Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  -4-

  i sat in my car in front of Claire’s house, studying the rental contract. The police had the original, so maybe they thought there was something hidden between the lines that might lead them to Evan’s killer. If so, I couldn’t see it. Except for the fake name, the document looked pretty standard. The only thing that seemed odd was the rent. It was incredibly low for property so close to the beach.

  Apparently, the coroner’s office had finished collecting evidence at the apartment, but they still had the key. Since there was no on-site manager, Claire told me I’d have to get a spare from the girl Evan had hired to look after his place. Her name was Monique Ruiz. She was a student at a local community college who was trying to make ends meet and had seemed grateful for the extra cash.

  Venice was roughly on my way home, so I decided to swing by the apartment and see if she was at home. I figured it wouldn’t be all that difficult to arrange for the return of the rental furniture. I’d pack up everything else and call some charity to haul it away, just as Cissy had instructed. There was a battered-women’s shelter in Santa Monica that was always looking for items to sell in their thrift shop. I’d call them.

  Finding somebody to clean the apartment was another issue. That job required more than a Merry Maid with a bottle of Lysol and an old T-shirt. It had to be somebody who was knowledgeable in the handling of human tissue, body fluids, and blood. I’d once read an article in the Los Angeles Times about a company that made its living sanitizing death scenes, but I couldn’t remember the name. A creepy image flashed through my head of men with industrial vacuums sucking up Evan’s spilled life. I shook off the chill and headed toward Venice.

  I followed Pacific Avenue, a narrow street lined with run-down houses, weathered one- and two-story apartment buildings, and a few small businesses, including a market and a tattoo parlor, all wearing the same look of weary determination. The area reminded me of the group of friends, mostly Evan’s, I had hung out with back in college: gritty, unkempt, and perhaps a little dangerous.

  On Seagate Pathway, a slender lane that dead-ended at the beach, I turned left behind an older-model Volvo, its red paint oxidized from weather and neglect. I inched along until I spotted Evan’s address on a three-story brick building at the end of the street, where the pavement met the sand. Detective Green had implied that the apartment was seedy, but I’d lived in worse places.

  There were no news vans with antennas and satellite dishes blocking my way here. No reporters, either. Even without a media presence, the street was jammed with cars parked in every inch of space except for one, and the Volvo in front of me got to it first. The driver looked to be somewhere in her fifties with shoulder-length, dishwater blond hair. After she had pulled into the spot, she held up both hands in a gesture that said, Better luck next time. Yeah, right. I ended up paying nine dollars to park in a private lot a couple of blocks away. I put up the Boxster’s convertible top and headed toward the beach.

  Evan had rented his apartment using the name Thomas Chatterton, which was an interesting choice. Chatterton was an impoverished English poet of the late 1700s, rumored to be a drug addict and a liar of such great magnitude that critics rejected him as a fake and a forger. He never saw his poetry in print. At age eighteen he poisoned himself in a small London garret rather than starve to death. His work had never resonated with me, but his life had the kind of pathos that appealed to Evan. I imagined him smiling each time he picked up his junk mail.

  Despite Cissy’s explanation that Evan wanted a quiet place to work, I didn’t completely understand why he had felt it necessary to use an alias on the rental contract. She claimed he didn’t want to be bothered with paparazzi or wannabe actors looking for an agent. The truth was, most people in L.A. were jaded by the celebrities in their midst. Besides, he wasn’t a high-profile actor; he was an agent. It was hard to believe that legions of groupies followed him everywhere. Maybe he was on some kind of ego trip, but I suspected he used the nom de guerre for other reasons. Perhaps, as Detective Green had suggested, he wanted to be closer to his drug sources, or maybe he was creating his vision of a bohemian poet’s Greenwich Village lifestyle in those few stolen hours by the beach. I also couldn’t discount the possibility that his reason for renting the apartment was murkier than drugs or stolen hours. It just didn’t seem likely to me.

  I checked the mailboxes on the lobby wall and found a label for M. Ruiz on number 307. Since there was no elevator, I walked up three flights of stairs. When I reached the landing, I saw a row of doors on each side of a central hallway. As I neared Evan’s unit, my heart began to pound, half expecting to see or—worse—to smell something that might challenge my good intentions. Thankfully, there was no police tape and no official-looking seal on the door to indicate that the apartment had ever been a crime scene.

  Green had told me there were no signs of forced entry and no ransacking, so it wasn’t a burglary. Assuming Evan hadn’t inadvertently left the door unlocked, he must have let his killer in. All the speculation was taxing my brain, so I moved on to Monique Ruiz’s door and knocked. No one answered. A moment later I knocked again, this time louder.

  “No one’s home.”

  It was an old voice, weak and gravelly. I turned to see an elderly woman standing in the entrance of the apartment a couple of doors down from Evan’s place, clinging to a walker that had two green tennis balls skewered on its front legs. Her spine was bowed by osteoporosis, and her brow was etched with the omnipresent look of seriousness born of chronic pain.

  “You from the police?” Her tone sounded brittle and wary.

  I said no and introduced myself as a friend of the family. I told her I’d come to pick up Mr. Chatterton’s apartment key.

  At the mention of the name she shuddered, ruffling the white sausage curls that lay in symmetrical rows atop her head.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “I hear his real name was something else. That was a surprise. We’re all pretty scared about what happened, but Monique is very sensitive. I guess she couldn’t take the commotion, so she went to stay with her aunt for a few days.” She paused for a moment to look at me. “You could almost be his sister. Your hair’s dark like his, but I see now your eyes are brown. And you’re too tall. Mr. Chatterton was a small-boned man. I used to be five-four myself, but I keep shrinking.”

  She told me her name was Rose Miller and that she’d lived in the building for twelve years. She spoke in that open, almost naive manner that a lot of older people have. She’d been in the hospital the night Evan was murdered. When she came home the following day, she’d found a note from Monique Ruiz slipped under her door.

  “She left her car parked in the lot out back,” Rose said. “I guess she didn’t want me to worry when I didn’t see her around.”

  “If her car’s out back, how did she get to her aunt’s?”

  “I’m not sure. She has a boyfriend. Maybe he drove.”

  “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  A concerned look crossed her face. “No, but I hope it’s soon, because she keeps an eye on me.”

  “You know where her aunt lives?”

  She paused for a moment to think. “Let’s see, her name is Estela—Sandoval, I think—but I don’t remember where she lives. Up the coast somewhere. Monique’s folks live in West Covina, though. Maybe you can check with them. Her father’s name is William, but in Spanish.”

  I tried to recall some rusty high school Spanish. “Guillermo?”

  “I think so. My memory’s not so good anymore. Not like it used to be. Mr. Ruiz never liked the idea of Monique living here alone. He thinks she’s safer at home with the family. I guess I’m selfish, but I hope he doesn’t make her move away.”

  “Who keeps an eye on you when Monique’s not here?”

  “I have a daughter in Scottsdale, but I guess that doesn’t count. She’s quite a golfer. Do you play?” I told her no, and she added, “Me, neither. I’m more of a walker—at least I use
d to be.”

  Not recently, I gathered. She looked too frail. It must have been an effort just to get up and down the stairs to pick up her mail. I wondered what it felt like to be old and alone and with a daughter too busy shagging golf pros to come visit her mother in the hospital. Considering my abysmal history with relationships, imagining that wasn’t much of a stretch.

  I hesitated to leave Rose Miller alone, but I didn’t know what else to do. As a compromise, I wrote my telephone number on the back of a business card and asked if she would have Monique call me when she returned.

  “You can reach me at that number anytime,” I added, “in case you need anything while Monique’s gone.”

  “My goodness, do I sound that bad? My daughter says I complain too much. I guess she’s right. Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will, but keep the number just in case. It’s my cell phone number, so I usually answer.”

  She studied the card. “Everybody’s got a cell phone these days. Monique’s parents pay for hers, I guess so they can keep tabs on her.”

  “Monique has a cell phone? Do you have the number?”

  “It’s only for emergencies; otherwise she has to pay extra.” Her tone sounded like a dire warning.

  “I won’t talk long, I promise. Besides, this is sort of an emergency.”

  She frowned in thought, obviously worried about respecting Monique’s bottom line. Finally she said, “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  It took Rose a while to find Monique’s number. By the time she did, her breathing had become labored. With all that white hair caressing her pale face, Rose reminded me of an aging cherub, which made me think of my grandma Felder singing hymns off-key at church. I suddenly had a bad case of the guilties, so before I left, I lied and told her I was on my way to the market. Did she need anything? After a little prodding, she produced a list of three or four staple items and a white envelope. Inside was a crisp twenty-dollar bill that looked as if it had just come back from the Fluff ’n Fold.

  Since I’d paid nine bucks for the privilege of parking all day in a weed-infested square of sandy dirt, I decided to walk to the market on Pacific that I’d passed earlier. On the way, I dialed Monique Ruiz’s cell phone number and got a recorded message. The voice sounded tense and hurried. “Hi, this is Monique. Please leave a message.” There was a pause as I waited for some kind of beep. None came. A moment later, I heard her voice again. “Nonny, call me at the beauty shop, okay?”

  There was no way to know when the recording had been made. The idea that Monique Ruiz had stopped off for a consolation perm before going to her aunt’s place sounded a little far-fetched. Regardless, I left a message asking her to call me. Just to be thorough, I checked with information for a Guillermo Ruiz in West Covina. The number was unlisted.

  When I trudged back up the stairs to deliver Rose’s groceries, she greeted me at the door as though I were a member of the Prize Patrol.

  “Oxnard,” she said. “That’s where the aunt lives. I remembered the minute you left. I don’t know the phone number, though. Monique is usually good about telling me how to reach her, but I guess she forgot this time.”

  That was understandable. I tried to put myself in Monique’s shoes. She was young and had already been put on a short leash by her family. It made sense that she’d be freaked out by a homicide committed across the hall from her. It was interesting that she’d gone to her aunt’s place and not home to her parents. Maybe she didn’t want them to know about the crime, for fear they’d strip away her newfound independence.

  On the other hand, maybe Rose was only speculating about the reason for Monique’s trip. Perhaps the girl hadn’t even known about Evan’s death and had merely gone away on a planned vacation to enjoy a different stretch of beach for a few days.

  I wondered who Nonny was and why Monique wanted her to know that she’d stopped at the beauty shop. At least scheduling an impromptu hair appointment fit better with my vacation theory. Only I was sure I’d detected tension in Monique’s recorded voice message. That led to a grislier thought: Evan’s killer forged the note from Monique and slipped it under Rose’s door, and Monique Ruiz was lying somewhere in a shallow grave, beautifully coiffed and gummy with hair spray. Obviously, I was out of control.

  After helping Rose put away her groceries, I headed downstairs. When I got to the lobby, I noticed the woman with the Volvo standing on the sidewalk across the street, dressed in a red kimono and a pair of blue flip-flops. She was glaring at a late-model Toyota, which was parked at an odd angle to the curb, with its rear end sticking out into the street. She looked as though she was jotting down the license plate number in a small notebook. When she noticed me watching her, she shook her head in dismay as if she’d just unlocked the secret of man’s inhumanity to man: bad parking etiquette.

  I went back to my car and watched a half-dozen people play beach volleyball while I called the information operator to get the telephone number for Estela Sandoval. In a rare display of telephone company compassion, he gave me her address as well.

  I told myself that driving sixty miles one way to Oxnard to pick up Evan’s apartment key was above and beyond my commitment to Cissy. On the other hand, I didn’t know how long Monique Ruiz would be out of town, and I didn’t want to let this project drag on for days. For the moment, my work on Marvin Geyer’s focus group project was under control. I had no other jobs in the pipeline to work on. Besides, I was curious to find out what happened to Monique Ruiz, if her hair turned out okay, and if she was coming back to take care of Rose. Maybe I’d even ask her if she’d been home the night Evan died, and what, if anything, she’d seen or heard.

  I prorated the nine-buck parking fee, declared it a wash, and headed north.

  -5-

  oxnard is a seaside town best known for its impeccable strawberries and improbable name. It’s about an hour north of Los Angeles and surrounded by some of the most fertile agricultural land in the world. Unfortunately, its unspoiled beaches and small-town atmosphere have been discovered, leaving its fate up for grabs as slow-growth advocates and developers wage war. I wondered how deep Estela Sandoval’s roots extended into that rich Oxnard soil.

  The address for Monique Ruiz’s aunt led me to an apartment house in a neighborhood with modest single-family homes. The units were perched above a row of carports and bordered by a wraparound balcony that looked as if it were on the verge of collapsing from the weight of the crushed-rock facade. A dilapidated sign hanging on the front of the building read, “Studios, One and Two Bedrooms,” and “No Vacancy.”

  There was a unifying theme to the place: rust. From the reddish-brown dome cover of an abandoned barbecue to the corroded window bars, everything was in an advanced stage of neglect. Weeds grew through the cracked cement in the driveway, where a black Chevy Silverado pickup was parked. The pickup, at least, looked new.

  I tried the latch on a wire-mesh gate just left of the building, but it wouldn’t budge. My tomato red pantsuit notwithstanding, I was about to look for footholds in the wire so I could climb the fence, when I noticed a security intercom system that was nearly obscured behind a piece of plywood.

  I pushed the plywood aside and checked the names adjacent to the intercom buttons. Five of the six read “Sandoval.” Since I didn’t know which apartment belonged to Monique’s aunt, I pushed all the buzzers. Nothing happened. I waited a minute or two and pushed them again.

  “That thing don’t work.”

  A pretty Latina, no more than seventeen years old, stood about four feet behind me. Her eyebrows had been shaved and redrawn into thin semicircles that gave her expression a permanent air of surprise. On her upper right arm was a tattoo of an arrow piercing a heart and the name “Oscar.” There was a world-weary look on her face that had no right to be there for at least ten more years. A chubby baby was slung over her left hip. He wore a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and a droopy disposable diaper that smelled as though it was carrying a full
load. The shirt made a fashion statement, but it seemed a little too skimpy for the chilly March air.

  “Who you looking for?” she said.

  “Estela Sandoval.”

  “What you want her for?”

  The baby’s deep, racking cough interrupted our conversation. The girl cooed and kissed his cheek, trying to comfort him.

  “Actually I’m looking for Monique Ruiz.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “She’s not here.”

  “You sure? She said she was coming to visit her aunt.”

  “Monique’s got a lot of aunts.”

  The gate apparently wasn’t locked, just ornery, because the girl pushed hard on it a couple times with her free hip, and it popped opened with an arthritic groan. The baby resumed his ragged coughing until a plug of stringy snot dropped from his nose onto his mom’s shirt. I memorized every precious detail from the five-alarm diaper to the nose googies. It was enough to dash anyone’s fantasies of motherhood.

  I waited until she disappeared through the door of apartment 2. Then I followed her path through the side yard, up a flight of stairs, and along the rickety-looking balcony, determined to knock on each of the other five apartment doors until I found either Monique or her aunt.

  A boy of around eight answered the door of number 6. Inside, a sleeping toddler was strapped in a car seat parked in front of a TV, which was blaring cartoons. I asked for Estela Sandoval. The boy pointed to a small bungalow next door.

  The bungalow was surrounded by a chain-link fence and subdivided by a cement sidewalk that had managed to claw its way through the hard-packed dirt. A hand-painted sign on the front door read, “Estela’s Salón de Belleza.” Another sign read, “Abierto.” At least that explained Monique’s telephone message about being at a beauty shop. As I turned the knob and walked inside, I heard a door slam somewhere toward the back of the house.