by Sean Lynch
“I understand,” Amanda nodded. “Any good detective wants to begin his investigation at the beginning, right?”
“Which brings up a point,” Greg spoke finally spoke up. “I’m not sure Chance is conducting an investigation.” He said it like he was announcing the house had termites.
“If he’s not conducting an investigation, then why’s he here?”
“I asked Chance to look into the matter,” Greg said tentatively, avoiding his wife’s eyes. “To find out what was going on with the Oakland police investigation. I never actually commissioned him to conduct a formal private investigation.”
Amanda looked at me incredulously. I mustered a weak nod. If I could have jumped in my mug with the teabag, I would have.
“Greg,” Amanda said, returning her stare to her husband. “What were you thinking? No investigation?”
“I’d hoped whatever Chance could provide through his former contacts with the Oakland Police Department would be sufficient. I didn’t think it warranted a full-scale private inquiry. Besides,” Greg squirmed, “Oakland PD is already working on it.”
“Who are you kidding?” Amanda retorted. “If it was the Oakland mayor’s daughter who was murdered, there’d already be a task force assembled. But a fifteen-year-old Mexican girl from San Leandro? You know better than that? Oakland PD has a greater chance of finding Amelia Earhart.”
Greg shrugged. “I was only trying to bring some comfort to Reyna.”
“I know exactly what you were doing,” Amanda said, crossing her arms. “As little as possible.” Her lips pursed.
If I could have rendered myself invisible, I would have. I’m nearly six feet tall, weigh almost two hundred pounds, and have red hair. Not likely.
“Honey,” he pleaded, “be reasonable.”
I’ve never been married, but asking your spouse to be reasonable automatically implies you don’t think they’re being reasonable. It’s seldom a smart move.
“Greg,” Amanda went on in a tone somewhere between explaining and scolding, “Nothing would bring greater comfort to Reyna than finding out who murdered Marisol and bringing them to justice. If not comfort, then perhaps a sense of closure. I thought that was the point of calling in Chauncey?”
“It was,” Greg admitted. “But I was hoping-”
“-you were hoping,” Amanda cut him off, “to get off with expending the minimum effort necessary to appease me.” I had to agree with her assessment.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, the exasperation creeping into his voice. He really meant, ‘what do you expect Chance to do?’
“Only what’s right,” she answered him. Her chin raised and her eyes narrowed.
Greg threw up his hands. “Whatever you want, Dear,” he said. I wonder how many wars have erupted and empires have crumbled over that phrase?
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Amanda demanded of me. I didn’t want to say anything; I’m not married to Amanda. But I couldn’t let my friend dangle any longer without stepping into the fray.
“I can tell you what little I know. From what I’ve learned so far it doesn’t look good.” I set my tea on the countertop. “Marisol was in a hard place, doing what looks to be nasty things. Whoever killed her is undoubtedly connected to that place and those things.”
Amanda uncrossed her arms and began to listen with the trained ear of a trial lawyer. Greg was relieved the hot lights were no longer on him.
“You’re referring to the allegation that Marisol was a prostitute?”
“That’s what it looks like,” I conceded.
“Then it sounds like you have a starting place,” Amanda offered.
I shook my head. “It’s not that simple. There’s a reason cases like this don’t get solved. Marisol’s killing happened in a high-crime area, where the police have almost no presence. You ever heard of the Track? You can bet there are people that know who killed her, but they don’t give statements to the cops and they damn sure don’t testify in open court after they do. It tends to shorten one’s lifespan.”
“So you’re saying it’s unsolvable?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?” Amanda asked. “That nobody cares? That Reyna’s supposed to forget her granddaughter was shot down like a dog? Another dead whore on the streets of Oakland?”
“I’m not saying that either, Amanda. Of course there are people who care. Three of them are in this room. It’s not a question of how much we care; it’s a question of how much can be done.”
“It doesn’t seem the police are doing much,” Amanda remarked.
“Frankly, the cops don’t have the resources,” I said. “It’s not because this kind of crime is rare; it’s because it isn’t. Looking for a shooter in Oakland is like looking for a pedophile at the Vatican; there’s one on every corner.”
Amanda frowned. Greg cringed. I went on.
“Even if by some miracle the cops identify the shooter, that’s the easy part. Getting the shooter prosecuted presents an even greater hurdle. Cops have to follow rules. To get an arrest warrant, assuming they can I.D. the shooter, the cops need evidence and testimony. In this case there’s very little usable evidence and nobody is giving any testimony. Even if OPD had the manpower and resources to identify a suspect, which they don’t, it’s unlikely you’d get the District Attorney to file charges. Alameda County is broke, remember? Trials cost money. Nowadays, D.A.’s file charges only in cases they can win. You’re an attorney, Amanda; you of all people should know that. It’s a dead end. How much we care about what happened to Marisol Hernandez doesn’t even factor into the equation.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“It’s not a matter of you accepting it or not. That’s just the way it is. And there’s another thing, too. Have you considered the risk? Cops want to go home to their families at the end of their shift. This kind of investigation isn’t conducted by Miss Marple quizzing the suspects in the parlor during the reading of the victim’s will. Marisol Hernandez was popped by somebody who wouldn’t think twice about doing it again, and in a neighborhood where that type of killer is as common as a Mexican landscaper with a leaf-blower is in yours. You want the kind of answers you need to nail Marisol Hernandez’s murderer you’ve got to get them the hard way.” I looked at Greg, who gave me a thumbs-up out of his wife’s view. “You’re both civil attorneys; don’t the courts frown on waterboarding?”
“I’m not ignorant, Chauncey,” Amanda said. “I am aware there are limitations to what the police can do in a case like this. That’s where you come in. You’re a private investigator. You can do things the cops can’t. You don’t have to follow court guidelines.”
“Amanda, I’m not sure you get my meaning. I’m not talking about court guidelines, or legal protocols, or civil rights. You want to know what happened to Marisol Hernandez, you’ve got to go into the hard places. Most regular folks don’t even know where those places are. And once you’re in the hard places, you’d better be willing to break things and hurt people if you want to get out in one piece. A guy can get injured doing that stuff. Fatally injured.”
“No offense Chauncey,” Amanda said, “but isn’t that what you do? I know you’ve been involved in a lot of violent situations, because Greg has represented you in their aftermath. Aren’t you familiar with this sort of thing? Isn’t this your forte?”
“I’m familiar with trouble,” I admitted. “It is precisely that familiarity which makes me reluctant to get involved in capers like this. When I was a cop I had to go down those roads; it was my duty. Now that I no longer wear a badge, I try to avoid them.”
My voice softened. I went on, looking into my tea and not Amanda’s eyes. “I’m not insensitive to what your housekeeper is going through, Amanda, or what your family is going through as a result of her loss. Like I already said; I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Too many times. Forgive me for being blunt, but it’s not my problem.”
“Who
se problem is it, then?” Amanda asked.
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I mustered enough courage to stir my tea. That’s me, Audie Murphy. I looked at Greg and back to his wife. He took the hint.
“I only asked Chance to get what information he could from his former police contacts,” he reiterated. “I didn’t authorize him to begin an investigation because I instinctively knew such a thing would be costly, dangerous for Chance, and highly unlikely to produce results. Simple cost analysis, Honey; investment versus return.”
“If I’m hearing you both correctly,” Amanda said in her courtroom voice,” you’re essentially telling me that it’s possible to find out who murdered Reyna’s granddaughter, but it will be dangerous, expensive, and has a low probability of success.”
“That’s a fair summation, Counselor,” I acknowledged.
“And because it is perilous, costly, and unlikely to succeed, it is therefore not worth doing?” Amanda glared at Greg. “A poor investment,” she said to him, “and not your problem,” she said to me. “Is that the argument?”
I could see where this was going. Greg’s kitchen had become a courtroom and Greg the defendant. I’m not sure if I was a witness, victim, or defendant number two. I was beginning to feel like the court jester.
Amanda looked hard at Greg and me. “I’m surprised at you both,” she said. “Because it’s difficult, it’s not the right thing to do? A fifteen-year-old girl’s life ends at the hands of a murderer, and what I’m hearing is, ‘it’s simple cost analysis, Honey.” She pointed her finger at her husband like Darth Vader wielding his light saber. “Good luck explaining the ‘investment versus return’ thing to Reyna, Greg. Maybe you could use a spreadsheet or a graph. I’ll bet she’d love that. Or were you going to shirk your responsibility and have Chauncey do that for you, too?” Greg looked like he’d been kicked in the teeth.
I spoke up. “Your husband was not trying to shirk his responsibilities, Amanda. Not to you, Reyna Sandoval, or your daughters, and you know it. That wasn’t fair. Don’t shoot the messenger. Greg works with OPD regularly and has a helluva lot of experience reviewing these kinds of investigations from the civil standpoint. He knows what we’re up against. He was only trying to spare you, your daughters, and especially Mrs. Sandoval, any unnecessary pain.”
Amanda Vole’s shoulders lowered and she took off her glasses. “You’re right. That wasn’t fair. I owe both of you an apology.” She rubbed her eyes. “This whole mess has got me upside down.” Her features softened and she walked over to her husband and gave him a hug. I picked up my tea, busied myself with dunking the bag, and made up my mind that Greg owed me more than beer on this one.
“You needn’t worry about sparing me pain,” came a voice from behind me. “Pain and I have become old friends.”
I turned to see a petite Hispanic woman enter from an entrance to the kitchen somewhere behind me. Her eyes were locked on mine. She was in her mid-fifties, I guessed, and couldn’t have been much more than five feet tall. She had undoubtedly been quite pretty in her youth; perhaps even beautiful. She was dressed plainly in athletic shoes and a tan dress under an apron. She stood proudly, with her shoulders back and her spine ramrod straight. Her graying hair was swept up to reveal large brown eyes that looked as if they’d been doing a lot of crying.
“Reyna,” Amanda spoke up, her face reddening. She stepped away from Greg’s embrace and replaced her glasses. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”
“It’s all right, Missus Amanda,” Reyna Sandoval said, in a voice with more than a trace of accent. “It is I who should apologize. I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation. I grew concerned when I heard you discussing my family with a stranger.” As she spoke to her employer her eyes remained on me.
“Reyna,” Greg said, “this is Chauncey Means. He’s a good friend. He used to be a homicide detective. Now he’s a private investigator. I asked him to monitor the police investigation of Marisol’s death. I apologize if we’ve offended you.”
Reyna Sandoval nodded to Greg and approached me. She extended her hand, and when I took it she covered my mitt with both of hers. Her grip was firm and exploring, but her eyes stayed fixed on mine.
“You don’t have a policeman’s hands,” she said. “Policemen’s hands are soft. Yours are hard.” She turned my hand over and rubbed the palm. “You have worked, no?”
“I was raised in farm country.”
She turned my hand over again and rubbed the knuckles. “And you have fought, yes?”
“When I had to.” She seemed to accept that. She shook my hand once and released it.
“You can tell much from a person’s hands,” she said. “It is good to meet you Mister Chauncey Means.”
“The honor is mine, Ma’am. My friends call me Chance.”
I’m not sure what I expected to find in meeting Reyna Sandoval, but I was not disappointed. She exuded strength, honesty, and warmth, despite the obvious hurt she was enduring, and I could see why the Vole’s entrusted their children to her. She warranted it.
“Why do they call you Chance?” she asked.
“I often ask that myself,” I told her. “It’s a nickname.”
She tilted her head, still appraising me. “Perhaps not,” she finally said.
When you’re a cop, you learn to make snap judgments about the people you meet every day; you don’t have the luxury of pondering. These judgments aren’t hypothetical; they’re typically made while you’re physically invested in their accuracy. A cop’s character assessment can determine whether he goes home at the end of his shift still breathing. You learn to trust your gut; especially when being wrong can have lethal implications.
Reyna Sandoval was the real deal. There wasn’t anything about her which set off my radar, and I gave her a hard once-over. She was what she appeared to be. A simple, honest, hardworking woman who’d raised a daughter who went south on her, and then went on to raise that delinquent daughter’s two baby girls. Only to watch one of those grandchildren cut down before she was fully grown. And a widow, to boot.
To say I felt like crap after Reyna Sandoval overheard me tell Amanda Vole, ‘It isn’t my problem,’ was like saying Monica Lewinsky had a taste for politics. If I could have, I would have kicked myself. I deserved it.
“Reyna, would you like to sit down?” Amanda asked. “Chauncey came today to speak with you. It’s a presumption, but we thought it might help.”
“I know you and Mister Greg are trying to do the right thing,” Reyna said. “But I am uncomfortable with this.” She looked at me, and then again at Amanda. “I heard what you said about Marisol.” I felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack.
“Reyna,” Amanda began, “we didn’t mean to-”
“My granddaughter was not a piruja,” Reyna interrupted defiantly. “Marisol was no puta.”
“Nobody meant to disparage your granddaughter,” Greg told her. “We’re merely trying to get a handle on this.”
“With respect, Mister Greg,” Reyna said. “This is not yours to handle.”
Greg didn’t reply; he withered. Amanda stepped in and led Reyna to the table. Once seated, Amanda poured her a cup of coffee.
“I apologize if what I said about your granddaughter offended you, Mrs. Sandoval,” I said. “That was not my intention.”
“It is all right,” she said. “The Oakland police detective who told me about Marisol’s death didn’t say it, but I know he believed she was a piruja. And like you, he also said it would be very difficult to find out who shot her.” She sipped some coffee and her eyes went far away for a moment. When they came back, she said, “The detective told me that he and the other police men wouldn’t stop trying to find Marisol’s murderer. But I could tell they already had.”
Reyna Sandoval reached into an apron pocket and withdrew a laminated photograph wrapped in a rosary. She held it out to me. It was a picture of two very pretty brown-eyed girls sitting on a bench in a park somewhere. It w
as a sunny day, and both girls looked to be wearing church attire, including black patent leather shoes and white lace gloves. Their hair was tied up identically in elaborate ribbons. First communion, maybe. One appeared a little older than the other, but they otherwise looked close enough in appearance to have been twins. Neither could have been more than eight or nine years of age.
“My Marisol and Belicia,” she told me. “Now I have only Belicia, and the memory of Marisol. Perhaps I am a fool, but I choose to live with the memory of Marisol as I knew her, not as I last saw her. And I choose to believe she was not a piruja. No matter what I am told by the police men who are not looking for her killer.” She smiled at Amanda Vole. “I’m sure if it was one of Missus Amanda’s daughters, she would choose to believe the same.”
Amanda turned away to hide her tears.
“Reyna,” Greg said, “do you have anything you would like to ask Mr. Means? He came today to speak with you.”
“Did you come far, to speak with me?”
“I live near Castro Valley,” I said. “Other side of the bay.”
“I know Castro Valley well,” Mrs. Sandoval said. “I live in San Leandro, but my church is in Castro Valley. Do you go to church, Mister Chance?”
“I don’t.”
“Do your parents go to church?”
“Not anymore. They’re dead.”
“Do you believe my Marisol was a piruja?”
“I don’t know,” I told her, handing back the photograph and rosary beads. I hoped my face didn’t betray how much the image of the girls affected me.
Mrs. Sandoval ran her thumbs over the picture before kissing it, making a sign of the cross, and returning it to her pocket. “Do you believe in God, Mister Chance?”
“I don’t know that either, I’m afraid,” I said. Despite the tea, my throat suddenly became dry.
“It’s all right,” she said, patting my arm. “God comes to everyone in time.”
