by Karen Pullen
In the elevator, Anselmo looked less queasy now that the lesson was over and he didn’t have to stare at innards. We had a lot to talk about. The implications were huge, weren’t they? Was Justine’s gender change related to her murder?
We sat in his cruiser. “Whew,” said Anselmo, rolling down his window and taking a deep breath.
“That was a bit much,” I said. “He could have spared us the show and tell.”
“Puts a new light on the case, though.”
“She clearly presented as female. No one has said anything about this, right?”
“Yeah. Two really important questions. Who knew? When did they know? Starting with Mike Olmert.”
“Right. If Justine had kept it a secret, he might be very angry to find out,” I said.
“It’s not something it’s okay to keep to yourself. She wasn’t biologically like other women. She couldn’t have children.”
“And if he found out, at the last minute, is it a reason to murder?”
Anselmo shook his head. “He could always just call the wedding off. Doesn’t seem enough, to me, to kill her.”
“Not to you or me. But gender change is hard to accept. It’s stigmatized.” I thought about Tricia Scott’s book, her homophobic rant. Did she really deep-down believe what she wrote, or was she parroting rhetoric? How would she react to this information about her future daughter-in-law? Screams and hysterics? Pleading with her son, weeping? Or taking up a soldier’s sword to set the world right?
“Let’s find Mike Olmert,” Anselmo said. He pulled out his notebook and his cell. His color was back to normal, and he was his usual cool relaxed self. He smiled the crooked smile I liked, and I also liked being out of that cold facility with its smells of chemicals and fluids. The only smells in Anselmo’s cruiser were the leather of the seats and his faintly spicy scent. A bit of plastic from the protective gown still clung to his shoulder and I plucked it off, my hand lingering a half-second longer than necessary. He was warm, alive, male, everything Justine Bradley was not.
Despite his parents’ conservative beliefs, despite his cultural conditioning, despite the ribbing he’d get from other firefighters, had Mike Olmert knowingly asked a transsexual woman to marry him? It was hard to believe and we needed to hear it from him in person. He agreed to meet us at a gym where he worked as a personal trainer on his days off.
A knotty-muscled woman in purple Lycra guarded the Lake-way Fitness Center. She gave Anselmo a friendly wink but eyed me up and down, as if assessing whether she could lift me overhead. When I told her we were there to meet Mike, she said he’d be out in a few minutes, and offered to give us a tour. After passing through an acre of body-building equipment, she showed us the rooms for spinning, yoga, aerobics and childcare, and a lap pool with adjacent steam room. Overlooking it all was a balcony of treadmills, bikes, and elliptical trainers aimed at a bank of televisions. The place was nearly deserted except for a few diehard weight lifters and a toning class full of women struggling to perform crunches on huge rubber balls. I’ve been in those classes. The real exercise comes from trying to stay balanced on the ball until it gets away and bounces rudely into a ninety-pounder in a red yoga bra who shoots you a dirty look that says Can’t you even control your ball?
“Hey, guys.” Mike emerged from the men’s locker room. His tee-shirt said, “Train hard, win easy,” and his body was a walking advertisement for the benefits of regular workouts—muscle definition, flat stomach, pecs you could balance a wine glass on.
Anselmo asked him to find us a room where we could talk privately. Mike led us into the deserted spinning room, full of one-wheeled bikes on bright blue iron frames. When he turned on the light, a disco ball started to revolve, sending rainbow flashes around the room. I studied him as the light danced across his face. His face was stony, his eyes shrouded in dark. We sat down on the instructor’s platform.
Anselmo didn’t sidestep the issue. “When did Justine have the surgery?”
“What are you talking about?”
We waited.
“Breast implants you mean? I knew about those but why does it matter?” He folded his thick arms across his bulky chest.
“Mike, we know,” Anselmo said.
He sighed. “Come on. What do you want?”
I moved closer to him, willing him to open up. “The truth, Mike. It’s liberating.”
He shook his head. “Honest to God, I don’t have the patience for this.”
No more futzing around, I decided. “Did she tell you she’d had a sex change?”
His eyes met mine and he began to laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It was revealed in the autopsy. Justine was born male. She took hormones and had surgery to change her sex. Are you saying you didn’t know?” I asked.
“You are completely nuts. There’s no way.” He hopped onto a bike and started to pedal slowly, mechanically. He turned the knob to increase resistance, and pumped harder, as if trying to ride away from us.
I shared a glance with Anselmo, and he took over. “Mike, either you’re lying or deliberately twisting things. Perhaps we should go downtown for a formal interview, start at the beginning and go over every single moment of your relationship with her.” His graveled voice held little compassion.
“And you need to do your job, not harass me.”
“Did your family know?” I asked.
Mike shrugged. “The subject didn’t come up since it’s complete nonsense.”
“I’m sure they accepted Justine as a woman,” I said.
“She was a woman. This is really stupid.” He looked at his watch, stopped pedaling and eased off the bike. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. The funeral is this afternoon.”
Anselmo planted himself in the doorway. “When did you know, Mike?”
“I didn’t know and I don’t know and won’t ever know. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Find out who killed her.” He turned off the flashing disco light, leaving us in serene darkness. He walked us to the door. “Look, I don’t want to be difficult,” he said. “It’s just not that complicated. She was my girlfriend. About to become my wife. What you’re saying makes no sense to me.”
“Of course,” I said. “But the autopsy revealed she’d had sex-reassignment surgery.”
“Doctors aren’t perfect. In this case they are wrong.” His eyes filled and he blinked. “It’s funny how much I miss her. We talked about everything.”
“Not funny. A terrible loss,” I said. And apparently they didn’t “talk about everything.” I put my hand on Mike’s shoulder—his body was hard, bulky, and unyielding. My touch must have helped, because as we walked away he called out his thanks. I looked back and waved. He must have been thanking us for working the case. He surely didn’t mean thanks for the revelation.
Anselmo pulled out of the parking lot. “What do you think?” he asked.
“He didn’t believe us.”
“He could have been lying.”
I shrugged. I was wondering that myself.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
Tuesday Early Evening
When I walked in the door, Merle gave my shoes extra attention, fascinated by the molecules I’d picked up in the ME’s facility. I took him for a run. Out, damned smells! Be gone, visions of viscera! After forty minutes of pain, I felt better.
I was in the shower when I heard Merle’s tinny woof—the ring tone for my drug agent cell phone. I turned off the water and grabbed a towel. “Hello?”
“Stacy?” A man’s voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Evergreen Place? Sunday night?”
The gaunt guy with the pregnant woman. “What was your name again?”
“Mo. Listen, I can hook you up. For the key. You still want it?”
A rush of adrenaline sent tingles to my toes. I wrapped the towel a little tighter and tried to sound calm. “Yeah, sure.What’s the deal?”
“Twenty-two.”
> “When and where?”
“I’ll have to take you there. How’s about tonight, around midnight? Meet me at Evergreen.”
“Can do.” I looked at my watch; it was six-thirty. Fredricks would have to help me and I didn’t know how long it would take to get everything together.
“Yeah, great. Don’t worry, Stacy, it’ll go down like ice cream.” He sounded excited. Mo was seeing his chance to broker a deal and pull in some cash, a promotion in his drug-selling career.
And a promotion for me, of sorts.
I met Fredricks at the office. I had called ahead to alert him and he asked me to pick up Mexican take-out. He started working his way through the Combo Magnifico. I had a chicken enchilada—too salty, I threw it away—with a side of guacamole.
He was excited. He put his fork down, stood up, pumped his arms in the air, and popped a button. “Good job, Stella.Tonight is perfect. I’ll line up surveillance. And ride along.”
“What for? Mo doesn’t know you.”
“You’ll tell him I’m your muscle, because you’re carrying all that money and want protection.”
“No way he’ll believe that.”
“You can’t go alone.You know the rules.What’s to stop them from bumping you off and taking the money?”
I thought about it. “It’s not good business?” I dipped a chip into the guac. “Want some?”
“Funny.” He took a scoopful.
“I’ll pat him down first.”
“And when you get there? No, Stella. And it’s not because you’re female. We wouldn’t let Batman go alone.”
“Robin’s on the payroll?”
“You haven’t seen my moves.”
“Moves?”
Fredricks stood and grabbed my arm. Quicker than a cat, he had me facing the wall with both hands behind my back. He leaned his bulk into me and I was trapped. “Like this,” he said, breathing a little cloud of garlic into my ear.
“Let go of me! How did you do that?”
He backed off. “Brazilian jiujitsu. It’s all in the leverage.”
“There’s so much about you I don’t know. What else?”
“I speak Spanish. I won’t let on unless I have to.” He sat down and resumed eating.
“You think they’re Latino?”
“Maybe. And we’ll both be armed.”
“No.” He and I had talked about this before. I didn’t like carrying a gun when I bought drugs. A weapon made me look more like a cop, less like a street buyer. And, I had a fear of being shot with my own gun. It happens.
Fredricks put down his fork, a sign he had something really important to say. “Stella, it’s protocol. And they’ll expect you to be carrying because of the money. Surveillance will follow us, two guys. They’ll keep an eye but they can’t move in, you understand, unless we summon them. And at midnight, someplace strange—if something goes wrong they might not even know until it’s too late.You’ll feel better with a gun.”
If something goes wrong . . . too late . . . Fredricks was trying to scare me with his jiujitsu and gun talk. I was more of a glass-half-full type. I hoped we’d have a short drive, meet some guy, exchange cash for goods, and leave. No one, including the guy, wanted it to go any differently. I said as much.
Fredricks nodded. “Sweetheart, that’s what we all want. No drama, everyone behaves. We determine who they are and what they’ve got and inform the local authorities so they can prepare warrants. Then they’ll raid the place and get the taxpayers’ money back.” He popped open a ginger ale and took a swig. “Probably at four o’clock some morning when everyone’s asleep.”
“Whatcha gonna do with the key, Stacy?”
In my opinion, Bebe, Mo’s pregnant girlfriend, should have been in bed asleep, not leaning on a dented blue station wagon at midnight blowing cigarette smoke into my face, quizzing me about my narcotics business plan. The full moon reflected enough light to read by, casting deep purpley-black shadows to hide in. We were at the mail kiosk at Evergreen Place, waiting for Mo.
I had invented a story just in case. Fredricks had said they wouldn’t really care, they wouldn’t believe me because they all lie and expect lies, but I’d better have a story. “I’m in school at State,” I said. “I’m going to sell it over there, for school money.”
“Good idea,” she said. “Someone fronting you the cash?”
“It’s mine. My dad died. It’s an insurance settlement.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.You miss him?”
“Not really. He wasn’t in my life much.”
“Honey, I can relate to that. Now Mo, he’s a good daddy.”
“Where is Mo, anyway?” When Fredricks and I arrived at Evergreen Place, Mo and Bebe had been loitering under the kiosk. Fredricks stayed in the SBI truck and Mo disappeared right away, leaving us women to make small talk.
“He’s getting directions. Here he is. Christ, would you look at him.”
Mo bounded up, his pupils like black nickels. He wore a redand-black plaid shirt that coordinated perfectly with the swirling tattoos on his arms. “I’m good,” he said. “Let’s go.” He bounced on his toes. “Get this show moving.”
“We’ll follow you,” I said. No way was I getting into a car driven by this tripwire.
“Who’s we? Just Stacy with the money. The honey with the money.”
“I brought a friend. See him, in the truck?” I pointed to Fredricks, who saw me and waved to the three of us. “We’ll follow you, okay?”
“Not okay. Not one bit. Not him. No following.”
Bebe stepped in to negotiate. “The reason Mo doesn’t want you to follow is, the location is secret.”
“And the reason I need my friend along is, I’m nervous about carrying all this money god-knows-where by myself. Plus I’m not riding in a car with you driving all coked up.”
“Aw, fuck,” said Mo. He ran his hands through his hair and tugged his head back and forth. “You’re gonna mess this up.”
Bebe took his arm. “Listen, we can work it out. Let her bring her friend, I’ll drive all of us. How’s that, Stacy?”
“It’s okay, I guess,” I said. The surveillance team would follow in their car, and if anything went wrong, Fredricks and I wouldn’t be trapped, we’d be able to call them.
“I gotta ask. Be right back.” Mo bounded back into the shadows.
“Sorry,” said Bebe. “He’s just nervous.”
“And high.”
“Well, yeah. He’s always high.”
“You too?”
“No, I’m pregnant. I quit.”
“Rehab?”
“Nope. Just quit on my own.”
“Good for you.” I wanted to believe her though Fredricks’s cynical warning—“they all lie”—made me skeptical.
Summer had finally sailed south and the temperature was in the low fifties. I shivered in the chill, wishing I’d worn a warmer coat. I’d dressed up for this transaction in a black skirt and turtleneck with a belted suede jacket, a gold necklace for bling. Fredricks had won the gun argument and I had tucked a sweet little pistol, a Seecamp LWS 32, into a thigh band holster.
Mo returned. “Okay. Here’s the plan. Bebe drives, your friend can come. But you have to cover your eyes.” He produced two calico bandannas from a pocket.
I motioned Fredricks over. As Mo and Bebe studied him, I was thankful Fredricks didn’t look like a cop any more than I did. He wore jeans and a frayed sweatshirt with a hood, measured five feet six on his tiptoes and many flabby pounds over the weight limit for agents. We had split the money; we each carried eleven thousand dollars in hundreds in a waist stash.
Before Mo put the blindfolds on us, ensuring we couldn’t see, I peeked at my watch—12:23. Bebe didn’t seem to drive very fast, which was good; the surveillance car would be able to stay back and still follow without being spotted. She didn’t say anything about being followed, and Mo seemed more focused on telling Bebe where to turn. I tried to memorize his directions, along with the time del
ay between turns, but I was disoriented right away as Bebe made two lefts, then a right, then another left. She then drove straight for twenty minutes, but I couldn’t tell which point on the compass we were aiming at. The radio played eighties oldies, accompanied by Mo’s percussive whistling when he wasn’t directing Bebe.
I didn’t talk; it seemed too strange to make small talk through a red calico bandanna. Fredricks sat so still I thought he might be asleep. I envied his ability to relax. Despite my earlier positive thinking, my optimistic dream that the cocaine buy would be a simple exchange of money for drugs, as the car sped along I felt increasingly anxious, unable to see or control the inevitable. My fingers had developed a tremor and I pressed my hands together to stop it. Mo began crooning and I longed for silence.
A right turn, a drive of another two minutes, a right turn and an immediate left. Gravel road, couple of bumps, roll to a halt. Homicidally barking dog.
“Wait here,” Mo said, and got out of the car. I pulled the blindfold off, checked my eyelashes, and looked at my watch. Forty-one minutes had elapsed. I glanced out the back window—no headlights. It would have been impossible to drive undetected on the gravel road. The guys would have parked on the paved road, and followed the drive on foot. They were out there somewhere.
Bebe had parked close to a building—a house, I thought—though it had become very dark due to cloud cover and I couldn’t see much. She rolled down her window and lit a cigarette. The door opened, and Mo went inside. The smoke from Bebe’s cigarette stung my eyes and I tasted sour guacamole as my stomach churned. The barking continued, containing threats that froze my spine.
Mo came back to the car and opened my door. “Just you,” he said to me. “Bring the cash.”
Fredricks got out of the car anyway. “No, no,” said Mo. “Come on, man.”
“She’s not going in there alone,” said Fredricks. I looked at him gratefully, for once delighted to have the company of this squat menacing man.
“Man, just go with the program, okay?” Mo pulled his skull cap off and stuffed it into his pocket. He took my arm and pulled. “Come on, Stacy.”
