lead, and it got us nowhere.”

  “There must be something you missed.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “I’m just saying there must be something. Some kind of lead.”

  “The only eyewitness we know about is you. You ready to tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said before.”

&nb
sp; “I have drug-induced amnesia.”

  “Uh-huh. What your doctors said.”

  “You talked to my doctors?”

  “We interviewed a shrink name of Resnick, and another couple named Lamott and Trendle. Couple of nurses, too. McAllen and Odom. You recognize those names?”

  I had spent a lot of time with all of them at Resnick. It was UCLA’s adult intensive-care psychiatry unit. One of the executive producers of the film Haley was shooting when she died was a major donor. He had arranged for me to be admitted after the overdose, probably to cover the studio in case I wanted to sue for nearly getting murdered on their set.

  I said, “Of course I recognize them, but I don’t understand what they have to do with Haley’s murder.”

  “No need to act so nervous, Cutter,” said Russo. “Anything you told them is privileged.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  I heard my voice begin to rise and couldn’t seem to stop it. “You think I have something to hide? I’ll waive the right to privilege. Lamott and Trendle can tell you everything I said while I was there. I just want to know what kind of leads you have.”

  Russo shrugged. “We got nothing. Unless you want to come clean.”

  “Come clean? You think I’m holding something back? You think I wouldn’t help you if I could?”

  “Hey, Malcolm,” said Harper, interrupting. “Let’s tone it down a little, what do you say?”

  I looked down at my own hands and saw they were clenched into fists. I looked up and realized several people at the nearby tables had stopped talking and were watching me. Harper was also watching with a worried expression. I didn’t understand my own behavior. Russo had been honorable. He had kept the secret of my marriage and my identity as one of the butchers of Laui Kalay, when a discreet word to a reporter probably could have netted him ten grand, or maybe more.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Harper reached over and gave my shoulder a pat. “Sure. After what you’ve been through, anybody would be touchy. I’m amazed you’re up and around, tell you the truth.”

  I took a sip of water and told myself to think of what is true. I said, “If you’re talking to my doctors, it means I’m a suspect, right?”

  Russo stared at me without replying.

  Harper said, “Don’t worry about it, Malcolm. Sal and his guys are just doing their jobs. He has to run down every lead, even if he likes somebody better for the murder. You get a victim like Haley Lane, you want to make real sure you got all the bases covered, you know? Doesn’t mean you’re really on their radar. It’s routine, right, Sal?”

  “Sure,” said Russo.

  I said, “Do you guys have somebody you like better for the murder?”

  Russo looked at me a moment. “What would you do about it if I said yes?”

  “I’d do the right thing,” I said. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “All right, that’s enough,” said Harper. “What’s the deal with you two? Sal, try to remember Malcolm’s a victim in this situation, will ya? And Malcolm, I’m sitting here vouching for Sal. He’s a good cop, okay? So both of you guys back off.” He looked back and forth between us. “All right?”

  I said, “Sure.”

  “Sal?” said Harper.

  “Whatever,” replied Russo.

  “All right,” said Harper. “Now, then. Malcolm, what do the doctors have to say about your situation? Any chance you might remember something that could help?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve lost about a month of time, near as they can tell. Couple of weeks before to a couple of weeks after. It’s like it never happened.”

  “That’s tough. But it’ll come back to you eventually. Bound to.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Bound to.”

  Russo picked up a menu. “What’s good?”

  I said, “I was gonna have the cheeseburger and fries.”

  Turning around, Russo made a big production out of waving for the waitress. She came right over. She was about fifty, but she wore a form-fitting T-shirt tucked into a tight pair of jeans. She could get away with it. She had the figure of a teenager. “What can I get you guys to drink?” she asked.

  “Got no time for that,” said Russo. “We’ll order lunch right now.”

  After the waitress had taken our orders and left the table, I said, “You seriously have no leads?”

  “Seriously,” said Russo.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Look,” he said, “you two were alone together, you both got doped, she went over the edge, and you went to the nuthouse. The drugs in your food and in your systems are the only evidence. I had nearly forty guys go over the scene for two days. There was nothing. No evidence whatsoever.”

  It wasn’t good enough. They simply had to find her killer. I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Wow. You looked for two whole days?”

  Russo turned to Harper. “This is why I don’t usually talk to civilians about cases.”

  Harper said, “I know Malcolm appreciates this, don’t you Malcolm?”

  “Oh, I do.”

  Russo said, “Yeah, whatever.”

  We sat there, the three of us saying nothing. I took a sip of water. Harper sighed. Russo stared at the wall and blinked sometimes.

  “So, Malcolm,” said Harper at last. “You been working?”

  “A little.”

  “Anybody interesting?” Harper looked at Russo. “Malcolm drives movie stars for a living.”

  Russo said, “I know that, Harper.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Harper. “So, how about it, Malcolm? Who you driving lately? Jennifer Aniston maybe? Angelina Jolie?”

  I said, “Nobody like that. Business is pretty slow since I got out. So far just a couple of guys from Guatemala.”

  “I never heard of a movie star from Guatemala.”

  “They weren’t movie stars. They were sort of unofficial diplomats who used to be terrorists.”

  Harper laughed. Russo looked bored.

  I decided to tell them about it, thinking maybe they could shed some light on the Doña Elena Montes case. I started talking, beginning with pickup at the hotel when I first spotted Vega and Castro’s handguns, then covering everything else in detail, from the high-speed drive to Hollywood to the proposition Vega made in front of Musso & Frank. I didn’t mention that he and Castro were with the URNG, and I didn’t mention their names.

  When I was done, Harper said, “Did you take the case?”

  “I turned them down. But I thought you guys might be interested.”

  Russo said, “Why’d they go to you?”

  Harper said, “Sal, I told you what Malcolm does.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not big on private dicks.”

  I said, “They came to me because you guys wouldn’t help them.”

  Harper sighed.

  I watched a couple of Latino men come in and take a seat in the booth across the restaurant. They were both nicely dressed. One wore tan slacks and a cream-colored raw-silk shirt with the top three buttons open to expose a gold medallion on a chain around his neck. The other wore a pair of jeans, but they were pressed and starched, and his shirt was also silk. It seemed like the one with the medallions glanced my way, but he was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t tell for sure. I was pretty sure I’d seen them before. I watched the waitress bring them menus. It occurred to me that I wasn’t really angry with Russo. I was just angry.

  I said, “So, do either of you know anything about the Toledo murder?”

  “Sal, you were in on that one, weren’t you?” said Harper.

  “Yeah. They give me most of the cases with movie stars.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  Russo looked at me. His eyes barely showed behind his squinting, fleshy lids. He said, “I don’t know. Maybe ʼcause I can keep a secret.”

  I could feel my face turning red. I looked down. I took a breath. I looked back up at him. “I
’ve been feeling pretty angry lately. Sometimes I take it out on the wrong people.”

  Russo looked at me another moment, then nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Harper said, “That Toledo case, we never collared the perp, right?”

  “No,” said Russo. “She’s still out there.”

  I said, “How much money did she get?”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  I thought I’d heard him wrong. “Two hundred thousand dollars?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Did Toledo talk her down or something?”

  “He did, yeah. Five hundred is what she asked for.”

  “Why only five hundred? The Guatemalans told me Toledo was supposed to be worth something like sixteen million.”

  Russo said, “That’s a good question.”

  The waitress brought our food. Russo took a massive bite out of his burger. He chewed with his mouth open. Bits of burger fell onto the table. I looked at Harper and raised my eyebrows. Harper shrugged and dug in.

  “So,” I said, “what do you know about the kidnapper?”

  Russo made no comment.

  I took a bite of my cheeseburger, chewed, and swallowed before saying, “I heard the woman’s name is Alejandra Delarosa. I heard she was Toledo’s mistress.”

  “How about that. I think we heard that too.”

  “Were you able to confirm it? Anybody see them together at hotels? Unexplained gaps in both of their calendars? Anything like that?

  “Nope,” said Russo, “but that don’t mean a thing.”

  “Do you have proof they even knew each other?

  “She worked for him. A secretary. Or administrative assistant. Whatever.”

  “How long did she work for Toledo?” I said.

  “About a year, maybe. We’re talking about a seven-year-old cold case here, so I could be wrong. But she was with him for a while.”

  “She knew him pretty well?”

  “Looked that way to us.”

  “It’s hard to kill someone you know well.”

  “Baloney. Almost every killer knows the victim.”

  “In cold blood, I mean. It’s harder to do it in cold blood when you know someone well.”