"Old buddies, then," Alexa said, smiling, not reacting at all to Terry's melted face. In twenty-five years, because of her scars, Theresa Rodriguez hadn't changed or aged. She looked just as hideous today as she always had.
"You going to the reception?" I asked.
"Yeah." For the first time since I'd known her, I realized that under all that scar tissue her brown eyes were dark and richly beautiful. Why had I never noticed that before? Then she said, "You're a cop now, right?"
"Yes, Terry. I am."
"Somebody inside said you work in homicide."
"That's right."
"You believe this suicide nonsense?"
I looked at her, trying to come up with just the right answer. I felt myself hovering on the edge of something. I felt Hawaii slipping slowly away.
"Hard to say," I hedged.
"I think it's bogus," she stated flatly.
I thought about it, not giving her much more than my street-hard cop face.
"Pop wouldn't voluntarily take a sand ride," she said.
"We don't know that, Terry."
She stood right in front of me, her scarred face making her expression impossible to read.
"What are you doing now?" I asked to change the subject.
"I work for Child Protective Services. Never got out of the system. I'm trying to make it better for the ones that follow."
"That's very cool," I said. "Well, see you at the reception, I guess."
"Okay, see you there," she answered.
I got into the car next to Alexa, feeling the heat from the sun-cooked interior. I was still struggling to gather my feelings. To put them back in some kind of order.
"What's a sand ride?" Alexa asked, interrupting my thoughts.
"It's a shore break that slams you down on the beach. Surfers call it unassisted suicide."
"Oh," Alexa said. She waited as I sat there thinking about what Theresa had just said. Then I started the car and drove us out of there.
Chapter 6
The few times I'd gone back to visit the Huntington House before, I'd had the same reaction. It always looked smaller and grimier than I remembered. My room had been on the second floor of Sharon Cross Hall, a big two-story Spanish house on the east side of the four-acre campus. I didn't know why it was called Sharon Cross Hall. I had never bothered to ask.
When I was a kid, the hall had seemed huge and imposing, looming majestically over my head. Now it just looked like a plain but badly maintained house that needed a new roof and rain gutters.
The athletic field had always been dirt and I'd acquired an impressive collection of skin burns sliding around on it. As I walked the campus after the funeral, I'd been expecting to see the new rubberized turf that Pop had told me about. It wasn't there. The same dirt playground greeted me. It also looked much smaller than I remembered.
Diamond led the five other pallbearers and Alexa on a short tour of the grounds. Nothing had changed but my recollections.
"What happened to the field?" I asked as we stepped out onto the hard dirt baseball diamond. "Pop told me you were putting in rubberized turf."
"Pop always had his dreams," Diamond said sadly. "You know how he was. We couldn't afford stuff like that. There was no money to even run this place. It's been a struggle month to month."
Shortly after we arrived at the reception, I found out from one of the other mourners why Diamond Peterson was put in charge of the funeral. It turned out that she was the current secretary-treasurer of Huntington House. After two years as a foster child here, she'd been taken by a family that eventually adopted her. She graduated from a high school in the Valley and had gone on to community college, where she took sociology. Diamond told us she'd stayed in touch with Pop and wanted to help him, so she'd come back and, for the last six years, had been working on staff. Pop made her the secretary-treasurer two years ago. It was a paid appointed position that, according to the California Department of Social Services, didn't require any special certifications or accounting degrees.
We walked through the milling mourners and finally rounded the corner of the boxy, gym-sized, seventies-era addition known as the rec center. The bungalow that had always served as the office used to sit behind the recreation building, but now all that was left was a charred hulk. The fire looked recent. Ash and debris were everywhere.
"What happened here?" Jack Straw asked as we looked at the small house, now burned to the foundation.
"It accidentally caught fire the same day Pop died. He was so distressed, I guess he must have . . ." Diamond stopped, then changed her thought, "I guess we don't really know what happened."
I looked over at Alexa. She didn't give me much, and, like me, she had on her cop face. She was thinking what I was thinking. Too many bad things in one time and place. It was starting to look like more than a suicide and accidental fire. It made us both suspicious.
Diamond mustVe picked up the vibe, because she quickly added, "The arson investigators haven't quite finished. We don't know yet if it was deliberately set."
"Really?" It was the first time Sabas Vargas spoke since the tour began. But that one word was packed with skepticism. "I wonder if this is connected to why he called me," he added.
"He called you?" I asked the middle-aged Hispanic man. "You do criminal law, right?"
"Yeah. But he called a couple a days before all this happened. He wanted to have a meeting. He wouldn't tell me what it was about. I assumed he wanted a donation for the home. We set it up for next week."
Why would Pop call a criminal lawyer? I wondered.
"Pop didn't do this," Vicki Lavicki said, refuting his unstated accusation. She was standing with her arms crossed defensively, glaring. "He loved this place. He wouldn't burn it down. That's pure bullshit."
"Nobody said he did," Sabas Vargas said softly. "But come on, the office burns and he kills himself on the same day? Maybe he was so depressed he just snapped."
"What if the office accidentally burning was like the last straw that pushed Pop over the edge?" Vicki challenged, glaring at him. "Ever think of that?"
"He's dead," Diamond said, heaving a sad sigh. "Even if he did set this fire, who are you gonna prosecute? I'm trying to get the arson investigators to do us a favor and just close it. We desperately need the insurance check."
I looked over and noticed Seriana Cotton standing next to Jack Straw. They were wearing flip sides of the same expression. Seriana had a slight frown, Jack a slight smile. Both expressions said, "What the hell is going on here?"
We went into the rec center, where the staff had set up three card tables with refreshments. It was a meager feast. Cheese squares with Triscuits and Dixie cups half full of supermarket wine.
After an hour, Alexa wanted to leave. Because we'd pushed our trip back, she said she had a few more things to do at Parker Center downtown. But I wasn't ready to go just yet, so I told her to take the car. I'd get back to Venice some other way.
Vicki Lavicki was standing nearby and overheard us. "I live in the Marina," she said. "I could drop you, Shane. I go right by there."
"Sounds good," I told her and handed Alexa the keys to my MDX.
"You sure?" Alexa said.
I could tell she really wanted to get me out of there. She could see I was still beating myself up. I smiled at her brightly. Since we were locked in this mild marital deception in front of a witness, there was nothing Alexa could do but agree to leave me there.
"I just need a little more time," I said.
She nodded and, ten minutes later, took my car and left.
I don't know what I was thinking, what I was looking for, but like Sabas Vargas, I didn't believe the story here was as simple as it sounded. Or was I just trying to play catch up, making myself feel useful after it was really too late to help Pop at all?
I found Diamond Peterson by the serving table and asked if I could have a minute. We walked out of the building and sat on one of the wood benches that lined the athletic field.
"No," she said softly. "I can't imagine that. Besides, if Pop did this, if he intentionally set the fire, then we won't get the insurance. He wouldn't do that because he knew we desperately need that money."
"So who did it then?"
"I don't know. Maybe nobody. Maybe it was bad wiring. The arson cops couldn't find an accelerant or even isolate a point of origin. The building was wood. It went up fast."
We looked out at the sad, ramshackle campus of Huntington House Group Home. It was run down, but stumbling on. Tattered, limping, fiscally unhealthy. The evidence of neglect was everywhere. In the poor condition of the rusting vans parked out front, in the deferred maintenance that was visible all around us.
"This place looks terrible," I finally said.
"Yeah." Then Diamond s lip started quivering, and she put her head in her hands and began to cry. I put my hand on her shoulder and then held her as her large body was wracked with sobs. Finally, she struggled to pull herself together. We sat and waited until she was back under control.
"Sorry," she said.
"Don't be."
"I don't know what to do anymore," she admitted. "We have so many problems."
"Tell me."
"I don't know how much you know about how the foster-care system works."
"Almost nothing. When I was here, I was pretty locked up. It was just about me."
She looked at me, tears still on her cheeks. Then she rubbed them angrily away, took a deep breath to settle herself down, and began.
"Okay, well, starting at the beginning, you probably know Walt doesn't own this place anymore. After Elizabeth died it was taken over by a nonprofit corporation that kept him on as the paid executive director. Huntington House is currently owned by an outfit called Creative Solutions. Creative Solutions gets money for each child in residence here, then deposits the funds into our account and acts as a short-term bank for us if we run low. But we have to zero out with them at the end of each fiscal year. Also, the amount a group home gets per child can vary greatly."
"How's that work?"
"There's something called an RCL, which stands for Rate Classification Level. It's given by the California Department of Social Services and it's made up of a lot of stuff. How well-maintained the home is, the ratio of staff to children, how many staff have advanced degrees, rate of foster-home placement or adoption ... all kinds of things."
She looked right into my eyes. "The higher the RCL, the more the state pays. It can go from as low as four thousand a child per month to in excess of six."
She struggled again to hold back her tears. "Walt was such a dreamer," she continued. "Like him telling you we were gonna get that Astroturf, or rubberized grass, whatever the hell. That was gonna cost us over two hundred thousand to buy and install. There was no way we could afford that.
"We'd been getting almost six thousand per child, but then we lost Dr. Logan to a better job, and our clinical psychologist quit to have a baby. We were running short of money from the state. I know six thousand a month for each kid sounds like a lot, but there's a lot to maintain. There's plain overhead--staff salaries, insurance, food, schoolbooks, medical ... it goes on and on.
"Anyway, we didn't want our RCL lowered, so we stupidly didn't report the drop in staff positions to the CDSS. Two of the staff we lost had doctorates and that figured big in our high RCL rating. At the same time, we lost one or two other people, so our staff-to-child ratio took a big hit as well. We were trying to keep it a secret 'til we worked our way out of it.
"Then, last Christmas, they retroactively lowered our RCL and the state auditor came after us. They demanded a repayment check of almost half a million dollars. We didn't have it. Worse still, with our lowered RCL, we went from six thousand to four thousand per child. This place just couldn't run on that.
"Like I said, Creative Solutions is a nonprofit and didn't want to take the loss. They were thinking about closing the home. Just a few days before Pop died, the California Department of Social Services notified us that because of us not telling them the truth about our staff changes, they'd become suspicious of everything and CDSS was about to do a full audit. Walt knew there were even more problems that a state audit would discover. He just couldn't deal with it."
"And that's why he burned the office before he committed suicide," I said. "To destroy the records?"
"Maybe." She wiped another slow-moving tear away. "I don't know. I don't want to believe he'd burn this place. I also don't want to believe he'd kill himself."
"Me neither."
"But what can we do about it?" she said, shrugging her shoulders in a gesture of defeat.
"Let me mull it over. I'll come up with something."
Good-bye Waikiki.
Chapter 7
Half an hour later, I found myself on the second floor of Sharon Cross Hall, looking into my old room at a scowling black kid who was about nine. He was sitting on a bunk holding a first-basemans glove and wearing his Little League uniform. Across his chest, it said "Astros."
"Looks like you had a game," I said.
"My team had a game. I didn't get there 'cause all the vans were at the funeral. They wouldn't let the young kids go to the church to see Pop off. Some county shrink thought it was bad for our emotional development."
I wandered into the room and he stood up immediately. He didn't want me in here. His posture was confrontational, even menacing.
"This is my crib, Chuck," he said. It wasn't quite a threat because I outweighed him by a buck fifty. Call it a statement of fact, fiercely delivered.
"This used to be my room a long time ago," I told him, trying to ease the tension with some common ground. "Lemme show you something." I walked over to the painted wood cabinet. I opened it and looked for some words I'd carved in the paint on the back of the door over a quarter of a century ago. Of course they weren't there anymore. I looked over at the Astros' first baseman. "Guess it got sanded off," I said stupidly. "It used to say, Tuck everybody. S. S.' S. S. is me, Shane Scully."
"Fact that you lived in this room ain't nothing to brag about," he said sourly. "Just tells me you're another fucked-up loser like the rest of us."
I let that go and turned to face him. "So how 'bout you?" I asked.
"How 'bout me, what?"
"You think Pop killed himself?"
"No way."
"You seem sure."
"Hey, Scully . . . That's what you called yourself?"
I nodded and he continued. "Only cowards take that ride. Pop was no coward. 'Sides, he's been helpin' me look for my real people. My mom and shit. Two years we been doin' it. He even spent some of his own money on a lawyer guy who wrote up some papers. We were gonna make the court tell us where I came from. He wouldn't check out, leaving me holding dirt."
I nodded. "Probably not."
I turned to go, then stopped in the door and looked back. "What's your name?"
"What's it to you?" he scowled. "'Cause I don't need no new-friend. Friends are just people who hang on ya and drag ya down."
I left the little cynic standing there. He was a living, breathing example of my own anger when I was his age. The Little League player in my old room had finally pushed me over the edge. I was now absolutely ready to get away from here.
I started looking for Vicki Lavicki to take me home and found out from Diamond that she'd received a call and had to leave.
"How do I get home then?" I wondered aloud. "She set up another ride for you before she left," Diamond informed me. "Who's that?"
"That'd be me, dude," a voice said.
I turned and found Jack Straw standing right behind me, grinning insolently.
Chapter 8
I followed Straw into the parking lot and over to his red and black Harley Softail.
"You know how to ride one of these?" he asked.
"I've ridden Harleys," I told him.
"No helmets. Sorry, but with yo
u being Kive-O, I'm figuring, we don't get busted."
"That what you're figuring?"
He smiled, giving me another look at the boxed front tooth.
"Venice, right?"
"Yeah."
"Lotta freaks live in Venice," he said, straddling the bike and straightening the ape hangers as he stuck the key in the ignition just above the gas tank.
"They got worse freaks in CCI," I replied. "At least in Venice you don't have to shower with your back to the wall."
"What makes you think I was in California Corrections?" he asked, smiling slightly.
"Don't tempt me, Jack."
He laughed and said, "Okay. Hop on then."
I got on the bike behind him and told him, "Quickest way is to take the 110 to the 405 and get off on Venice Boulevard."
"Just hold on and try not to fall off. Til get us there." Then he jacked the starter.
He ignored my instructions completely and took side streets almost all the way to Venice. The Pacific Ocean stayed on our left, winking in and out of view as we headed northwest. I leaned back on the chickie stick to keep his long hair from flapping in my face and tried to enjoy the ride. But Jack was having fun with me and kept swerving abruptly to pass cars so I had to grab on to him or the seat rail. Occasionally when he turned the ape hangers, I could see him in the handlebar mirror. He was either smiling or trying to catch bugs in his teeth.
We finally made it to my house in Venice. He pulled into the alley in back, then shut down the bike and dismounted. I climbed off and straightened my rumpled suit jacket.
"How 'bout a beer?" he said, inviting himself in.
"What'd you do your time for?" I asked.
"Home invasion. Couple a armed robberies. I pled them out and both got kicked down to straight burgs."
"And you think I'm gonna invite you into my house?"
"Listen, Scully. If I was gonna rob a place, I wouldn't choose some clapboard shoe box on a sewage canal."
I could see that Alexa hadn't made it home yet because the MDX wasn't in the drive. She was still at Parker Center polishing her already-clean desk. She's compulsive about her job. Even so, I didn't want to invite Jack Straw inside. I'd had more than enough of him already.
the Pallbearers (2010) Page 3
