The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  Thirty minutes gone.

  Discounting the cubicles, he went straight to the main event, began working with the picks. This one was a bitch, but after ten minutes the dark door to the private office yielded and he stepped inside: white carpet and couch, rosewood desk, framed masks lining one wall. On a pedestal, a contemporary sculpture reflected the flash.

  Old-looking statues about ten inches high regarded him from a display case. A closer look ID’d them as similar to one he’d noticed in Father Martin’s bookcase, leis of cowrie shells the common element. Antiquities, Guerra’d said. He was making for the desk when he saw the red eye of a motion sensor blinking at him from the ceiling.

  Shit. The question was, how long had he got? Upstairs, hemmed in by two easily-blocked exits, dick for hanging around. Still, he had to try—if there were anything here to find, Guerra would almost certainly move it after a break-in. Praying someone had fallen asleep at the monitor, Wil checked his watch: ten minutes, no more.

  He was through the three drawers on the left in four: Guerra Imports stationery, drawer phone, directories—one for Hermosillo—an unopened package of computer disks, a box of cigars.

  The right side was locked but worth the gamble, he decided; after an anxious minute the lock gave, releasing both drawers. The deep-bottom one contained various dividers: Niños de Mexico, Amigos de Hermosillo, miscellaneous names. Concentrating on Niños, Wil found files similar to the others: Guerra’s personal interest cases. He wrote down the names of three: Toluca Lake, Bel Air, and Pasadena. Another three minutes gone.

  The top right drawer seemed to be for things awaiting filing. Face up was a nine-by-twelve envelope that had been rolled and smoothed out, Niños de Mexico penciled on the front. One edge was sliced cleanly off; inside were stats of twelve baptismal certificates, three of which matched the last names of the three files he’d noted.

  They were signed by Father Martin DeSantis, Pastor, St. Boniface.

  He slid them back, shuffled through the rest of the drawer, hit bottom and a Metro section of the L.A. Times—which could have been saved for any number of reasons except for the date, the morning after the night Paul Rodriguez was murdered. Wil remembered the section, confirmed it with a quick look inside.

  Ten minutes gone: a what-the-fuck glance into Guerra’s rosewood trash basket—empty except for a wad of register receipts stuck to the bottom which tore as he lifted it out. Shoving it in his pocket, he replaced everything, hurriedly wiped the desk, then backed out past the blinking light. Twelve minutes after entering Guerra’s office, he was outside as a car pulled up and doors slammed.

  Seconds from a bust: If he jumped from the middle of the balcony, he’d land directly in their line of fire; if he waited, they’d cover him where he stood. Getting shot was out of the question. So was getting nailed—Freiman would have his ass and his license and the whole enchilada.

  Wil mounted the wrought-iron railing, leaped for the overhang: quietly up and over the eave and onto the roof, thankful for tarpaper without rocks. He lay there barely breathing as the two converged on the big door below. There was a jangle of keys, whispered commands. The door opened, he could hear them moving inside. He rose and made for the right stairway; outer office covered by now, he guessed, just opening the inner door. With nothing tossed and nobody there, they might blame a short—another electronic gremlin, check it out in the morning.

  From the shadows at the edge of the building, Wil dropped to the outside rail, to the stairs, then down past the car: a security firm—scrambled from home base, which explained the time. As he tracked the dark safety of the alley, he could see the beams of their big Mag-Lites stabbing out through the trees.

  EIGHTEEN

  The day had been mierda, the aroma of soiled diapers well suited to the degenerating tenor of their confrontation. First there was Bolo’s incredible macho stupidity in revealing himself to Hardesty—something Bolo insolently shrugged off, but which may have doomed them all. Then this new thing with the child. Leonardo Guerra sank back in the leather chair, thirty-year-old Fundador offering scant solace for Bolo’s insufferable strut, the words that still rang in his ears:

  “Whose do you think she is, goddammit? Find room!”

  He felt like a man sinking inch by inch into quicksand.

  He drained the brandy, was feeling nothing from it when the security company phoned. Yes, they had responded. No, they’d found no one. Yes, it could have been a false trip—even the best devices were subject to hiccups. Nothing disturbed, nothing to worry about; they’d be by in the morning to check it out. Sorry to bother him.

  Son of a bitch—would this day never end?

  He started to pace. If there was a breach, it would have been right after Hardesty had been by the office asking questions and using his name, the intrusion too close to be coincidence. Assuming the worst, he wondered how long the man had been inside his office.

  On the other hand, what would Hardesty have found? Guerra thought about possible compromises, rejecting each, knowing the weight he gave such matters, concern that accounted in no small measure for his success. He unwrapped another cigar. This evening, he deserved a second.

  He lit it and blew a smoke ring. Very soon now, Hardesty would be old news. But that damn Zavala, his nose leading his head around…Then the idea hit. For a moment he puzzled with it, adding form and substance. Could it? If it did, even the child might not be the liability it first seemed. Perhaps, rather, a blessing in disguise.

  Savoring the symmetry of his thought, Leonardo Guerra laid down the unsmoked half of his cigar. Moderation in all things, he reminded himself. Except, perhaps, in certain areas. He drained the rest of the brandy, and with quickening pulse set off down the hall toward Julio’s room.

  The burning started at Wilshire. Heading up the San Diego freeway toward the Ventura, Wil flipped open the glove box, palmed a pack of Di-Gel and popped two, waiting for his stomach to calm after a night of coffee-shop meatloaf and illegal entry. Around Whitehurst he began to feel better. Under his sweater, the damp T-shirt stuck like Saran.

  Friday night traffic was comforting, a moving blanket after being so vulnerable. Past the Valley, however, it began to thin, reminding him of what he faced at home. He could rig the house to prevent surprise, but outside he’d have no such advantage—Zavala could pick the spot and the time.

  He steered his thoughts back to Guerra’s office, devil’s-advocating what he’d found: nothing really, a piece of newspaper. If Guerra’d clipped or highlighted the article, perhaps. But there was nothing unusual in his saving an entire section—not that he could prove. Not yet.

  The baptismal certificates were curiously single-sourced, but again, hardly damning. He wondered how many of the files contained St. Boniface paper, found himself wanting another crack at them. Enough to break in again? The thought made him pop a third antacid.

  Despite it, Wil felt a twinge as he slowed past Mussel Shoals for the turnoff. He unsnapped the .45, gripped it on the seat beside him, every familiar ditch, tree, parked car now threatening. At the driveway he maneuvered the Bonneville, probing the unlighted carport with its beams. He hit Park and slumped down; opening the side door, he rolled out onto damp gravel and came up sweeping an arc with the gun.

  Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Nothing. Pulse thumping, he ran for the stairs and inched across the landing to the door. Anyone looking must love this, he thought. He’d explain in the morning: just practicing.

  Stupid not to leave lights burning—or had he? He unlocked the door, pulled it open to still air and silence. Tossing his keys into the dark interior, he slipped against an inside wall, then pushed off, seeking cover from better-adjusted eyes. Seconds passed, the house dead quiet. Wil crawled to a light switch and flipped it on. All seemed in order until he saw himself on the floor.

  The photo was the torn half of a snapshot he recognized from Paul’s den, Wil and Paul at Cam Ranh Bay. He aimed the gun at the dark hall, knowing instinctively he’d have been dea
d had Zavala been there. With manic intensity he checked bedrooms, den, bathrooms, returning finally to the photograph, this time spotting the other half under the table.

  Reuniting the pieces, he studied the poses, their confident looks. That’s how Zavala had known Paul—busted into his house, made him from the snapshot. Paul had walked right into it. Now Zavala was spelling it out for him: Fuck you, I’m here. Close. Wanting him to know it was coming.

  After a while he remembered the Bonneville and moved it into the carport. Then he killed the house lights that were making him an easy target and slumped down in a chair. Another time. Fine. He’d get the bastard. Here was where it stopped.

  He made coffee and settled down to wait.

  Lisa caught him early, before she left for a client meeting. Her parents were glad for the company; she was busy, curious about Zavala, missed him, wanted to come home. Hold tight, he told her—nothing about the torn photograph.

  He made a pot of high octane, drank it staring at the Saturday overcast, then showered, put on jeans, sweatshirt, holster, and started on the house: slats positioned in the rails of things that slid, wood wedges under things that opened. He wired electrical cord to door handles so that anyone trying them when they were plugged in got zapped. The remainder of the wire he’d zig-zag around the stairs before turning in. Finally, he hung a couple of trouble lights at spots not covered by the outdoor floods.

  It would have to do.

  At eleven Staff Sergeant Tommy Rodriguez of Lackland Air Force Base called from Raeann’s: They would bury his father’s ashes Tuesday and wanted Wil and Lisa there. As Wil confirmed it, his eyes dropped to the patched-up snapshot. He asked about Raeann.

  “She’s okay, Mr. Hardesty,” Tommy said. “Pretty close to going back to San Antonio with me.” He said good-bye and hung up.

  Around two Wil slipped outside, cut through yards to the minimarket where he bought basics and a half-dozen burgers to go, back in about forty minutes. Halfway up the stairs, someone was leaning against the house. Black pants and shoes—tapping, restless.

  Wil set down the bag, pulled the .45 from under his jacket, thumbed off the safety, and crept to the corner of the house. On the stairs the pants shifted position slightly. He got a two-handed grip on the gun, then whipped around the corner in a police crouch. Mo Epstein just looked at him.

  “Fort Hardesty, I presume,” he said.

  He was thin in the face and pale. Wil backed off the hammer, said, “How can someone look so shitty and so good at the same time?” Unlocking the door, he told him about Zavala.

  Mo zeroed in on the Cam Ranh photo.

  “I just got off the phone with Paul’s son,” Wil said. “Everything’s fine at Raeann’s. No reason Zavala’d go back.”

  Mo picked up the phone and requested surveillance. “You never know,” he said. “Might figure he’d catch you down there.” After the call, he reviewed Wil’s homemade security system. “Nice thought, anyway. Any idea when this creep’s coming?”

  “Tonight or tomorrow. He’ll give me time to burn out a little, get careless.”

  “Real mano a mano guy, Zavala.”

  “It’s why he’s vulnerable, Mo.”

  “We’ll talk about that. My being here doesn’t mean I approve.”

  As they ate burgers, Wil rehashed details of Donna Pacheco’s beating and her daughter’s abduction, most of which Epstein knew. He leaned back, the eyebrow lifted. “The woman’s lucky to be alive. You told the good guys about Zavala’s little visit here?”

  “No.”

  “Freiman hears the hard way, he’ll shit.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “Listen to yourself. High Noon is a movie, pal. You agreed to Freiman’s deal, remember?”

  Wil’s temper slipped before he could jam it. “Zavala nearly cut Paul’s head off in a goddamn bar while I listened. Screw Freiman.” Cool it, he told himself. “Mo, it’s way beyond that. It’s our best shot.”

  “Sure, and what’s to lose? Only you, Jessica, the Innocents bust for certain.”

  “We can stop him.”

  Epstein snapped his fingers. “Like that I can put a shooter in every closet. Tell me why not.”

  “He won’t hurt the baby,” Wil said. “But he will bolt for Mexico with her the second he spots a trap. Smart says we take him when he comes for me. Then save Jessica.”

  “And you’ll have taken out your man. Very neat. What does Lisa have to say about it?”

  Wil turned on him. “This thing has to play itself out and you know it. Are you in or not?”

  Mo Epstein stood and paced across the room; his voice was glacial. “You’d better hope you’re right on this. Because if you’re not, we’re both going in the shitter.” He picked up his burger. “Where’s the nearest supermarket? I ain’t livin’ on these all weekend.”

  Mo Epstein dumped grocery bags on the counter, his hair and jacket glistening from the trip out. From the window Wil nodded, then turned back, seeing only gray where the oil platforms and the Rincon had been. Christmas strings threw colored halos; cars already had their headlights on.

  “Now wouldn’t be a bad time for it,” Wil said.

  Mo put a couple of frozen dinners in the microwave, tossed Wil a soda, paper-toweled off. “How you want to play this, mon capitan?”

  Wil thought. “Split the watch, front and bedrooms, rotate posts. It’ll keep us awake.”

  They ate, then loaded clips and checked pistol actions. Wil cut the house lights, opened the blinds; they split up and settled down to wait. Outside, drizzle sparkled in the floods.

  “By the way,” Mo said from darkness, “the lab turned up an unsmudged thumb on one of the pool cues and a partial palm on the table. Matched the prints we got from Mexico and the Feds. They’re turning cartwheels.”

  “No more doubts, huh?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  Steady drip metronomed the hours; at eight the drizzle became rain, making it harder to detect foreign sounds. Wil broke silence. “Mo?” A low grunt from the gloom. “This may sound odd.”

  “What could be more normal than this?”

  He hesitated. “It’s not adding up for me—Zavala, I mean, and the kids in the desert. At least not Zavala alone.”

  There was a sigh. “Are we talking about the same guy? Where’s this coming from?”

  “Something Montoya told me: Nobody who fathered a child could kill this way.”

  “Old murders,” Mo came back. “He’s only been a father for two years.”

  “So far as we know,” Wil said. “But it’s a good point, and I don’t have an answer, just instinct and Donna Pacheco. She swears he’s no child killer. Even after Zavala took Jess, she never mentioned thinking the kid’s life was in danger, only that she was gone.”

  “From what you said, she was pretty spaced. I know the feeling.”

  “She’s still the kid’s mother, Mo. And she told me most of that before he beat her up.”

  “Sorry—what seems to be is usually what is, the blinding flash of the obvious. Or maybe it’s that this guy’s got a bead on me right now.” After a moment of quiet he added, “What do you mean, ‘at least not Zavala alone?’”

  Wil told him about Paul, St. Boniface, Father Martin. “I think Guerra fingered Paul for Zavala,” he said. “Nothing I can prove.”

  “Then you think this priest lied?”

  “I don’t know. But Paul slipped up once before, and if Guerra did pass it on, he got it from somebody.”

  “You wanna relate that back to the Innocents for me?”

  “Would if I could, Mo.”

  “Yeah—our strong suit right now.”

  Wil drew in a breath, listened to not much of anything: night noises, dripping sounds. “Dev used to like the rain,” he mused. “Funny how I keep expecting him to come padding down the hall. Even now.” Suddenly he felt the need to say it: “You remember when I poked that deputy, Mo. He was right about me le
tting Devin surf there. It was dangerous.”

  “Come on, living is dangerous. He’d surfed there before. He was good—you wouldn’t have taken him otherwise.”

  “The bottom line is I didn’t protect my son.”

  “Because you couldn’t protect your son and let him have a life. That’s at the heart of it with Lisa? No more kids because you can’t ensure their safety?”

  “I can’t go through life terrified for them, Mo, it won’t work. For a kid or for me.”

  “Terrified—?”

  “Of it happening again. You get that? Lisa doesn’t.”

  “It’s your call, man. I ain’t been there, but…”

  “I have.”

  “So what happens now?”

  In the dark, Wil rubbed his eyes. “With Lisa? I don’t know—play it by ear, I guess.”

  At dawn they agreed to spell each other sleeping. Later the wind freshened and the rain stopped, cloud cover breaking into fast-moving cumuli. Neighbors did Sunday things; kids played with dogs. By evening they’d finished the last of the frozen entrees.

  “Guerra,” Mo said suddenly, “I forgot to tell you what we found out, probably because he’s been a very good boy up here. Even the Niños files checked out. Guy’s a pillar—active in service clubs, helps the church, pays his taxes.”

  “You left out clever,” Wil said. “Wives or relatives?”

  “Never been married.”

  “Any chance that someone at your place might have tipped him about Angel’s?”

  Mo gave him a skeptical look. “Vella did notify the other police departments that we’d be in their jurisdictions—you know, protocol. Seems a stretch, but I can nose around.”