by Sue Grafton
“Melvin volunteered for that?”
“It was a means to an end. He needed to gain control of his impulses, instead of them controlling him.”
“Did it work?”
“In the main. His libido’s down to almost nothing and what desires he has left, he manages to subdue. He doesn’t drink or do drugs because he can’t predict what Demons will emerge. Sly? You have no idea. There’s no way to bargain with the Evil Ones. Once they’re up, they take charge. Sober, he’s a good soul. Not that he’ll ever convince his daughter of that.”
“She’s a hard-hearted girl,” he said.
Tía turned on him. “Hush. You know better. She’s a mom. Her first job is to protect her little kids.”
I spoke to Melvin. “Aren’t you required to register? I called the probation department and they never heard of you.”
“I registered where I was.”
“If you move, you’re supposed to reregister.”
Tía intervened. “Technically, yes, hon, but I’ll tell you how it goes. People find out what he was convicted of. Once they know, the whispering starts and then the outraged parents march up and down outside his house with picket signs. Then the news trucks and the journalists and he never has another moment’s peace.”
I said, “It’s not about him. It’s about the kids he abused. They’ll never get out from under that curse.”
Melvin cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the past. I admit I did things and things were done to me…”
Tía cut in, “That’s right. All he wants to do now is watch over the little ones and keep them safe. What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s not supposed to have contact. He’s not supposed to be within a thousand yards of little kids. No schools, no playgrounds. He knows that.”
“All he does is look. He knows it’s wrong to touch so he doesn’t do that anymore.”
I looked at Melvin. “Why put yourself in harm’s way? You’re like a dry alcoholic working in a bar. The temptation’s right there and a day’s going to come when it’s too much.”
Tía clucked her disapproval. “I’ve told him that a hundred times myself, hon, but he can’t keep away.”
I couldn’t listen to any more of this stuff. “Can we discuss the deposition? You must have questions.”
Melvin’s attention remained fixed on the toaster. “If I agree, what prevents the opposing attorney from going after me? Isn’t that how they do it? You testify to something they don’t like and they turn it back on you. Show you’re a despicable ex-con and no one should listen to a word you say?”
I thought about Hetty Buckwald. “Probably. I won’t lie to you about that. On the other hand, you don’t show up and you’ll be cited for contempt of court.”
Tía bobbed up and down, saying, “Oh please. You think he gives a shit about that?”
“Can’t you talk him into it?”
“Give the man a break. He’s paid enough already.”
I waited, but neither one said another word. I could only push the point so far. I left the subpoena on the counter and went out the front.
Just to make the afternoon perfect, when I reached the office I received a phone call from Melanie Oberlin, who jumped right in. “Kinsey, what the hell is going on? Solana said she had to get a restraining order out on you.”
“Thanks, Melanie. I appreciate the support. Would you like to hear my side of it?”
“Not particularly. She told me you called the county on her and they dismissed the complaint.”
“Did she also mention that a woman named Cristina Tasinato has been appointed Gus’s conservator?”
“His what?”
“I’m assuming you know the term.”
“Well, yes, but why would anyone do that?”
“A better question is, who’s Cristina Tasinato?”
“Okay. Who is she?”
“She and the woman we know as Solana Rojas are the same person. She’s busy working her way through every cent he has. Hold on a second and I’ll check my notes so I can give you the exact figures. Here we go. By way of compensation, she’s submitted invoices to the court for $8,726.73 for Gus’s home care, courtesy of Senior Health Care Management, Inc. That includes paying her half-witted son, who’s posing as an orderly while he sleeps all day long. There’s also an invoice from her attorney for $6,227.47 for ‘professional services’ as of January 15, 1988.”
There was a wonderful moment of silence. “Can they do that?”
“Kiddo, I hate to sound cynical, but the point is to help the elderly with big nest eggs. Why have yourself appointed a conservator for someone living on a fixed income? It makes no sense.”
“This is making me sick.”
“As well it should.”
“But what’s this about the county?”
“That’s the question you started with. I reported Solana to the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse and they sent out a caseworker to investigate. Solana told the gal she’d begged you repeatedly to come to Gus’s aid, but you refused. She said Gus was incompetent to handle his daily needs and she nominated herself—I should say, Cristina Tasinato—to oversee his affairs.”
“That’s crazy. Since when?”
“A week, maybe ten days ago. Of course everything’s been backdated to coincide, fortuitously, with the phony Solana’s arrival on the scene.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“I didn’t either, but it’s true.”
“You know I never refused to help him. That’s a goddamn lie.”
“As is much of what Solana says about me.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I don’t understand why I’m just now hearing this. You could have warned me.”
I squinted at the phone, amazed at how accurately I’d predicted her reaction. She’d already shifted all the blame to me.
“Melanie, I’ve been telling you Solana was up to something, but you refused to believe me. What’s the point of another call?”
“You’re the one who said she was okay.”
“Right, and you were the one who told me to limit my investigation to her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, dear. I make a habit of writing down the instructions I’m given in a case like this. Now will you get off your high horse and help me out?”
“Doing what?”
“For one thing, you could fly out and testify on my behalf when I make my court appearance.”
“For what?”
“The restraining order. I can’t get close to Gus because Solana’s there full-time, but you’re still entitled to see him unless she gets an order out on you. You could also initiate the paperwork challenging her appointment. You’re his only living relative and you’re entitled to a say. Oh, and while I have you on the line, I might as well alert you. Once I type up my report, I’m sending a copy to the DA. Maybe they can step in and put a stop to her.”
“Fine. Do that. I’ll be out as soon as I can make arrangements.”
“Good.”
That matter taken care of, I put a call through to Richard Compton, who said he’d get in touch with Norman and tell him to give me free rein searching records in the basement of the complex. I gave him a rough estimate of when I’d be there and he said he’d clear it. I had two stops to make before I hit Colgate, the first being the drugstore where I’d left the canister of film the day before. Prints in hand, I drove over to the Sunrise House and pushed through the front door, feeling an easy familiarity since I’d been there before. I’d called in advance and spoken to Lana Sherman, the LVN I’d consulted during the background check on Solana Rojas. She said she could spare me a few minutes as long as no emergencies arose.
In the lobby, the white-flocked artificial Christmas tree had been dismantled and stuffed back in its box until the holidays came around again. On the antique table that served as a reception desk, a white-painted branch had been placed
in a Chinese ginger jar and hung with pink and red hearts in honor of Valentine’s Day, coming up in two weeks.
The receptionist directed me to One West, the postsurgery floor. Passing down the hall, I caught sight of Lana in a four-bed ward distributing meds in white pleated paper cups. I waved and pointed, indicating that I’d wait for her at the nurse’s station. I found a molded gray plastic chair in a little visitors alcove and picked up a tattered magazine called Modern Maturity.
Lana appeared moments later, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile. “I’ve already had my break so I don’t have long.” She sat down in a matching plastic chair next to mine. “So how’s Solana doing with the job?”
“Not well,” I said. I’d been debating how candid to be, but I couldn’t see an advantage in holding back. I wanted answers and there was no point in beating around the bush. “I’d like you to look at some photographs and tell me who this is.”
“Like a lineup?”
“Not quite.” I took the bright yellow envelope of photographs from my shoulder bag and passed them over to her. Out of the roll of thirty-six pictures, I’d netted ten clear shots, which she sorted through rapidly before she handed them back. “That’s a nurse’s aide named Costanza Tasinato. She worked here the same time as Solana.”
“Did you ever hear her use the name Cristina?”
“She didn’t use it, but I know it was her first name because I saw it on her driver’s license. Costanza was her middle name and she went by that. What’s this about?”
“She’s been passing herself off as Solana Rojas for the past three months.”
Lana made a face. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“You can call yourself anything you like as long as there’s no intent to defraud. In this case, she’s claiming she’s an LVN. She’s moved herself into the patient’s house, along with her son, who I gather is a lunatic. I’m trying to put a stop to her before she does any more harm. You’re sure this is Costanza and not Solana?”
“Take a look at the wall near the nurse’s station. You can judge for yourself.”
I followed her into the corridor where photographs had been framed and hung, showing the Employee of the Month for the past two years. I found myself staring at a color photograph of the real Solana Rojas, who was both older and heavier than the one I knew. No one acquainted with the real Solana would be fooled by the impersonation, but I had to give Ms. Tasinato credit for the subterfuge. “You think they’d let me borrow this?”
“No, but the woman in the office will make you a copy if you ask nice.”
I left Sunrise House and drove to Colgate, parking as I had before across from the apartment complex on Franklin Avenue. When I knocked at Apartment 1, Princess came to the door, holding a finger to her lips. “Norman’s napping,” she whispered. “Let me get the key and I can take you down.”
“Down” turned out to be a basement, a rare phenomenon in California, where so many buildings are constructed on slab. This one was dank, a sprawling warren of cinder block rooms, some subdivided into padlocked wire enclosures the tenants used for storage. Lighting consisted of a series of bare bulbs that hung from a low ceiling overrun with furnace ducts, plumbing, and electrical pipes. It was the kind of place that made you hope earthquake predictions were off the mark instead of imminent. If the building collapsed I’d never find my way out, assuming I was still alive.
Princess showed me into a narrow room entirely lined with shelves. I could almost identify by type the managers who had come and gone in the thirty years the building had been occupied. One was a neatnik, who’d filed all the paperwork in matching banker’s boxes. The next guy took a haphazard approach, using a strange mix of liquor cartons, Kotex boxes, and old wooden milk crates. Another had apparently purchased his boxes from a U-Haul company and each was neatly stenciled with the contents in the upper left-hand corner. In the past ten years, I counted six managers altogether. Norman and Princess surprised me by favoring opaque plastic bins. Each had a slot in front where one or the other had neatly printed and date-ordered a list of rental applications and assorted paperwork, including receipts, utilities, bank statements, repair bills, and copies of the owner’s tax returns.
Princess left me to my own devices, as eager as I was for sunlight and fresh air. I followed the line of boxes toward the far end of the room where the light wasn’t as good and cracks in the outside wall created an illusion of dripping water, though there was none in evidence. Naturally, as an ex-cop and highly trained investigator, I was worried about vermin: millipedes, jumping spiders, and the like. I followed the dates on the boxes, back as far as 1976, which was in excess of the parameters Norman had suggested. I started with the banker’s boxes, which seemed friendlier than the boxes that had the word KOTEX stamped all over them. The earliest date I spotted was 1953 and I assumed the building had been completed right about then.
One at a time, I hauled the first three 1976 boxes from the shelf and carried them to the better-lighted end of the room. I took the lid off the first and finger-walked through two inches of files, trying to get a feel for the order. The system was random, consisting of a series of manila folders, grouped according to the month, but with no attempt to alphabetize the names of the tenants. Each banker’s box contained three or four years’ worth of applications.
I shifted my attention to 1977. I sat on an overturned plastic milk crate, pulled a quarter of the folders out, and placed them on my lap. My back was already hurting, but I proceeded doggedly. The paper smelled like mildew and I could see where the occasional box had sucked up water like a wick. The years 1976 and 1977 were a bust, but in the third pile of folders for 1978, I found her. I recognized the neat block lettering before I saw the name. Tasinato, Cristina Costanza, and her son, Tomasso, who was twenty-five at the time. I got up and crossed the room until I was standing directly beneath a forty-watt bulb. Cristina worked cleaning houses, employed by a company called Mighty Maids, which had since gone out of business. On the assumption that she lied on a regular basis, I ignored most of the data except for one line. Under “Personal References,” she’d listed an attorney named Dennis Altinova, with an address and phone number I already knew. In the space marked “Relationship,” she’d block-printed the word “BROTHER.”
I set the application aside and repacked the boxes, which I returned to the shelf. I was tired and my hands were filthy, but I was feeling jazzed. I’d packed a lot into my day and I was close to nailing Cristina Tasinato.
It wasn’t until I’d left the basement and was coming up the stairs that I spotted the woman waiting at the top. I hesitated at the sight of her. She was in her early thirties, wearing a suit with a short skirt, hose, and low heels. She was attractive and well groomed, except for the heavy bruises marking both shins and the right side of her face. The dark red streaks around the orb of her eye would turn black and blue by nightfall. “Kinsey?”
“That’s right.”
“Princess told me you were down here. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Peggy Klein. I think the two of us are looking for the same woman.”
“Cristina Tasinato?”
“When I knew her she was using the name Athena Melanagras, but the address on her driver’s license is this one.” She held out the license and I found myself looking at Solana Rojas, who now had one more alias to add to her string.
“Where did you get this?”
“We had a knock-down, drag-out fight at Robinson’s earlier today. I was going out the side door as she was coming in. She was wearing glasses and her hair was different, but I knew her right away. She worked for my grandmother toward the end of her life when she needed full-time care. After Gram died, my mother discovered she’d forged Gram’s signature on thousands of dollars’ worth of checks.”
“She knew you’d recognized her?”
“Oh sure. She spotted me about the same time I spot
ted her, and you should have seen her take off. She made it as far as the escalator before I caught up with her.”
“You went after her?”
“I did. I know it was dumb, but I couldn’t help myself. She dragged me all over the place, but I wouldn’t let go. I was doing all right until she punched me. She whacked me with her purse and kicked the shit out of me, but I grabbed her wallet in the process and that’s what brought me out here.”
“I hope you filed a police report.”
“Trust me. There’s already a warrant out for her arrest.”
“Good for you.”
“There’s more. Gram’s doctor told us she died of congestive heart failure, but the pathologist who did the autopsy said asphyxiation and heart failure share some of the same features—pulmonary edema and congestion and what he called petechial hemorrhages. He said someone put a pillow over her face and smothered her to death. Guess who?”
“Solana killed her?”
“Yes, and the police suspect she’d probably done it before. Old people die every day and nobody thinks a thing about it. The police did what they could, but by then she was gone. Or so we thought. We just assumed she’d left town, but here she is again. How stupid could she be?”
“Greedy’s a better word. She’s all over the poor old guy who lives next door to me and she’s sucking him dry. I’ve tried to put a stop to her, but I’m operating at a disadvantage. She has a restraining order out against me so if I even look at her cross-eyed, she’ll have me in jail.”
“Well, you better find a way around it. Killing my Gram was the last thing she did before she disappeared.”
33
I had Peggy Klein follow me home in her car, which she parked in the alley behind Henry’s garage. I found parking on the street in front, six cars away from Solana’s. I went through the gate and around the side of the studio. Peggy was waiting by the gap in the back fence, which I held aside for her as she slipped through. Henry had a real gate, but it was unusable because both his gate and the fence were weighted down with morning glories. I said, “Great timing, your showing up at Solana’s apartment complex when you did.”
