“Planning a vacation?” I asked, walking up next to him. He cradled his motorcycle helmet under one arm as he flipped through a book with a glossy photograph of a long winding road on the front. His longish hair lay clean and shiny on the collar of his blue Arrow shirt. He turned green eyes on me, and I was relieved to see the whites clear and rested.
“Nah,” he said, sticking the book back in the shelf. “Just dreaming.”
“How are things going?”
“Maybe I should ask you that.”
I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean by that?”
He pulled a copy of the Freedom Press from under his arm. “According to this, you have your finger on the pulse of the police department. Be nice if you could let a friend in on what’s going on.”
I leaned against the bookshelf. “Nick, you know Will Henry as well as I do. That paper twists the truth like uncooked pretzel dough. I swear that I don’t know any more about this case than what we all read in the paper. How did you get a copy of the paper so soon anyway?”
“A bunch were dropped off early at all the stands in town here. I guess Will Henry couldn’t wait to get this one out.”
“He seems awfully intent on pointing fingers at everyone else,” I said. “Makes me wonder if he’s trying to divert attention from himself. Maybe he had something to do with Nora’s death.” Once the words were out of my mouth, I instantly regretted them, remembering the story of the Jewish man and his feather pillow.
“That’s certainly occurred to me,” Nick said. “And I’d spend more time looking into it if I wasn’t so worried about my own butt.”
“Why’s that?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Nick, what are you talking about?”
“If the police were spending half as much time investigating the people she’d talked about in her column or her stinking ex-husband and his girlfriend as they are coming out and requestioning me, they’d probably have caught her murderer by now.”
“They’ve questioned you again?” I asked.
“Don’t pull that innocent game on me. I realize your first allegiance belongs to your husband, the police chief, so let’s not pretend anything else.”
“You’ve got it all wrong—” I started, trying not to give in to the anger rising up in me, telling myself he was just acting this way because of grief.
His voice swelled in volume. “Just give Gabe a message for me. Tell him I wouldn’t kill my sister for any amount of money or land in the world. And tell him the next officer that shows up at my door will have to speak to my attorney.” He threw the book he was holding back on the shelf.
“Nick, wait—” He whipped around and walked away before I could finish. I ran up the stairs to Elvia’s office, bursting in without knocking. She was sitting in front of her computer, her chin in her hand.
“I am so sick of people,” I said, flopping down in one of her peach-colored office chairs.
She continued staring at the brightly lit screen, then punched a couple of keys. “Tell me,” she said, her eyes never leaving the screen. I ranted and raved about the Tattler column, about my encounter with Nick, about being blamed for something I hadn’t done and indeed had spent an incredible amount of time trying not to do, and about the general jerkiness of the male sex altogether. She continued to work as I complained.
Finally she made an irritated sound, turned the computer screen off, and turned her chair to face me. “Speaking of the male sex, this new word-processing program has me ready to send a truckload of your best steer manure to Bill Gates.” She folded her hands in front of her, studied me with steady, black eyes, and said, “So, what are you going to do about it?”
I slumped in the chair, suddenly so tired all I wanted to do was go home and crawl under the covers. “I don’t know. The most irritating thing is it’s really no one’s fault. I can’t help it if I found Nora’s body or that I’m so intimately involved with most of the suspects. Gabe can’t help it that he’s the chief of police. We can’t help it that we happen to be married. You know, I’ve tried not to poke my nose into this one. I’ve just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now Gabe’s reputation is paying for it. I’m so worried about him. With everything that’s happened in his life the last few months, I’m afraid that this might be the one thing that’ll cause him to snap.”
“Is he mad?”
“No, he’s actually being pretty understanding about it. But Michael Haynes is probably chewing his ear off as we speak. Who knows what he’s going to be like after that?”
“So, I repeat, what are you going to do about it?”
I shrugged and picked at a piece of lint on the chair arm. “I’m tempted to actually start asking a few questions since I’ve got the name anyway. Maybe I can find out something that Gabe and his detectives can’t and get this thing resolved and everything back to normal.”
She shook her head, her shiny black hair making a swishing sound on her silk collar. “I knew you’d end up getting involved. I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I stood up and tugged my jeans down over the tops of my boots. “You and me both. See you at the opening ceremonies tomorrow? My speech is at six o’clock.”
“If you’re not in jail or the hospital,” she said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, my beautiful and skeptical friend,” I replied. “Oh, by the way ...” I went on to tell her about the Datebook Bum’s maroon diary.
“I feel so bad about him,” she said. “I called Shaker’s Mortuary and made some arrangements. I’d like to read it when you’re through.”
Outside, I walked through the crowd, trying to decide if I should try to find Gabe or just make a dash to the truck on my own despite his request. I stood on the street corner next to the Rocky Mountain Candy cart and looked out over the milling crowd. Surely there would be other people leaving at the same time. The side streets of San Celina weren’t that deserted or dangerous.
“Whatcha looking for?” a familiar voice said behind me. I jumped, causing Sam to laugh at my skittishness.
“Nothing,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“I’m on dinner break.” He held up a foil-wrapped tri-tip steak sandwich and a caramel apple.
“Looks like the perfect dinner to me. How long do you have?”
“An hour.” He unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it. Salsa dripped down his chin. I pulled a napkin from the candy cart’s holder and handed it to him.
“Thanks. What’re you doing?” he asked.
“To be truthful, I’m beat and want to go home.”
He gave me a curious look. “So, what’s stopping you?”
I sighed. “Your dad made me promise I wouldn’t be alone, and the truck is parked four blocks away. He’s all tied up with a city-council member, and I was standing here contemplating whether I should keep my promise or just not tell him I walked to my car unassisted.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ll walk you there.”
“I don’t want to take up your whole dinner hour,” I protested.
“Not a big deal. We don’t want to upset mi padre, now, do we?”
I laughed. “No, we certainly don’t.”
As we walked toward the car I told him about the newspaper column that would be officially hitting the streets tomorrow.
“Man, that’s tweaked,” he said sympathetically, finishing up his sandwich as we slipped around the barricades at the end of Lopez Street and walked through the shadowy streets toward the truck. “Bet Dad’s pissed.”
“Actually, he’s handling it pretty well. But I have no idea what he’s going to be like once that city-council member gets through with him.” I reached up and batted a low-hanging maple branch. Leaves, bright red and gold from last week’s early frost, fluttered down around us.
We crossed the Morro Street bridge, cooled briefly by the damp air rising from San Celina Creek. The tangy smell of rotting vegetation and d
amp earth surrounded us. Down on the dark banks of the creek that twisted through the city like a wine-drunk snake, we could hear the sounds of teenage laughter and the splashing of water. The streets were more deserted than I expected, and I was grateful for Sam’s large, very noticeable presence.
We were about a block away from the truck when Sam said, “Look at that.” He pointed to the streetlight I’d cautiously parked under. It was burned out, and a small pool of darkness shadowed the truck. Out of the darkness a figure emerged. We watched, stunned for a moment, as the figure turned and raised a baseball bat, bringing it crashing down on the truck’s windshield.
“Cut it out!” Sam yelled, and sprinted toward the figure. “That’s my dad’s truck!”
In a split second, from behind the truck another figure appeared. In the short time it took for Sam to reach the truck, the second figure had done his work. The back of the truck sank from two punctured tires. The first figure swung the bat and shattered the driver’s window. Sam grabbed the man’s arm.
The other figure started toward Sam, an arm raised. The knife in his hand flashed in the pale moonlight.
“Sam,” I screamed, running toward them. “Watch out!” I reached the man holding the knife and threw my arms around his waist.
“Lemme go,” the man said, twisting and turning to release my pit-bull grip. “Shit, leggo, lady.”
All I could think was I can’t let Sam get stabbed.
“Run,” I screamed at Sam. He tried to wrestle the bat away from the man. Their grunts and cursing were muted in the dense air. My stomach lurched in relief when I heard the bat hit the street with a hollow clatter. Loosening my grip slightly, I twisted around and used my only weapon. I clamped my teeth down on the man’s arm, biting down on the thin cotton covering his forearm. He yelped and jerked away. The knife hit the ground.
With an angry roar, the man threw me off him. I hit the sidewalk backward. Pain shot up my tailbone. Ignoring it, I jumped up and ran toward Sam. The baseball-bat man swung a huge fist at Sam’s face, connecting with a sickening thud. Sam collapsed in front of the truck, blood spewing from his nose. The man swung his leg back to kick Sam in the crotch, and I sprang at him, catching the edge of his jean jacket with my fingers. He shoved me away, backhanding me in the face. I flew back with the force of his blow and hit the pavement again. Pain exploded across my cheekbone, blinding me for a moment in one eye. Out of the blurred vision of my good eye, I saw Sam roll to his side. The man’s kick landed on Sam’s thigh. The man yelled at his friend that they weren’t paid to do anything but wreck a truck. Then they were gone.
“Sam,” I croaked, forcing myself to crawl to him. “Are you okay?”
He wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand, attempting a smile. Even in the dark I could see the blood staining his white teeth. “Are you?” he asked.
I tentatively touched my already swelling eye, my stomach churning from the sizzling pain. “Mostly.” Before I could say more, two girls ran up.
“Hey, are you guys all right?” a girl wearing a white beret asked. “We saw those guys beating up on you. My friend went to get the cops.” She looked at our ravaged faces and the smashed windows of the truck. “Man, why didn’t you just let them take the truck?”
Sam and I caught each other’s eye. For some reason, we found her perfectly sane and sensible remark hilarious, and we started giggling. We were sitting on the street with our backs against the bumper of the truck laughing like a couple of drunks when B. Girard and another cop ran up.
“Crap,” she said. “It’s the chief’s wife.” She squatted down and peered into my face. “Are you all right?”
I stared into her concerned face. “What’s the B stand for?” I asked inanely, trying to think about something other than the blowtorch blasting my eye.
She gave me an odd look. “Bliss,” she said. “I have a twin sister named Joy.”
Only Sam seemed to understand how incredibly funny that was. We burst into another round of hysterical laugher. Officer Bliss Girard shook her head in bewilderment and stood up. “Call dispatch and have them get a hold of the chief,” she told her partner, a thin Asian man who stared at us like we were a couple of three-headed cows. “Have them tell him his wife and—” She looked at Sam, a question in her steady eyes.
“His son,” I said, in between gulps of laughter.
She was struck silent for a moment, then regained her composure. “His wife and son were mugged on the two-hundred block of Morro Street. And call the paramedics.”
The paramedics were working on us when Gabe arrived. Gabe’s head towered over the cute EMT who was cleaning around my eye with alcohol. “Ouch,” I complained when the paramedic probed too deeply. I gripped the curb to keep from passing out from the pain.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just want to make sure it’s clean. You’d better keep ice on this for a couple of hours. But you’re going to have a real shiner there, Mrs. Ortiz.”
In my hazy vision, Gabe’s face appeared as villainous and unforgiving as a hit man’s.
“How’s Sam?” I asked, trying to peer around the paramedic’s body.
“He’s fine,” Gabe said. “Just a broken nose and some sore ribs. What happened?” His eyes were gray and hard.
The paramedic handed me a cold pack, and I placed it against my eye. “We were mugged.”
He stared at me a long time without answering. Then he said, “We’ll talk about it at the station.” He helped me stand, keeping his arm tight around me while leading me toward a patrol car. Sam was already in the backseat, holding a cold pack to his swollen bottom lip. Gabe helped me into the seat next to Sam. “I’ll be back shortly.” He slammed the door.
I turned to Sam. His sun-reddened nose was twice its normal size. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged and attempted a grin. Pain turned it to a grimace. “Okay. He’s pissed, isn’t he?” He sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of wet oatmeal.
“Without a doubt,” I said, resting my head on the slippery vinyl seat. “What did you tell him?”
“That we were mugged. But it was pretty obvious that the truck was involved.” He pointed past me. The truck was illuminated by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. The completely flat rear tires gave it a comical nose-in-the-air tilt.
I adjusted the ice pack on my eye and groaned. “How much longer is this going to take? I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Officer Girard opened the driver’s door and slipped in. “Chief Ortiz told me to drive you both to the station. He’s going to meet us there.”
“Please, just don’t take any fast corners,” I said. When we pulled into the station’s back lot, the Corvette’s presence informed us Gabe beat us there.
“I’m sorry for laughing at your name,” I told Officer Girard as she helped me out of the backseat.
“No problem,” she said. “Happens all the time. My parents were hippies.” She nodded toward the building. “He’s waiting for you inside.”
“Go ahead,” I said to Sam when we walked through the station. “I need to hit the john before our interrogation or I’ll explode.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said, giving Gabe’s closed office door a baleful look. “Let me face the lion alone.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said, giving him a small push. “Besides, haven’t you heard that male lions are all roar? It’s the lioness you really need to fear.” I pinched one of his biceps and giggled, regretting it when pain shot through the side of my face with tiny lightning bolts.
He turned dark, soulful eyes on me. “I see my mom’s reputation precedes her.”
When I returned I could hear Gabe’s deep voice shouting through the heavy oak door. His voice rose and fell in that mixture of Spanish and English he slipped into whenever he was feeling very angry or very romantic. Sam’s slightly higher-pitched tenor yelled an answer. I pushed open the door.
Gabe and Sam faced each other, noses only inches apart, wearing express
ions of rage so similar I fought the urge to chuckle. If I ever wanted to know what Gabe had looked like when he was a rebellious and cocky eighteen-year-old, here it was in living color. The tendons on Gabe’s neck stood out as thick as ropes. “Of all the stupid, idiotic—” he was saying.
He stopped midsentence when he noticed my presence.
“They can hear you two clear to Santa Barbara,” I said, keeping my voice light and calm.
“Am I under arrest?” Sam spit out, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Gabe looked at him with flint-colored eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then I don’t have to listen to any more of your bullshit. All I was trying to do was prevent a crime, and you treat me like the criminal. So why don’t you just shove it?” Sam stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. On the tan wall, a picture rattled.
Gabe walked out to the hallway and calmly told a nearby officer, “Go take a statement from him while the incident is still fresh in his mind.”
“Don’t you think you might have been a little rough on him?” I said when he walked back into his office.
Gabe turned still-angry eyes on me. “You think so? What you two did could have gotten yourselves killed. And for what? A stupid vehicle. You know, I can see where in his youth and stupidity Sam might be that foolishly impetuous, but you should have known better.” He picked up a large plastic bag that held the knife the man had used to slash the truck tires. The blade was narrow, evil-looking; its sharp tip had punctured a hole in the thin plastic bag.
“Do you know what it feels like to be cut, Benni? With one thrust, you could have been dead.” He tossed the bag back down on his desk.
“He was going after Sam,” I said in my defense. “Gabe, I didn’t even think. If I had stopped and thought and ran for help, Sam could be dead.”
He turned away from me, inhaling deeply. “I could have lost both of you,” he said hoarsely.
I went over, put my arms around his waist, and laid my head against his warm back. “But you didn’t. We’re okay.”
“Whoever did this is trying to get me to back off on the Cooper investigation.”
Goose in the Pond Page 21
