I gave the job to Badger. With my interview fast approaching, I couldn’t risk pulling a disappearing act at work. Presence was an important quality for senior leadership and an empty office was not the ideal way to foment an image of serious engagement in my work. And although the interviews would grant me ample time to meet and discuss my qualities and ideas with the decision-makers, there was a necessary pre-step I had to take if I had any chance of succeeding.
“Socialization” was the new buzzword at the office. With so many new ideas and initiatives being pitched at once and so little mental “bandwidth” (and will) to process them all, leadership demanded they hear about each pitch on an individual basis before the actual meeting. The reason was clear: no one liked to be taken by surprise. This resulted in a mini-campaign of sorts, often off the calendar, where you were expected to make the rounds to the various offices of the decision-makers for a quick “drop in” chat. You’d float the idea, get some initial feedback, and then agree that it would be good to discuss in the larger group. In the military world, this was known as “softening up the hill.” In the corporate world, it was how people filled up their calendars. One meeting with ten people quickly became eleven meetings when you added in all of the individual ones.
I was so busy running around on my socialization work that I missed the breaking story — Nelson Portillo was wanted for questioning in the murder of Morgan McIlroy. She was apparently last seen with him leaving a restaurant in Silver Lake. They had a school photo of the Portillo boy and despite the menacing words “Wanted for questioning” emblazoned over it, the kid still didn’t look like he could kill another human being. There was no mention of Jeanette in any of the articles.
I foolishly put a call in to Detective Ricohr and unfortunately for me he picked up.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Restic? Do you want to confess?”
“No, but you have the wrong person in the Portillo boy.”
“Now why would you know anything about that?” he asked, surprised. “Maybe you should be a person of interest in the girl’s murder.”
I hadn’t thought through the phone call and was now getting myself entangled in a difficult situation. Previously, when I met with Detective Ricohr, I was not forthcoming with the details around Jeanette’s disappearance because of some vague notion of client privilege, if there even was such a thing. But now having been summarily dismissed from my role as private investigator, so too was I released from any obligations to Valenti and his precious privacy.
“I may not have given you all of the facts when we first met,” I confessed.
“I’m sure of it. Care to make amends?”
I told him what I knew — most of it, anyway. I explained the reason for meeting with Morgan in the first place and was clear the missing girl I was after was in fact, Valenti’s granddaughter.
“You have a way of tangling with some pretty powerful people,” he commented but it sounded more like a warning than anything else.
I purposely avoided mentioning the original payment Hector made to Nelson’s brother. I knew how quickly this would be misinterpreted as further proof of Nelson’s potential guilt. And I conveniently left out the part where Nelson tried to run me over and the time he tried to escape out the window and then stood me up in the Rally’s parking lot. Reviewing all of the stuff I left out of the narrative made me half-wonder if Nelson should be a suspect after all.
The other big piece that was conveniently left out of what I told Detective Ricohr was any mention of Hector Hermosillo — the knife fight in the street and the prior arrest for murder in 1963. From what I knew about Detective Ricohr, he wasn’t your typical cop. He was a pragmatist and didn’t follow the easy route. But despite all that, I withheld the details about Hector because reasonable or not, cops tended to latch onto things and not let go. The last thing I wanted was the full weight of the Los Angeles Police Department to come down on my little magician friend. He didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.
“I’m only telling you all this because I have met with the Portillo boy and there simply isn’t any way he could have done what you are saying.”
“I never said he did,” Ricohr corrected me.
“Come on, Detective, his face is plastered all over the news. No one is going to split hairs when they see his mug in connection with the girl’s murder. Right now, in the eyes of the public he is already guilty and it’s only a matter of bringing him in for his punishment.”
“You can’t base police work on a ‘feeling’ someone has for a suspect after meeting them for five minutes,” he chided but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. He was a decent soul and he was a better detective. “So you think the girl’s murder is connected to the disappearance of the Valenti girl?”
“I do. There’s something deep running under all of this that I haven’t yet figured out. It could be about money.”
“It often is. This Gao Li — he sounds pretty motivated to get back at the old man.”
“Very motivated. His family hasn’t had the best of experiences with Valenti, to say the least. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Most people who do deal with Valenti come out on the short end.”
There was a short pause.
“You still holding some anger towards the old man?” he asked me straight out.
“I may hate the man,” I told him, “but not enough to do what you’re implying.”
My word seemed enough for him and he let it go.
“Why hasn’t the family contacted the police?”
“Publicity.”
“That sounds thin,” he ruminated.
“Or selfish.”
“Or both. I could alert my colleagues in Missing Persons, if you think that would help. We don’t necessarily need the family to file a report if we think the girl is in danger, but it doesn’t make it easy without the family’s involvement. Especially this family,” he added.
I reasoned that it might do more harm than good. I didn’t want to spook Jeanette by having her face plastered all over the news along with Nelson’s and provoke her into doing something drastic.
“I’m glad you said that,” he admitted. “Seven years from retirement and the last thing I need is to get run out before I’ve reached the eighty percent mark.” Detective Ricohr and I shared the golden handcuffs also known as a “secure retirement.”
“There’s nothing much I can do about the Portillo kid now,” he continued. “Maybe I was a little hasty but let’s remember, he is the last person to see the victim alive.”
“Other than her killer,” I amended.
“We’ll see about that.”
“I’m going to prove you wrong,” I told him, feeling my oats.
“Listen, pal,” he fired back, “I’m letting it go that you lied to me when I first approached you about the girl’s murder. But I am going to be very clear right here and now — if you pull that again, I am not going to be in a forgiving mood. You learn anything about anyone, you call me first. And if I hear otherwise…”
“There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Fuck off,” he said and hung up on me.
THE SILENT SCREEN
I caught Jeff as he was about to leave the office. By the way he bustled about and didn’t make much effort to actually settle down for a second and speak to me directly, I got the sense he wasn’t in the mood to make much time for me. It wasn’t but a day or two ago that we were best friends, united in our work to bring home his daughter. Now I was the guy with the clipboard out front of the grocery store — if he didn’t make eye contact then he wouldn’t have to stop and sign my petition.
When faced with people in a rush, I have the annoying habit of slowing things down to a glacial pace.
“There was one thing…I, uh, wanted to…talk to you…about.”
“Sure, but I’m in a bit of a rush so if it’s quick, then let’s walk and talk,” he suggested and assumed I would be in agreement because he hurried out of the room before I could answer. I didn�
��t move from the spot where I was standing and patiently waited for him to come back. It took longer than I expected but he eventually reappeared in the doorway and put on his best annoyed impersonation. “Okay, what is it?”
“Did you ever get ahold of your daughter?” I asked.
“I did not. But I am not sure how that is any of your concern,” he replied, pushing his way into his office and closing the door behind him. “I thought you weren’t helping out on this anymore.”
“So are you and the old man on speaking terms again?” There was no way he could have known that unless they were. My suspicions were confirmed when I looked back at the blank screen where the now-silenced video installation was supposed to be.
“Yes, it’s common that family members talk once in a while,” he said, taking on a snarky tone. Jeff seemed to jump between two personas — the Average Joe from the Valley or the High Society dabbler — depending on his current standing with the old man. By the way he kept addressing me like a servant, I assumed things had been temporarily patched up between them.
“Why the rapprochement?” I asked.
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” he told me again but didn’t make any move to kick me out. “You’re a very aggressive person. And I’m not sure I like it.” He was slipping back into the kid from the Valley.
“How much do you know about what’s going on with your daughter?”
“How much do you know?” he shot back.
“Plenty,” I calmly replied, “She placed the article in the gossip blog.”
I invited myself to one of the chairs and made him listen to all that I learned over the last couple of days, including the connection of the nurse from the convalescent home to the clinic where Jeanette had her baby. He reluctantly sat opposite me and silently listened, though he did check his watch several times to remind me that he was a busy man and had places to go. Jeff didn’t let on whether any or all of what I was telling him was new information.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Almost. Have you spoken to Mr. Li lately?”
“No, but I plan to,” he answered.
“I’d like to be there when you do. I have some questions of my own that I want to ask him.” He didn’t acknowledge the request and overall wasn’t as responsive to reasoning as in the past. The reconciliation between him and Valenti was more pronounced than I had originally guessed. “Jeff, it’s time to go to the police. This is no longer an affair of the family. Murder is involved.”
“Trust me, I understand the gravity of the current situation,” he replied non-committedly.
“The number-one goal is to bring your daughter home, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the best way to do that is to let the authorities help. They have the resources at their disposal. They can cast a net a lot farther and deeper than what you or I can do.”
“Plastering her face all over the news sites?” he asked with a trace of contempt.
“Now is not the time to worry about decorum. That stuff is extremely painful in the short term but it fades a lot faster than you think. If she’s made it this far I think she can handle a little ugliness in the media,” I pressed.
He sort of nodded but something made me wonder if his original misgivings about the publicity were in fear for his daughter’s humiliation or in fear for his own.
“I spoke to the detective assigned to the McIlroy girl’s murder—” I said, but before I could finish, Jeff leaped to his feet, his face a contorted m�lange of orange and red.
“You already went to the police!” he shouted.
“I didn’t have to, they came to me.”
“Well you better not have been telling them anything.”
“Or what?”
“That was not smart,” he lectured.
“You aren’t exactly the epitome of Mensa Society, Jeff. And if you are getting your advice from somewhere, you might want to think twice about the source.” It was a transparent warning that he was being manipulated. Valenti had his hooks back in him but the question was, how deep? “I left out one other detail. Please sit down for two minutes and listen to what I have to say.”
I conveyed my suspicions and growing concerns that Valenti could be the father of Jeanette’s baby. I was careful not to libel myself as I had no real proof but the circumstantial references were starting to point in that direction. And that I was worried that this could quickly escalate.
“That’s outlandish,” he commented without much indignation. If anything, he was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t true. He stared absently at the pile carpet, his right eye blinking methodically as he thought things over. I let him stew in all of the ugly permutations and patiently waited for him to come to their unsatisfactory conclusion.
“Listen, Mr. Restic,” emerged magnanimous Jeff, that condescending creature prone to lecturing. “We can’t let stressful situations lead us to make poor decisions…” It was a drawn out speech of well-meaning but empty words. I smiled politely and thanked him for his time. He graciously walked me to the lobby door, but I refused his extended hand.
The man was a lost cause.
***
I caught Meredith at home. She, too, had effectively been brought back into the family fold but at least she was honest about it. Unlike with her ex-husband there were no high-minded speeches to camouflage her real intentions.
“I’m going with which way the wind is blowing,” she said but it didn’t sound like she was actually happy about it.
“Who’s calling the shots?” I asked. She gave me a look that effectively reprimanded me for a dumb question. “What is he asking you to do?”
“To go along with everything.”
“Which is?”
She smiled. “That wouldn’t be going along with everything.”
“When did you know that Jeanette was pregnant?”
Meredith thought it through and it seemed like she was debating on whether to tell me the truth or not.
“About a month before she ran off,” she finally answered.
“That’s pretty late in her term.”
“She hid it well,” she replied but didn’t feel like that was enough. “We don’t have the best relationship,” she added.
She didn’t like the direction this conversation was going and decided to shift it away from her.
“Did they find the Portillo boy yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I never thought he was the violent type but I guess you never really know what people are capable of doing, do you?”
I let that go unanswered until she looked up at me.
“You want me to play along to help you feel better?”
“Excuse me?” she shot back.
“You know that kid had nothing to do with Morgan’s murder. But if you want me to talk you through it to ease some of your guilt I am happy to oblige. Is railroading Nelson part of whatever plan the family is cooking up?”
“It is not,” she conceded. One thing I admired about Meredith was when I called her on something, she was always big enough to acknowledge it. “And no, I don’t actually think that boy had anything to do with Morgan’s murder.”
“Hire me,” I said.
“What?”
“You don’t believe any of this nonsense being flung around about Nelson Portillo being a murderer. And I don’t get the sense you approve of whatever plan is being cooked up.”
“I already hired you, didn’t I?” She was trying to make a joke out of it to make it go away. I didn’t let her.
“I can find your daughter. I’m close to finding her now. I need your help, Meredith.” She nodded. I couldn’t tell if I was actually getting through to her or if she was just buying time before shooting down my offer. “It’s never too late to turn that relationship around,” I added.
“You and me disobeying Dad?” she dreamed. “He would have a conniption.”
“Let him.”
She tilt
ed her head back and stared out the large slider like she was watching a movie of some fictional world on the other side of the glass.
“Look at him,” she said, pointing at Sami who sat on the edge of a chaise lounge just outside the sliding door. I hadn’t noticed him. He periodically glanced in like someone pretending not to be very interested in what was being said on the other side of the reflection.
“Does he sleep at the foot of the bed, too?”
“No,” she laughed, “but I might ask him to. You’re mean,” she said after some reflection but meant it as a compliment.
“Why are you shutting him out?”
“This is a family matter.”
“So why am I here?”
“You won’t be for long,” she stated.
***
I showed myself out. Meredith was my last hope, but even she couldn’t resist the pull Valenti had on anyone connected to him. I took a moment to take in the cool air trapped under the thick marine layer before heading out on the long drive back to Eagle Rock. It roughly worked out that every three miles equaled one degree warmer on the thermometer. By that calculation it would be ninety-five in my neighborhood.
“There is something happening,” a voice said behind me. Sami scraped through two dwarf palms. He remained close to the wall of the house and safely out of the sightline of the front windows. “Jeanette contacted them,” he said.
It seemed to me he was taking an unnecessarily conspiratorial tone, skulking in the shadows like a daylight robber.
“When?”
“Last night. Meredith got a call from her father. I don’t know what they talked about but it was a long conversation. I tried to ask Meredith afterwards. I didn’t want to push it.” But clearly he had tried. I waited for the response. “She told me it wasn’t any of my concern.”
“Who did Jeanette contact — her mother or the old man?”
“It sounded like her grandfather got the call,” he said. “She is going up to the family house tonight.”
The Eternal Summer (Chuck Restic Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 14
