Romeo's Rules

by James Scott Bell

  “Wait just a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Can I bring you some coffee?”

  “Steak sandwich,” I said.

  He got up and left the room, closed the door.

  I knew how this worked. They had the camera cranking and they were looking at me even now, watching for body language or a muttered admission. Joey Feint taught me all about that. Guys in interrogation rooms, alone, had been known to utter things like, “Oh crap, they’ve got me,” only they’d substitute another word for crap.

  So I looked up at the camera. “Hi fellas, I want this entire thing recorded, because if I’m charged with anything my lawyer and I are going to subpoena the entire vid, and if anything’s left out, a judge will know about it. You’re wasting my time and everyone else’s, especially the taxpayers of this city, and the jury, if one is seated. It’s called harassment, and I will put my demeanor up for review, gladly.”

  Then I folded my arms and waited.

  Davis came in a minute later, holding a piece of paper.

  “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?” he said.

  “No,” I said “I’m very smart. I’m very close to solving Goldbach’s Conjecture.”

  “Well, smart guy, Mayne has just given you up. Here’s his statement.”

  He put the paper in front of me. It had handwriting on it, in pen. Romeo is part of my team. He does what I tell him to do. He was in on the bombing of the church and the Juan Gomez killing. And it was signed Mark David Mayne.

  I laughed.

  “You think this is funny?” Davis said.

  “Come on, detective, you think I’m gonna roll over on a play like this? I know you can lie to me. Mayne didn’t write that. I’m not going to break down. That only works when somebody’s guilty. Now I have a message for you.”

  Davis waited.

  Arrest me now,” I said. “Or I leave.”

  Davis could have stretched this out, made it hard on me. But in the end, he’d have to let me go. He knew I’d make it hard on him, too.

  “All right,” he said. “But know this. I’m not finished trying to nail you. And you were born to be nailed.”

  “So was Jesus,” I said, standing. “And look how that worked out.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke up unhappy that Mark David Mayne was under arrest for murder. That meant he was in the system, and he had the money to fight. I wanted him for myself.

  And deep in the folds of my brain, where I keep the unanswered questions in a box next to the drawer marked Things that are not right.

  Detective Davis was out to get me, admittedly. And even though his little trick with the note didn’t work on me, who was to say Mayne wouldn’t try to bring me down himself?

  I couldn’t wait around. I had to try to find out what happened myself.

  So I went back to church. The church where it all started. Our Lady of the Assumption. An ironic name, now that I think of it. I wanted all assumptions cleared out. Only facts. If I was going to hurt some people, they’d have to be the right ones. I’m funny that way.

  There were plywood boards over the John the Baptist window now. Some smoke stains on the wall. But other than that the place seemed humming along as usual. Kids were playing in the fenced-off yard. Youth has a natural resilience.

  I went into the church office and asked a young nun—at least I think she was a nun, she wasn’t in a habit but wore a great big cross and sat under a portrait of the pope—if I could speak to one of the sisters who had been on hand when the church went up. I explained that I had come along and helped the police a little. I didn’t tell her how little that was.

  She asked me to have a seat and picked up a phone and punched numbers. Then she made sounds somewhere between mumbling and uttering. She put the phone down.

  “Sister Beatrice will be out in a moment.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You are quite welcome. Would you like some water?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  The young nun got up and went to a student-sized fridge in the corner of the office. She got out a bottle of water and walked it over to me. And smiled.

  It was a nice smile. And I thought how few there are of those anymore.

  I’d had a good long sip when an unmistakable nun came in. Her habit was light blue and efficient as opposed to the black and severe habit of her forebears. She had wrinkles that looked earned, and gray, intelligent eyes.

  I knew her immediately.

  “You look familiar,” she said as I rose to shake her hand.

  “I was here just after the explosion,” I said. “I handed you a boy.”

  “Yes! I remember now. It was so frightful that day.”

  “How are things?”

  “We’re all still a bit shaken,” she said. “And one of our staff was …”

  “Shot and killed,” I said.

  “You know?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I said.

  “I’ll go,” the young nun said. She got up and took some keys off the desk and was out the door as if late for vespers.

  “How did you find out about Mr. Gomez?”

  “I was trying to help Natalia Mayne find her children.”

  “Sam and Brianna.”

  “She was shaken up, a piece of glass gave her gash on her forehead. So I sat her down and she begged me to look for her children. I went inside the church and saw the wreckage, then saw the body. His name was Gomez?”

  “Juan Gomez,” Sister Beatrice said. “Who would do such a thing to him? He was a lovely man.”

  “How long had he worked here?”

  “Oh, at least ten years. A finer man you would not meet. His poor wife and children.”

  “Have you talked to his wife?”

  “Oh yes. Several times.”

  “Do you think I might?” I said.

  “Whatever for?” she said.

  “I’m just trying to get all the information I can.”

  “But the police …”

  “I’m not working against the police. I’m trying to help them. Mostly I’m trying to help Mrs. Mayne find her children.”

  “What?”

  “We think they were taken away, by her ex-husband.”

  “We? You mean the police?”

  “My partner.”

  “Are you a private investigator?”

  “Very private.”

  She nodded. “I have to be careful, I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do. You don’t know me.”

  “But I know what you did. I think you are a good man. But …”

  “Thinking isn’t knowing,” I said.

  She smiled. “I will do this much. I will call Mrs. Gomez to see if she will talk to you. How’s that?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  She was about to turn, then stopped. “I suppose I can tell you one more thing, since the police already know.”

  I waited.

  “Sam and Brianna,” she said. “They were checked in as usual, logged in our notebook. Most of the kids get dropped off in the turn-about, and someone is there to check off the names. Usually that’s Sister Catherine or Sister Paula. But that day it wasn’t. It was Mr. Gomez.”

  A crackling of mental electricity as a connection was made, though still unclear. Gomez checks the kids in, gets popped later in the day.

  “And one thing more,” Sister Beatrice said. “Very troubling. But no one can remember seeing them, Sam or Brianna. They weren’t here.”

  “You mean your man Gomez marked them as having been checked in, but they weren’t?”

  “That’s what it appears to be, Mr. Romeo.” She paused, clasped her hands together almost as if she were praying. “I do hope you can help. I will call Mrs. Gomez now.”

  I HAD NEVER been in a car with a nun before. But I have been with bad drivers. Sister Beatrice was both. But she was one of those bad drivers who doesn’t know it and talks a blue streak as she narrowly misses bumpers, pedestrians, and small animals. />
  But we made it alive to a small clapboard house on a narrow street near Dodger Stadium. She parked on the cracked driveway and went to the door and knocked.

  An attractive Hispanic woman opened the door.

  “Mariana,” Sister Beatrice said, “this is Mr. Romeo.”

  The woman looked at me suspiciously.

  “El gusto es mio,” I said.

  “Hablas español?” she said.

  “Poquito.”

  “I speak inglés. Please.” She opened the door for us to enter.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What is you want, sir?” Mrs. Gomez said.

  “May we sit down?” I said.

  She looked at Sister Beatrice, who nodded. Mrs. Gomez led us to a small, round dining table with four chairs. Three of them were straight-backed wood. One was white plastic. I took the plastic one.

  Mrs. Gomez placed her hands on the table, palms down, as if ready to bolt at any moment.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” I said.

  “This is about Juan?” she said.

  “I found his body,” I said. “In the church, just after the explosion.”

  Mrs. Gomez’s face tightened.

  “I knew right away that he had been shot,” I said. “He didn’t die from the explosion.”

  She nodded. This information would have been given to her already, but I wanted her to know I knew also.

  “My first question is, can you think of anyone who would have wanted to murder your husband?”

  She shook her head.

  “Anyone at all?”

  She shook again.

  “Please,” I said. “Give it some thought. Maybe someone he knew? Did he socialize much by himself?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. This was going to be like pulling teeth.

  Sister Beatrice spoke up. “Mariana, Mr. Romeo is just trying to help. You can trust him.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Gomez said. Her mood had changed. She was scared of something. And I didn’t think it was me.

  The sound of pattering feet. A boy and a girl ran up to the table. The boy was eight or so, the girl a little younger. They both had black hair and big brown eyes that stared at me as if I’d materialized from another dimension.

  “Jaime! Rosa!” Sister Beatrice said, clapping her hands. The spell was broken and the children ran to the nun. They threw their arms around her neck and squeezed.

  “Now,” the nun said, untangling herself from the little arms. “This is Mr. Romeo.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Jaime said, “What happened to your hand?”

  “Jaime!” Mrs. Gomez said.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I had an accident.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Yeah, it hurt a lot.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “Maybe I did.”

  “Wow.”

  “You go to your rooms,” Mrs. Gomez said.

  “We want ice cream,” Jaime said.

  “Ice cream,” Rosa said.

  “Not now,” said their mother. “When I am finished. Go now.”

  “Do as your mother says,” Sister Beatrice said.

  With one final look at me, the boy took his sister’s hand and they left the room.

  “Fine looking children,” I said. “Well behaved. That’s rare these days.”

  Mrs. Gomez gave me a slight, sad smile.

  “Did your husband have a place where he stored personal papers and the like?” I said.

  She thought a moment, then shrugged.

  “Did he handle all that for you? The bills and things?”

  “I pay the bills,” she said.

  “How about other things? Legal documents. A will, maybe? Do you have a will?”

  She shook her head.

  “A workspace, maybe. Did you husband have a workspace?”

  She nodded. “In the shed.”

  “A shed? May I see it?”

  She looked at Sister Beatrice, who nodded. I was so glad she was there.

  Mrs. Gomez got up. So did I, and Sister Beatrice. We followed the widow out her kitchen door and into a small, walled back yard. There was one tree in the middle, an orange tree. Several rotten oranges were on the ground where they’d fallen. A lone squirrel looked up from an orange he’d been working and decided to scamper up the tree.

  The grass was brown and patchy. Next to the wall along the east side of the property was a wooden shed, big enough for one man to have a workbench and some tools.

  Mrs. Gomez opened the shed door.

  I went in and told the women I’d only be a few minutes. I wanted to be alone. Sister Beatrice complied and took Mrs. Gomez, who was looking a little stunned, back into the house.

  The shed was filled with tools neatly arranged on hooks on a pegboard. A power lawn mower in the corner had some old grass on it, brown and crispy with time.

  There was an odor of gas in the place. The workbench had a vise attached. The only other item on the bench was a claw hammer.

  On the other side of the shed were a couple of rakes, a shovel, and a weed spade. The rakes were dusty from use. Bits of leaves were still between the tines of one of the rakes. The weed spade had two points on it, both caked with dirt.

  Juan Gomez needed some lessons in taking care of his tools.

  Except the shovel. The shovel face was clean. The handle was not. It was well used.

  That got my attention.

  I took a pair of work gloves off a shelf and put them on. Then I picked up the shovel and put it on the workbench. I turned on the light that hung above.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for. It just seemed a little strange to have one clean tool in the shed. Maybe it was nothing.

  Or maybe the dark red spot on the back was something. It was small but with a spatter penumbra. Like a drop of paint … or blood.

  My father always said when you reach a philosophical conundrum you should take a step back and let your mind work on its own.

  He meant that literally. I’d often see him in the living room, his hand on his chin, taking a full step backward. As if he could get a better view that way.

  Philosophers have all sorts of ticks like that.

  I found myself taking a step back from the shovel. I even put my hand on my chin.

  Two seconds later my brain tossed me an idea.

  I went out to the back yard and started walking around, looking at the grass. It was spotted with dandelions. As I finished my survey I came to a spot near the back wall where dandelions were clearly absent. It was like a hairy leg that had a bald spot on the side.

  I knelt down and poked around in the grass. There was a slight color difference in the patch. I stood up and walked around the patch and saw that it was a virtual rectangle, maybe six by four.

  I went back in the house. Mrs. Gomez and Sister Beatrice were in the living room.

  “Mrs. Gomez, did your husband do any digging in the yard?”

  She thought a moment, shook her head.

  “Would you give me permission to do a little digging back there?”

  “Why?” she said.

  “I just want to check something out. It’s probably nothing. I’ll be methodical, I won’t ruin your grass.”

  “What do you think is there?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’d like to have a look.”

  Mrs. Gomez closed her eyes. She was getting tired. She nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Please keep the children in the house.”

  I went back to the shed and got the shovel.

  WHEN THE EDGE of a shovel hits a human skull it’s no different than contacting a rock. Of course you won’t know it’s a skull unless you suspect a body is under the dirt. Even then you won’t know if you’ve hit a femur or a knee or a shin bone.

  For some reason, though, I thought it was a skull.

  After the thunk I dug around it. What I uncovered was something wrapped in burlap. I c
ontinued to dig until most of the dirt over this part of the patch was gone.

  I went to the shed and got a buck knife I’d seen on a shelf. I used it to slice the burlap.

  Looking up at me with dead eyes was a face I knew. The blade tattoo under the left eye was the giveaway. It was the face of Natalia’s brother, Danny.

  “What is?” Mrs.Gomez was behind me, with Sister Beatrice.

  I stood up fast, but not fast enough.

  Mrs. Gomez screamed.

  THE KIDS WERE running out the back door. I told Sister Beatrice to intercept them and take them into the house.

  I put my hands on Mrs. Gomez’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head hard.

  “I need you to be all right. Your kids need you to be all right. Take a deep breath.”

  She tried.

  Looking at her eyes I said, “Do you know anything about this?”

  “No,” she said, barely a whisper. I believed her. She had the face and the trembling of a good woman who’d just found out her husband was a killer.

  “We don’t know what’s happened here,” I said. “You need to be calm for your kids. The police are going to be questioning you. You need to think this through with me, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you get a good look at the face?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Will you look at it again?”

  “No, please.”

  “It’s important. You need to tell me if you’ve seen this man before. Here at your home or anywhere else.”

  “Don’t make me.”

  “Just once.”

  She shook her head and began to sob. I put my arms around her and she put her head on my chest.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “You don’t have to look. I’ll just tell you. He has a tattoo under his left eye, a curved blade, like a sword.”

  She stopped sobbing. Took a breath. Pushed herself back from me, looked at me. Her eyes were wet, but she was thinking.

  Without a word she stepped over to the grave and looked at the face.

  Resolve filled her now. She told me to follow her into the house.

  The kids were on the floor with Sister Beatrice, playing with some brightly colored toys.

  They looked at us.

  Mrs. Gomez walked past them, me following.

  “Keep playing,” I said to Sister Beatrice.