The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  “Marta, lunch for Señor Hardesty—ahora, por favor.”

  In a few minutes Marta left a microwaved cheese sandwich, colored toothpick in each half. As Wil ate, Reyes leaned forward, asking him over and over about it: the gunfight, the wounds, how Zavala looked in death. Finally he drained the wine and sat back.

  “You have lifted this man from my heart.”

  Wil removed a toothpick. “I want to be very clear, Señor Reyes, this was not an assassination. Trying for me, Zavala killed my friend.”

  “I am sorry for your loss. Bring your food, I have something for you.”

  Wil followed him, closing the office doors behind them at a nod from Reyes, who then wrote him a check for $5,000. As Reyes spoke, he traced a finger along the checkbook’s edge.

  “This is in addition to your fee, for which I expect a bill shortly. Gilberto came to see me last night. We wept together, found each other again. You did that for us.”

  Wil went to the window; afternoon sun entered through open shutters; outside, a grapefruit tree was blooming and fruiting at the same time. “There is something you need to know, Señor Reyes, something the media doesn’t.” He turned. “When Zavala died, my bullet was in his gut. But he was shot in the head and killed by someone else. The bullets don’t match.”

  “I don’t understand,” Reyes said.

  “Someone else wanted him dead. And that’s not all—Zavala was alive when I found him.” Wil told him the words, his interpretation of them.

  Reyes said, “You’re telling me someone else is involved in the death of my son?”

  “I’d feel better giving you answers instead of speculating. At the moment I have none.”

  A flush appeared around Reyes’ neck and spread upward. “A few days ago you quit, Mr. Hardesty.”

  Wil said nothing.

  Reyes glanced at the wedding photo in the bookcase and rubbed his neck. “Stopping here is not an option,” he said finally.

  “Then I would ask two favors. First, don’t mention this to Gilberto, you can tell him later if something turns up. Second, someone I know needs work—dishwasher, food prep, serving line—and if possible, a small advance.” He paused. “She lives in East L.A. She’s the one whose daughter Zavala kidnapped.”

  Reyes shook his head, plucked one of his business cards from a brass holder, and wrote on the back. “The Montebello Papa, have her see Humberto.” He gave Wil a sharp look. “And if you are thinking what I think you are, don’t. Gilberto was here with me two nights ago. Assuming you give him credit for knowing where Zavala was.” He pushed the check across at Wil.

  “It’s yours,” he said. “Bolo Zavala is dead and I take comfort in that. Now, where did you learn about food prep and serving lines?”

  “My father had a restaurant, a small place at the beach. Hard work, but it never hurt me.” He stood to go. For the first time since Wil had met him, Reyes smiled.

  “I would hope not. Take your check, Mr. Hardesty.”

  Wil shut the car door: thirty-five hundred cash for five-digit mileage, treaded tires, and a six that ran better than it had a right to. After a final nod, he told the salesman to fill it with gas and gave him the address. Two hours, the salesman assured him.

  The lot at least was close; minutes later he was tapping on the doorframe as paint flaked off under his knuckles. There was a shuffling from inside then Donna, black and blue and other colors. Apart from a nose still swollen, her face had receded. The stomach, too, he saw.

  “Did you have to kill him?” she said, seeing it was Wil. Her enunciation had improved, but the tone was wrung-out. She turned, sagged across to the chair, and sat heavily. Wil pulled one of the dining chairs over, straddled it, leaned into its back. Around the room, the table had been righted, surviving dancers reinstated, the Savior rehung.

  “There was shooting going on, Donna. His choice.”

  “Some reason, I thought he’d be back,” she said, looking at her hands. “Even though he did this, I thought he’d calm down and figure he’d need me—take me along.” Her eyes rose to his. “They said my Jessie wasn’t in the car.”

  “Donna, listen. It makes sense he would have brought her someplace safe before he came for me. For what it’s worth, I believe she’s okay.”

  A tiny spark flared in her, then died.

  “Look at me. We’ll find her.” He drove the hope in with his eyes, waited while she blew into a tissue. “You’re looking better,” he said to distract her.

  “Am I? I keep seein’ him in Hermosillo, walking the strip with Lucinda past the orange trees. He was some’n then.”

  “I need your help,” he said, “a name. Did Bolo ever mention a Leonardo Guerra? Lenny?”

  She shook her head. “We weren’t together that much, and he never said names. This one time I heard him on the phone, real low but respectful, like it was somebody who made him nervous. Afterward he slammed the receiver down. I figured he hated whoever it was.”

  “Someone he worked for?”

  “No sé. But I think so.”

  “Why?”

  She made a snorting noise and swallowed hard. “Patrón, he was calling this guy chewin’ him out.”

  “Over drugs?” Wil asked.

  “Bolo always had drugs, but I don’t think so. Anyway, that’s all I remember.”

  “All right. How’s your money holding out?”

  She touched a scab and shrugged

  “What about a job?” he asked.

  “Right. Beauty queens like me get hired every day of the week.”

  He fished out Reyes’ card, watched her read it. “They know about Jessie, so if something breaks and you need the time, they’ll understand. Job’s yours if you want it. At least you’ll eat.”

  She turned it over several times, her eyes taking it in. “Papa Gomez,” she said softly, then looked up.

  The keys were dangling from his fingers; he lowered them into her hand, saw her eyes get like plates. “You’ll be working late,” he said. “The car’s clean and it runs—good as it gets with most of us.” Wil pulled the papers out of his inside coat pocket and laid them on the table. “It’s being delivered later. It’s yours.”

  She sat there, eyes on the keys in her palm. Silent tears began tracking down her nose.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s no Rolls Royce, Donna.”

  Her “gracias” was so soft he could hardly hear it, but she said it more than once, reminding him of small victories in big wars.

  The smog was twice as bad on a motorcycle; by the time Wil got to the Federal Building, he felt ready for a lung transplant. Inside, lines of long-sufferers waited and shuffled. At five to closing a relieved-looking INS employee handed him a packet regarding Mexican adoption.

  He sat on the steps and read. Among the papers was a copy of a letter from the U.S. Consulate General describing legal requirements. First it was necessary to complete an INS application for advance processing. Then you had to find a Mexican child who qualified as an orphan—one removed from the custody of its parents by Mexican authorities and housed in an orphanage, or one released voluntarily by its birth parents. The child then had to be legally adopted in Mexico in a Mexican court, after which a Mexican passport would be issued for the child’s departure. This would clear the way to bring the child into the U.S. via immigrant visa, which had to be applied for, then issued by the consulate. Along the way were home studies, field investigations, petitions, releases, certificates, statements, translations into Spanish. Waiting.

  The system, he thought, protecting everyone, serving no one: Put your heart in the hopper and hold your breath.

  Or you were rich and let Niños de Mexico handle it.

  Wil checked his watch and struck off toward the Hall of Justice until thinking better of it and finding a street pay phone. Only three blocks, but there was no point in risking a run-in with Freiman. After a few minutes the Homicide desk found Vella coming out of a meeting.

  Vella picked it up in his office. W
il heard him shut the door.

  “We were just talking about you,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Captain was, anyway.”

  Wil waited, hearing it coming from Vella’s tone. A little flush began to spread. “Is that right?”

  “Sorry to tell you, but the thing with Zavala did it. As of now we’re not supposed to give you the time of day.” He chuckled without humor. “Actually you’re lucky. Captain wanted to bring you up on obstruction charges. The freeze-out is a compromise.”

  “That’s terrific. Tell Freiman to keep up the good work.”

  Vella’s voice went suddenly cold. “Kill your own messenger, Hardesty. And thank yourself for this one. Cops don’t like it when you renege, especially big cops like Freiman. You played it your way—that’s the price.”

  Right enough, Wil knew. “Vella, look. If Freiman thinks I broke faith by not telling him Zavala was coming, tough, there was no guarantee. At that, I managed to get a friend dead for the pleasure of taking Zavala down and even then I didn’t kill him. Talk price to somebody else.”

  “Hey, at least the FBI and the Border Patrol are happy,” Vella said, his tone softening. “Can’t say having the media off our necks is bad news either.”

  “And the second bullet?”

  “We’re exploring it, all I can tell you. A word, though, steer clear of Freiman. He wants your license.”

  A siren screamed by going up Temple Street. Wil held his ear.

  Vella said, “I’ll tell the captain we had this little talk—Epstein, too.”

  “Goddammit,” Wil said.

  “Between us I think you deserve better, but what the fuck, I don’t make policy.”

  “What about the Pacheco girl—you got anything new?”

  There was no response. Wil heard the siren ghosting in the receiver as it passed by the Hall of Justice. “Christ Almighty,” he said.

  Vella let out a breath. “What the hell, plenty of wacko calls and false sightings, everybody running around. Nothing substantive.” He described their efforts: APBs, neighborhood sweeps, interagency networking, media appeals. Doctors they’d notified for new patients matching the girl’s description, hospitals, pharmacies, daycare centers, on and on. “Something’ll turn up,” he concluded.

  “Yeah,” Wil said, thinking of the graves in the desert. “Thanks. You ever get the coroner’s report on Paul?”

  “Good-bye, Hardesty.”

  “He was my friend, Vella. What harm?”

  After a pause, a rustle of paper. “All right, but this is it. Official cause of death listed as desanguination—some blood in the lungs consistent with the nature of the wound—blood alcohol .06— not legally drunk, but getting there. Partially digested tuna sandwich in the stomach.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Traces of chocolate—your friend ate some candy just before he was killed. So long, Sherlock. Don’t say it hasn’t been fun.”

  The rush-hour traffic was a distant hum, a blur of sound and motion. Wil was conscious of dial tone and hung up, the DeSantis-Guerra-Zavala connection firmed yet indefinable, a will-o’-the-wisp floating there just out of reach. Gut feel: Paul stopped by St. Boniface to question DeSantis about Guerra, questions that angered the priest and were overheard in the organ loft. Which meant Father Martin had lied. To cover up involvement he suspected Guerra of having in Paul’s death? Or something more sinister?

  Come on, Wil thought, picturing the crowded church, the sermon, the man’s life work. Who he was, for God’s sake! Wil would confront him, he’d explain, and that would be that. On toward Guerra. Somehow.

  He fumbled for coins, called the Shigenos: Lisa was out but had left a message to please not call, she was deciding what to do next. Wil was congratulating himself on his control until he noticed white knuckles replacing the receiver.

  TWENTY-ONE

  St. Boniface glowed softly in the light from two banks of spots on either side of the steps; off to the right a waxing moon showed over the San Gabriels. Wil swung the Harley into the church parking lot and turned off the motor. Stiff from the cold ride out from downtown, he loosened up with bends and proceeded up the walk.

  At the rectory they told him Father Martin was working late in his office, try the back entrance to the administration building. Wil headed that way; as he passed by the window he could see through a crack in the curtains two figures bent over papers on the conference table. He found the entry and knocked at the priest’s oak doors, heard, “It’s open.”

  The voice was Guerra’s; they were poring over a set of spreadsheets.

  “Mr. Hardesty,” the priest said. “Come in.” He rose to his feet as Guerra leaned back in his chair.

  Wil’s eyes met Guerra’s: “I don’t mean to interrupt, Father. Should I wait for you?”

  “No, no. We’re finished here—aren’t we, Leonardo? Enough bad news for one day.”

  “Of course,” Leonardo Guerra said. He folded the printouts and put them in a black leather briefcase, snapped it closed.

  “Leonardo’s been acquainting me with the funds we’re going to have to raise to rebuild our mission in Hermosillo. Madre de Dios.” He looked closely at Wil. “Mr. Hardesty, you look flushed. Do you feel all right?”

  Wil was aware his face still throbbed from the ride. “Just night air, Father,” he said. “You probably heard my motorbike in the lot.”

  Guerra put his hands behind his head. “Judging from what I saw on television, Mr. Hardesty, you were fortunate not to have been killed.” He turned his head. “Did you know of this, Martin?”

  The priest turned from where he was pouring the last of a glass pot of coffee into a molded white cup. “Know of what?” He handed Wil the cup, his expression echoing the question.

  “Thanks,” Wil said. He tried the coffee, found it bitter but warming.

  “The good padre leads a rather structured life,” Guerra went on. “Mr. Hardesty was involved in a fatal shootout with that man Zavala he was asking us about, Martin. On the news, they showed the body being taken away. Someplace near where you live, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Wil said, searching Guerra’s gray eyes.

  “But that’s terrible,” the priest said. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  Wil admired the shaken expression, then questioned himself: Father Martin’s sincerity would be hard to fake. “Thank you. Lenny’s right, either one of us could have died.”

  “So much killing these days, so little regard for life. And for what?”

  Guerra rose and began pulling on fur-lined gloves. “Well, Martin, I have obligations, as you know.”

  Father Martin blinked as though coming awake. “Of course. Thank you for staying late. Tomorrow again with the finance committee?”

  Guerra shot the priest a look. “It never ends, does it Martin, the need for money. Mr. Hardesty—” Briefcase in hand, he nodded to Wil and slipped out the oak doors. Wil could hear the exit door bang and reverb down the hall.

  “I’d be lost without him, you know, my head for figures,” Father Martin said. “Before he came we were lucky to have paper clips.”

  “What about support from the archdiocese?”

  Father Martin sighed, pushed back his chair, and crossed a polished black shoe over his knee. “It’s like everything else—too many demands on too few resources. Cutbacks and prioritizing and squeaky wheels getting the grease. Church politics that I have no use for.”

  “Father, I’ve heard you. If anyone can get the grease it’s you.”

  “To keep the doors open, perhaps, altar wine in the cruets. But it’s Leonardo who makes the real work of St. Boniface possible. The charitable missions and—” He was about to add something when he stopped. “Forgive me, you didn’t come all the way out here for a dissertation. What can I do for you?”

  Wil sipped his coffee, buying time to collect his thoughts. Remembering the organist’s description of Father Martin’s blowup, he decided to start simply and work obliquely.

  “Paul Rodr
iguez’ widow asked me to express her gratitude on behalf of the family,” he said.

  “Please tell her one mass is very little in light of her loss.”

  “Did your secretary find anyone here who might have talked with him the day he was killed?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” He frowned slightly as if the subject were distasteful. “Mr. Hardesty, your friend’s killer is dead. Is there a reason to continue with this?”

  “Two reasons, Father. One, I’m convinced Zavala did not act alone. And two, someone other than me killed him.” As he explained about the second bullet, Wil watched for reaction, saw none beyond curiosity.

  “But who, then?”

  “Father, are you familiar with the Innocents case?”

  The priest nodded. “The children that Zavala murdered—yes, unfortunately. I don’t live in a complete vacuum, Mr. Hardesty, though at times I wish I did.”

  “What’s been frustrating about the killings is the motive—before Zavala died, and especially now in light of the second bullet.”

  “There is no absence of evil in this world—I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. Evil exists.”

  Wil began to feel live mines around him, trip wires. “I think Zavala was procuring children for someone else. Someone who killed him…”

  Father Martin’s eyes held Wil’s. “Mr. Hardesty, are we dancing around something here? If we are, maybe you should just tell me what it is.”

  “Before he died, Zavala abducted his two-year-old daughter from her mother, ostensibly to take the child to Mexico. Jessica wasn’t found with him after the shootout. No one knows who has her. But every minute would seem to increase her chances of ending up like the others.”

  “Jessica—the poor mother. Is there a way I can help?”

  “It’s a long shot, I know, but in your studies of religions I was thinking you might have come across one…”