Текст книги "The Eternal Summer"
Автор книги: Paul MacDonald
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
“I have another job for you,” I told him. “A big job.”
I explained everything to him, including details I withheld from Detective Riocohr. Badger nodded solemnly but the obligatory declaration of this job being the top priority never came. Instead, he sort of stalled like there was something more to be said.
“Does that all make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” he replied. “Full commitment required.”
“I would imagine.”
“Job could go in many directions.”
“Most definitely,” I said.
“And for an indeterminate length.”
“I guess so.”
He nodded his head but not in agreement.
“And this one isn’t for the company?” he asked.
That’s when I finally understood his apprehension. The job was sizable, and I hadn’t delivered on my half of the deal.
“What kind of retainer do you usually work on?” I asked. I had seen enough of the old movies to know how this worked.
“Let’s not make this about money, guy,” Badger scolded. “I’m helping you because you’re a stand-up guy who has always done right with me. I don’t work with just anyone, you know. This can be an ugly business and I am careful with whom I associate.”
It was all an act – the man clearly needed cash. I could see the army cot and hotplate and empty cans of refried beans and the squeaky fan doing nothing against the heat. But there was the man’s pride to deal with. He needed to be begged.
“I insist. This is a big job.”
“I know what I am getting into.”
“And I can’t allow you to put forth such a big effort without an equal commitment on my end.”
“I know you’re good for it,” he waved me off but quickly added, “but if you insist, my standard fee is four hundred a day plus expenses.” I was a little taken aback by how quickly he gave in. Times must have been worse off than I first thought. I went out to my car and got my checkbook. As I wrote out a check, Badger wet his lips in apparent anticipation of an expensed meal on my dime.
“One week advance good enough?”
“Whatever you think is right is right with me,” he kept up the charade. “And don’t feel you have to—”
“Take the fucking money, Badger,” I said, growing annoyed.
“You’re a prince,” he smiled as the check disappeared, with some effort, into the narrow slit of his two-sizes-too-small jeans back pocket.
He walked me out, a little lighter on his feet and showing no effect of the twenty-eight-hundred dollars of my money weighing him down. What started out as a side job to get central air in my house was turning into a gaping hole in my already bleak bank account. But I couldn’t begrudge Badger. This was, after all, his livelihood and who was I to extort him just because I happened to save him from dehydration caused by a temperamental dominatrix.
Out on the sidewalk, he gave me a sweaty hug and declared I was, yet again, his number-one priority.
PROGRESS
The blogger’s address was in North Hollywood. Traffic was good once I got out of the congestion around Echo Park Lake and merged onto the 101. I steamed up and over the Cahuenga Pass and down into the Valley.
The San Fernando Valley was a figurative, and on days like today, a literal purgatory. Flat, hot, and endless, the monotony of the basin mirrored the lives of the nameless people living there. The temperature outside flirted with 100 degrees but never quite committed to triple digits despite its best efforts.
The apartment complex was deep in North Hollywood where the streets and buildings were laid out in perfect symmetry, inheriting the same form and function of the orange groves they replaced decades prior. I went through the glass doors that led to an open courtyard where a blue-green pool sat untouched for yet another year. The apartment was on the second floor in the back, and I took one of the four outdoor staircases.
The woman who answered the door was a frumpy maiden much younger than her image let on. She lived in a cramped studio with sagging bookcases and a worn throw rug on top of even more worn wall-to-wall carpet. She led me to a spot before a small air conditioner that was as effective against the heat as a fan blowing air over a bowl of ice cubes. I sat in a cheap fold-out chair. She relaxed on the edge of a futon and had one leg pulled up under the other so she could pick at her toenails while she spoke.
“I got an email through the site and it just said that they had information on a family member of an important man in the city. They were vague with the details, particularly how important this man was.” She retold the events leading to the publishing of the article with a detached, almost bored affectation. It was as if she wanted to convey to me that this job didn’t matter to her and she rather hated it but was resigned to doing it. For now, anyway.
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. Total radio silence. I wrote it off as a crank – you get a lot of these. Though part of me sensed this one was legit, I wrote back and never got a reply. Until four days ago. I got an email late in the night that laid out all the details, the baby out of wedlock, the underage angle, and most importantly, the identity of the important man.”
“Who was it?” I asked. I needed to confirm if we were talking about the same family. The woman eyed me suspiciously, trying to figure out my angle, if there was one.
“If you represent the family, then you should know, right?”
“But I first need to know if you know.”
“Oh, I know who it is.”
“Did you verify the source?” I asked.
“Of course I did. I wouldn’t have pushed the story otherwise.” There was an element of nicked pride in her response, as if she was hurt that I questioned her ethics in publishing unseemly stories about people’s private matters.
“And they are credible?”
“As credible as it gets,” she responded mysteriously.
“What does that mean?”
She suddenly felt the power shift over to the futon and took the opportunity to exploit it.
“Can we work out a deal?” she asked tentatively. She was as new to the shakedown as I was. I had stopped by the ATM on the way, expecting this moment. I placed twenties in various amounts in various pockets in case she played hardball and I could claim “all the money I got” routine. Little did I know that fifty bucks was all it would take. I gave her the extra ten because I felt bad for her.
“So who was the source?”
“The source was the source,” she answered with a riddle and the annoyingly sly expression people make when telling riddles.
“Your source was Jeanette Schwartzman?”
The woman touched the side of her nose. We apparently switched from riddles to charades.
“How did you know it was her?” I asked, still not quite believing it. The logic wasn’t working.
“It was her. She had photographs on her phone with Carl Valenti. She looked just like the girl in the photos. And they knew details that made me very comfortable they were who they said they were.”
“Who was she with?”
“Some boy, sort of effeminate, probably Hispanic but I shouldn’t guess ethnicity without being sure.” I had never believed Nelson was involved in anything nefarious but now it was a question if he and Jeanette were in on something nefarious together. “I don’t think he was the father.”
“Why do you say that?”
She gave me a “don’t make me say it out loud” look. She wasn’t comfortable discussing people’s ethnicity and it seemed she was equally uncomfortable discussing someone’s sexuality.
“Let’s just say the baby didn’t look like him,” she said, avoiding anything inappropriate. For a gossip blogger, she held pretty high standards.
The fact that the person behind the placement of the story was the subject of the story itself was a puzzler that I still couldn’t quite comprehend. I probed to see if Jeanette gave any kind of insight into why she was doing it.
“I asked her that. She was vague and didn’t really want to answer. She was quick to point out that it definitely wasn’t for money. I sort of believed her.”
I moved off the events in the past and focused my attention on the future. Standard practice in Corporate America was to conclude every meeting with someone asking, “What are our next steps?” It was an admirable attempt to convince everyone that, although we had just sat around talking nonsense for fifty-five minutes, it wasn’t without purpose and we needed concrete proof that it was all worthwhile. Humans have an enduring desire to feel like we are making progress.
For me, I didn’t want to let a lever go un-pulled. I needed this woman as an ally if Jeanette ever contacted her again. And although it was unlikely, perhaps she could be used to lure her back home. But I didn’t want her to think that she could exploit this situation for more money. Given her recent negotiation skills, I deemed this risk rather low.
“We could use your help, if you are up for it.” I handed her my business card and scribbled my personal number on the back. “If you ever hear from Jeanette, please call me first. The family would be grateful.”
She watched me take a quick glance around the cramped studio apartment and her face expressed a look of shame. I never intended to make her feel bad. It was an unfortunate habit of mine when meeting people like her in Los Angles. I felt the urge to piece together their history that led them to their current situation – a bright, personable-enough woman with a set of values still intact, sitting in a crummy apartment, picking her feet, and waiting for the sun to go down to provide at least a modicum of relief from the heat.
“Never thought I’d end up in a job like this,” she said, as if sensing what I was wondering.
I pointed to the card she held in her hand.
“If some copy editor positions open, I’ll let you know. We could always use a good proofreader.”
This appeared to bring a little bit of brightness to her day. My desire for progress equaled everyone else’s.
***
With one step in purgatory, I decided to make the full leap into hell.
Pacoima was another ten miles from the North Hollywood apartment. On the drive there, the flirting-with-triple-digits heat was consummated and never looked back. The change in temperature from the climate-controlled car to the blacktop surface of the parking lot at Sheila Lansing’s convalescent home involved a thirty-degree swing. The initial thrust was oddly pleasant, like the first moments of a hot shower. But then the oppressive nature of the heat enveloped me and for a brief instant, I thought I would collapse on the walk from my car to the front door of the home. The heat coming off the pavement somehow felt hotter than the one scorching the back of my neck.
The handle on the glass door was as hot as a pan left carelessly over an unattended burner. I scurried into the lobby and eagerly breathed in the antiseptic-scented air.
“It’s a hot one,” the front desk attendant chirped.
“My word,” I replied. “How do you handle it?”
“It’s a dry heat, so it’s not so bad.” Dry or not, that kind of heat was unbearable.
“I’d like to see Sheila Lansing.”
“Why, of course. Let me have someone show you there.” She picked up the phone and scanned the numbers. “The old girl is getting quite a treat today,” she said absently.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“So many visitors in one day.”
The attendant put the phone down when she saw a young man in scrubs passing by. She asked him to escort me upstairs. I looked around and but didn’t see the attendant I was really interested in.
“Is the other attendant in?” I asked casually. “I forget her name but she’s Filipino, dark hair, wears it in a braid…” They didn’t seem to make the connection, “…a little heavy-set?”
The front desk attendant and my escort shared an awkward look.
“Tala? She’s not here today.”
“Do you expect her?”
“Hard to say, honestly.”
There was hesitancy in her voice. To me it sounded like she hadn’t been to work in a while and no one seemed to know why.
I was led upstairs to the second-floor balcony. A mister and fan system blew micro-droplets of water that provided instant relief when it touched your skin but tasted like rust when you breathed it in.
Sheila was in her normal spot, covered again in a blanket though this time with a light cotton fabric. She was the only resident out at that time.
“Ms. Lansing, the heat index is—” but the old woman cut off the attendant before he could finish his warning.
“If I like it, I like it,” she reasoned with a dismissive wave. “You’re back,” she said to me.
“Surprised to see me?”
“A little. Must be bad news,” she guessed. “What happened to her?”
“She hasn’t come home.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“And she’s a new mom.” I let those words sink in. She stared at me but didn’t give much up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“If you only recently found out yourself, then that means Carl didn’t tell you either. Did you ask him why he kept it a secret?”
“I did.”
“Did he give you an answer?”
“Nope.”
“But you want one from me. Okay, I will prove I am the better person. I like her and didn’t want to betray her confidence.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to her?”
“It’s been a while. Not since before you and I last met.”
“Have you tried to contact her?” I asked.
“Now that you tell me she has had the baby, I just might.”
“Do you happen to know where she is staying? Even if it’s just a town, that’d be helpful.”
“I don’t.”
Clearly she wasn’t in the frame of mind to give up much information. I asked her to let me know if she hears from Jeanette. And if she did talk to her, that she try to persuade the girl to return home. The old woman acknowledged the request but didn’t say outright whether she was going to agree to it.
“Whatever happened to that nurse, the angry one?”
“She hasn’t shown up for work this week. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
I leaned back and looked down at the empty rows of glide chairs.
“Not a lot of visitors today,” I commented. “Must be the heat.”
“There aren’t many on any day,” said Sheila. “You’re my first visitor in a while,” she felt the need to add and instantly gave herself away.
We chatted about nothing for a few minutes longer, mostly about the heat, then I got up to excuse myself. A few feet from the door, I turned back.
“Just so you know,” I told her, “I’m not working for Carl anymore. He dismissed me over an indiscretion that I didn’t commit. He knew I didn’t do it but he fired me anyway. If I had to guess, this outcome was inevitable all along and if I was smart I would just go home and mind my own business.
“But I’m not smart and I’m not ready to quit. I’ve never met this kid, I don’t have anything at stake in it, but somehow I still feel responsible for bringing her home. Maybe her family is screwed up but most families are. It’s still better than being out there all alone.”
I made it no more than three steps towards the door.
“Sit back down, please,” she instructed. Once I was back in the chair, she admitted that she had seen Jeanette earlier that morning. I assumed she had but didn’t tell her so. “She has a handsome little baby.”
“So it’s a boy?”
“Yes, Carl has his heir,” she spat. “You know I am childless?”
“You mentioned it before.”
“But you don’t know why.” I told her I didn’t. “Let’s just say it wasn’t because of a lack of desire and it wasn’t because of a lack of ability.”
“So what other reason is there?”
“Fear,” she answered. “Fear of Carl.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate, Ms. Lansing, because if I am understanding you correctly that is a pretty big accusation.”
“I didn’t make an accusation, I just described a feeling I had,” she parsed as if in fear of a libel suit. “I was scared of what he could do. He is, as you may guess, prone to abusive behavior.”
“That’s still a broad term. What kind of abuse are you referring to?” I probed.
“Well, I never had a child,” she replied. “That should answer it for you. And that’s why I don’t think Jeanette should go back to that household.”
“But she lives with her mother,” I reminded her. “And could even stay with her dad if she wanted to.”
She smiled at me.
“I’ve heard about those two from Jeanette. They will do anything to stay on Carl’s good side. There’s too much money in it,” she said and despite the ugliness in her words there was a vein of truth in them.
This time she volunteered to let me know if and when she was in contact with Jeanette. I lingered, but she quickly picked up on my discomfort in the heat and offered to walk me to the door. Or, I walked her as she clung to my arm with brittle fingers.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t question that decision,” she mused. “They say when you have a child, all of your concerns are thrown out the window because you have just one concern now. Then again,” she reasoned, “everyone in this home was placed here by their children, except me. I had to come here on my own.” She paused to reflect on that decision. “I don’t know which situation is sadder.”
On my way out, I once again stopped by the front desk and spoke to the attendant. She was trying to find order to a pile of paperwork and it looked like the paper was getting the best of her.
I interrupted her efforts. “Excuse me, is there a way I could leave a small gratuity for the staff for taking such great care of my aunt?” I asked.
“Why that is very thoughtful of you,” the woman beamed.
“I’d like to leave it for the attendant I asked about earlier.”
The beam got a little duller.
“Oh, okay. Well, you can leave it with me.”
I took some of the cash I had on me to bribe the gossip blogger and started to hand it to the woman, but then had second thoughts and awkwardly pulled the bills back.
“Maybe I should just write a check,” I said to the woman.
“However you prefer,” she said icily.
“Tala…” I said. “…what was her last name again?”
SOCIALIZATION
The coincidences were too numerous to justify using that word anymore. People and places were integrally linked in a knotted mess that I had little hope I could ever untangle. I decided to focus on the connection of the nurse at the convalescent home. The fact that she hadn’t shown up for work in days without an excuse was further proof that something was amiss. Still to be decided was whether she was coercing Jeanette or in collusion with her. Either way, I knew if I found Tala, I would find a path to Jeanette.
I gave the job to Badger. With my interview fast approaching, I couldn’t risk pulling a disappearing act at work. Presence was an important quality for senior leadership and an empty office was not the ideal way to foment an image of serious engagement in my work. And although the interviews would grant me ample time to meet and discuss my qualities and ideas with the decision-makers, there was a necessary pre-step I had to take if I had any chance of succeeding.
“Socialization” was the new buzzword at the office. With so many new ideas and initiatives being pitched at once and so little mental “bandwidth” (and will) to process them all, leadership demanded they hear about each pitch on an individual basis before the actual meeting. The reason was clear: no one liked to be taken by surprise. This resulted in a mini-campaign of sorts, often off the calendar, where you were expected to make the rounds to the various offices of the decision-makers for a quick “drop in” chat. You’d float the idea, get some initial feedback, and then agree that it would be good to discuss in the larger group. In the military world, this was known as “softening up the hill.” In the corporate world, it was how people filled up their calendars. One meeting with ten people quickly became eleven meetings when you added in all of the individual ones.
I was so busy running around on my socialization work that I missed the breaking story – Nelson Portillo was wanted for questioning in the murder of Morgan McIlroy. She was apparently last seen with him leaving a restaurant in Silver Lake. They had a school photo of the Portillo boy and despite the menacing words “Wanted for questioning” emblazoned over it, the kid still didn’t look like he could kill another human being. There was no mention of Jeanette in any of the articles.
I foolishly put a call in to Detective Ricohr and unfortunately for me he picked up.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Restic? Do you want to confess?”
“No, but you have the wrong person in the Portillo boy.”
“Now why would you know anything about that?” he asked, surprised. “Maybe you should be a person of interest in the girl’s murder.”
I hadn’t thought through the phone call and was now getting myself entangled in a difficult situation. Previously, when I met with Detective Ricohr, I was not forthcoming with the details around Jeanette’s disappearance because of some vague notion of client privilege, if there even was such a thing. But now having been summarily dismissed from my role as private investigator, so too was I released from any obligations to Valenti and his precious privacy.
“I may not have given you all of the facts when we first met,” I confessed.
“I’m sure of it. Care to make amends?”
I told him what I knew – most of it, anyway. I explained the reason for meeting with Morgan in the first place and was clear the missing girl I was after was in fact, Valenti’s granddaughter.
“You have a way of tangling with some pretty powerful people,” he commented but it sounded more like a warning than anything else.
I purposely avoided mentioning the original payment Hector made to Nelson’s brother. I knew how quickly this would be misinterpreted as further proof of Nelson’s potential guilt. And I conveniently left out the part where Nelson tried to run me over and the time he tried to escape out the window and then stood me up in the Rally’s parking lot. Reviewing all of the stuff I left out of the narrative made me half-wonder if Nelson should be a suspect after all.
The other big piece that was conveniently left out of what I told Detective Ricohr was any mention of Hector Hermosillo – the knife fight in the street and the prior arrest for murder in 1963. From what I knew about Detective Ricohr, he wasn’t your typical cop. He was a pragmatist and didn’t follow the easy route. But despite all that, I withheld the details about Hector because reasonable or not, cops tended to latch onto things and not let go. The last thing I wanted was the full weight of the Los Angeles Police Department to come down on my little magician friend. He didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.
“I’m only telling you all this because I have met with the Portillo boy and there simply isn’t any way he could have done what you are saying.”
“I never said he did,” Ricohr corrected me.
“Come on, Detective, his face is plastered all over the news. No one is going to split hairs when they see his mug in connection with the girl’s murder. Right now, in the eyes of the public he is already guilty and it’s only a matter of bringing him in for his punishment.”
“You can’t base police work on a ‘feeling’ someone has for a suspect after meeting them for five minutes,” he chided but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. He was a decent soul and he was a better detective. “So you think the girl’s murder is connected to the disappearance of the Valenti girl?”
“I do. There’s something deep running under all of this that I haven’t yet figured out. It could be about money.”
“It often is. This Gao Li – he sounds pretty motivated to get back at the old man.”
“Very motivated. His family hasn’t had the best of experiences with Valenti, to say the least. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Most people who do deal with Valenti come out on the short end.”
There was a short pause.
“You still holding some anger towards the old man?” he asked me straight out.
“I may hate the man,” I told him, “but not enough to do what you’re implying.”
My word seemed enough for him and he let it go.
“Why hasn’t the family contacted the police?”
“Publicity.”
“That sounds thin,” he ruminated.
“Or selfish.”
“Or both. I could alert my colleagues in Missing Persons, if you think that would help. We don’t necessarily need the family to file a report if we think the girl is in danger, but it doesn’t make it easy without the family’s involvement. Especially this family,” he added.
I reasoned that it might do more harm than good. I didn’t want to spook Jeanette by having her face plastered all over the news along with Nelson’s and provoke her into doing something drastic.
“I’m glad you said that,” he admitted. “Seven years from retirement and the last thing I need is to get run out before I’ve reached the eighty percent mark.” Detective Ricohr and I shared the golden handcuffs also known as a “secure retirement.”
“There’s nothing much I can do about the Portillo kid now,” he continued. “Maybe I was a little hasty but let’s remember, he is the last person to see the victim alive.”
“Other than her killer,” I amended.
“We’ll see about that.”
“I’m going to prove you wrong,” I told him, feeling my oats.
“Listen, pal,” he fired back, “I’m letting it go that you lied to me when I first approached you about the girl’s murder. But I am going to be very clear right here and now – if you pull that again, I am not going to be in a forgiving mood. You learn anything about anyone, you call me first. And if I hear otherwise…”
“There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Fuck off,” he said and hung up on me.
