“The strung cowries here represent this gentleman’s wealth-gathering powers. On the left is another heavyweight—he controls thunder and lightning, fire. Your deity’s not familiar to me, but that doesn’t mean much. Shall I go on?”
Wil nodded as he drank.
“You’re remarkably thorough, Mr. Hardesty.” Lindeman’s eyes became slits through his bifocals. “Especially when I’ve already told you what you said you came here for.”
“My nature. Everyone says so.”
“Then consider my class.” He removed his glasses, began polishing the lenses on his shirttail. “All right. Santería believes there’s an orisha-saint for everything in life. Different ones control different things. Everybody gets a personal one they make offerings to for favors or empowerment, although any may be propitiated.”
What he’d read was starting to come back. Still he asked, “What kinds of offerings?”
“Flowers, candles, fruit, food. Rum sometimes. On matters of importance, a chicken or goat. Which doesn’t exactly endear them to our humane societies and animal activists.”
“Human?”
“That’s Hollywood bullshit mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Lindeman resettled his glasses. “There are related sects that rob graves and use the bones for spells—Palo Mayombe does that, witches. And there are myths about blood sacrifice in every culture. But Santeros are a well-behaved bunch, by and large. Some of the violent drug elements have used Santería as an excuse for murdering the competition, but even that’s infrequent.”
“I think that’s the part I read. The article was about cults.”
“The price they pay for secrecy. People are scared of what they don’t know. Santería’s no cult, it’s a religion.” He put his empty in the cooler. “Your collector should know all this.”
Wil drained his bottle, rose to leave.
“Mr. Hardesty, please take something else into account.” He stood up, hands in his pockets. “As I said, what you describe sounds to me like the genuine article. However, if it was one of the ones found in Cuba, I would question its availability.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it almost certainly would have been stolen.” He spread his feet slightly, folded his arms. “You might warn your client.”
Wil met Lindeman’s gaze. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” He offered his hand. “You’ve been very helpful. What do I owe you for your time?”
The shake was firm, the expression unwavering. “Nothing,” he said. “Bring me a photo if you can. Meanwhile I’ll look for that article. What the hell, maybe your guy’d give me a deal.”
The place was one of those that came on softly like an old lover with nothing to prove. Even so he circled the blocks around it several times. He’d spotted it after leaving Lindeman’s office, anxious to walk off the formless apprehension that had settled into his thoughts like a silent creeping fog.
It was almost seven now, darkness making the Fox Theater tower stand out against the sky. Westwood Village boutique and bookstore windows were invitingly crowded with shoppers, colors, life. Things that only intensified the empty, detached feeling that always dogged him this close to Christmas. Two well-dressed couples passed him, chattering about dinner at some Italian restaurant they were headed for, cuddling up as they made room for him on the sidewalk. One of the girls had hair like Lisa’s. She left a hint of jasmine that flirted briefly before it vanished.
Jaycee’s, the neon sign read. Cocktails.
The inside was comfortably dark and leather-quiet. On the tube over the bar, a Laker’s game was starting. Clint Black sang about what would happen when his ship came in. “Would you like me to keep a tab?” the waitress asked him.
Wil realized he’d been staring at the double Jack and beer chaser she’d put down on the booth table. “What?” he said absently. “No—thank you.” He reached in his jeans and came out with a dollar bill.
She smiled patiently.
He was about to pull out a credit card when he stopped. Lisa would see the receipt and call him on his backslide. Or worse, say nothing, her silence heavy artillery in a war that would wound them both—self-inflicted pain that came with the territory. “Wait a second,” he said, reaching down on the banquette to rummage through his leather field coat—usually he kept a twenty in the flap pocket. It was there all right, the folded bill mixed up with something else, a tangle that came out with it.
After the waitress left, he poked through the tangle of stained paper strips that smelled of cigar smoke: the stuff from Guerra’s trash, jammed in hurriedly and forgotten. Cash register receipts. Carefully, he separated them: several FoodMarts first, long curls that had torn in his haste. Then a wadded-up Stan’s Cafe, Wil picturing Guerra there with Cindy. Finally a mottled SaverDrug, the kind of computer ticket that printed out the names of items rung up—good for silencing the shopper stunned at how a few things could have come to that much. Baby things, for instance.
Bottles, lotion, baby aspirin, food, powder, toys. A playpen and multiple purchases of the same item: Pampers, over and over to the bottom of the tape. The printout was dated December 17th, the day Zavala busted in on Donna Pacheco. The day he took Jessie.
Beer slopped into the whiskey as Wil banged the table on his way to the bar phone.
TWENTY-TWO
“She’s at Guerra’s, dammit. What more do you need?” For an hour they’d kicked it around, Wil thrusting, Epstein parrying.
“You know damn well,” Mo came back. “Even if the DA likes it, we have to convince a judge to sign a warrant. And you want Freiman, one of your big fans, to kick it off?” Mo took a swig of High Life. “Terrific. You ever think that maybe Guerra has grandchildren?”
“Hard without a wife, Mo, remember? Besides, a grandfather might buy toys. A playpen maybe. But the rest—all at once like that? Give me a break.”
“So we check it out.”
“And two days later, the little girl turns up dead. ‘No mate a la niña,’ sound familiar?”
“Take us a morning, max. It’s a task force, for Christ’s sake.”
“He could kill her tonight—at the least make fifty thousand dollars off her. It’s a risk and you know it.”
Epstein looked at the ceiling. “What’s risky here is doing Guerra. This tape proves shit.”
“You don’t believe that. Sure it’s not all wrapped up, court-of-law perfect. But you’ve got the same instincts I do. Trust ’em.”
“Indulge them, you mean. I’m a cop. I got rules, answer to people—not like you. We can’t break the law gathering evidence.”
“The tape came from his dumpster, Mo. Not his office.”
“You’ll swear to that?”
“If necessary.”
“It’s too big a stretch.”
“And maybe down is up.” Wil sat forward, tossed off the last of his coffee. “Maybe Bolo Zavala didn’t bring the kid to Guerra’s so he could come after me. Maybe he didn’t work for Guerra at all. Maybe Lenny’s the man of the fucking year.” He pressed the mug into his temple. Racing the Harley through the Santa Monicas and out into the Valley, he’d felt it. They had a chance. Now this.
“Looks mean something in these cases, Wil. You know that.”
He recalled the article about shakeups: “Mo, your guys are holding an empty bag. If this is more than they’ve got—and it is—why not give it a chance? Screw it if Freiman doesn’t look good.”
“Easy for you to say. Even if Freiman goes along, there’s no guarantee the other guys will.”
“The girl could die, assuming she’s alive. All I’m saying is it’s worth upsetting some people to find out.”
Mo Epstein sank back further against the couch. “They’ll never buy it, it’s too circumstantial. On top of that, Freiman won’t hear it coming from you.”
“So tell him you had a hunch and played it. Anything. Tell him Vella found the tape.”
Mo rubbed his neck, went to the phone. Checking his book,
he dialed and ordered a home delivery pizza. After that he called Vella—then Freiman.
The pizza arrived, was cooling by the time Freiman agreed; it was only then that Wil began to let go. He moved to the kitchen, divvied out combo wedges. Cracked himself a 7Up and drank half of it.
Mo Epstein’s eyebrow went about halfway up. “Freiman’s putting it out there, I didn’t think he would. Shows you what he’s up against.” Staring at the soft drink can, he said, “Stick around if you like. It’s on for tonight if we can set it up.”
Two drinks down, the pounding in her head quieting. Finally the kid was out. It had been a real screamer this time, nothing working: toys, apple juice, aspirin—mothering even, the child immediately sensing Jennette’s aversion and using it for fuel.
Valium ground up in her applesauce. That had worked.
Jennette Contreras poured herself another brandy, walked the white living room, paused to look out a shuttered window. At least the house was out of earshot, the neighbor’s tennis courts closer than the neighbors’ houses. Oleanders would muffle sounds that escaped, not that any would. She released the shutter, checked the playpen again. Soon. No one had to say it, the moon did.
She twisted a length of hair that had fallen.
Niños at least was under control: checking in mornings while the child slept, Sofia handling her clients. As for the detective, Hardesty, she’d never believed him in the first place, him and his talk about wanting to adopt. The man was a phony, the break-in suspiciously close to his leaving. Of course Lenny was still bothered about that, though he didn’t let it show. Jennette smiled at how well she knew him: Lenny had his own kind of cojones. He would deal with Hardesty.
Everything, really, was fine.
She looked out again. Beyond hedges, the street was quiet.
Nothing matched the late hours for being alone with her thoughts. Feeling his closeness. What a man he’d been then: handsome, full of fire. True, he had chosen a different path, but to her he would always be the way he’d been.
Again they came back, the memories, hot and sweet.
Swimming naked in the shallows; knowing he was watching, her every movement for one purpose. Rolling in the green warmth, diving, standing finally and looking toward shore, toward him, crystal drops falling from breasts and arms and softness. Then he was there and coming toward her: plunging in, taking her in the water, her joy overwhelming, as though all the power of Yemayá’s oceans had entered with him. And afterward, carrying her to a spot among the mangroves where they loved again more slowly, reverent to forces newly unleashed. As sunset faded, lighting candles from his satchel. Placing them in a circle around them.
Sea snakes they had been, coiling and writhing in the light.
More memories: not lying with him again, her marrying.
Jennette put down the glass, aware of a sudden bitter taste at the back of her throat. A marriage of convenience it had been, as surely as gulfweed grew: Fredo Contreras, the fisherman, Jennette’s aunt and Fredo’s mother the matchmakers, aware of the incident on the beach and of Fredo’s shyness with women. She and Fredo going through the motions for a while. Hearing later that he’d tangled in a net off Marquesas Key and drowned.
By then she had been far away.
Jennette turned off the lamps around the living room and went upstairs. Closing the door, she fired a match, touching it to black wicks until the room was aglow. In seconds she was back within the circle. The space warmed, drew in around her; standing before the mirror, she loosened her robe, let it fall.
Candlelight danced again on pale skin.
Her eyes appraised the glass: nearly the figure she’d had then, fuller in the hips. The breasts were almost translucent, nipples seeming to float. She cupped her hands around them and closed her eyes. Lips pulled apart. Soft cries rang in her head across forty years.
Her fingers had begun moving when the phone rang.
Flush fading, she crossed the room. Her tone was cool as she answered—unlike Lenny’s.
“Cops were here tonight,” he said in a voice that crackled with tension. “Here. In my house.”
It was textbook, letter-perfect. Mo nursed bourbon and described it, shaking his head. They’d gotten the unlisted number and address, arranged for a telephone warrant to search the house. They’d even obtained a warrant requesting printouts of Guerra’s phone records.
At 2:00 A.M. they’d gone in with backup, uniforms flanking the door.
Banged the iron knocker, banged again.
Following the initial shock, he’d been the soul of graciousness. Of course he would cooperate: answer any questions, provide them any background. Guerra had the boy make them coffee then, and after it was over it was Freiman apologizing and ordering Mo to dispurse the backup, Guerra excusing it as nothing and the two of them having a cigar while Guerra entranced the captain with the house and the art and himself.
The yelling had started in the car.
Mo looked pale with something worse than fatigue; their talk drifted away replaced by leaden silence. Mo broke it finally. “He knew nothing about the Pacheco girl, was sympathetic to any effort to find her. Far as the register tape goes, he had no knowledge of it—no surprise there. When we asked about the statues, he said he’d gotten them from a collector. No reason, just liked them. Even offered to hunt for the receipts.”
“Of course,” Wil said, pouring himself a straight shot from Mo’s bottle. “Was the boy any help?”
“His foster kid? Might as well have been mute.” He watched Wil down the shot, pour another. “You’re hoisting the flag again, maybe you ought to go light on that stuff.”
“Just stick to the subject.”
“All right. We lost tonight, big-time. Don’t expect Guerra to make the captain’s most-wanted list between now and when hell freezes. I may be sending you a card from Siberia, and don’t laugh, Freiman’d find a way.”
Wil threw down the second shot. “My fault. I’m the one who pushed.”
“Just what I need, all right, his finding out you’re involved. You like the sound of shit hitting fans?”
Wil’s fuse was just as short. “Mo, goddammit, Guerra’s up to here in this thing. We’re talking about a two-year-old.” He tried glaring, but couldn’t; he’d been wrong, and Epstein had paid.
“Sorry,” he said. “What about the phone records?”
Epstein jerked himself away from the kitchen counter, his face no longer pale. “What about you shutting the fuck up and leaving me alone while I contemplate having to make Lieutenant again.” He tossed off his whiskey, rattled the ice cubes in the sink, then stormed down the hall. Wil glanced at his own empty glass, then drank directly from the bottle.
False dawn was silhouetting the San Gabriel range by the time Wil pulled the Super Glide into the Rodriguez driveway and killed its rumble. The damp air felt like cold rain. For a moment he just sat there relishing the silence and letting his shoulders slump. Then he noticed the black Acura.
She was in the guest bed he’d been using. Her suitcase was up on the chair. He watched her sleep for a while, envying her peaceful state, wondering at her coming. Wanting her. Then the why of it made him want to wake her up and ask, so he slipped out of the room and lay down on the too-short couch. Mo’s whiskey still churned; thoughts flooded his mind as if pouring from an open spigot—Jessica, Guerra, how sure he’d been about him having her—until sleep took him.
The smell of coffee: Wil opened his eyes and waited as the lines and planes and colors came together, then propped himself up on one elbow. Lisa sat in the chair with the antimacassars on the arms, her feet pulled up under her. Watching him. Steam rose from the mug in her hand.
“You’re awake,” she said quietly.
He smiled, tried to read her but couldn’t. “Hi there. Time is it?”
“Almost ten. When did you finally get in?”
He blinked, ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Late.”
“Must have been a hard night.
You don’t look so good.”
“You look terrific.”
There was a quiet moment while she looked at him, then she said, “You’re drinking again, aren’t you?” Her voice was flat.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, attempting to mask the residual buzz with a smile that stuck partway.
“I see.”
“How about if I shower, then we talk?”
She nodded, and he stood up stiffly. Gray light showed through half-drawn blinds; rain murmured lightly against the windows. Raeann’s mantel clock chimed twice and resumed ticking. She handed him the coffee mug, then backed away from him.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip. “This mean we’re friends?”
“Partners is what I had in mind.”
“Uh huh. You mind if I ask in what?”
She stood there in the pink silk robe he’d bought her last Christmas, saying nothing, revealing neither warmth nor ice from her look. “Finding Paul’s killer,” she said, clear from her tone that she’d spent time thinking about it. Then she turned and moved off into the kitchen, where he heard her setting things down on hard surfaces.
In the bathroom he washed down aspirin, forced himself through a drill of pushups and ab crunches, then spent a long time under shower water as hot and then as cold as he could stand. Toweling off, he looked as though he had sunburn, but at least he felt better despite the red in his eyes. He dressed and entered the kitchen, where she’d set out bowls of hot cereal. They ate in silence, a talk show on the kitchen radio filling the void. A weather update predicted day-long rain, heavy at times.
“So that’s what made you come?” he said at length. “Paul?”
“I pried it out of Mo a few days ago, what you’re up to, what happened to your deal with his department. Other things.”
The Innocents Page 19
