by Hester Young
“No. Not my grandfather.” She softens at the mention of him but doesn’t offer anything further. I set aside my curiosity, sensing that any discussion of loved ones long gone is dangerous ground. Pam’s recent losses are quite enough for her to contend with; no need to expose old wounds. I have wounds of my own to contend with. I get it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She picks at something in her teeth. “If you want to dredge up secrets, let’s talk about someone too dead to care. You want to hear what turned up in your sister’s apartment?”
I lean forward in my chair. “You know I do.”
“Nudie pics.”
I sigh. “That sounds about right. Although . . .” I consider this for a moment. “Why would Jasmine keep pictures of herself in her own apartment? I thought the whole idea of nude pictures was to give them to some deadbeat boyfriend so he can post them all over the Internet when you break up.”
Pam cracks a sardonic grin. “The pictures weren’t of Jasmine.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who?”
She shakes her head, still smiling. “A woman, mostly. All those years Jazz went on about how ‘disgusting’ it was to see her mother and I together, how ‘unnatural’ we were . . . and she’s got a memory card full of coochie shots. You gotta love it, right?”
I can see why this brings her a certain dark satisfaction. I gulp down my glass of water. “Who’s the woman?”
“Can’t tell. There’s no face shots, just a lot of blurry body parts.”
“Then how do they know it’s not Jasmine?”
“The tits were wrong.” She rolls her eyes. “Jasmine had pierced nipples.”
“Of course she did.” I don’t want to be judgmental about female sexuality, but everything I learn about Jasmine—Micky’s mother, damn it—tests the limits of my acceptance. “So they think Jasmine took the pictures? Of some other woman?”
Pam drenches a piece of sushi with soy sauce and wasabi. “Can’t prove it, but the memory card was in her house. Taped up into the top of a drawer like it meant something to her. And the pictures were definitely taken in her apartment.”
“Do they think Jasmine had a girlfriend? I mean, what’s the theory?”
“Threesome,” Pam announces. “There’s a guy in some of the pictures, too. A few action shots with him and the girl. No view of his face, either.”
I’m not even surprised. Jasmine is starting to seem downright predictable. “Did they identify the guy? Because if it’s Ruben, and those photos were taken in her apartment—well, that would prove he’d been in the US recently, right?”
“It’s a white guy in the pics, that’s all they know.” Pam shrugs. “But these photos predate McCullough and her latest fling with Ruben, as far as I know. They were time-stamped over a year ago.”
“Are they being treated as part of the murder investigation?”
“You bet your ass they are,” Pam says. “We don’t know why Jasmine had those pics. Could’ve been blackmail. Could’ve been motive. Vargas is pulling out all the stops to ID the guy and girl.”
“Does McCullough know about this?” I ask. I don’t know how he’d react, but I’m guessing not well.
“If he didn’t before, he sure does now. Sexy photos—well, it’s hard to keep ’em under wraps in an organization full of guys.”
Suddenly I remember Sanchez going through Jasmine’s apartment yesterday, opening drawers in the kitchen. Could he have been searching for these pictures, unaware that they were already in Homicide’s possession? “Pam,” I murmur, “you said they found the memory card in a drawer, right?”
She nods.
“What room was the drawer in?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
I hesitate. I want to trust Pam, but Rob Sanchez is a cop. Retired though she may be, Pam obviously still has connections to the Tucson police, and her loyalties to them likely extend far beyond whatever bond she and I have forged in the last nine days. “No reason. Just curious.”
Pam doesn’t buy it. She studies me with the carefully neutral face of a poker player, as if reading her opponent, trying to get a sense of my hand. Still, she says nothing.
“So are they getting close?” I try to redirect the conversation. “You think the pictures will lead to some kind of breakthrough?”
“Hope so.” Pam stares down at her sushi, and I see that she’s not about to share whatever private theories she may harbor. “Jasmine was bad news, that’s all I know,” she says brusquely. “She invited all kinds of chaos into her life, and it got her killed. Got Donna killed, too.” She notices my empty water glass and stands up. “You want some coffee or something?”
“Tea, if you have it. Something herbal?”
“Herbal tea, I shoulda known.” She plucks a tea bag from a drawer and, without warning, turns sentimental. “Chamomile. Just like your mom.”
I want to tell her I’m a coffee drinker by nature, that I’m avoiding caffeine purely because of the baby, and tea drinking is not some familial similarity between Donna and me, but even I know that it’s silly to protest something so trivial. I can give Pam this one. I watch as she sets the kettle on the stove and fires up the gas.
“Tash,” she says. “Tash and mashath.”
“What?” It sounds like gibberish.
“Sun and moon,” she explains. “Tash and mashath.”
I smile when I understand this gift she’s giving me. O’odham words. A piece of her past. “Tash,” I say, trying to pronounce the word as she does, yet failing. “That’s ‘sun’?”
She nods. “You make the sh sound a little farther back in your mouth.”
Before I can offer another poor attempt at O’odham, someone knocks at the door. Three knocks, quick and deliberate. Pam looks up, seeming to calculate the chances of an interesting visitor versus an annoyance. She moves to answer it. I wait a few seconds and then follow her.
It’s McCullough. His eyes are bloodshot and his T-shirt clings to his body, damp with sweat, but when he sees Pam, he nods curtly. “Evening,” he says. “Hope you’ll pardon the interruption.”
“Hey, Mac.” Pam’s face betrays no surprise, but her dark eyes miss nothing. “What’s going on?”
“Just wanted to be the one to tell you.” He’s breathless but triumphant. “They’ve arrested Ruben Ramos.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh yeah? Who got him?”
“The Mexican authorities. Down in Rocky Point.”
“Ah. So that’s where he’s been at.” Pam feels me tensing up behind her and raises a finger, almost imperceptibly, behind her back. The gesture is slight but unmistakable. Let me handle this. “So what do they have on him?” she asks. “Something to connect Ruben to the murders?”
“He wasn’t arrested for murder,” McCullough says. “He was arrested for sexual assault.”
Fifteen
Eager to get on with his night, McCullough dispenses the facts as quickly as he can. “You know Homicide can’t share details of the investigation,” he says, glancing at me. “But I do know Vargas and some of the guys went down to Rocky Point yesterday to speak with the local police. They had a lead Ramos was down there.”
“Hard for him to hurt Jasmine if he’s living in Mexico without a US visa,” Pam says. “Did Vargas question him?”
“I think so. But they didn’t have enough to take him into custody.”
“So when did these sexual assault charges—”
“Early this morning. The story is Ramos met some woman at a bar, they went back to her place, and he assaulted her.”
“A tourist?” Pam asks.
“A local woman. Who happened to be a cop.”
“Huh,” Pam says.
“He’s a fucking rapist,” McCullough spits. “He’s gonna rot in prison. And not some cushy US facility, either.”
Pam registers neither excitement nor anger at this news. “Well,” she says, “I know you’ve been keen to find him. I hope this makes it easier for you.”
He doesn’t like that: sympathy. “I thought you’d want to know. Since you cared about Donna.”
She heaves a long, slow sigh, and I realize that in a side-by-side comparison of toughness, McCullough offers Pam no contest at all, despite being six inches taller. Beside her, he looks like a kid, a confused rookie. “Come on, Mac,” she says. “You really think Ruben killed Donna? Or Jasmine, for that matter?”
“I don’t know what he did,” he says, “but I’d say a Mexican prison is a pretty damn good place for him.”
“I get that, buddy.” Pam clamps a hand on his shoulder. “I do. He screwed you over big-time.”
His blue eyes smolder. “You don’t even care, do you? You don’t care what happens to him.”
“Not the way you do,” she says. “Ruben took something from you. I don’t think he took something from me.”
McCullough’s body goes rigid. He pulls away from her.
“I’m glad you came by,” Pam says. “And listen. I know it’s all shit now, but you’ll get through this. You just stay outta trouble, okay?”
He storms back to his car like some misunderstood teenager offended by the advice of a well-meaning parent. Pam watches him screech off in his car before she shuts the front door. She heads back to the kitchen and loads up her plate with dragon roll. “Poor kid,” she says, and it takes a second for me to realize that she’s talking about McCullough.
“Really? That’s what you think of him?”
“He’s a decent guy. A little intense, and his taste in women sure hasn’t done him any favors, but he’s okay.”
I sink back into my chair. Has Pam been working amongst testosterone so long she’s started thinking like one of them? “Frankly, I’m surprised Detective Vargas isn’t more interested in McCullough as a suspect,” I say. “He’s a bit of a hothead, isn’t he?”
“He had plans with Jasmine the night she died,” Pam says evenly. “Got called in last-minute to cover a shift and canceled on her. I’m sure he feels responsible.”
“Maybe he is responsible.”
“He was on duty. With his partner.”
“You mean Rob?”
She gives me an odd look, and it occurs to me that maybe normal people don’t call him Rob. I’ve only heard Serena, Jasmine’s crazy friend at the funeral, address Sanchez by the nickname.
“You know the guy?” Pam asks.
“We chatted a few times.”
“Then I’m sure he told you about the rigorous questioning he and McCullough both went through.”
I’ve made a misstep, casting doubt upon the integrity of her fellow officers. “I wasn’t accusing anyone,” I say, trying to backpedal. “Just thought they always go after the boyfriend first.”
“How about you trust law enforcement to do its job?” Pam says, which gets my hackles up again.
“Why? It doesn’t sound like you trust them. Weren’t you the one conducting your own little side investigation because you thought Vargas was barking up the wrong tree?”
She casts me a thin-lipped smile. “Blinded by grief, I guess.”
“Bullshit. You’re really trying to pretend that you’re going to leave this alone? How stupid do you think I am?” Inside me, my daughter begins to kick, as if picking up on my indignation and offering some of her own. “I saw where your head was at last week. Finding bad guys is your thing. Right now your choices are figure out who killed Donna or sit around dealing with the fact that she’s dead. I know what I’d choose.”
“Pretty feisty, for a woman who’s about five minutes from popping out a baby.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.”
We’re on the same side again, I can feel it. She likes my getting fired up, challenging her. I try to capitalize on her goodwill. “Pam,” I say, swallowing, “I need your honest opinion. This thing with Ruben. I mean, he’s Micky’s father. Do you really think he assaulted someone?”
“Who just happened to be a cop?” She laughs. “Not a chance. This is Mexico we’re dealing with.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning if United States law enforcement started whispering in their ear about Ruben and some unsolved double murder . . . well, they have their own way of handling things. Ten to one, the cop that Ruben assaulted was someone that they planted.”
I’ve heard stories, read things, of course, but it’s hard to reconcile all that with the highly Americanized resort Noah and I saw in Rocky Point. “Are the cops really that corrupt?”
“It’s the whole government, not just the police force.” Pam pulls a strip of avocado off her dragon roll and chews it thoughtfully. “You can get away with anything in Mexico, as long as you give the right people a cut. And on the flip side, even if you follow the law to the letter, you piss off the wrong person and . . .”
“You think Ruben pissed the wrong person off?” I frown. “McCullough sure had it in for him.”
“I doubt McCullough has that kind of reach.” Pam prods at her sushi with her chopsticks, not actually eating. “This smacks of politics. Rocky Point depends on its American tourists. Sexual assault charges are a convenient way to hustle Ruben off, maybe let Vargas and them get another crack at him later, keep everyone happy.”
“Maybe he really did assault someone,” I suggest. “Went back with some drunk woman to her place and . . . you know. That could’ve happened.”
“It could’ve.”
“You don’t look like you believe it.”
“Ruben’s family has money, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“It’s not uncommon for Mexican police to arrest someone on bogus charges and then ask wealthy family members for ‘bail.’ Of course, once they get their money, they don’t necessarily release the guy.”
I see what she’s getting at. “If these charges are manufactured, then it’s my fault he’s in jail, Pam. I was the one who found him. He wouldn’t have been on anyone’s radar if I hadn’t told you where he was.” I feel a little sick when I realize what I’ve done. I don’t have a high opinion of Micky’s father, but I wasn’t looking to stir up trouble for him, certainly not trouble of this magnitude.
“They would’ve tracked Ruben down eventually,” Pam says. “Give them a little credit. This isn’t all on you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” I take the final sip of my tea and stare down at the empty mug. I know nothing about the Mexican judicial system, what kind of access an American might get to an inmate. Can Ruben sign away his parental rights while in prison? Will his arrest prolong the adoption process for Micky? “It’s late,” I tell Pam. “I’d better get back.”
She doesn’t argue. “Noah’s waiting for you, huh.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll walk you out.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. “I appreciate it, you know. You coming over here. Checking up on me and all that.”
“Not a big deal. I wish there was more I could do for you.”
“It is a big deal,” Pam says gruffly. “You don’t owe me anything, I know that. You’re here because . . . you have a good heart.”
“Thanks.”
“I just wish Donna could’ve met you. She would’ve—”
“Don’t.” In my haste to retreat, I stumble backward off her front step, catching myself on the rails before I fall. “This is about you and me, not Donna, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, but even I know that I’m wrong. Like it or not, my relationship with Pam will always be about Donna. It’s inescapable.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell her. “And if you hear anything else about Ruben . . .”
“I’ll let you know.”
Back in the
car, I buckle myself in, flip on the A/C. Before I’ve pulled away from the curb, my phone lights up with a text from Noah. It’s past your bedtime. You alive?
I’m annoyed. While it’s true that I’ve been going to bed early recently, that doesn’t mean I can’t stay awake like a grown-up every now and then. Dead as a doornail, I type back, then catch myself before I hit Send. No need for snark. With everything that’s happened, I can’t blame Noah for being a little nervous.
I’m alive, I reply. Back soon.
• • •
THAT NIGHT, I’M AWAKENED from a decent stretch of sleep by acid reflux. I sit up in bed, fumbling around in the dark for my water bottle, something to calm the burn. That’s when I hear the music.
Low at first. A distant pounding that moves closer, like the subwoofer of some sporty car pulling up beside you at a stoplight. Soon it’s so loud I swear the room itself is pulsing. Are the people next door having a middle-of-the-night dance party? What the hell? Noah, of course, doesn’t stir, which means I’ll have to call the front desk myself. Irritated, I slide a bare foot onto the carpet, feel it vibrating beneath me.
It happens so fast this time. The change is liquid and immediate, the hotel gone, my body upright and unburdened by the weight of pregnancy. The music is everywhere.
The lights are blurring lines of neon pink and purple, the air thick with smoke and sweat and throbbing music. A flashing silver disco ball casts fragments of light across the dark walls, pale flecks that swirl around the room in dizzying circles like a school of ghostly fish. The pounding club beat travels up through my calves and thighs, urging my hips to action, yet I resist.
I don’t want to dance. Not here.
It’s a sticky, creaking establishment that trembles with the music. Some attempt has been made at a nautical theme: fishing nets draped from the ceiling, shells affixed to the walls, a small glow-in-the-dark trident suggestively aimed at the crotch of a giant blow-up mermaid. She’s blond, of course, and possesses both a vacant smile and huge plastic breasts adorned with obscene red nipples. But that’s what they’re here for. That’s what they want.
They’re everywhere, all around me in the dim room. I can smell them. Men. The stink of their bodies, their alcohol-drenched breath. I see their shadows moving around the floor, their eyes bright and glowing in the dark, like rats. Their gazes range from hungry or leering to impassive, disgusted even, and they consume me. Claim me. First with eyes, then with hands, a mess of hot, relentless fingers that start at my ankles and work their way up my legs. I don’t fight them, don’t protest. There is something routine about this groping, something pathetic and necessary, however unpleasant.
