First Commandment

by Dick Yaeger

  “Well, I’d like you to come, so think about it.”

  His tone was conciliatory, almost friendly, not what I expected from a well-documented thug. I kept my eyes closed and didn’t answer.

  Seconds later, he walked away. I’d failed to piss him off enough to defend his puny rally. I wanted him rattled and hotheaded when I accused his gun-confiscation rally of encouraging psychos to follow through with their school-shooting fantasies. He was too cool. Who was the player and played here? Regardless, I was going to be on time for tomorrow’s luncheon meeting.

  Bubba’s car was in his parking space. I grabbed two burritos from Teresa’s Taco Truck and went upstairs.

  “I’m afraid we have no openings for bookkeepers at this time, Miss Ward,” Bubba said when I opened the door. I looked around to see if he was signaling the presence of a previously-duped client.

  He grinned at the successful hoax.

  “How about corporate spies?” I handed him a burrito and opened the fridge.

  “Only those who bribe me with Teresa’s world-famous cuisine.”

  I grabbed two bottles of Modelo Especial and went into my office.

  He followed me, unwrapping the aluminum foil from his burrito. “How’d it go with the senator’s wife?”

  “She’s parlayed his reputation for another employment company called Cal Trabajo. Low-level jobs for the needy, mostly Hispanic.”

  We sat down, and I explained Maria’s problem with her thieving ex-employee, plus my journey through her books.

  “There’s something fishy going on, but I need more time to investigate some transactions.”

  “See Lenny?” He put his beer bottle on my desk to use both hands with Teresa’s enormous burrito.

  “I did, and he invited me to the senator’s next campaign meeting.”

  “How’d you accomplish that?”

  “Sara Ward has a special allure for dastardly ex-cons.”

  “Damn,” he said, wiping the beer bottle’s sweat off an envelope on my desk. He pointed at it. “What’s this?”

  “A list of Jacob Horowitz’s employees. I haven’t examined it yet. Take a look.”

  He opened the envelope, thumbed through the sheets and then stopped, a scowl settling on his face.

  “What’s the name again of the senator’s wife’s company?”

  “Cal Trabajo.” I struggled to finish Teresa’s fifty-pound burrito.

  “It says here that it’s where Jacob gets many of his construction workers.”

  “Makes sense. He’s a big supporter of Evans.”

  My explanation didn’t curtail his scowl. He went to his desk and returned, shuffling through pages of his notebook until he seemed to find what he wanted.

  “Yesterday, both schools told me that they had accidents a week or two before the shootings.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “Didn’t seem important. A gardener with a sprained ankle at First Commandment and a janitor with a broken arm at Altman.”

  “So?”

  His look was intense, grave.

  “Guess who supplied them with temporary replacements?”

  M y jaw dropped. “It’s planned and organized like you said—not just a couple of psychotic dumbasses wanting revenge for failing history class.”

  “What’s our play?” Bubba asked.

  A computer ding interrupted my reply—an email from Frank O’Farrell. The subject line read Dinner?

  I ignored it.

  “Time to tell the cops what we know. They’ve got to get those assholes off the street before they have time for an encore performance.”

  Bubba nodded. I tapped Braklin’s speed dial, and turned on the speakerphone.

  “Detective Braklin, Special Crimes.”

  “We got a lead on the shooters.”

  “Your pal Leonard Guillory?”

  “No. Bubba discovered that both schools replaced an injured staff member shortly before the shootings. A gardener and a janitor.”

  Three seconds passed.

  “Jesus! You thinking it’s an inside job?”

  “Sure explains why the cameras didn’t work—”

  “And how they disappeared,” he said. “Shit. They never left the school.”

  “And why one teacher thought the voice was familiar,” I added.

  “You got names?”

  “No. The schools would stonewall us with privacy concern, but if you—”

  He hung up.

  As I put the phone back in its cradle, a sense of satisfaction swept over me. Braklin would get the name of Jenny’s killer—First Commandment’s temporary gardener. I could call Aaron Horowitz and give him the name. Our job was done. There was no doubt that Braklin and O’Farrell would hunt down both killers, ferret out other conspirators, and reveal their evil motives. Guillory didn’t strike me as impersonating a gardener, so it probably wasn’t him. I still believed he was somehow implicated, but was that important now? Time to tally up our expenses and send Aaron a final bill.

  “We did it, Bub,” I said softly, sinking into my chair. The events of the last seven days spun through my head. The weight on my shoulders vanished. The realization that we’d likely saved children’s lives in the future filled me with joy and accomplishment.

  Bubba’s expression didn’t match my euphoria.

  “You didn’t tell Braklin that Cal Trabajo supplied the temps.”

  “Didn’t have time. Besides, he’ll discover it just like you did.”

  “So you believe Maria is complicit—that she’s knowingly funneling killers into schools?”

  “Uhhh . . . that’s . . .” I started to say, “That’s not our job,” but realized I had to find out for myself. “I’ll check their books first thing in the morning.”

  “Good.” His smiled warmed me. “You’re right, then. We did it.”

  We hugged. I poured a double and held my glass up to Bubba suggesting he too might want a splash of celebration.

  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug and a shy grin of abandon.

  Damn! Today was historic.

  We clinked our glasses.

  “To truth, justice, and the American way,” he said.

  Another clink.

  I sipped the whiskey, savoring each amber pearl as it trickled down my throat, and opened O’Farrell’s email. Hungry? Give me a call.

  The booze and our success with the case had indeed made me hungry, but not for food.

  I called his cell. It went to voice mail. “This is Hunter. Got your email. I’m starved.”

  Thirty seconds later, a text from O’Farrell buzzed my cell. Need a rain check.

  “Bummer,” I mumbled.

  Bubba threw down the last bit of his Wild Turkey and poured another one. I’d created a monster.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dinner plans for tonight fell through.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner,” he said with a dopey grin, eyebrows raised, surely anticipating a positive reply. “Celebrate a job well done.”

  “Okay, but I’m driving.”

  His cheeks already looked flushed.

  Forty minutes later, we slid into a corner table at Vito’s Famous Pizza with a large All Meat Special and a pitcher of Sam Adams Boston Lager. Bubba attacked the pizza as if he’d just escaped from Devil’s Island.

  “When was the last time you had pizza?” I asked.

  “Can’t remember,” he mumbled through a mouthful.

  “And meat?”

  “Twelve days ago.”

  As he satisfied his carnivorous lust, we revisited last week’s day-by-day efforts, questioning whether we had been smart or lucky. When the Monday-morning-quarterbacking and pizza were finished, we were silent.

  “I guess O’Farrell stood you up,” Bubba said, pouring the remaining beer equally between our mugs.

  “You knew, huh?”

  “You’re such an easy read. How you get away with undercover is a mystery.”

  “Undercover’s not per
sonal.”

  “Is he a keeper?”

  “Too early. Right now he’s a carnal port in the storm.”

  “You were looking forward to tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I hesitated, realizing I was downgrading our evening. “But tonight was better, Bub.” I meant it.

  I reached across the table and took his hands.

  Our eyes met for one of those unspoken occasions when both were afraid to broach the subject of sex, fearful of embarrassment. I flashed back to a memory of him buck-naked during our first case. With his link to pro-wrestling, we were investigating drug usage within the local sporting community. We had no income, so he was still wrestling, and I had sneaked into a locker room to search for evidence during his match. Unfortunately, I misjudged the timing—the match was over. I was trying to pick a locker when I heard him clear his throat. I turned to see him dripping wet, the single locker-room light highlighting every ripple on his glistening frame. At the time, I remember wondering if I was going to be able to keep my hands off him.

  I bit my lip. “I’m worried about tomorrow.”

  The next morning, nervous about Maria Evans’ possible association with the murder of innocent children, I confined my makeup to face powder and lip-gloss. I left my hair down, ran a quick brush through it, and dived into my other Ann Taylor pants suit, the beige one.

  My haste was unrewarded. Cal Trabajo was closed. After a round trip to the first-floor coffee machine, it was still closed. I leaned against the wall and called Aaron Horowitz, anxious to share the recent good news.

  “Hello,” a gravelly voice answered.

  I looked at my watch.

  “Hunter Quinn, Aaron. I wanted to let you know that, as we speak, the police are searching for both school shooters.”

  “Do they know which one killed my Jenny?” He coughed several times.

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Will they put him behind bars before I can see him?”

  A bizarre question. “If arrested, a visitation would be difficult, but I’ll try to arrange it.”

  “You do understand our pact, do you not?”

  “I . . . I do, Aaron.”

  “Very well.” He coughed again. “Thank you for the news.”

  Maybe I didn’t understand. Every time we talked, he reminded me to tell him first who killed Jenny, but this new reminder sounded almost sinister. His tone and use of the word “pact” hinted at an unspoken agreement. I reflected on our initial meeting when he interviewed me as a possible assassin for Jenny’s murderer. Had I not crushed the idea? Had he outsourced the job to someone else? I needed to stay alert.

  “Good morning,” Maria said, unlocking the office door. “You’re early. I like that.”

  “I need to follow up on some unfinished work.”

  Cal Trabajo’s clients were poor, and couldn’t pay for job placement. Two thirds of the company’s income came from public grants for low-income training, welfare-to-work strategies, and various studies. Fees from companies hiring their clients made up the remaining third.

  My heart was racing after I typed in a search for payments from First Commandment. A lone entry received a month after the shooting stared back at me from the screen. I held my breath and clicked on Details for a copy of the invoice dated six weeks earlier—two weeks before the shooting. The name of Jenny’s killer was there in black and white, and it wasn’t Leonard Guillory’s. I had mixed feelings. Did I want Lenny to be the killer?

  On the last page, I found Altman Elementary’s payment made five days ago from an invoice issued a month before the school’s shooting. Details showed another unfamiliar name.

  Cal Trabajo was undeniably involved. What should I do? I closed my eyes, kicked off my heels, and concentrated. A smoke and a shot would help. A question Bubba asked days ago rose to the top—why were First Commandment and Altman selected from San Jose’s plethora of schools? With my subconscious fingers crossed, I searched for all clients with “school” in their name. There were six, probably more that I couldn’t identify without further work. None showed placements after Altman.

  I breathed easier, but needed to confront Maria, ask for details, and evaluate her reaction to the two notorious placements.

  Before that, one more task remained. I opened the expense file. The suspicious items that had caught my attention yesterday were random payments of varying amounts to CAIV. Unfamiliar with the acronym, I searched the internet, but found no reference. Another question for Maria.

  She was in her office. I knocked and took a seat next to her desk.

  “A couple questions if you’ve got a moment.”

  “Certainly.”

  I asked her to pull up the receipts file and guided her to the First Commandment entry.

  “What do you remember about this transaction?” I watched her carefully.

  “Not much.” Her demeanor was normal as she searched her memory. “As I recall, the school wanted a gardener for a few weeks while their regular recovered from an accident. They specifically asked for an English speaker. Gardeners who are fluent in English are rare, but we were lucky.”

  “Had the person you placed been represented by Cal Trabajo long?”

  “No. This was his first job. He’d recently registered with us.”

  “How did he become a client? A walk-in? Did someone recommend him?”

  “I . . . I don’t remember.” She looked at the computer screen. “That’s ten months ago. Why is it important?” It was a logical question.

  I reached across her keyboard, clicked to the end of file, and pointed to the Altman payment.

  “What do you remember about this payment? It’s more recent.”

  She studied the entry. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Holy Mother of God!” she whispered between her fingers, a hand over her mouth. “The schools, they’re the ones that . . . Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What have I done?” She looked up at me, agony in her eyes. “What have I done, Sara?”

  “It’s not you, Maria. It’s not you.”

  I found a box of tissues and glass of water, and sat with her until she regained some composure.

  “What should I do, Sara?”

  “It’s likely an innocent coincidence. My suggestion is do nothing for now.”

  She looked at me, seeming to question my counsel. I felt that she wanted to tell someone of importance, to relieve any burden of responsibility. It occurred to me to reveal my identity and mission. I didn’t. The tangled mystery of the shootings had blossomed, but its roots were still buried. I had to be cautious.

  “Another quick question, Maria.”

  “Okay,” she agreed hesitatingly, likely expecting another tragedy.

  “Cal Trabajo regularly transfers money to CAIV, C-A-I-V. What or who is that?”

  The tenseness in her face vanished. “It’s a charity Blake likes, the Committee Against Indigent Violence.”

  Cal Trabajo was virtually a charity itself. Why were they donating to another charity? My original suspicions of money laundering changed to thoughts of embezzlement, but it puzzled me how Maria could be an innocent party. Maybe it was none of my business. After all, my job was done.

  In the hallway, I texted Bubba, Confirmed temps from Cal Trabajo. 90% Maria innocent.

  I looked at my watch. Almost noon, time for the campaign meeting Lenny wanted me to attend. Was there still a reason to go? I was confident Braklin and O’Farrell would catch the first two shooters. Would they give up Lenny as a conspirator, maybe as a plea deal to avoid the gas chamber? School shootings were so visceral with the public that any plea offer would be unpopular. Other evidence was useless—only my observation of the two “uninvolved girls” with him at the rally. I sighed, again wondering why I couldn’t let go of my obsession with the creep.

  I guessed my job wasn’t done.

  E vans’ campaign headquarters occupied the suite next to his office. Gutted to serve as an assembly hall, posters with his picture covered the yet-to-be-painted wall
s. Computer stations lined the periphery except for two tables of sandwiches, snacks, and coffee machines. Rows of folding chairs filled the center space that faced a podium and three television screens. It seemed excessive for a state senator.

  Two dozen people sat or milled about talking, waiting for Evans to arrive. Most held a cup of coffee and paper plate with a sandwich. Recognizing no one, I sat down in the last row next to a lonely-looking Hispanic young man.

  “My name’s Sara,” I said to him, offering my hand.

  “Pablo,” he replied timidly.

  When we shook, part of a Toga and Dagger tattoo showed under his shirtsleeve.

  “You’re a supporter of Senator Evans, I assume.”

  “I work for Señor Horowitz. He is a friend of the senator.”

  “Jacob Horowitz?”

  He seemed to relax. We had something in common.

  “Si. Señor Jacob is a good man. He has been kind to me.”

  “He also shares the extreme gun-control opinions of the senator.” I paused, waiting for a reaction. “His daughter was killed in a school shooting.”

  “I know.” He sighed and looked away. “Poor little Jenny was same age as my sister.”

  “I’m very sorry. Were you and Jenny close?”

  “Isabella also killed by madman.” He looked at the floor, but I could see his eyes watering.

  “Also in a school?”

  “In Guatemala.”

  At that moment, I’d have bet a case of Jim Beam that I just stumbled on the person who had written on the newspaper left in Jacob’s mailbox. He probably wasn’t the shooter, so what was his connection?

  The senator came in through a back door, smiling and waving. Lenny followed close behind, surveying the audience. Our eyes met. I detected a smirk.

  “I’ll be quick today,” Evans began without a microphone. “We’ve won the election on a promise to rid California of guns. That was the easy part. I’ve drafted a bill to fulfill that promise, but I have to be honest with you. So many of California’s legislators are sufficiently funded by the NRA that I give little chance of it making the ballot next November.” He paused, eyes scanning his congregation waiting to be enlightened by their leader. “As a backup, we need to immediately begin collecting signatures for a separate ballot measure. This is an expensive and time-consuming undertaking that requires almost six hundred thousand verified signatures.” A collective groan washed over the group. “Now, Bill Hurley . . . stand up, Bill . . . has agreed to honcho this important effort, so I want you all to check in with Bill and give as much time and money as you can.”