Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  Mom gasped. “A speaker fell on your head?”

  “Yes, a small one,” said Mira. “See? It’s over there now.” She pointed to a five or six-inch silver speaker sitting on a square, teak end table in a living room decorated in what Mom calls Scandinavian Contemporary. I think that means wood, leather, and chrome done in clean lines. Lush greenery, shelves of books, plus the findings from Mira’s digs and Carlos’ Mexican heritage made for an interesting, light, and airy room.

  “I hope you went to the hospital to get checked out,” Mom said.

  “Yes, we went to the emergency room. I’m all right. It’s just a little bump but…” She stopped speaking and picked up a cloth napkin from the tray, twisting and turning it.

  “But what?” I said, after watching her for a moment. There was something else frightening Mira besides the intruder.

  “Lee, when you go to see Carlos, can you talk to him?”

  “Talk to him? About what?”

  She hesitated before speaking, “About the way he’s been acting. Like at the hospital. He started saying the most awful things with the police there and everything. Nobody could calm him down.”

  “What did he say?” Mom asked.

  “What he was going to do to the robber when he caught him. It wasn’t the man’s fault I got the bump on the head.”

  “Of course, it was his fault, Mira Louise,” Mom interjected, pouring more tea into Mira’s cup. “You wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t broken into your home.”

  “Well, yes, but still….” She stopped speaking, but continued to fold and unfold the napkin.

  “What is it, Mira?” I asked. “Talk to me.”

  She hesitated again and finally blurted out, “Carlos was acting like a crazy man, Lee. I mean it. He was out of control. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

  “Listen,” I said, “he was probably overwrought at the time. When someone you love gets hurt, sometimes you react strongly.”

  “Really?” She seemed to clutch at the possibility. “Because he scared me. He was shouting threats and banging chairs around. I couldn’t get him to stop. Nobody could. It was like I didn’t know him.”

  Mom took the napkin out of Mira’s hand, replacing it with the tea. “Drink this down,” she ordered. “I don’t want you getting dehydrated.” Mira obeyed, while Mom and I stared at one another.

  The Alvarez family had known Carlos since Tex adopted him at four years of age. From the beginning, he’d been a thoughtful, sweet-natured child, bringing home stray animals and friends, treating the whole world like his extended family. This didn’t sound like him at all. But the lesson I’d learned from my ex-husband, Nick, is you never really know what goes on behind closed doors.

  “Mira…” I said, for the first time thinking the unthinkable. “Carlos has never hit you or anything like that, has he?”

  “No, no! Never.” She banged the empty cup down on the tray in her haste to defend Carlos. “You know I’d never take that. He’s been nothing but kind and gentle.”

  “Except for now,” I added. Mira nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything.

  “Well, then maybe it was a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.”

  Mira shook her head. “No, he meant it. I could tell. I don’t understand him going off like that. It didn’t scare me for me,” she clarified. “It scared me for what he might do to the man if he found him. That’s why….” She broke off and took another swig of the cough syrup.

  Mom took the bottle from Mira’s hand and set it out of reach, saying, “How much of this have you had?”

  “Only this,” Mira responded. “I opened the bottle a minute ago.”

  “All right, that takes care of yesterday,” I said. “Tell me about today.”

  “Carlos got a phone call around noon and went out right afterward,” Mira leaned back and closing her eyes. “When I asked him where he was going, he said he would be back soon and for me not to worry. It was so unlike him not to tell me. We tell each other everything. At least, I thought we did,” she added through pinched lips.

  Mom and I exchanged another look. I could tell she found this even more puzzling than I did.

  “He went crazy again, though,” Mira continued. “The same as yesterday at the clinic. He kept saying nobody could do what that man did to me and get away with it. Then he left. A little over an hour later, he came home, and his face was all white and drawn, like he had seen or done something horrible and…” She paused.

  “And what?” I prompted.

  “He had blood on one of his sleeves.” Her voice was small and sad. “I noticed it right away and asked him if he cut himself, but he said it wasn’t his blood.” Mira drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her folded arms. “I had to tell the police when they asked me. I had to.”

  “Of course you did,” Mom soothed, caressing Mira’s shoulders.

  “What I don’t understand,” I mused, “is what brought the police here so fast. Didn’t you say they showed up an hour or two after Carlos got back?”

  “Yes. They said they got an anonymous phone call. Somebody claimed they recognized Carlos in a downtown garage and knew where he lived. Carlos had taken a shower and was lying down in the bedroom. He said he wanted to be by himself. I left him alone and was out here on the sofa trying to read. When I answered the door, the police barged in and began searching the place. I didn’t think they could do that, but they showed us a search warrant.”

  I looked at Mom. “A search warrant? On a Saturday?”

  “A phoned in Probable Cause?” Mom offered. I shrugged and nodded.

  Mira looked up and asked, “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind, Mira,” I said. “Is there anything else you should tell me?”

  “They found the bloody shirt in the hamper. They told me they were taking it as evidence.” Mira buried her face in her crossed arms again. “Evidence of Carlos killing someone. I just can’t believe it.”

  I wanted to know more but could tell she was exhausted, and the tears she’d bottled up were about to break through. “Okay, you’ve told me enough. Rest now, Mira. I’m going to make a few phone calls and try to see Carlos. I’m not sure what can be done over the weekend, but I’ll do what I

  can.” Mira lifted her head, smiled her thanks, and momentarily grasped my hand.

  “Meanwhile,” Mom said, “I want you to come and stay with Mateo and me until this gets settled. I don’t want you here by yourself.”

  “Oh, no I couldn’t,” Mira protested and then leaned back, closing her eyes.

  “I’m going to pack you a small bag,” Mom said, turning away. “I assume the suitcases are still kept under the bed in the guest bedroom,” she added, heels clicking on the wood floor, as she strode down the hall and toward the bedrooms.

  Standing up, I looked down at my friend. “You listen to Mom, Mira. You need to take care of yourself.”

  “You know, I don’t understand why he took the dog,” Mira whispered. “It wasn’t worth anything.”

  “You mentioned a dog earlier. What dog?” I touched her on the shoulder, and she looked up at me, with glazed and half-closed eyes. I guessed the codeine kicked in.

  “Why, the little stone dog. The bluish statue Carlos found on the ranch a week or so ago. I don’t think you ever saw it. It sat right over there,” She pointed to an empty space in the wall unit.

  I studied the living room of the three-bedroom apartment I had visited on and off most of my life with a new perspective. The condo was purchased by Tex and her late husband, Bart, in the seventies and used for their frequent visits to us and the Bay Area. The visits became even more frequent once they adopted Carlos, who was the same age as my brother. I remember Tex telling us with Carlos in her life, her joy was boundless. Her love for her new son helped her through the difficult time of Bart’s loss shortly after when he was thrown from a horse and killed.

  Carlos enrolled in the MBA Program at Stanford twenty-five years l
ater and had been living full-time in this family pied á terre for the past two years. He and Richard saw each other often and became closer friends than they had been as children. Then Mira came on the scene, and our two families were even more intertwined. I assumed—we all did—that Carlos and Mira would be bringing yet another generation into these rooms and into our lives. I swallowed hard when I thought it might no longer be true.

  I focused my attention back on Mira’s drowsy voice. “The appraiser told us it wasn’t worth anything just the other day.” She faltered but went on, “I don’t know why the man took it. Gosh, you have such pretty blue eyes, Lee,” she murmured. “They’re the color of twilight.”

  “What appraiser was this? What’s his name?”

  “The man at Mesoamerican Galleries. Can’t remember his name, but it was the man with the silver hair who told us the blue dog was worth nothing,” she giggled.

  “Shhhhh,” I said. “The codeine’s kicked in, and you need to rest now. No more talk.”

  She nodded, curled up in a corner of the sofa, and I covered her with the mohair throw I’d given her for her birthday one year. Soon her breathing became deep and regular.

  Walking down the hallway, I headed for the master bedroom to talk to Mom. I closed the door behind me, so as not to disturb Mira.

  “Mom, I’m going to go to the police station to see for myself what’s going on. Maybe I can learn more there.”

  “Good.” She glanced up from her packing. “I don’t care how this looks, Liana. Carlos would never kill anybody.”

  I watched her fold a nightgown and place it into the small suitcase before I said, “You never know, Mom. We’re all capable of doing a lot of things, given the right circumstances. You heard the doubt in Mira’s voice.”

  “Mira Louise is sick and filled with drugs,” replied Mom, crossing to the chest of drawers. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. And as for you, you need to have more faith. You can’t let what Nicholas did to you color your life forever.”

  I felt as if I’d been struck across the face, not by someone’s hand, but by the truth. Did she know the whole story about my marriage but out of respect for me never said anything?

  Whether she was avoiding how her words affected me or hadn’t noticed, Mom stood back, focusing on my midsection. “Where did that come from?” she asked, pointing to my waist. “That belt doesn’t go with that dress. Why, it’s not even the same color.”

  Sure enough, in getting dressed after Mira’s phone call, I’d grabbed a navy blue wide leather belt instead of the black suede one that went with the black and red Vera Wang shirtwaist dress.

  “Take it off immediately,” she ordered. “It’s better to have on no belt at all than the wrong one. Navy with black, I never,” she muttered, reaching out and drawing me near her.

  Standing on tippy toes, she placed a light kiss on my forehead that made me nervous. Mom doesn’t usually display her emotions unless she knows I’m in over my head on something. When she gets all out affectionate, it usually means I’m in deep do-do and don’t know it yet. This time, however, I could feel it sloshing around my ankles.

  Wordlessly, Mom returned to her packing, and I went out to the living room, chewing on my lower lip. Just as I reached the front door, my cellphone rang, and I fumbled it out of my purse just before the call went into voice mail. I glanced at the number and felt my heart leap inside my chest. It was Carlos.

  Chapter Three

  The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker

  “Carlos?” I whispered, looking back inside the apartment to see if the ringing had awakened Mira. She was sleeping soundly.

  “Yes. Lee, I’m in trouble, serious trouble.”

  “No kidding.” I shut the door quietly and headed for the elevator. I wasn’t sure how I should react to him. Was this an old childhood friend? A cold-blooded killer? Or both?

  “Oh, God, Lee, I’ve made such a mess of things.”

  “What does that mean? Did you kill that man?”

  “No, no!” he said in a horrified tone. “It’s all a mistake.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The elevator door closed, and I pressed the ground floor, wondering if the cellphone would continue to work. It did.

  “Lee, I don’t know what’s going to happen. The police think I killed him!”

  “Why did you go to the garage?”

  “To buy the statue back. When I got there, I found him stabbed. I tried to help, I swear, but then I panicked and ran,” he said.

  “You’re at the Palo Alto Police Department, right?”

  “Yes, but they’re taking me down to the Hall of Justice in San Jose soon.”

  “Is Frank there?” I asked. If he was, that was good news. Maybe for old time’s sake, he’d give me some straight answers.

  “Yes, I saw him earlier,” he whispered.

  “All right, Carlos. I’m on my way.”

  The Palo Alto Police Department is in the heart of downtown and minutes away from Mira and Carlos’ apartment, so I was there before I got all my thoughts together. Standing outside, I stared at the building that’s been almost a second home to me most of my life. Since I can remember, I’d been visiting either my father—before he left and started D.I.—or Frank Johnson, now the head of the Palo Alto Police Department, my godfather and a close family friend.

  When I was small, the officers on duty would give me day-old jelly donuts and sodas from the vending machine. As an adult, I am often here on official business. I’ve worked with many of the officers, and some I am proud to call friend, but I’d never walked inside these doors to try to help clear a friend of murder charges. It was an eerie feeling.

  I went inside and headed to Frank’s office. I knew I was expected because upon seeing me, the sergeant at the front desk shook her head, pointing in that direction. I would have asked her about her daughter’s sixteenth birthday party, something she’d been working on for months, but this was not the time.

  I knocked on Frank’s door and heard his gruff voice ordering me to enter.

  “Want to bring me up to speed on Carlos, Frank?” I asked, skipping normal greetings and throwing myself down in the closest chair.

  He’d been sitting when I entered. When he saw me, he rose, tall and elegant, throwing the stack of papers he held in his hand on the desk. Then he decided to sit his six-foot frame back down again. In all my life, I’d never seen him so antsy. This was not a good sign.

  Frank and my dad met in their freshman year at Stanford University, back in the seventies. Both were minorities, Dad a Latino and Frank an African American, and they were on scholarship to a pretty chi-chi school during what is called “a period of social unrest.” That wasn’t what bound them together, though. They were heart-brothers. They thought and felt the same way about nearly everything, even down to having the same sense of humor. After college, they joined the San Mateo Police Academy, graduated with honors, and went to work at PAPD together. Even when dad left to start D.I., their regard for one another never waned. They were proud of one another’s achievements. When D.I. became successful, Frank used to say to everyone, ‘Roberto’s the visionary. I just do grunt work.’ As for Dad, he threw a two-day block party when Frank got promoted to Captain. My father’s death, so sudden and without warning, almost killed Frank. I don’t think he has ever recovered. But neither have I.

  Rubbing his neck, he began talking in a tight voice. “A 911 came in around twelve-thirty this afternoon from an unidentified male. He said he was at the University Garage and heard a man screaming on the floor above him. When the caller went to see what was going on, he said he recognized a Stanford student, Carlos Garcia, standing over a man who was lying near the staircase. The caller fled the scene but phoned 911 as soon as he could.

  “When my men got to the garage, they found the body where the caller said it would be, along with the murder weapon. Carlos was gone. We did a quick run on the fingerprints on the weapon, and the prints matched Carlos.”

>   “Dios mio!” I said, threw my hands up in the air. “This just gets worse and worse.”

  “Yes, it does,” he said, rising and crossing to a small table in the corner. Frank turned back to me. “Want some

  coffee? I made it, so you stand forewarned.”

  “The usual paint thinner?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I take the leftovers home when Abby needs to clean the garage floor.” He forced a smile.

  I watched him pour two cups before I asked, “How’d you get such a quick match on the fingerprints?”

  “Did you know Carlos is registered as a foreign student, even though he has dual citizenship?”

  “He mentioned that once. Something about the GSB’s unofficial quota on U.S. students being full that year, but if he came in as a foreign student, he could get in right away.”

  “And all foreign students have to be fingerprinted.” Frank handed me a bright red mug with a holly wreath on it.

  I took a sip and grimaced. The coffee was lukewarm and bitter. I would have asked for some sugar but all the sweetener in the world couldn’t fix this. “And who is this caller? Did you identify him?”

  “No, but sometimes people don’t like to get involved. The call came from one of the few payphones left in town, so I don’t think we can trace him.”

  “Well, how convenient.” Frank ignored my comment, so I went on, “What about the victim? Who’s he?”

  “We don’t know yet. He didn’t have any papers on him other than an address in Mexico City. We sent his fingerprints off to Mexico in case they can help us,” Frank said. “Lee, whatever his name is, it was the same man Carlos threatened to kill the night before in front of everyone at the hospital, including me. When I showed him the body, Carlos admitted it was the burglar. I had to arrest him. I had to.”

  “Mira mentioned his behavior at the hospital and said you were there. What happened?”

  Frank put down his coffee and started straightening the top of his desk, something he does when he’s frustrated. He looked up. “Last night, when I found out who was reporting a robbery, I went to the hospital, myself, with two of my men.