Sullivan’s Evidence

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Kathleen stopped to get gas, waiting at the pump for the attendant. “Isn’t anyone going to help me?” she yelled out the window to a man with a Mobil Oil emblem on his shirt.

  He pointed to a sign. “Self-service, lady.”

  She hadn’t pumped gas in years. At least the Cadillac Escalade she’d rented while her Mercedes was being repaired had a large fuel tank. She liked the feeling of sitting high off the ground, looking down at the smaller cars and knowing she was protected inside the large mass of steel. A vehicle large enough to carry a body might also come in handy.

  Grappling with the hose, she finally managed to get the nozzle into the gas tank, and then broke off her fingernail trying to hold down the lever.

  Oxnard had originally been a farming community and had fields where migrant workers labored all day in the hot sun. The pungent odor of insecticide and fertilizer brushed past her nostrils. The wind whipped through her hair, and with her free hand, she held the blond wig in place. She couldn’t wear the strap inside the wig as she still suffered from headaches as a result of her head injury. Dean had not only disfigured her, he’d seriously impeded her chances of reestablishing her lucrative career as a Realtor. People who purchased multimillion-dollar estates didn’t want to be reminded that a locale of exquisite natural beauty such as Carmel could be infiltrated by violent criminals.

  After filling the gas tank, Kathleen used the station’s bathroom to wash the smell of gasoline off her hands. If it was so hard to get a handgun, she thought, why did all the criminals have them? Ah, she realized, they obviously stole them, and they must steal them from upstanding citizens who’d purchased the guns for their own protection. How idiotic. The crooks didn’t have to fill out paperwork, go for gun training, or foot the bill. They just burgled someone’s home and walked off with a legally registered handgun. If the owners caused them any trouble, they could shoot them with their own guns. The good thing about stealing a gun from a regular person was it had probably never been used in the commission of a crime.

  Kathleen’s earlier regard for gun control disappeared.

  The sun was setting, and a faint glow of orange and blue stretched across the horizon. Several blocks down, she saw a group of Hispanic males who appeared to be baby gang-bangers. They were wearing black beanies pulled down to their eyebrows, baggy pants, and long T-shirts. Rolling down the passenger window of the Cadillac, she gestured for one of them to come over. His pants were so low, he walked like a toddler with a full load in his diaper. “Do you know where I can buy a handgun?”

  “Nice ride, lady,” the boy said, looking no older than fourteen. He turned around and yelled to one of his friends, “Look what we got here, José. A brand-new red Caddy. Bet she got a TV and DVD player in this thing.”

  José sneered. “She ain’t letting you watch it, Pablo.”

  “I really need some help,” Kathleen said, digging into her wallet and pulling out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “Are you sure you don’t know anyone who has a gun? Can’t you steal one from your older brother, maybe your father?”

  “We got guns, man,” Pablo said, posturing. “My bro and my father are in prison. I got my homeboys. They my family now. How much money you got?”

  “Five hundred,” Kathleen said. “Bring me the gun and it’ll be yours.”

  “Nada,” the boy said, rubbing his fingers together. “No dinero, no gun.”

  “How long will it take you to get it?”

  He extended his hand. “Give me the money and you’ll find out.”

  Sure, Kathleen thought, not about to let some pintsized street punk scam her. She pointed at an even smaller boy. “You,” she said, “get in the car. You stay with me until your buddy gets my gun.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, and he took several steps backward, looking around as if he didn’t know what was going on. “It’s cool, Berto,” Pablo told him. “You’re just taking a ride in the nice lady’s fancy car.” He patted his friend on the back, then made eye contact with Kathleen. “You givin’ me the cash or what?”

  “Not until he gets into the car,” she insisted. As soon as the boy opened the door and slid into the seat, she hit the button for the automatic locks. “Here.” She handed the money to Pablo through the open window.

  “Take a drive. Cops see you here, and they think something’s going down.” The money disappeared into the pocket of Pablo’s jeans. “Be back here in thirty minutes,” he said, walking away with a grin on his face and a bounce in his step.

  “How old are you?” Kathleen asked Berto.

  “Eighteen,” he said in a raspy voice.

  “Yeah, you’re eighteen all right,” she said. “More like thirteen or fourteen. What are you doing hanging out on the street with these wannabe thugs? Why don’t you make something of your life?”

  Berto gave her a blank look. He coughed several times, and then wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.

  “Do you have a cold, or are you snorting drugs?”

  “Cold,” he answered.

  Great, Kathleen thought, handing him a tissue from her purse. All she needed was a germ-laden kid in her car. “Did you drop out of school?”

  “I liked school, but I got jumped last year. I was hurt pretty bad, so I stopped going.”

  “Who jumped you?”

  “Uh…Pablo and José.”

  “Well, that sounds brilliant, Berto,” Kathleen said. “These guys beat you up, so you decide to throw your future away and start hanging out with them. Good move. The way you’re going, you might not live to turn fifteen.”

  A look of sadness appeared in his eyes. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand more than you think,” she told him, glancing at her watch. After making three passes, she saw Pablo leaning against the wall with his hands behind his back. As soon as she pulled to the curb, he walked over and handed her a brown paper bag. She looked inside and saw an older-model revolver, along with a box of bullets. “Does this thing work?”

  “What you think?” Pablo said. “My uncle popped it just last week.”

  Kathleen arched an eyebrow. “He didn’t kill someone, I hope?”

  “Nah,” Pablo said. “He gets drunk and shoots at tin cans.”

  Berto reached for the door handle to get out. Kathleen threw her hand over his chest, holding him in place. “I’m an undercover police officer,” she said to Pablo. “I’m not going to arrest you and your little friends for illegally selling firearms if you swear you won’t ever hurt Berto again. Don’t even talk to him, okay? If I hear you’re harassing him in anyway whatsoever, I’ll haul both your asses to jail. Am I making myself clear? Now give me my five hundred dollars back.”

  “Bitch,” Pablo said, sprinting off down the street.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Berto said, frightened.

  “Take you home to your momma, where you belong,” Kathleen told him. “You do have a mother, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kathleen’s fingers closed on the cold steel of the revolver in her lap. A feeling of satisfaction filled her. Maybe if she did something right, it would make up for what she intended to do to Dean when she found him. In her eyes, though, she had every right to exact revenge, particularly since the police weren’t going to help her. “Where do you live, Berto?”

  He mumbled, “About ten blocks from here. Go straight, and I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  She dialed Alec Cohen. “Tell him I won’t be coming,” she told his assistant. “I’m taking care of everything on my own.”

  “Just a second,” the woman said. “I can connect you to Mr. Cohen right now.”

  “I don’t have any desire to talk to him. Just give him a message. Tell him he’s fired. As of this moment, he’s no longer authorized to handle my business affairs. I’ll send someone over to pick up my records later.”

  “Hang on,” the woman said, “I’m sure he wants to speak to you.”

  “He can talk to my lawyer,” K
athleen said, flipping the phone closed. Before she placed it back in her purse, she stared at the Verizon insignia imprinted on the cover. An idea came to her. She dialed 611 and got the company’s operator. “My name is Kathleen Masters,” she said. “My husband wants to reactivate his number.”

  “You can’t reactivate a number. Is your husband there?”

  “Yes, but he’s driving.”

  “Did he put the phone on vacation?”

  “Yes,” Kathleen said, taking a wild guess. She remembered doing this when she and Dean had gone to Europe the year before.

  “Give me his phone number and the last four digits of his social security number,” the man said. “Let me pull up your account.” After she gave him the information, the line went silent for a minute. “You’re in luck. The ninety days hasn’t expired. But I have to get authorization from Mr. Masters before we can continue.”

  Kathleen handed the phone to Berto and whispered, “Just listen and say yes to everything they ask you.”

  Berto said, “Yes” a few times, then passed the phone back to her. “Can you set up the call-forwarding feature so that my husband can get his calls at this number? We just got back from vacation, and he doesn’t have his phone with him.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll take care of that now.”

  “Thank you,” Kathleen said, satisfied that she’d beat the system not only once today, but twice.

  “This is where I live,” Berto said, pointing at a rundown apartment building.

  “I’m going in with you,” she said, grabbing her purse as they both got out of the car. “I have a gift for you and your mother.”

  They went up the stairs and entered an apartment not much larger than Kathleen’s walk-in closet. Immediately she felt claustrophobic. The drapes were drawn, the lights dim, and an odd assortment of furniture was crammed into the small room. Crosses and religious pictures covered the walls. Spicy cooking smells drifted out from the kitchen. A tiny woman with a weather-worn face appeared, startled by the tall stranger with the blond hair. “This is my mother,” Berto said, dropping his head.

  “I’m with the county youth intervention program,” Kathleen lied. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Rosaria Gonzales,” the woman answered with a thick Spanish accent. “Is my son in trouble?”

  “Actually, no,” she said, smiling at Berto. “We have a special award that we give out for promising young men. Your son has won a thousand dollars to be applied to after-school private tutoring.”

  “Holy mother of God,” the small woman said, making the sign of the cross. Rushing over to Berto, she hugged him and kissed his cheek.

  Dean wasn’t aware of it, but Kathleen had donated money to needy families for years. She didn’t trust traditional charities, as she believed the majority of what they collected went to pay inflated salaries to administrators and fund-raisers. She’d connected with a social worker years before, when she was married to George, and the woman had continued to supply her with the names of families like Berto’s. Unlike most of her wealthy friends, who only donated money to charities so they could attend elaborate parties and wear their latest designer evening gowns, Kathleen visited the families she helped on a regular basis, attempting to tailor her financial contributions to their specific needs. She didn’t tell anyone, because they had no reason to know.

  Kathleen sat down on the sofa and removed her wallet, counting out ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “There are conditions, Mrs. Gonzales. Berto must attend school every day. As soon as school is out, he must come straight home and begin his work with the tutor. I’m sure the school can provide you with the names of people who do that type of thing.” She stopped and looked hard at the boy. “If he’s found hanging around on the street or associating with Pablo or José, the boys I found him with today, call me immediately at this number.” She jotted her cell phone number on the edge of a newspaper. The money might end up going toward the family’s living expenses, but either way, she had helped.

  She glanced over at Berto, his youthful face in a state of bewilderment. “You have an opportunity now,” she told him, reaching up and removing the wig. “If you don’t do what I say, you could end up looking like me. I was also stabbed in the stomach. A bullet can do far more damage.”

  Repositioning the wig back on her head, Kathleen stepped through the doorway and left. She’d helped these people out of the goodness of her heart. But there had also been another reason. She wanted to make certain that if the police ever traced the gun, at least Berto might keep his mouth shut about the woman in the red Cadillac.

  CHAPTER 35

  Thursday, October 19—7:12 P.M.

  Carolyn waited until John and Rebecca left the room before she embraced her brother, clad in his customary white shirt and black jeans, and thanking him again for what he’d done. She didn’t want to spoil Neil’s happiness, but she’d decided that she simply could not accept such a large sum of money. Once things settled down, she would refinance the house and insist on paying him back. If he wished, though, she would let him contribute to John and Rebecca’s education.

  “Instead of working with Rebecca on her painting,” she told him now, leaning against the granite counter in his kitchen, “why don’t you take the kids out for dinner and a movie?”

  “Sure,” Neil said. “Don’t they have school tomorrow, though?”

  Carolyn smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about them getting to bed on time? They’re Sullivans, remember? Who sleeps in this family outside of Mother?” She noticed the morning paper strewn haphazardly across the table. In the past, her brother would have read it and folded every page precisely. Still, she couldn’t be sure that Neil’s obsessive-compulsive behavior had been cured. It might well surface again somewhere in the future.

  “What are you going to do?” Neil asked. “You could go with us.”

  “Marcus is coming over.”

  “I thought he had to work.”

  “He was able to get away after all.” Carolyn had received a phone call from Marcus just before she’d left her office. She removed a glass from the cabinet, turning her back so her brother couldn’t see the concern on her face. She glanced down at her jagged fingernail, wishing she could just tell Marcus the truth. Removing a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator, she poured it into the glass while Neil went to the other room to plan his outing with John and Rebecca.

  She and the children had camped out at Neil’s to make certain they were safe from Holden. Now the man Hank suspected was a killer would be pulling into her brother’s driveway any minute.

  When Marcus arrived, the computer-generated image flashed in Carolyn’s mind, and she couldn’t stop herself from staring at him. Her feelings were filtered through the things she’d heard that morning from Hank and Mary.

  John chatted with Marcus in the living room. Cornering her mother in the kitchen while she poured him a glass of wine, Rebecca asked, “How many cars does Marcus have? Wasn’t he driving a Rolls Royce the other night?”

  “A Bentley. They look similar.” Right, she told herself, just like people. Marcus must not have had any meetings today as he wasn’t dressed in his customary suit and tie. Instead, he was wearing a pair of black slacks and a black shirt with some kind of design on it. It reminded her of what he was wearing the day she’d first met him.

  “He drove up in a Jag tonight,” Rebecca said, excited. “He’s really rich, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t think so,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel. “He just likes cars.”

  After Neil and the kids left, Marcus asked for a tour. Carolyn showed him the way to Neil’s studio, located behind the pool.

  “Do people really buy this stuff?” Marcus said. “It’s boring. I like contemporary art. I wasn’t aware anyone was still painting like this. What does he do, copy the old masters?”

  Marcus was a computer expert. It wasn’t a shock that he had no appreciation for classical art. He was probably a
right-brain person. “Neil has a large following,” Carolyn told him. “His paintings sell in the range of fifty thousand and up. Recently, they’ve been bringing in even higher prices. Walk around to the other side. You should see some paintings that may be more to your liking.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Marcus said, laughing. “Does he use live models? These girls are beautiful.”

  “Yes,” she said, joining him. “The majority of them are college students. He pays them to sit here hours on end, bare to the bones. I think he lures them by complimenting them on their natural beauty, along with convincing them that working with him will beef up their résumé.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting into the art business. He’s got a pretty good gig going here. Can you see me with a French hat, glass of wine, sitting on a stool, my paintbrush dangling in the air between my index finger and thumb, and a gorgeous girl waiting for me to re-create her beauty on canvas?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Carolyn said flatly. “You’d look ridiculous. Seriously, have you ever tried painting?”

  “No, but that doesn’t matter. As long as I could surround myself with naked women, I could learn how to paint. Of course, between eating hand-fed grapes and having massages, my production would be limited. I’d have to raise my prices. It’s all about supply and demand, baby.”

  Carolyn was put off by his crude remarks. She knew he was trying to be humorous, but he seemed so different. She could see another side of him and it frightened her. Then again, perhaps Hank’s accusations were making her paranoid. “It’s not as easy as you think,” she said. “It took my brother a lifetime to learn how paint the human form. Look at the shadows in her face. You can almost see her personality. Neil’s extremely talented.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Haven’t gotten past the body yet. If you ask me, she’s the one with the talent.”

  Carolyn shook her head in dismay. “Let’s talk about something other than art. I thought you had to work late tonight.”

  “How could I stay away from you?” Marcus said, coming over and embracing her. He held her tightly against his body, nuzzling her hair.