Hometown Favorite: A Novel

by BILL BARTON

  "How can I thank you, Ms. Almendarez?" Hathaway said. A woman walking away from him was something he had become accustomed to, but usually for relational missteps and rancorous arguments. He must have too high an opinion of his charms. Almost without breaking her stride, she made a 180-degree turn as she spoke: "I hope you enjoy your time in Dominical, Detective Hathaway."

  Then she disappeared through the double doors of the Costa Rican National Bank.

  He ran his fingers around the edges of his hat, reviewing in his memory the scene inside the bank for any clues about where he might have tripped up, when he noticed a card stuck inside the silk fabric wrapped around the crown. The fact his charm had not failed him was as important to him as the information written on the card.

  Mr. Mendoza entered the study to clean the room from the aftereffects of the previous night. Tyler jerked his bloated face from behind the safe, a cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes red and rheumy. He could not close the safe door because in each hand was a large stack of cash.

  "What are you doing in here?" Tyler shouted.

  Mr. Mendoza did not need a translator to interpret the wrath of his master. His startled ancient body began to shake, and he instinctively tried to explain himself with exaggerated gestures and rapid speech, which only infuriated Tyler more than the pounding hangover and the surprise interruption. Tyler slammed the cash down on his cluttered desk and began rummaging through the debris searching for his handgun.

  "When I find my gun, you are one dead . .

  Though Mr. Mendoza could understand the viciousness of intent expressed for his intrusion, he did not understand the specifics of the language. He remained in the room, compensating by raising his volume and hastening his explanation.

  "You idiot;" Tyler shouted, his search for a lethal weapon turning up empty. In frustration, he grabbed a paperweight and hurled it at the old man. The paperweight splintered and cracked the study door, and Mr. Mendoza crossed himself in appreciation for Tyler's inaccurate throw. But his gratitude was short-lived. The flower vase was next, and it shattered against Mr. Mendoza's head, slicing a gash across his crown. The old man smashed into the back of the damaged study door. Holding his head, blood seeping through his fingers, he managed to scramble out of the room before another missile could make physical contact. Had Tyler's weapon been in the study and not in the master bedroom, Mrs. Mendoza would have become a widow.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza had been married for forty-seven years. They had no children, but in each of the homes where employed as domestics, they had always been surrogate parents and grandparents to the children whose families they had served over the decades. When the last family for whom they had worked needed to move to another part of the country and wanted to take the Mendozas with them, the elderly couple felt they had reached a point where they could no longer make such major life transitions for reasons of age and health. They worked out an arrangement with the Ocean View Realty Company and the former owners. The Mendozas would be an all-inclusive part of the package. The former owners would maintain their salaries and living expenses until the new owner took possession of the property.

  The Mendozas regretted their decision the first day Tyler and his entourage moved in. In the short time they had been in Tyler's employment, they had witnessed more hours of debauchery and human depravity than they ever thought existed. The couple knew they could not survive in such hellish circumstances but were lost about what to do. They needed a home and employment. They went about their duties as unobtrusively as possible, trying not to disturb anyone, above all the new owner, as they cleaned the destruction from the revelries of each night before the crowd awoke from their slumbers in the late afternoon for a repeat performance.

  Tyler never allowed the two of them to go off the property together. He always kept one Mendoza home and in sight, assuring their silence. On the day Tyler decided to celebrate the agreements with all parties involved in his business, Mrs. Mendoza had to go to the market to purchase the food. Mr. Mendoza paid for the taxi waiting for her outside the gate, ready to take her to the market to collect the items on her long shopping list. Each time they parted, the pair embraced as if it could be the last time they might ever see each other.

  She never shopped anywhere else but the outdoor market in the center square of Dominical. All one needed to prepare any dish could be bought at this bustling commercial center. She loved to shop for food, and now, it helped to distract her from the present nightmare she and her husband were living. While selecting some ripe avocadoes, she heard her name called, and when she saw who had spoken to her, she burst into tears.

  Danny Boyle was an American expatriate who had lived in Costa Rica for the last eighteen years. He had made some money in the stock market and wanted to escape to an underdeveloped tropical area where he could stretch his modest wealth. He married a local girl, and after beachcombing had become tedious, they decided to go into business developing properties for well-heeled foreigners and created Ocean View Realty Company. He did not discriminate. He took anyone's money and never asked why someone with a vast amount of wealth would come to Dominical and spend millions of dollars on a second or third home. He was just happy some of those paradise seekers came to him. They had made Danny Boyle a rich man. But trouble had come to paradise when Detective Hathaway stepped into his office.

  Mrs. Boyle was not friendly. How dare an American detective intrude on her business? How did he know anything about a wire transfer that took place a short time ago at the Costa Rican National Bank, and who had told him that Ocean View was the agency that had closed a deal on the property whose buyer might be involved in untoward circumstances? Hathaway had met his match. No charm offensive was going to work in this instance. Had Mr. Boyle not heard the heat in his wife's voice and her tongue slipping in and out of English and SpanishSpanish when she needed to swear-the detective would not have known what to do.

  Danny Boyle came out of his office and looked into the perspiring face of Detective Hathaway. Boyle's entrance offered both parties a chance to catch their breath, and he opened a refrigerator and pointed to a variety of cold drinks Hathaway could choose from that might lower the temperature. Hathaway took a seat and swiped the cold exterior of the soft drink across his forehead.

  Mrs. Boyle turned away when Hathaway displayed the first picture of the Jobe crime scene, and Danny did not need to see but a couple more to agree to help in any way he could. The local papers had given the event some coverage early on, but the story had dropped off the radar. Danny said the owner's explanation for being able to buy such an expensive property was his success as a producer in the music business, and once the bank declared the money sound, Mrs. Boyle had handed the buyer his keys and they had had nothing else to do with him. Mr. and Mrs. Boyle nodded their heads in unison when they looked at the record mogul's picture. He had purchased the house.

  Since the banker had refused to tell Hathaway who was in possession of the account number, he was hoping for some incriminating behavior the realty company might have witnessed, which could then justify bringing in local law enforcement. The Boyles had known the Mendozas only a short time. They had become acquainted when the former owners of the mansion were ready to sell and signed an exclusive Realtor's contract with Ocean View. The family had to move before the new owner took occupancy, so the Boyles took it upon themselves to watch over the Mendozas until the property sold. On more than one occasion, the Boyles had enjoyed Mrs. Mendoza's cooking when they came by to check on them and the property.

  Because Mrs. Mendoza was such a creature of habit, Danny knew they would find her at the outdoor market around the same time each day. When told Hathaway's purpose for coming to Dominical and upon seeing the picture of her employer, she again burst into tears. Even though she feared for their lives, she and her husband would do anything to escape the tyranny they had been enduring.

  Were it not for Danny Boyle's credibility, the police would have missed the small window to catch Tyle
r and his associates. Since he had been a longtime resident of Dominical and he operated a successful high-end real estate company, Danny was on good terms with local law enforcement. His clients and their multimillion-dollar homes required special attention, and he knew what it took to grease the wheels to secure that kind of first-rate surveillance. But he also knew who could be trusted with this unusual and dangerous information.

  Hathaway presented his evidence, but the police captain was not inclined to act with the speed Hathaway knew was necessary to catch Tyler until Boyle described what had been going on in the house as told to him by Mrs. Mendoza. She had not come in person because her long absence might endanger her husband's life. This was not only an opportunity to apprehend a murderer and thief but also a chance to arrest significant local drug suppliers. Even if Hathaway could not find the evidence he needed to convict Tyler of the crimes against the Jobe family, Tyler would at least see jail time in Costa Rica for drug possession. It might not save Dewayne Jobe's life, but it would be some consolation.

  The police captain ordered the raid. Danny produced pictures and blueprints of the property so the Dominical police team could study and plan for what would prove to be a bloodless takeover of Tyler's property, though the incursion was not without pain. The police bashed a few heads, and those who tried to escape had their bodies bruised and scraped when tackled. It was unusual for Hathaway to be without his weapon, but he was unable to bring one into the country and not allowed to carry one on the operation. However, that made him feel more like a general who had helped create the plan of attack and stayed behind the lines until it was executed, a feeling he thought he might grow to love the closer he came to retirement.

  The benefit of having the schematics of the house also helped Hathaway locate the safe. When the authorities had corralled Tyler and the others at the opposite end of the house, he slipped into the study. He did not bother with trying to crack the safe. He brought along an expert with the right equipment to remove the door without collateral damage to the room. Hathaway was not interested in the stacks of cash. Once he found what he wanted, he left. Before returning to the police station where the Boyles were waiting for him, he stopped to thank the Mendozas, hiding in their bungalow, offering them a sufficient reward that guaranteed the couple a peaceful and comfortable retirement.

  He took pleasure in seeing Ms. Almendarez once again, even though the hour was late and the atmosphere unappealing. The lineup room behind thick one-way glass had not been a suggested attraction in Dominical. But after tonight she might at least allow him the pleasure of buying her a drink. He took greater pleasure in seeing the surly and now disheveled bank executive who had been roused out of his bed, driven to the police station, and forced to identify the man who had given him the SWIFT account number, the same number Hathaway held in his hand from the list he had taken from the safe. But he took the greatest pleasure after the mechanical voice instructed Salvador Alverez to separate himself from the others and step forward, and he heard the Boyles, the bank executive, and Ms. Almendarez all say Tyler was the man.

  Dewayne struggled to recall Hathaway's first visit. It seemed an eternity had passed. On his second visit, Hathaway presented a photograph of Tyler Rogan and asked for an account of his involvement in the Jobe family. Dewayne told the detective the same story that Rosella had given the day before, after Hathaway faxed her Tyler's mug shot and interviewed her via videophone in Los Angeles. Their synchronized stories, including Tyler's history of violence and incarceration, sealed his fate.

  Hathaway returned a third time to Dewayne's hospital room, carrying a brown sack and wearing an uncharacteristic smile. The smile appeared when the four witnesses in Dominical identified Tyler Rogan. The smile remained throughout his return to Houston and became brighter as he wrote the report of his trip and included Dewayne's and Rosella's testimonies. Fellow detectives had never seen Hathaway in such a state and accused him of getting a new girlfriend or hitting the lottery, both of which he denied. When he and the police chief entered the district attorney's office and presented him with the body of new evidence, including videotaped interviews with the Mendozas and members of the LA leadership, his smile went radiant. This third meeting would be his final time to see Dewayne in the county prison hospital.

  Jake was asleep in the chair next to the bed, but awoke at the first sound of Hathaway's knock on the door. Jake and Dewayne had tacitly agreed not to bring up the subject of Dewayne's earlier request to finish his life. Nature would take its course, and Jake would stick by his side to the end ... subject closed.

  Hathaway did not say a word when he entered the room, his lips preoccupied with whistling. He set the sack beside the bed and went for Dewayne's wrist, lifting it in the air with one hand and producing a key from his pocket with the other. While Hathaway unlocked the handcuff, a nurse came through the door, wheeling a television on a stand. After plugging in the cord, she slipped out.

  "Thought you'd like to watch a little TV," Hathaway said as the key opened the lock and Dewayne's gaunt wrist dropped free onto his stomach.

  "What's going on, Detective?" Dewayne asked, looking in amazement at the chain and handcuff lying unoccupied.

  Hathaway paused from his tune to smile and hit the power button on the television. "I think the DA can explain it best," he said as he checked his watch. It was straight-up noon, and as soon as the commercial was over, the local station would go live to the Houston courthouse.

  Hathaway was curious about how the DA would spin these undeniable details after having been so adamant about Dewayne's guilt. He had enjoyed watching him squirm in his office as he presented each detail in the case against Tyler Rogan, and then took extra pleasure in the semi-tantrum the DA had thrown when he realized the walls were moving in. The vindication was so sweet, who could blame Hathaway for whistling a happy tune?

  The district attorney was pleased to announce startling new developments in the Dewayne Jobe murder case. Unanticipated and compelling evidence came to his attention proving Dewayne Jobe was not the perpetrator of these awful crimes. Pandemonium broke out, and the reporters assaulted the DA with questions, causing his lip to curl into a scowl for interrupting his train of thought. Hathaway laughed aloud, but his glee was short-lived when he heard weeping and saw Dewayne's face buried inside his blanket. Jake turned off the television's sound. They had heard all they needed to hear.

  Dewayne wiped his eyes and looked into Hathaway's sympathetic gaze.

  "Thank you;" he said and covered his face again with the blanket. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you"

  Jake patted Dewayne's head, and then extended his hand over the bed to Hathaway.

  "You responsible for this?" Jake asked, cocking his head toward the television.

  Detective Hathaway gave an affirming nod.

  "Then we're forever in your debt"

  "Am I free? Am I really free?" Dewayne's supplications were as pitiful as those of a menaced child unexpectedly removed from his abuser.

  "The DA closed the books on your case. The taxpayers no longer wish to pay your medical expenses or foot the bill for your incarceration. You are free, sir." Hathaway laid a hand on Dewayne's shoulder. "I suggest if you can, you should leave before the media descends," he said, pointing to the ongoing interview on television.

  "What about it, Dewayne?" Jake asked. "You feel up to it?"

  "Right now I could walk on water," Dewayne said.

  "Then let's get out of here" Jake clapped his hands together in a loud whack. "I'll deal with the doctors. What about the warden?"

  "Before I came to your room, I turned the papers in to the warden signed by that talking head on the screen, authorizing the release of Mr. Jobe. I will escort us out of here when you're ready to go:"

  The moment Jake was gone, Dewayne began to laugh.

  "I've got nothing to wear but this raggedy old hospital gown," he said.

  "Temporary solution," Hathaway said, producing the sack. Inside was a cheap red r
unning suit. "Didn't know size or color preference, but-"

  Jagged laughter escaped Dewayne when he beheld the first physical sign of freedom.

  Jake returned with a wheelchair, and after a quick elevator ride down to the first floor, he wheeled Dewayne to the loading dock of the back entrance, all the better to avoid as little contact with other humans as possible.

  Dewayne lay down in the backseat of Detective Hathaway's car, and Jake covered him with the hospital blanket he had grabbed from the room. Were Mr. Jobe to pursue treatment beyond what the prison hospital had done, the hospital would ship all records to the appropriate medical facilities, the doctor said as he signed his name to the forms fed to him by administrative personnel. Because the tumor was inoperable and the chemotherapy and radiation had not eradicated it, consensus was that it would be best if Mr. Jobe found a good hospice to finish out his last days.

  Jake had been amazed at how the world had just discovered Dewayne was an innocent man, but the medical staff expressed no repentant conviction about their treatment of him when they thought he was a criminal.

  "This place is right out of the Dark Ages," Jake said. "Whatever happened to `first, do no harm'?" He had told them he was taking their blanket, and they could send the bill to the Texas taxpayers.

  Jake followed Hathaway in his car as they pulled out of the county prison hospital parking lot. Hathaway suggested Dewayne ride with him until they had gotten well away from the prison property. If the press should pursue, then Hathaway had the means to lose them, and as he had predicted, a caravan of television trucks and company cars of rag publishers was barreling down the road in the opposite direction with a couple of helicopters buzzing overhead before they were two miles down the highway.