Fugitive Nights (1992)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  "One on each side a the woman's name," the workman said. "Single grave, sixteen by twenty-eight, right?"

  "You did the work?" the fugitive cried.

  "Sure," the workman said. "Only time I ever got a call for custom orchids."

  "Please! I must see the stone with my eyes to be sure it is exactly what I want for my aunt! Please to tell me the name of the person who ordered the stone?"

  "Well, I only do the engraving and sandblasting," the man said. "Martha's the one you should talk to. She's gone to the bank to make a deposit. Can you come back later?"

  "When?"

  "Twenty minutes maybe?"

  "Do you remember the name on the stone?"

  "No, I can't remember. I do so many."

  The fugitive needed all his self-control to remain calm and businesslike when he said, "I have a problem at the moment. I need very much to order the stone at once. I must go to Los Angeles on business. If you can look in your files for last September it might be possible to find the name. Then I could contact the customer and discover where the stone is placed so that I can see it with my eyes."

  The man smiled, shook his head, and said, "Not me, Mister. Martha'd kill anybody that went into her files. Besides, I don't have no idea how to work a computer."

  "Oh. Your transaction is on a computer?"

  "I don't know nothing about that part of it. I can do a design and tape it off and I can sandblast it till you have the prettiest orchids you ever seen. But I can't go into Martha's files."

  "I understand," the fugitive said. "I may wait here until the lady returns?"

  "Help yourself," the workman said. "I gotta get back to work."

  When he was alone, the fugitive sat and picked up a magazine, thinking about Martha and what he would say to her. What if she was one of those officious Americans who would only give him enough information to select his gravestone and nothing more? Then he'd have to take the information by force, or risk burglarizing this place. He was sure that the building had an alarm system.

  The fugitive could hear the hiss of sandblasting outside the office. He got up, went to the front door and looked outside. There was no car parked immediately in front, not even his own. He made a quick decision, and walked around the reception counter to the file drawers. The first one contained nothing but brochures for memorials of all kinds.

  He opened another and discovered what looked like order forms. The company had a computer, but they also had an invoice system. He found some orders that were placed by those other companies he'd visited. Serenity appeared to be the only manufacturer in the area. He worked from front to back and discovered that they were in chronological order.

  Locating September, he found a large number of invoices. He grabbed the entire batch including some from August and October, just to be sure.

  He was shoving them inside his pink cotton shirt when a woman said, "What're you doing?"

  He would've recognized Martha. She was taller than he, and almost as heavy. She was a woman of about sixty years, and was so angry there was no point in talking. What could he say, in any case?

  The fugitive simply smiled in embarrassment and walked deliberately toward the door, holding out his hand as though to say, "Please, Martha, step back." But he said nothing.

  "Who are you?" Martha demanded. "And where do you think you're going with those?"

  He kept advancing, meaning only to fend her off so he could get to the door, but she grabbed his arm and said, "Here, you! Drop those files! Then she screamed: "MIKE! COME QUICK!"

  The fugitive shoved the woman hard and heard her grunt when she thudded into the wall and fell to the floor.

  She screamed, "MIKE! HELP! HELP!"

  The fugitive was glad he'd done one thing right, at least. He'd parked out on Perez Road, just in case. He hadn't wanted anybody writing down his license number if something went wrong. He certainly didn't want to steal any more cars.

  He ran through the parking lot with no one chasing him. When he got to his car and started it, he made a U-turn to avoid being seen by anyone running out the front door, and as he drove, he was careful not to exceed thirty-five miles per hour.

  He was approaching Date Palm Drive when he saw a Cathedral City police car about to turn west on Perez Road. He wheeled into another industrial park. He believed that the response time to Martha's call would be fast, so he only had a few minutes.

  He waited a moment, then eased his car back onto Perez Road, but he saw that the police car had pulled over to the side of the street. The officer was writing something. The fugitive couldn't wait any longer. He drove out and turned west on Perez Road away from the police car, but as he neared Cathedral Canyon Drive he saw yet another police car! He was about to be sandwiched!

  The fugitive made himself turn left into another business park, hoping both police cars would go by. He drove to the rear of the building, but slammed on his brakes when he found himself confronting four more Cathedral City police cars!

  The fugitive wheeled around and was retreating out the driveway when the first policeman he'd seen came right at him! The fugitive stopped.

  When he did, the policeman pulled his car alongside, facing the other direction, and said, "Looking for the post office?"

  Too frightened to speak, the fugitive nodded and tried to smile.

  "Around the front," the policeman said. "To your right."

  The fugitive was afraid to say thank you. He merely waved, and did as the policeman said. He wanted to speed away on Perez Road, but he did not. He pulled into the front parking lot with all the other cars.

  It appeared to be a little shopping center like so many he'd seen. The Cathedral City police station was just a series of storefronts, tied together. In a bizarre way, it was reassuring. It was the way it would be in his own country: a police station crammed between a post office and an Armenian chiropractor.

  When the fugitive finally did begin to drive back out onto Perez Road, a police car squealed from behind the police station, heading east on Perez, no doubt on its way to take a report from Martha. The fugitive turned west, back to Palm Springs, and only then did he relax enough to pull the wad of invoices from inside his shirt. They were slimy from his sweat. His beautiful new pink shirt was drenched. He couldn't wait to get back to the hotel and order a beer. Two beers.

  He wondered what the policeman would make of it, someone stealing work invoices. Probably that he was a madman. That's what a reasonable person would make of it. He suddenly felt weak, and the tension started to dissipate. He smiled when he thought of all those police cars, Chevrolets, each with a wide blue stripe and a stylized decal on the door: a mountain, a palm tree and a red fireball of sun.

  They even have beautiful police cars in this country, the fugitive thought, admiringly.

  When Nelson was driving south on Date Palm Drive intending to take Lynn back to The Furnace Room, he was still pumped. "Lynn, you gotta admit we done a good job even if we sorta ran outta leads temporarily."

  "Nelson, we still don't know for sure if Francisco V. Ibanez from the Canary Islands is your drug smuggler, pardon me, your terrorist."

  "We know in our hearts, Lynn. Anyways, I'm gonna keep diggin. I'm gonna call or go to every single car rental company in Palm Springs tomorrow. I got a hunch he's after somebody big, somebody that's here for the Bob Hope Classic."

  "Good luck, Nelson," Lynn said. "You might see if Donald Trump's playing. If he is, don't try to stop the bad guy. There's such a thing as good terrorism, you know."

  "By the way," Nelson said, "Francisco V. Ibanez blew his horn when he wanted service at the motel, didn't he?"

  "So?"

  "That's real uncool, honkin your horn in California. Only tourists do it."

  "So? He's a tourist, ain't he?"

  "In Arab countries they use their car horns for everything. They play sonatas with em. I read it somewheres."

  Then Nelson noticed the local TV news car driving on Perez Road, and Lynn almost got thro
wn into Nelson's lap when the little cop whipped the Wrangler to the right.

  "What're you doing, Nelson?" Lynn demanded.

  "Might be a two-eleven in progress or somethin! Let's check it out!"

  "Get me outta here!" Lynn said, but Nelson stomped down and sped toward the TV news car as it was about to turn into the industrial park. While the news car waited for the oncoming traffic to clear, Nelson pulled up beside them and flipped out his badge.

  "What's up?" Nelson asked them.

  "Offbeat story," a camera guy said. "Somebody roughed up an old lady at a tombstone company and stole her work invoices. We're gonna do an interview under the 'Some-guys'll-steal-anything' sort of story."

  "I'll watch for it tonight," Nelson said, as the news car turned into the parking lot and stopped in front of Serenity Markers and Memorials.

  "That's not a bad lead," Nelson said to Lynn, and kept driving west. "Some guys'll steal anything."

  "We had a patrol officer, tried to put together a video on offbeat crime," Lynn said. "Spent a fortune on video equipment, but all he ended up with was a boring two hours that showed what everybody already knows: people're thieves. The Heaven's Gate of home movies is what he ended up with."

  All of a sudden, Nelson screamed: "TOMBSTONE COMPANY!"

  And this time he jumped on the brakes, wrenched the wheel, and spun a U-ee at the same time.

  Lynn had to grab the roll bar with both hands and hang on while Nelson roared back to Serenity Markers and Memorials code three, but without a siren.

  When Nelson slid the Jeep to a stop, Lynn said, in the monotone of a psychopathic killer, "You better have an explanation for this, cause now my neck hurts so much I don't even know I got knees anymore. You have maybe two minutes to live."

  But Nelson already had of the Palm Springs yellow pages unfolded and was waving it before the bloodshot eyes of Lynn Cutter, saying, "Remember Carlton the Confessor? What he said about markers and memorials? This is it, Lynn! This is why Francisco V. Ibanez tore out the page!"

  Nelson's stubby little finger was pointing to a list on the page, at the same name that was painted on a sign high on the face of the building.

  "We shouldn't get too excited about this!" Nelson warned, spraying the older man's face with saliva. "We gotta stay cool till the reporter gets outta there! THIS IS OUR DEAL, LYNN, NOBODY ELSE'S!"

  "Well, that's it," Lynn said, in resignation. "I don't know how it's gonna end, but I'm being dragged to destruction. I'll be tits up on a slab, either a victim of Francisco V. Ibanez or Nelson Hareem."

  "Y'know somethin I noticed back at the motel?" Nelson said, as they waited in the Jeep.

  "I don't wanna know."

  "There was wire outside the room where Francisco V. Ibanez stayed at. A few pieces a colored wire were in the maid's trash bin."

  "I'm afraid to ask for the significance."

  "Coulda been from his timing device. For a Semtex bomb!"

  "I won't bother to point out it also coulda been from the electricians working on the air conditioning," Lynn said, in his new monotone-of-the-doomed.

  After the TV people drove off, Lynn and Nelson found Martha, with a bruised elbow, torn pantyhose and a big, big smile. She was going to be on the eleven o'clock news!

  Martha didn't mind talking to two more cops. She hadn't had so much attention since she'd taken down the license number of a drunk delivery man who'd destroyed four parked cars and the entire corner of Duncan's Discount Golf before a cop blew out the drunk's tire during a freeway pursuit. She'd gotten thirty seconds on screen that time.

  "Like I told the uniformed policemen and the reporters, he was a maniac!" Martha told them. "Wanted a grave plaque for his aunt. Mike is the one talked to him, but when Mike left him alone he helped himself to our files. A maniac!"

  "What'd he look like?" Nelson asked.

  "A Mexican, about forty, stocky build."

  "Bald?" Nelson asked.

  "Can't say. Wore a straw hat, like a Panama hat."

  "Did he have a mustache?"

  "No."

  "What kinda gravestone did he want?" Nelson asked.

  "He wanted orchids. A custom job with orchids engraved on it. Said we did one like he wanted for somebody last September thirteenth."

  "Did you?"

  "Yeah, but I don't know who. He stole all the September invoices."

  Nelson said, "Whyn't ya jist pull it outta the computer?"

  "Sorry, hon," Martha said. "I'm just learning about computers. Taking a course over at College of the Desert, and soon as I learn how, we're gonna computerize our files."

  "Nothin's on the computer yet?"

  "Nothing to do with our business."

  Lynn, who was coming out of the mental state in which all of this had placed him, said, "How about the guy he talked to? What can he tell us?"

  "Mike? Nothing more than he told the other policeman. The guy wanted a plaque with two orchids, like the one Mike did last September. Didn't know the customer's name. Didn't know the name of the deceased woman. Orchids. That's about all he knew, orchids. A custom job."

  Lynn said, "Give Mike a call and ask him to come in here, will you?"

  A few moments later, Mike entered the office, less dusty than when he'd talked to the fugitive.

  Martha said, "These guys're policemen, Mike. They wanna hear again about the guy that wanted orchids."

  "I told the other cop everything I know," Mike said. "If I can ever think a the woman's name I'll call and let ya know. But I can't right now."

  "If you ask me he was just some lunatic," Martha said.

  "But he was right about the stone," Mike said. "I did a plaque with a woman's name on it, and two orchids beside the name. And it mighta been last September, like he said. I never done orchids before. It was a beautiful custom stone, I remember that much."

  Lynn said, "Mike, when you do a beautiful custom job you're proud of, don't you ever take a picture of it? You know, to show other customers?"

  That caused both Mike and Martha to look at each other and smile. Then Martha said, "The boss does!"

  Mike was interested enough to hang around while Martha went through the boss's desk, explaining that he'd gone skiing for a few days. She found a manila folder in a drawer and waved the cops inside his office.

  Then she handed a batch of photos to each of them and said, "Look for orchids."

  They were only looking for a few minutes when Mike said, "I thought it began with an L. There it is: Lugo."

  Lynn, with Nelson draped over his shoulder, looked at a photo of a large flat grave plaque engraved with:

  Maria Magdalena Lugo Born 23 May 1901 Died 12 Sept 1990

  "What information is on your invoice?" Lynn asked.

  "It'll have the deceased's name and what the customer wanted on the plaque. It'll say how much we quoted and who ordered it. With a phone number, maybe. With an address, maybe. We had some temporary help working here last summer." Then Martha said, "You can keep the picture if you want it."

  "Give it to whoever does a follow-up investigation," Lynn told her.

  "Isn't that what you re doing?"

  "No, we're not from Cathedral City P. D.," Lynn said. "We have another matter, possibly involving the same guy."

  "Yeah?" Mike said. "Is this guy Mafia or what?"

  "Why do you say that?" Nelson asked.

  "The Italian name there, Lugo. Could be Spanish, I guess."

  Lynn decided it was time to get out of there before they started asking too many questions. He pushed Nelson toward the door before Martha asked something he didn't want to answer, like, "What's your name, officer?"

  As she was about to speak, Lynn quickly said, "Hey, Mike. On that subject, know what FBI stands for?"

  "What?"

  "Forever bothering Italians," Lynn said. "Or, famous but incompetent."

  Mike let out a hoot and said, "That's good! Hear that, Martha?"

  When Mike turned back toward the door, Lynn and Nelson were gon
e.

  The fugitive was disappointed at what little information was on the invoice. He'd decided to telephone every funeral director in the Coachella Valley. On the sixth call he reached the correct one.

  The fugitive said, "Please, can you help me? I am trying to be in touch with an old friend. I think perhaps you assisted him with the funeral of his mother. Her name was Maria Magdalena Lugo. She died in September of last year. It is urgent."

  The woman who'd answered the phone said to him, "That was our funeral, but Mister Lieberman isn't here at present. He'll be here for a service this evening at six. If you'd care to come by, he can help you."

  When he thanked her and hung up, he looked at his watch and resisted the temptation to have the beer he longed for. This was definitely duty time. He took a shower and shaved, the second shave that day, and he put on his eggshell-white cotton shirt. Since he had not worn the gaudy blazer into Serenity Markers and Memorials, he thought it was perfectly safe to wear that evening.

  He put on the blazer and looked in the mirror. He wished he'd been able to have the sleeves shortened a bit, but of course there'd been no time. Now time had new meaning.

  When they were once again rocketing down Perez Road in the Jeep Wrangler, Lynn grabbed the roll bar and said, "Nelson, where in the hell're you going?"

  "I dunno!" Nelson said.

  "Then why're we in such a hurry to get there, goddamnit? Anyway, the guy didn't have a mustache!"

  Nelson slowed down and said, "He shaved, is all. Where we going, Lynn?"

  "To a phone. Drive to a phone and get me a couple dimes."

  They parked at a gas station on Cathedral Canyon Drive, and Lynn looked up the phone number of the cemetery while Nelson went to get change.

  When Lynn placed the call, he said, "Hello, my name's William Lugo. I'm trying to get in touch with a family member I haven't seen in several years. This relative arranged for our aunt to be interred at your cemetery last September. Her name was Maria Magdalena Lugo. Can you help me?"

  Nelson paced, then Lynn said into the phone, "Yes? Yes, I do understand. Thanks."

  He hung up as Nelson said, "So tell me!"

  "They won't say anything over the phone about their clients. All she'd tell me was that Mrs. Lugo's funeral was handled by Lieberman Brothers Mortuary in Palm Springs."