“There’s one back the way we came,” he said. “About half a mile.”
I said, “Fine,” but I couldn’t put the same decision and certainty into it that Haskell did.
At the phone booth I left the hack again, fumbled out some coins, and called Sergeant Raul Encino of Missing Persons.
Crazy people do things like that.
And God watches over crazy people. After only three or four rings, I got an answer.
“Missing Persons. Sergeant Encino.”
He sounded bored—and no one sounds as bored or indifferent or just plain world-weary as a Chicano duty officer in the middle of the night. He perked up when I identified myself, however. Deep in his heart, he was an old-world Spanish gentleman. He even resembled one, despite his uniform. Every hair and shirttail was so well behaved that it looked like he held it at gunpoint. In other words, he was just a bit arrogant, with exaggerated ideas of honor and dignity. Which was why he thought he owed me a favor.
“Senor Axbrewder,” he said. “How good of you to call.” I couldn’t miss his sarcasm—he was speaking Spanish for my benefit. “I am at your service. How many lost children do you wish to discover tonight?”
I winced at that. Last time it was seven. Nine if you counted the two who survived. “Nice try,” I replied. In English, for his benefit. “But this time you can’t cheer me up with charm. I’m in over my head, and I need a few straight facts.”
“Bueno,” he said without hesitation. “Speak.”
There was some static on the line. It sounded like fire. That poor kid hadn’t even had a chance to scream. But I tried to push burning Buicks out of my mind. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Pablo.
“In the paper this morning,” I plunged in, “I read about a missing kid. Pablo Santiago. I know his family. Ginny and I did some work for them a couple of years ago. So I went to see them.
“They don’t think he’s missing. They think he’s dead.” I took a deep breath. Encino was going to love this. “They think he’s been killed.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then he said softly, “What do you wish to know?”
From a technical point of view, he had no business knowing the answers I wanted. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to talk to me. I didn’t have a license. But I was counting on the department grapevine.
“I want to know if he’s been found. If he’s still alive.” My grip on myself slipped. I fought my voice back under control. “If he’s dead, I want to know how he died.”
Encino thought about that for a minute. Then he said, “Senor, I must put you on hold.”
I heard the click as he disengaged the receiver. The fire on the line got louder.
What fun, I muttered to myself. Joy and party hats. Back in the cab, the driver kept warm by running the engine. He looked like he was taking a nap. The skin of my face felt as stiff as sandpaper, and all my joints ached. I needed to beat someone up, just to keep my blood moving. But you can never find muggers or rapists when you need them.
I tried to imagine what Encino was doing, but all I got was phone static like roasting children.
He was gone for a long time. Nevertheless I went on waiting, and eventually he came back. “Axbrewder?” he said. “This is a different phone.” In English. “I can talk here.”
“And not a minute too soon.” To explain the shiver in my voice, I said, “I’m freezing to death.” Then I asked, “What’ve you got?”
The background crackle made him sound distant and unconcerned. “For an Anglo, you aren’t a bad man. Are you certain you want to involve yourself in this?”
“Ask me that some other time.” I didn’t want to come unglued right there in the phone booth. “I’m never sure.”What’ve you got?”
“All right.” He really did think he owed me something. “A boy tentatively identified as Pablo Santiago was found early Sunday morning, just a few hours after his family reported him missing.”
I couldn’t help myself. I cut in, “What do you mean, ‘tentatively’? Didn’t you call in the family?”
He didn’t answer that. “He was found in the South Valley, on Trujillo, lying in the road. He had a broken neck. His body was extensively bruised and scraped. The medical examiner considers it an accident. ‘Death consistent with a fall from a moving vehicle.’ The boy is presumed to have been joyriding under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I will be unable to look at the autopsy report until I go off duty.”
Through my teeth, I said, “So it was an accident. So why didn’t you call in the family?” In the name of simple decency, for God’s sake.
Encino chewed his end of the line for a while. I heard him tapping his fingers on the receiver. Then he said carefully, “The detective in charge is Captain Cason.”
I already knew that. It explained everything—and nothing. Holding onto myself as hard as I could, I said, “I know Cason. You know I know Cason. He’s a bad cop. What’s he got to do with Pablo Santiago?”
Encino’s shrug was almost audible. “The preliminary report is clear. The M.E. considers this an accident. But Cason is also investigating the death of Roscoe Chavez. He learned that Pablo ran numbers for Chavez. Perhaps the two are connected? He told the newspapers that Pablo remains missing. And he refuses to contact the family. He wishes to conceal his knowledge. He believes this secret will assist his investigation.”
That bastard. I wanted to howl, but Encino didn’t deserve to be howled at. None of this was his business.
Softly I said, “I can identify Pablo for you.”
He laughed—a short humorless bark. “Imagine Captain Cason’s delight. He will ask how you heard that Pablo had been found. You will reply that I informed you. I will be suspended. I am Chicano.” And very conscious of prejudice in the department. “Perhaps I will be fired.”
“All right,” I said. “It was a bad idea. When can you tell me what’s in the autopsy report?”
A sigh. “I may perhaps steal a look when I go off duty. Call me at home during the day.” Sounding especially world-weary, he gave me his home phone number.
“Thanks,” I said. Inadequate gratitude. “Remind me that I owe you five or six favors for this.”
He didn’t have to point out that I’d be doing him a favor by causing trouble for Cason. I already knew that, too. He just hung up.
I did the same and walked like an old man back to the warmth of the cab.
The driver asked me where I wanted to go. I almost told him to take me to the Santiagos’ home in the old part of town. Fortunately, I got my common sense back in time. Instead of doing anything rash, I gave him Haskell’s address.
The ride was bearable. The heat in the cab helped my mind go blank—which was a big improvement. But when we turned down into the cul-de-sac of Cactus Blossom and I saw Haskell’s house, my stomach started hurting again.
Ginny had been there alone for better than five hours now. I didn’t expect that she’d had any trouble. Most people don’t try to kill you a second time until they find out that the first time failed. But I was afraid she might have talked herself into a really poisonous frame of mind.
And I had to tell her what I’d learned.
One way or another, the cab driver would tell the cops where he took me. That was inevitable. But they wouldn’t have any trouble tracking either me or Haskell down anyway. And there are only so many things you can worry about at any one time. I just paid him, got out of the hack, and walked between the cedars into the black aisle toward the house.
Not knowing how else to get in without scaring Ginny and maybe getting shot, I knocked on the front door and rang the doorbell.
She took a long time answering. Long enough for me to think that maybe she was trying to tell me something. Then I heard her faintly around the edges of the frame.
“Who is it?”
The muffling made her sound faraway and frightened.
I tried to pitch my voice to reach her without disturb
ing the neighbors. “It’s Brew. I’m alone.”
I felt the door shift slightly, like she was leaning on it. Then the locks clicked, and the door swung into the darkness of the house.
I closed it behind me, relocked it.
When I snapped on the atrium lights, I found her standing near the switch panel, her back against the wall, her right hand aimed in the direction of my belly.
But she wasn’t holding her .357. She was holding a glass. The stuff in the glass looked amber and beautiful. It smelled like fine Irish whiskey.
Waiting for me all evening alone in Haskell’s house had done something to her.
Her clothes were a little rumpled. Her gray eyes looked vaguely out of focus. For some reason, the lines of her face seemed slightly smeared, like a photograph with a thumbprint on the negative.
“Where is he?”
“Ginny”—my wit never fails me—“you’re drunk.”
She tried to glare at me, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “So what? Where is he?”
“What’s the matter with you?” My stomach hurt so bad that I could hardly stand up straight. “You trying to get yourself killed? What would you have done if they tried to break in here?”
She actually giggled. “Offered them a drink.” I hated her giggle. “They don’t know we’re working for him yet. Why would they kill me?” But her amusement didn’t last. Like she didn’t realize she was repeating herself, she asked, “Where is he?”
For a second there I wanted to smack her. Then I thought better of it. Wrapping my fingers around her arm, I said, “I think you need to lie down.”
That took a while to reach her through the fog. Then she wrenched her arm away. The effort nearly made her lose her balance. “God damn you entirely to hell, Mick Axbrewder,” she pronounced, articulating each word as precisely as a piece of glass. “I asked you a question.”
When I didn’t answer, she looked for something even angrier to say. But nothing particularly scathing occurred to her. After a moment her whole body seemed to sag.
“I’m not in good shape, Brew,” she said dully. “I wasn’t in good shape before tonight, and I won’t be in good shape tomorrow. I can’t think straight. Nothing makes sense anymore. Please don’t mother me.”
It was enough to make a grown man weep. The problem was, she’d always been the strong one. The one who carried me over the rough spots. And the smell of whiskey burned in all my nerves. I didn’t think I could stand it.
But people sometimes do remarkable things because they don’t have any choice. Softly I said, “He’s staying with a friend. He thinks he’ll be safe there.” Then, because she obviously needed more than that from me, I added, “Let’s go into the den. You can at least sit down. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She didn’t move. The blur in her eyes made me think that she hadn’t heard me.
“Ginny, this whole mess is a lot worse than he told us.”
At that she nodded. Carrying herself as carefully as her glass, she turned and started down the stairs toward the den.
I wanted to catch up with her, keep her from falling. Deliberately I forced myself to stay a couple of steps back.
In the den, she sat on one end of the long overstuffed couch facing the picture window and the arroyo, leaning against the arm of the couch for support. I didn’t turn on any lights. I didn’t want anyone outside to see us. From the far end of the couch, I could only make out her silhouette in the faint glow from the atrium.
“So,” she said, a million miles away, “how was the bridge game?”
“I had a wonderful time.” I had too much to tell her, and no idea where to start. “He says he doesn’t play games. He plays people. And he’s good at it. He used me to sucker the opposition into bad bets. When it was over, he was four thousand dollars richer.”
After that, the fire came back—I could see the Buick burning in the arroyo like an auto-da-fé—and the rest of it was easy to tell. I just babbled. I didn’t forget anything. I have a good memory for details that scare me. I described everything except Pablo and the Santiagos and Encino. That was mine. And I didn’t need her to tell me that we couldn’t work on two cases at once.
I only left out the part where I’d promised Haskell that we wouldn’t drop him. I wanted to find out what she was thinking first.
But when I was done, I couldn’t tell whether she’d heard a word. She sat against the arm of the couch without moving—without even drinking—and didn’t say a word. I might’ve been talking to myself, like a kid at a campfire telling ghost stories to explain the dark.
Finally I asked, “Ginny, are you asleep?”
She turned her head slightly toward me. In a lifeless voice, she said, “I searched the house while you were gone. I didn’t find anything. He doesn’t even keep personal financial records here. If his wife wants to know anything, she has to take his word for it.”
I sat with my arms wrapped over my stomach and waited for her to go on.
“I even checked his briefcase. It was empty. He carries a briefcase without a single scrap of paper in it.”
That surprised me, more because she seemed to think it was important than because it meant anything. “Maybe it’s just for show.”
“Sure,” she said without inflection. “And maybe it was full when he took it in to work this morning.”
I didn’t understand. “So what?”
Abruptly she lifted her glass and drank the rest of the whiskey. Then she dropped the glass on the carpet. “Brew”—a dying breeze sighed in her voice—“somebody wants him dead. More people are going to get hurt. What are we going to do?”
I wanted to ask, You mean, someone besides el Senor? Do you still think Haskell’s lying? But I didn’t have the heart for it. Gently I asked, “What do you want to do?”
“This is your case,” she said. “I’m just along for the ride.” She didn’t move, but she was going away. Leaving me alone. “We’ve traded places. I used to be the one who went out and did things. Now I’m the one who sits around and drinks.” Slowly she pulled her legs up onto the cushions and curled herself against the arm of the couch. “We’ll do whatever you decide. I’m going to sleep.”
I waited until I was sure she meant it. Then I picked her up and carried her back upstairs to the master bedroom. Her face was wet with tears, and she went on crying while I undressed her and eased her under the sheets. But she didn’t make a sound.
After that I spent what felt like the hardest night of my life. Staying awake to keep her safe, in case Haskell’s enemies put in any appearance. And not drinking.
By the time dawn finally crept into the Heights, I wasn’t in a very good mood. I felt old and burned out, and I’d occupied the whole night thinking about things that scared me. Just along for the ride, huh?
I was too bitter to be civil about it, so I put one foot on the bed and bounced Ginny up and down. “Get up,” I muttered. “The ride’s about to start.”
She came awake slowly, her face puffy with sleep and too much booze. Raising her head, she looked at me. Registered the fact that she was naked under the covers in Haskell’s bed while I stood in front of her with all my clothes on.
“What time is it?” Even her voice sounded blurred.
“Around seven.”
First thing in the morning, with that broken nose, not enough rest, and too much to drink the night before, maybe she wasn’t the best-looking woman in the world. But she still made my heart ache.
Peering at me, she asked, “You haven’t had any sleep yet?”
I turned my back on her, started out of the bedroom. “Get up. We’ve got work to do.” I was an especially nice guy this morning, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. Trying to calm down, I went to make some breakfast.
Showered and dressed, she joined me in the kitchen sooner than I expected. She had the decency not to want any breakfast, but she swallowed about a quart of orange juice, ate a handful of vitamins, then started on the c
offee.
For a while she watched me eat. Then she said, “Sorry about last night. I thought I told you not to mother me.”
In the privacy of my head, I replied, I’m not your mother. At the rate I’m going, I’m not even your lover. What the hell do you think you’re doing to yourself? But I really didn’t want to have that conversation with her. Not the way I felt. So I said, “I’m surprised you remember even that much about last night.”
Charming as always.
She shot a glare at me. Instead of snapping, however, she said quietly, “I remember. Try me.”
I wasn’t really in the mood to eat. I had a belly full of sand, and too many things stuck in my throat. I picked up the dishes and put them in the sink. For once I left them.
“What’s so important about his briefcase?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Probably nothing. It just seems strange that the chief accountant of a bank carries a briefcase with nothing in it.”
I didn’t look at her. “What did we decide about this case?”
“We didn’t decide anything.” She’d recovered a bit of acid. “I said it was up to you. You gave me the distinct impression we’re still working for him. Or why did we spend the night here?”
She studied me hard. “Brew, what’s the matter?”
I couldn’t answer that, so I did the next best thing. “When the Buick blew up.” Trying not to let my voice quiver. “I’ve seen an explosion like that before. It was a gas fire.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it doesn’t take dynamite, or detonators, or anything fancy. All you need is enough wire and maybe a metal punch. A half-wit can do it. And it’s tough to prove because the wire usually gets burned or melted too badly.”
She was still a step behind me, so she didn’t say anything. I didn’t like the way her silence felt.
“Whoever followed us to that bridge club saw we weren’t using Haskell’s car. They probably didn’t need much time to find out we weren’t in it.” After stewing most of the night, I still came to the same conclusion. “They don’t know he isn’t here. They’ve had plenty of time to try again.”
She struggled for some of that famous Fistoulari self-control, but this morning it didn’t sound right. “So what’s the problem? You know what to look for. Why don’t you check the cars?”