chapter
FOURTEEN
Stella and Brenda Anderson arrived in Houston on the four o’clock shuttle, bedraggled and somber. The investigator insisted on being present when Carl Winters transported the evidence to a Houston lab. Stella had only one agenda to pursue in Houston: Victor Pilgrim.
The two women made their way through the Hobby Airport to the rental car counter, where they arranged for a late-model sedan. By the time they picked up their car and drove to the police station, it was after six and Winters had already left for the day.
“Can’t you call him at home and ask him to come back down?” Brenda asked the officer in the evidence room. “This is really important. We flew here from Dallas to take care of this, and we’d like to handle it this evening.”
The officer looked up Winters’s home number and called him. A few moments later, he stuck his head out the window and said the detective wasn’t home. “I can’t let you take it,” he said. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Great,” Brenda said, frustrated. “We should have taken an earlier flighty Stella. I was afraid this was going to happen.”
Realizing that the man they were speaking to was the same officer from the day they’d examined the evidence, Stella impulsively stepped up to the window. “A friend of mine used to be an officer here,” she said, smiling flirtatiously.
“Really?” the man said. “What’s his name?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you his name,” Stella said, glancing behind her nervously. “He retired not long ago on disability. I’m curious, though. There’s not a thing wrong with him. How did he manage to get disability? He said Captain Cataloni arranged it for him. What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”
“I know who you are,” the man said. “Where do you get off saying things like that about the captain? He’s your fucking uncle, isn’t he?”
Brenda was appalled. She yanked Stella away, and then promptly lit into her as they headed back down the corridor. “What are you doing, Stella? Are you trying to get yourself killed? You might as well paint a target on your back.”
“I don’t care anymore,” Stella snapped. “If Uncle Clem comes after me, that’s fine with me. I’m not going to take this lying down, Brenda.”
“You’re staying with me tonight at the hotel,” Brenda said, still annoyed. “I can’t let you out of my sight now.”
“But I want to talk to Mario,” Stella protested. “I’ve got to get him into a treatment program. If he does what I say,1 might be able to convince the court to place him on probation.”
They exited the police station and headed for their car in the parking lot. “Call him on the phone,” Brenda said, climbing into the driver’s seat of their rented Ford.
Stella was circling to the other side when she spotted Clementine Cataloni walking to his car a few feet away. She stopped and froze in place. “Look who’s here,” she said, tapping on the window to get Anderson’s attention.
“Get in the car,” Brenda yelled from inside. Once Stella did what she said, she added, “Did he see us?”
“I’m certain he did,” Stella answered, her bravado of a few moments ago gone. “He looked right at me. See, he’s looking over here now.”
“Shit,” Brenda said, throwing the gearshift into reverse, making a quick left and then squealing out of the parking lot. “We have to get to Pilgrim right now.”
“Do you have his address?”
“Look in that folder,” Brenda said, checking her rearview mirror. “I don’t think Clem’s following us. If he is, he knows what he’s doing. I can’t see a thing.”
Stella found the page and read out an address in Galveston Bay. “Okay,” Brenda said, “do you know how to get there?”
“Sure,” Stella said. “Galveston Bay is near Clear Lake, over by the space center. It’s a long drive. Maybe we should call first and make certain he’s home.”
Brenda jerked her head to the side, surprised that Stella would suggest they announce themselves. But Stella was full of surprises today, and Brenda found it disturbing. “Did you really mean to say that, Stella?”
“No,” Stella said, flushing, “I guess not.”
Janet Hernandez met her husband for dinner at the Steak and Ale restaurant on Inwood Road, having caught a ride from another secretary at the courthouse. Ray had been held over at the paper, and Janet was too antsy to wait for him to pick her up. Once they were seated and had placed their food orders, he said, “What’s going on? You look like the cat who swallowed the canary. You’re not mad at me because I had to work late again, are you?”
Janet shook her head. “I went back to the building inspector’s office today on my lunch hour,” she told him. “I asked if they had a file on the Happy Day disaster and they did, Ray. Tony Cataloni inspected the structure when the kindergarten was first built, and he was the person assigned to look into the cave-in.”
“No shit,” Ray said, smiling. “What else did you find out?”
“Mr. Cataloni hadn’t finished preparing his report and compiling his findings when he died,” Janet continued, “but he did leave a handwritten note in the file that he suspected the foundation was not properly reinforced. The note was dated the day of the fire. He said he was planning to collect a sample of the foundation the following day and have it tested for rebar. But of course, he died, so nothing ever came of it.”
“Didn’t they assign another building inspector?”
“No,” Janet said, pausing as the waitress delivered their drinks. “The people who took over the investigation were claims examiners with the various insurance companies that were involved. The school was built on a landfill, Ray. That’s what caused the sinkhole to develop, and of course, the parents of the injured children filed an enormous class-action lawsuit against the development company who sold the school the land. The people at the building inspector’s office probably never saw Cataloni’s notes. Either that, or someone bribed them to look the other way.”
“What exactly is rebar?” Ray asked. “Isn’t it some type of steel rods?”
“Yes,” Janet said. “Except in a few isolated instances, the building code calls for it. The problem is compliance is hard to enforce because you can’t tell if the people have used it or not. Once the foundation is poured, it just looks like concrete and there’s no way to tell if it’s been reinforced with rebar.”
“Now I get the picture,” Ray said, his eyes sparkling with interest. “The sinkhole wouldn’t have been a problem if the foundation had been reinforced. Isn’t that what you’re saying? If that’s the case, why didn’t the victims sue the builders instead of the company that owned the land?”
“They must not have known the foundation wasn’t reinforced,” she said. “The guy at the building office told me that there are landfills all over the city. Erecting a structure on top of a landfill isn’t the optimum situation, but they generally only see some minor settling damage. Most of the time, nothing happens at all. Foundations rarely collapse the way Happy Day’s did, causing a major cave-in.”
The waitress arrived with their food. Ray had ordered a thick sirloin steak and a baked potato. Janet’s meal was a grilled breast of chicken salad. Her husband picked up his knife and fork to begin eating, but his wife gave him a disapproving look, then handed her plate back to the waitress. “Can you keep our food warm in the kitchen, please?” she asked. “We’re in the midst of an important conversation.”
“No problem,” the woman said. “Don’t blame me if your steak is overcooked, though.”
Ray frowned, watching as the woman picked up his plate. “I can talk and eat at the same time,” he said. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away with this detective stuff?”
“Two children died, Ray,” she said. “And don’t forget, twenty-three kids were seriously injured. I think you can hear me out, don’t you?”
Ray rested his head in one hand. “What was the outcome of the lawsuit?”
<
br /> “The company that sold the kindergarten the land was held liable,” Janet told him. “The court ruled against them because they failed to disclose that there was a landfill underneath the property when they sold it to Happy Day. The settlements were huge, Ray. We’re talking millions of dollars here. Isn’t that enough to make someone desperate?”
“Who?” he said. “I’m a little lost, Janet.”
“That’s because you haven’t been paying attention,” she snapped, her voice loud enough that several diners at adjoining tables turned around. “The people who laid the foundation were responsible for what happened, Ray, not the development company.”
“Okay,” he said. “Who laid the foundation?” The fire vanished from Janet’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. I found out the name of the company who built the structure, but a lot of the work was done by subcontractors, and their names aren’t listed in the file. Littlefield Construction went out of business not long after the fire, so it’s going to be difficult to track down the principals.”
“You’re doing good, babe,” Ray said, flagging down the waitress to bring them their food. “Let’s eat, okay? Then I’ll give you some suggestions on how to proceed.”
Galveston was a Mecca for tourists, particularly during the summer months. An enormous traffic jam blocked Highway 145, which led to Galveston Bay, and teenagers and young adults were hanging out of car windows, while their stereos blasted out rock music. “You should come here during spring break,” Stella said to Brenda. “It’s a zoo.”
Finally the traffic opened up, and they passed a lovely recreational area with a marina, restaurants, and antique and specialty shops. The sun was setting and the sky was awash with brilliant colors. Dozens of sailboats were tacking toward the harbor, their sails billowing in the ocean breeze. “This is one thing they don’t have in Dallas,” Stella said, enjoying the view out of her window. “Water. Sometimes I miss it. You know, my father always wanted to have a boat. His own father was a fisherman in Italy. He used to drive us down here on Sundays after mass just to watch the yachts come into the harbor.”
“We have to find Shoreline Drive,” Brenda told her. “Does the map have the smaller streets, or just the major thoroughfares?”
“Turn right,” Stella said, leaning forward and peering out the window. “I’m almost certain Shoreline Drive cuts in to the right. It’s one of the streets that overlooks the harbor.”
Approximately twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a modest beach house, squeezing the Fairlane into the only parking spot left on the street. Even though the house was little more than a cottage, they both realized Victor Pilgrim had paid a tidy sum for it. Any property near the water was expensive, and Pilgrim had the Gulf of Mexico right in his backyard. Kids were zipping by on skateboards, or walking with surfboards balanced on their heads. People were carrying sacks of food and supplies to their boats in the nearby marina. Several cars roared by, clearly exceeding the speed limit, occupied by what appeared to be intoxicated teenagers. “Looks like fun,” Brenda quipped. “How many people do you think they kill here a year? A dozen, two dozen? Most of these kids aren’t old enough to buy beer.”
“It’s a good place if you want a tan,” Stella said. “Other than that, it sucks.”
“I don’t really need a tan,” Brenda said. She reached for the door handle, then added, “You have to wait in the car. Pilgrim will recognize you.”
Brenda walked up and rang the bell. After waiting some time, a woman opened the door. She was plain-looking, with grayish hair, wearing a blue shirtwaist dress. “Is Victor Pilgrim home?” Brenda said, flipping her shield and then quickly shoving it back in her purse. “I’m with the D.A.‘s office, ma’am. I need to ask him a few questions.”
“Wait here,” the woman said, disappearing into the house. When she returned, she had a puzzled look on her face. “He was here just a minute ago, but now I can’t find him. Maybe he went for a walk on the beach. Would you like to come in and wait? I’m certain he’ll be back soon. He never walks for very long because of his leg.”
Brenda was intrigued by the woman’s face. Something about her eyes struck Brenda as strange. She never focused on the investigator’s face, but seemed to be looking right past her. On impulse she waved her hand in front of her. The woman didn’t blink. Then Brenda looked down and saw the cane in her hand. “If you don’t mind, we’ll come back later. Oh, and what’s wrong with your husband’s leg?”
“It still hurts him,” she said. “He was hit when he worked for the police department. He was writing a ticket on the freeway and a drunk driver slammed into the car behind him.”
“Which department was that?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Brenda Anderson,” she said, sticking out her hand to shake, then feeling foolish when the woman just stood there, her arms straight at her sides.
“I have to go,” she said, closing the door in the investigator’s face.
When she got back inside the car, Brenda turned to Stella. “Victor Pilgrim’s wife is blind.”
“Where’s Pilgrim?”
“I may have blown it,” Brenda continued. “I think I said the wrong thing.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked which department her husband was with when he was injured.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Think about it,” she said. “Pilgrim’s getting a pension from Houston. Don’t you think he should have incurred the leg injury while he was with the Houston P.D, not while he was still employed in San Antonio?”
“I don’t understand,” Stella said. “If this is a scam, he wouldn’t be disabled at all.”
“Not necessarily,” Brenda told her. “It’s usually very difficult for a cop to get disability retirement. As long as you can stand upright, most departments want you on the job. You know, the government thinks a warm body is better than nothing, particularly when they know the alternative is dishing out a pension every month.”
“Are they really that callous?” Stella asked, appalled at what she was hearing.
“You bet,” Brenda said. “But at the same time, the officers brought a lot of this down on themselves. They take a few tumbles and then cry wolf, claiming their injuries are worse than they really are. Sometimes they lose their nerve, you know. Something spooks them. A near miss. A particularly nasty scene. A supervisor that’s all over their ass. Where do you go when you’ve been a cop for ten years? Go to work for the sanitation department? So they want out, and disability is a way to get what they want and still get paid for it.”
“But Pilgrim sounds legitimately disabled,” Stella said. “If so, why would he need my uncle’s help?”
Brenda paused, thinking she saw Victor Pilgrim returning home. But the man had no limp, and she resumed her explanation. “It all fits together,” she continued. “Let’s say some of these men were legitimately injured, but they just couldn’t get their superiors to classify them as disabled. Like I just told you, the doctors see so many phony claims that the criteria have become very stringent and many legitimate cases are probably turned down. These guys meet your uncle, and he makes the necessary arrangements. To guys like this, your uncle must be a saint.”
“Not only that,” she said. “If Pilgrim’s wife is blind, he’d have an even greater reason to want disability retirement. Cops work long shifts, and the poor woman would be alone all the time.”
For a long time, they just sat there, both of them immersed in their thoughts. Finally Stella said, “Are we just going to sit here? He might not come back for hours.”
“No,” Brenda said, engaging the engine, “let’s get something to eat. Then we’ll come back and see what Mr. Pilgrim has to say.”
Over dinner, the two women tried to keep their conversation light. The day had been stressful and they both were ready to set talk of the case aside. “Have you ever thought of getti
ng married?” Stella asked.
“I was married for about three years,” Brenda said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “It was the worst three years of my life.”
“What happened?”
“You know,” she said, popping a french fry in her mouth, “not a lot of black guys want to be married to a cop. If you want to know the truth, it’s hard to find someone who hasn’t been arrested at one time or the other.”
“I think you’re exaggerating,” Stella said. “There’s all kinds of black professionals out there. Doctors, engineers, lawyers. How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” Brenda answered. “Do you have any idea how many black men are in prison? Just look at the statistics. And the educated professionals you just mentioned, well, a lot of them marry white women.”
“Then marry a white guy,” Stella said. “Why would that be so bad?”
Brenda laughed. A few moments later, she fell serious again. “Men in general don’t like women with authority, Stella, and black men are the worst. It’s an ego thing with them. If anyone carries a gun, they think it should be them.”
“Was your husband in law enforcement?”
“I don’t date cops anymore,” Brenda said, toying with the salt shaker. “And to answer your question, yes, he was. I got promoted to sergeant while he remained in patrol. Didn’t sit too well, evidently. He moved out the following week, but not before he tried a little attitude adjustment. He broke four of my ribs. In return, I gave him a black eye and a ruptured spleen.” She forced a wry grin. “That’s one good thing about being a cop. When some guy tries to beat the shit out of you, you at least have the skills to retaliate.”
“Well, in my situation,” Stella said, “Brad didn’t beat me, but he resented my career horribly.” That reminded her of her financial problems. “I’m waiting to hear from Sam tonight. He’s trying to negotiate our financial agreement so I can get a loan and hire an attorney.”
Trial by Fire Page 25
