by Lora Roberts
He raised his glass triumphantly and drained it. His eyes were glazed, and I wasn’t surprised to see him slump over in his chair. His pulse was strong when I felt it. I wiped my fingerprints off the liquor bottle, just in case, and set it beside him on the floor. Then I left.
Driving back to Mom and Dad’s, I found myself deeply sorry for Leonard Tobin, though he was a repulsive little guy in many ways. Tony had really ruined his life. In fact, I felt lucky myself—I had had nothing Tony wanted in the end. I hadn’t even had fear, and that was what he’d really wanted from me.
At my folks’ house, I knocked briefly and let myself in. Dad was sitting in his chair, pulled up close to the TV, which he watched intently. Some kind of sport was on the screen, with an announcer braying excitedly. He barely responded to my hello.
I looked in the kitchen, which gleamed spotlessly. The oven door was open, half-swallowing a slender form. For a moment I worried that Mom had felt impelled to rise from her sickbed and scrub; then the woman emerged from the oven, and I saw she was Conchita, Molly’s live-in help.
She gave me a scared look. With a murmur in Spanish, she turned back to her work, sweeping the blackened bits out of the oven and giving it a final polish. Industriously, she tidied the area around the stove, then rose and tried to slip past me.
I put out one hand to stop her. “Dónde está mi madre?” That was about the extent of my Spanish, learned on the side during high school and rusty with disuse.
She murmured something I didn’t understand, and I shrugged and said, “No entiendo.”
That made her giggle. “You speak well,” she said softly, ducking her head.
“So do you. Is Molly teaching you?”
A guarded look came over her face. “La señora es muy amable. She me speaks.”
I let that pass. “Sit down here, Conchita.” I pointed to the chairs at the table, and after a moment she sat on the edge of one, pulling it out from the table so it didn’t look like she was getting too comfortable.
I let the silence stretch out for a moment, then asked abruptly, “Do you remember the man who brought you here?”
Immediately all the shutters came down over her face. Now she murmured, “No entiendo.”
“Was he dark, with springy hair?” I gestured with my hands, trying to sketch the way Tony’s hair grew, and a sudden recollection pierced me. The man who drove a white van on Highway 70, as I approached Denver. I had thought myself paranoid because he looked like Tony. Now I wondered if that had been Tony, if he’d even then been plying his trade. “How long ago did you come here?”
Still she said nothing, her eyes cast down, hands clenched together in her lap.
“Look, Conchita,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m not from Immigration. No soy La Migra.”
“No?” She looked at me assessingly, and then said in painstaking English, “Why you ask so?”
“That man—” I re-sketched the springy hair, and this time she nodded, “was once my husband. He was—very cruel.” I searched my memory for the right Spanish to describe this, and couldn’t. “Now he’s dead.”
She nodded vigorously. “Si. El espíritu—still it lingers. Not resting.” She glanced through the archway toward the front door.
“He wasn’t killed here.” I tried to reassure her. “Just dumped off after someone killed him.”
“No fué aqui?” She looked relieved and broke into voluble speech, none of which I understood. When I shrugged, pantomiming bewilderment, she smiled, and I remembered again that she was the same age as those thronging students who appeared to put no value on school at all. I wondered if they’d rather scrub ovens than go to government class.
Speaking more slowly, she began again. “Señor Jefe—he tell us to call him so. He come to drive at end. We are so tired.” She laid her cheek on her hands, closing her eyes to indicate how tired they were. “But he drive fast and slow, laughing loud, muy loco. Once he take Maria out, and she come back crying.” Conchita looked fierce at this. “When we get here, we hate him much, but what we do? La Migra take us away if we complain.” She twisted her hands together. “Mi familia—I send money.”
“How long ago?” She wrinkled her forehead over this. “How many days—cuántos días—since you arrived?”
“Días?” She thought. “Ocho? Nueve?” She shrugged.
So if it were Tony I’d seen on the highway, he had been making another trip. I didn’t know what the frequency of his haulings was, or whether he was his own boss or worked for someone else. And when I tried to ask Conchita, I got quickly out of my depth. She heard my dad stirring in the living room and jumped to her feet.
“I work now. Bye-bye.”
Dad came in and went to the refrigerator. “Guess nobody in this house is going to eat lunch anymore,” he grumbled, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
“I’ll fix you something, Dad. What do you want?”
“Anything,” he said expansively. “But none of that sloppy cheese.”
I heated soup out of a can, and made a thick and meaty sandwich, with plenty of Miracle Whip—no effete mayo for him. I found some sandwich cookies and cut carrot sticks for him to complain about, but eat anyway. It was pretty much what he’d taken in his lunch box for thirty years, and he wasn’t a man who liked changes.
I added some fruit to his little stack of carrot sticks. He came to the table, sat down, grunted at the grapes, and tucked in. I went looking for my mother, passing Conchita, who was polishing the window sills in the living room. At least, the house would be clean after she’d spent a couple of days there.
Mom was in her room, sitting up in bed with a book open on her lap, her head down on her chest while she dozed. She woke up when I touched her shoulder.
“Mercy. Sleeping all day—don’t know what I’m coming to.”
“There’s some lunch in the kitchen, Mom. Or should I bring yours in here?”
“Oh, no. I can get up. I should be doing something, not letting that girl of Molly’s take care of everything.” I gave her my arm, and we shuffled down the hall. “She scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees today,” Mom said as we passed through the living room, her tone reverent. “Buenos días, Conchita.”
The girl looked around with a smile. “Buenas tardes, señora.”
“She means I’m tardy, I suppose.” Mom shook her head. “Can’t seem to get around anymore, and that’s a fact.”
“Takes awhile to get over these illnesses.” I made her comfortable in the kitchen, where my dad acknowledged her presence with a pat on her hand between slurps of his soup. I got her a bowl, too, and half a sandwich, and some grapes, and sat down with them at the table. Every time I did this, it felt strange. An awkward silence fell over the room, broken only by Dad’s insistent slurping.
“Really, Fergus,” Mom began.
“Just cooling my soup,” Dad said. This exchange, well-worn by much use, brought me close to tears for some reason.
“So, Molly brought my gun back this morning. Said young Biff ‘borrowed’ it,” Dad said into the silence.
Mom gasped, her hand going to her heart. “Biff—took your gun?”
“I couldn’t find it the other day—told Lizzie about it. Anyway, seems young Biff wanted to look like a big shot or something, so he snuck off with it.” Dad fell silent, coping with a big bite of sandwich.
“Whatever would he want to do that for?” Mom looked worried. “Poor boy. It must have been a shock for Molly.”
Dad laughed. “Biff needs a good thrashing,” he said, pushing his plate away. “Boy’s spoiled rotten. Gets anything he wants out of Molly—she’s got no notion how to manage a young fellow like that.”
Mom stared at him. “And I suppose you know so much about it? I seem to recall you having awful fights with your sons.”
Dad actually winked at me. “I learned something from that, woman. Shoulda made them boys go to work sooner. You notice a paycheck settled them right down.”
“
If you can call it settled.” She sniffed. “Seems to me they were out drinking and fighting five nights out of six.”
Dad shrugged. “So? That’s not what hurts a boy. What hurts a boy is idleness.”
I could tell they were settled in for a nice long bicker. The afternoon was wearing on; I was supposed to take Amy over to the police station, and I hoped I could do that without Renee ever finding out, or my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.
“Well, is there anything I can get you—any errands to run?”
That gave Mom’s thoughts a different direction. After a little thought, she produced a couple of items she wanted at the drugstore—a new hot water bottle and some eyewash. Dad disdained my offer, but she recalled that he was out of denture cream. I promised to bring them the items before bedtime, and left them comfortably arguing while Conchita attacked the dusty shelves of the linen closet.
Chapter 26
I did my errands at the drugstore, and was waiting for Amy when she got out of school. She didn’t talk much on the way to the police station. I hated having to take her there, hated having her involved in this. Not nearly as much as Renee would, though. I asked Amy what she’d tell her mom about this excursion.
“I won’t.” She shot me a look, half-defiant, half-pleading. “It’s for her own good. She’d just get all bent and start raving. The less she knows, the happier she’ll be.”
It had the ring of a philosophy. I wondered if Renee had applied it to Amy—I think most parents do. And probably most kids turn around and use it against their parents.
We sat in the holding area of the station for a while, waiting for Eva to see us. Then we sat in front of a desk while she churned out forms and statements about our various activities. I didn’t like having to sign statements about Biff, but he looked like the kind of guy who can take care of himself. It made me twitchy to sit there with cops all around. I thought I’d gotten used to being around the police—after all, one of them lives right in front of me. But it was different when they were sizing you up for a possible jail cell.
“That’s about it,” Eva said finally. “I just have to get some information from O’Malley. You two wait here for a minute.”
She bustled off down the hall. Amy, sighing, got a big tome on U.S. history out of her backpack and applied herself to it. I shifted around in my chair for a few minutes, trying to sort out my chaotic thoughts.
“Oh,” I said, jumping up. Amy blinked at me. “I just remembered that I never asked Eva who rented that van they found.”
“She said to stay here.”
“I know where O’Malley’s office is.” I patted Amy’s shoulder. “You work on your homework. I’ll be right back.”
I strode down the hallway, looking purposeful so no one would stop me—and no one did. It had occurred to me a couple of times that the police must know who rented the van, and I had a good chance of finding out if I could take them off base. I wanted to ask before I forgot again.
O’Malley’s door was ajar, and Eva’s voice came through it, passionate and loud. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard my own name—who can resist that?
“You told me to be on Liz, and I’ve been on her. I don’t think she had anything to do with the killings. She didn’t really have time, for one thing, and if she’s got the money to rent that van, I’m Ross Perot.”
Laughter from Phil’s side of the room. O’Malley’s voice came through, cool and clear.
“I’m telling you, Gutierrez, lay off. You’re out of this investigation, as of now.”
“Why?” There was frustration in Eva’s voice. “I know we’re close to cracking it. I know we’re going to nail the perp. Why do I have to quit? So you can get the glory?”
O’Malley’s voice sounded tired. “These orders don’t come from me—they come from higher up. And that’s all I have to tell you. But I will say that you keep on the way you’re going and you’ll get a rep as not being a team player. You gotta learn, honey. Poke your nose too far into some internal affairs around here, and your nose ends up shorter.”
There was silence for a moment. In that silence, I tiptoed away from the door. It sure sounded like O’Malley didn’t want me cleared. Feeling sick, I crept back the way I’d come, wondering how long before he arrested me.
I sat back down; Amy was deep in her book and didn’t even notice me. I murmured, “Just went for a drink of water. I couldn’t find the office after all.”
“She’ll be back soon,” Amy said absently. “She’d better. If I don’t get home, Mom will be tearing up the roads looking for me.”
Eva stomped in a moment later, her eyebrows etched in a frown. “Sorry to keep you,” she said gruffly. “O’Malley doesn’t seem to know the answers to my questions.”
“Aunt Liz wants to know who rented that van,” Amy piped up helpfully.
Eva looked at me, her hands gripping the file she held. “I can’t say,” she said finally. “I have to go make copies of your statements.” She put the file on the desk with a certain emphasis, took the papers she needed, and went off again.
I sat on the edge of the desk, trying to look casual, then started leafing through the file. Amy regarded me with a troubled frown, but I paid no attention. A bewildering variety of paper was contained between those stiff leaves. I went through it, looking for the information on Tony that had interested O’Malley that first night after his death. I didn’t find that, but I did run across the van rental agreement. It had been booked by phone, paid for with a credit card. A copy of a driver’s license was stapled to the form. Though the name—Carlos Amador—was strange to me, Tony’s picture was on the license.
So he had rented the van that had carried his dead body. And he had an alias to use in his coyote business.
Amy hissed at me, and I clapped the leaves of the file folder together and slid off the desktop just as Eva came into the area. She gave me a glance of mingled suspicion and complicity. I thought she might have been offering me information to keep me going on the case, since her hands were tied. I only hoped that if I did manage somehow to stumble on the truth, I would be believed by the higher-ups. O’Malley had already written me down in his scenario as the sacrificial goat.
Eva dismissed us brusquely, and Amy, her face troubled, raced for the bus, looking over her shoulder.
I had to walk fast to keep up with her. “Do you think they’re going to come after us?”
“Aunt Liz, you read her confidential file!” Amy jumped into the bus, not even greeting Barker. “She’ll probably figure it out—after all, she is a detective. Then she’ll arrest you for meddling or whatever it is they do.”
“Relax, Amy.” I took my own advice and loosened my death-grip on the steering wheel. “She meant me to look at it. She wanted to give me answers but it’s against the rules or something.”
“Really?” Amy considered this. “She wanted you to look at the file, and that’s why she left?”
“Well, she really did have to make those copies, probably. Seems like they spend a good part of every day in any office making copies. But yeah, I think she wanted me to know.”
I wished now that I’d told Eva how Carlos Amador probably linked up with Tony’s self-employment as a coyote. It opened up another whole area of inquiry, one she might not find out about anytime soon.
We pulled up in front of Renee’s house. Molly’s shiny sport utility vehicle glittered at the curb; I parked behind it with a sinking heart. She was there to give me hell about Biff, I knew.
Renee and Molly were sitting at the kitchen table. Renee wore her defensive look, but I was coming to realize that her prickly behavior stemmed more from feelings of inadequacy than from outright hostility. And Molly would be capable of making anyone feel inadequate. Today she was Mrs. Fast-Track, in a linen jacket and pants, with a scarlet silk top making the most of her coloring. The heavy chain around her neck and the big hoops in her ears would have to be gold.
She greeted Amy effusively, and Amy was
charming back to her—and for once nice to her mom, as well. I could see that Amy admired Molly’s elegance, but she had a clear-eyed way of assessing those around her, and though her parents didn’t seem to rate with her, she knew their value.
“I have to finish my homework,” she announced, when Renee asked who would like something to drink. “I’ll just take a Coke in my room, if you don’t mind, Mom.”
Renee handed it over, forgetting for once to warn Amy against all the dangers of soft drinks in the bedroom—ants, spills on clothing, ruined upholstery and computer keyboards—that I had heard her mention several times in the past few days. Amy thanked her for that with a hug, and withdrew.
Molly turned to me as soon as her niece was out of earshot. “I’m surprised at you, having the gall to drive the child around after the scene you staged this morning.”
“Were you there?” I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t see you. If you had been there, you would have known who staged the scene.”
“I know what my son told me.” Molly’s cheeks warmed to match her shirt. “You as much as accused him of killing Tony! You brought that policewoman into it. You got him in even more trouble.”
“He did that without my help.” I took the cup of tea Renee handed me, noticing with appreciation that she’d used the new tea bags I’d given her. “Thanks, Renee. I’m sorry to have to break it to you, Molly, but your boy Biff must act differently around you than he does around the rest of the world. I found him rude, arrogant, self-centered, and threatening.”
Renee looked at me with something close to approval, but prudently didn’t say anything. It would have been hard, anyway, with Molly sputtering. Renee and I looked at her, and after a few minutes she stopped hollering and burst into tears.
Renee handed her a box of tissues. “Sorry, honey,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “But it is true. Amy’s mentioned to me several times that Biff tries to corner her at family parties, and it’s not for any cousinly stuff either.”
