Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  I arrived just a few minutes after nine. The street was relatively quiet. Brenda the parking vigilante was out on the landing in front of her unit, glaring at the bicycle chained to the railing. Both its tires were missing. I wondered if Monique’s boyfriend had finally exacted his revenge. I would have nodded hello to her, but she didn’t look up.

  The rental company was coming between ten and twelve to pick up the furniture. Representatives from the battered women’s shelter had promised to arrive between twelve and two to collect the household items. I could have left the donation boxes out by the curb, but Lola Scott’s people were coming for the bed sometime before two. Not that I was a wimp, but I decided to wait and let somebody else carry the stuff down three flights of stairs.

  I made my way to the third floor, which by now I could have found blindfolded. I stopped in the hallway in front of Monique Ruiz’s door. Green had verified her alibi for the night of Evan’s death, but I still wanted to talk to her myself. Perhaps she knew something, even a rumor that she hadn’t told the police but might tell me. I knocked on her door but got no response.

  I wrote a note on one of my business cards, informing the rental company that they could find me at Rose’s place. I tucked it into the seam of Evan’s door and walked down the hall. When Rose answered the door, her hair was wet. A couple of brush rollers were hanging askew from the crown of her head. She looked disconsolate.

  “My hair was looking a little frowsy,” she explained. “I tried setting it myself, but I just can’t do it anymore.”

  “Want me to give it a shot?”

  Her face brightened. “If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother.”

  I was a member of Generation Blow-Dry and didn’t have a clue how to set hair. On the other hand, how hard could it be? All I had to do was roll it, dry it, and brush it into a neat little nuclear mushroom cloud.

  Rose sat on a kitchen chair, offering advice on the finer points of curler placement. When I was finished, I gave the job a critical eye. It didn’t look bad. I helped her tie what looked like an old rag around her head to keep the rollers in place. She told me it was a child’s head scarf that had belonged to her daughter. As charming as that sounded, the scarf made her look as if she were on her way to thresh wheat.

  At 11:15, the rental company movers arrived: two guys—one was black and the other looked Samoan. Both appeared out of shape but strong. They quickly loaded the furniture and left. At one o’clock, a couple of women arrived from the shelter. I helped them lug the boxes to their van. Finally, everything was out of the apartment except the bed. The place looked empty and sad. I realized this would probably be the last time I’d come here except to visit Rose.

  At three o’clock I was still waiting for Lola’s people to pick up the bed. By that time Rose’s hair was dry, so I combed it out. It didn’t look half bad. When four o’clock rolled around, I started to fume at Lola but at myself as well. I’d trusted her to show up as promised. I hadn’t even asked for her telephone number. At four-thirty I decided not to wait any longer.

  As I was leaving Rose’s apartment, I heard voices through the flimsy door of Monique Ruiz’s unit across the hall. It sounded like two women engaged in a high-octane dispute. I wondered who was giving her a bad time now. I decided to find out.

  I knocked, and the voices stopped. A few moments later, the door opened. Standing in front of me was none other than the star reporter for the Valley News Now, Marta Cruz. She wore a tight purple skirt and matching vest over a long-sleeved lavender blouse with a collar that drooped over her chest like the ears of a basset hound. The getup looked cheerful and springy, but her scowl was as cold as winter in Buffalo.

  For a moment, she blankly stared at me as if she didn’t remember who I was. I took advantage of the lull to drum up a reason—any reason—why Cruz was in Monique Ruiz’s apartment. After several hit-and-miss theories, only one survived the sniff test: She was badgering Monique for information for her newspaper article on Evan Brice’s murder.

  From somewhere inside the apartment I heard another voice. It was soft and tentative. “Who is it, Nonny?”

  Nonny? Where had I heard that name before? Slowly the memory came into focus. It had been recorded on Monique Ruiz’s voice mail greeting. Later that same day her aunt, Estela Sandoval, had told me it was a nickname for Monique’s sister.

  How very convenient, I thought, and how very easy it must have been for a budding investigative reporter to gather information on a celebrity murder when her sister had a key to the crime scene. I wondered how many times Cruz had snooped inside Evan’s apartment, and if that was where she’d found my name and address.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your sister worked for Evan Brice?” I blurted out.

  Cruz’s lips pressed together in an angry line. Before she could respond, Monique Ruiz appeared. I’d caught only a glimpse of her before through the peephole in Evan Brice’s door. Up close, I saw that she was five feet three or so, with brunette hair and coffee-colored eyes, which were framed by carefully arched brows. Her features were small except for her lips, which were full and sensuous. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well the night before. There was also a grayish cast to her face that made her skin seem washed out and dull. The dark circles and the dull skin gave me the impression she might be ill. Whatever she had, I hoped it wasn’t contagious.

  “Monique?” I said. “I’m—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Cruz tried to slam the door shut, but my foot was in the way. Instead of closing, the door bounced off my shoe like a boomerang, nearly smacking her in the face on the rebound.

  “Nonny! What are you doing?”

  “Go back inside.”

  “I told you before, stop telling me what to do.”

  It sounded like an old argument. I wasn’t interested in the revival, so I interrupted.

  “Monique, my name is Tucker Sinclair. I’m a friend of Evan Brice’s. Your sister came to my house a few days ago asking questions for a newspaper article she’s writing about his death.”

  The slow transformation of Monique’s expression from surprise to alarm stripped her face of all color, even the gray. She turned toward her sister.

  Cruz’s jaw became rigid. “I did it for you, mija.”

  “No, not for me! You did it for your own self.”

  Monique darted back into the apartment. Cruz followed. I didn’t want to miss the action, so I stepped inside, too.

  The place was decorated in a style that could only be described as garage sale postmodern. The eclectic decor consisted of a small television, a chintz couch, and two mismatched chairs, worn from years of hard use. To the left I caught a glimpse of a small stove and refrigerator barricaded behind a three-panel divider made of azure crinkled plastic.

  On a TV tray next to the refrigerator was an embroidered cozy that was draped over what looked like a toaster. It read, “Pop Goes the Toast.” In the living room, a knitted afghan designed with a zigzag pattern of alternating royal blue and white yarn was draped over the back of the couch. Photographs from somebody’s quinceañera were laid out on the floor, along with bits of colored paper and blank pages from a scrapbook. Nearby was a set of knitting needles that held six inches of what I assumed was her latest project, possibly another afghan. This one was smaller and made of pastel yellow and green yarn. Monique needed one more item to complete the look: a wall plaque that read, “Stop Me Before I Craft Again.” She could even needlepoint it herself.

  Monique was now lying on the couch in the fetal position, hugging a small blue teddy bear. The ribbon around the bear’s neck looked fresh and unwrinkled, as if it had just been brought home from the toy store.

  Cruz knelt in front of her, whispering something, but Monique pushed her away. Despite the psychodrama, Cruz’s manner seemed maternal and loving. Only a few phrases from their conversation drifted my way. I got the impression that Cruz was peddling justifications that were turning out to be a
hard sell. Eventually she grew frustrated by her failure.

  She pointed an index finger at her sister. “You got yourself into this trouble. If you want me to help you out of it, you have to listen to me.”

  The word “trouble” seemed to follow Monique Ruiz everywhere she went, which made me wonder if she was as sweet and innocent as Rose thought she was.

  Cruz was tugging on the teddy bear, trying to pull it away from Monique’s face. “Talk to me, mija.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but do you mind telling me what’s going on here? Why did you come to my house? Is this some kind of shakedown?”

  “You don’t know anything,” Cruz said.

  “Then fill me in.”

  She lifted her chin into a pose that seemed determined, almost self-righteous. “Mr. Chatterton told my sister about you. He said you were a good person. He said if he ever needed help, he’d go to you first. I thought you might help Monique, too, but Mr. Chatterton was wrong about you.”

  Cruz knew that Chatterton wasn’t Evan’s real name, so I didn’t bother correcting her. And I ignored the slam. Her criticism of me didn’t even begin to equal my own.

  “Just what did you think I was going to do for her?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I can handle it myself.”

  “How? By selling lies about me to tabloid TV? How much did Celebrity Heat pay you anyway?”

  Monique opened her mouth as if to respond, but Cruz shot her a look of warning.

  Cruz stood. “We don’t have anything else to say to you. Please leave.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave, but if you think I’m going to stand by and let you trash my name to pay your sister’s cell-phone bill, you’re mistaken.”

  On my way out, I passed through the kitchen. Sitting on the counter was a funky blue backpack. I was willing to bet it was the same one I’d seen at Estela Sandoval’s Oxnard beauty shop the day I went there looking for Monique. Hanging from a metal ring on the bag was a key chain. As I got closer, I noticed that it was made of beads, red and green ones. It looked like a red rose set against a green background, similar to the one I’d found in Evan’s apartment. Except that the strings of beads on this one weren’t broken. I’d assumed that Dara had made the key chain as a gift for her father. Now I realized how wrong I was about that.

  “Where did you get this?” I said to Monique.

  She hesitated. “It’s just something I made.”

  “Did you make one for Evan Brice, too?”

  Monique looked up at the ceiling as if checking for leaks in the dimpled tile. Her eyes remained focused up there for what seemed like a long time. When she squeezed them closed, two large tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Once again Cruz knelt in front of her sister, folding her arms around Monique to comfort her. “Just leave us alone,” she said to me.

  Monique’s tears seemed strangely inappropriate. Again I thought about the murder committed across the hallway, and wondered if she had been involved in some way. For a moment I let my imagination run wild. What if Monique had been stealing drugs or money from Evan’s apartment? He found out. She killed him to stay out of jail. Except that it didn’t fit. Monique was petite, almost frail-looking. Evan wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder, but I didn’t see how she could stab him to death without showing some physical signs of the struggle. Moreover, Moses Green seemed satisfied with her alibi. On the other hand, Green hadn’t said anything about the alibi of Monique’s boyfriend. Where had he been the night Evan was killed?

  I didn’t know for sure who had driven Monique Ruiz to Oxnard that night, or what time they’d left Venice. In fact, there was a lot I didn’t know. A voice inside my head said, “Leave well enough alone,” but as usual, I decided to ignore it.

  -26-

  i stood in the hallway outside Monique Ruiz’s apartment, wondering what to do next. The way she’d reacted when I mentioned Evan’s name, and the fact that she’d made that key chain for him, made me think there was more to their relationship than she was willing to tell me. It was possible she had a fantasy crush on him, or perhaps it was a full-blown affair. Either way, her boyfriend would not have been pleased.

  Unfortunately, my suspicions were nothing more than prickles on the back of my neck. If I sashayed up to the LAPD homicide table with a cockamamie conspiracy theory about Monique Ruiz and her boyfriend, Green would laugh me out of the station. What I needed was information. I doubted that Monique or her sister would tell me anything now. However, if I could get the boyfriend’s name, I could search a few databases—like the state prison’s alumni rolls—to see if he popped up.

  I decided to launch my latest investigation by interviewing Brenda, the self-appointed neighborhood parking vigilante. She seemed to keep close tabs on visitors to the neighborhood. She’d also had a few run-ins with Monique’s boyfriend and might know his name. Unfortunately, Brenda didn’t strike me as the kind of person who sat around a campfire singing “Kumbaya,” so I didn’t expect her to welcome me in the spirit of sisterly love. The situation required a little creativity.

  I made my way across the street and checked the bank of mailboxes for her last name. It was Boyd. I headed up the stairs, past what was left of Brenda’s bicycle, and knocked on her door. No one answered. I tried again. Nothing. I was about to leave when I heard a thump followed by the sound of glass breaking.

  I leaned closer to the door. “Brenda? You okay? It’s Tucker Sinclair. Remember? The one with the silver Boxster who can never find a parking place.”

  I heard movement. A few moments later the door opened, at least as far as the security chain would allow. I saw a flash of red—Brenda’s favorite kimono—and a thin line of blue: Brenda’s eyes, squinting at me with distrust.

  Up close I could see that the sun had etched her face with wrinkles, which rippled across her forehead like drifting sand. She wore no makeup except for a garish shade of magenta lipstick that practically screamed, free gift with purchase.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “Actually, I need your help.” She didn’t seem enthralled by that, so I hurried on. “I was parked out front the other night, and somebody dented my fender. I mean, the guy must have known he hit me. The damage is major. He should have left a note. Anyway, I was hoping you might have seen or heard something.”

  Brenda’s expression remained frosty. Obviously she wasn’t responding to my mojo, either. On the other hand, she hadn’t slammed the door in my face, so I kept talking.

  “If I make a claim with my insurance company, they’ll raise my rates, so I’d like to settle this off the books if I can. The problem is, I need the guy’s name or a license plate number or something.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “you got a problem, all right.”

  Words. This was good. I pressed on. “I know the car was black, because it left some paint on my fender.”

  On the word “black” Brenda cocked her head. “What day was it again?”

  I calculated backward to the last time I’d seen the Latino’s black Honda Civic parked outside. “Last Wednesday, I think.”

  She paused for a moment. “Hold on.”

  The door closed. Moments later, I heard the security chain slide on its track. Then the door opened wide. Immediately the oppressive odor of cigarette smoke, mingled with the even more oppressive aroma of patchouli oil, bombarded my olfactory system. When Brenda motioned me inside, I took my last gasp of fresh air and followed her into the living room.

  In addition to her signature red kimono, Brenda was wearing a hand-wrought turquoise ring on the index finger of her right hand. It was a square, blue-green gemstone flanked by two smaller, bluer ovals, all set in a silver band. The larger stone was chipped. From what I could tell, she was wearing nothing else. Even her feet were bare.

  My gaze moved across the neat and tidy living room. The couch was covered in a red fabric that had been repeated in the easy chair and on the lamp shades. The furniture had proba
bly once been bright and cheery. Now it was merely old and serviceable.

  Propped against the back of the couch was a waist-high pole with tubing coiled around it. Attached to one end was something that looked like a flat doughnut. At the other end was a set of headphones. It appeared to be one of those metal detectors people use to comb the beach for spare change and other treasures.

  On an end table near the couch was a framed photograph of Brenda Boyd, standing on the beach next to a young Asian man wearing a U.S. Navy uniform. The photo looked recent. Unfortunately, it had been taken from too far away, as though the photographer had been more interested in capturing the flat gray ocean in the background than the tender look of pride on Brenda Boyd’s face. The glass in the frame was cracked. I wondered if that had been what I’d heard breaking. If so, it helped explain her foul mood. The guy looked young enough to be her son, but I didn’t want to insult her if it turned out to be a boyfriend.

  I picked up the photo and smiled. “Nice picture.”

  She grabbed it roughly out of my hand and pressed it to her chest.

  “Wait here.”

  She disappeared into what may have been a bedroom and returned a few minutes later, carrying a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid that smelled like gin. In the other hand was some kind of journal. On the front cover was a picture of a Japanese teahouse surrounded by cherry trees in bloom. She opened the book to a large rubber band that had been used to mark her place. She ran her finger down the page.

  “Gotcha, you little prick,” she said under her breath.

  Brenda held up the journal and pointed to the entry. Three vertical lines ran the length of the page, separating it into four columns. The headings read, “Date,” “Time,” “License #,” and “Comment.” There were dozens of entries in small, cramped handwriting. I envisioned more pages and more books filling shelves and boxes and then rooms. Brenda needed to get a life.