H Is for Homicide

  Once the dog had been removed, I helped myself to a beer and then took a seat in a wide-armed upholstered chair on the far side of the room. I pulled my feet up under me just in case there were vermin cruising at floor level. For now, there was nothing to do except sip my beer. I laid my head against the chair back. The false high I'd experienced in the car had now drained away, replaced by a thundering weariness. I felt heavy with fatigue, as if tension had generated a sudden weight gain.

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, someone had removed the half-empty beer bottle from my hand and was giving my arm a gentle shake. I woke with a start, turning to stare at the woman blankly, trying to reorient myself. Oh, yeah. Bibianna. I was still caught up in the aftermath of the shoot-out between Chago and Jimmy Tate. Luis and Raymond were still in the apartment, but the others had gone.

  Bibianna was looking better, some of the old confidence in evidence. She was wearing a thick white terrycloth robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She smelled of soap. Her face had been scrubbed, shining now with the wholesome look of youth. She went into the kitchen and fetched herself a beer. Raymond, still on the phone, followed her with his eyes. I felt a surge of pity. He was a good-looking man, but his longing was unabashed and gave him a hangdog appearance. Now that Bibianna's cockiness had resurfaced, his uncertainty had surfaced, too. He seemed needy and insecure, qualities most women don't find that appealing. The macho swagger I'd seen earlier had been undercut by pain. He must have known she didn't give a rat's ass about him. The power had shifted, lodging now with her where it had once lodged with him.

  "Come on. I got some clothes you can borrow," she said.

  "I'd kill for a toothbrush," I murmured as we moved toward the bedroom.

  She stopped, glancing back at Luis, who was now perched up on the kitchen counter. "Run over to the Seven-Eleven and pick up a couple of toothbrushes."

  He didn't respond to the request until Raymond snapped impatient fingers at him. Luis hopped down and crossed to Raymond, who shoved some crumpled bills at him. As soon as he'd left, Raymond turned on Bibianna. "Hey. You don't talk to him like that. Guy works for me, not you. You treat him with a little respect."

  Bibianna rolled her eyes and motioned me into the bedroom with her.

  The room had been furnished with more of Raymond's roadside taste. The bed was king-size with red satin sheets and a big puffy comforter. The bed tables and chest of drawers looked like wood veneer over particleboard, in a "Spanish style," which is to say lots of black wrought-iron hinges and pulls. Bibianna slid the closet door open. "He moved all of my clothes from my other place. He didn't even ask me," she said. "Look at this. He thinks he can buy me, like I'm up for sale."

  The wooden rod was crammed with hanging clothes, the long shelf above stacked with sweaters, handbags, and shoes. She crossed to the bureau and started opening drawers full of underwear, most of it new. She found me a pair of red lace underpants with the store tags still attached. She offered me a bra, which I declined. No point in putting apples in a sack meant for cantaloupes. In addition to the underwear, she rounded up some sandals, a red miniskirt with a matching red leather belt, and a white cotton peasant blouse with puff sleeves and a drawstring at the neck.

  As she handed me the garments, she murmured, "Get out if you have the chance."

  "What about Raymond?"

  "Don't worry about it. I can handle him."

  "Everything okay?"

  Raymond was standing in the doorway. He'd taken off his sport coat and his shoulders looked narrow without its bulk.

  She turned on him in a flash. "Do you fuckin' mind? We're having a private conversation here if it's any of your business."

  He flicked a look at me, embarrassed.

  "I think I'll take a shower," I murmured.

  He held out a package. "Here's your toothbrush."

  "Thanks."

  I took the bag and moved past him, eager to escape. There's nothing worse than being present when a couple gears up for battle. Both were making covert attempts to enlist my sympathy, and the nonverbal recruitment process was making my stomach churn.

  I went into the guest bathroom and locked the door behind me. I hung my tank top over the doorknob to discourage anyone from peeping through the keyhole. My toes started curling at the state of the bathroom, which had all the charm one might picture in a military latrine. I've never been good at walking around barefoot in public locker rooms, where the floors always seem to be littered with hair, rusted bobby pins, and disintegrating clumps of spongy wet Kleenex. I won't describe the sink. The glass shower door had been cracked and mended with plumber's tape, and the metal track in which the door slid was crusty with soap scum. A long pointed stain extended from the shower head to the top of the tub itself. There was a plastic bottle of generic shampoo in the corner and I picked it up gingerly, my lips pursing with distaste.

  I put paper on the rim of the toilet and availed myself of the facilities. While I was sitting there, I extracted Dolan's telephone number from my right sock. I committed it to memory, tore the slip of paper in tiny pieces, and tossed them in the bowl, flushing it afterward. The water wouldn't go down. The tiny pieces of paper, like confetti, whirled around and around with an agonizing laziness while the water level rose dangerously close to the rim. Oh, great. The toilet was going to overflow. I began to wave my hands, whispering, "Get back... get back." Finally, the water subsided, but I didn't care to try to flush again until the tank refilled. I cupped a hand to my ear without picking up any indication that this was happening. If Raymond burst in, would he fish out the pieces of the note and try to paste them all together? Surely not.

  I opened the toilet tank. There were plastic packets taped along the sides of the tank... probably heroin or cocaine. Now there's a concept. If the cops ever raided the place, they'd sure be fooled by that. One of the pouches was jammed up against the ball cock machine. I pushed it aside and rattled the lever. The tank began to fill. Finally, the toilet flushed with gallumphing sounds – a triumph of personal ingenuity and low-grade plumbing skills. My Dick Tracy secret code was safely washed out to sea.

  The shower water was tepid to begin with, but I managed to lather myself with a tiny bar of soap that said "Ramada Inn." I shampooed my hair and was just rinsing it when the hot water ran out. I finished in haste. The only towel in the bathroom was thin, stiff, and dingy from use. I patted myself dry with my tank top and got dressed.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, dirty clothes in hand, the apartment was quiet. I peered into the living room. Luis had apparently gone home. Raymond and Bibianna were nowhere in sight. The door to the master bedroom was closed, and I could hear voices raised heatedly in Spanish. I leaned my head close, but I really couldn't understand a word of it. I returned to the living room. Perro had been secured to the couch again, and he was chewing happily on the leather portion of the chain leash mat restrained him. The minute he saw me, he rose to his feet, the hair standing up along his back in a ridge. He lowered his head and began to hum down in his chest. To reach the front door, I'd have to pass within inches of him. Skip that, I thought.

  The telephone, a touch tone, had been sitting on the coffee table. Now there was no sign of it. I scanned the room without result. Apparently, Raymond had unplugged the instrument at the jack and had taken it into the bedroom with him. That wasn't very trusting. I backed up, turning left into a short hallway. The other bedroom contained a dilapidated brown couch and a bare mattress with a couple of pillows minus the cases.

  I went to the window overlooking the street. I flipped open the locking mechanism and pushed at the aluminum-framed sliding window, which I managed to hump back in its track with a minimum of squeaks. It's not that I was looking for an immediate avenue of escape. I just like to know where I am and what's possible in the event of an emergency. I leaned close and angled my head so I could see in all directions.

  To my right, the face
of the building was shabby and plain, a sheer drop of some twenty-plus feet to bare sidewalk. No balconies, no wood trim, and no trees within range. From what I could see, this was a neighborhood of tacquertas and strip joints, auto body shops and pool halls, all of it as torn and deserted as a war zone. I checked to my left and was heartened to see a zigzagging metal stairway. At least in a pinch, I'd have access to the world at large.

  I surveyed the room behind me, so exhausted I could hardly stand. I opted for the lumpy couch, which was slightly too short to stretch out on fully. The cushions smelled of dust and stale cigarette smoke. I pulled my knees up and crossed my arms, hugging them in against me for solace. I didn't care what was happening, I had to get some sleep.

  When I woke, I could tell from the slant of light in the room that it was close to four o'clock. The days had already begun to seem truncated, the premature darkness signaling the sudden onset of winter. At this point, annually, all the furnaces are turned on. The new cord of oak is delivered and stacked. This is the season when Californians, by agreement, begin to bring out their woolens, complaining loudly of the cold when it's only fifty degrees out – as close to freezing temperatures as we're likely to get.

  The apartment was still quiet. I got up and tiptoed out to the living room. Perro was snoring, but I figured it was just a ruse. He was hoping I'd try to sneak past him so he could leap up and tear my ass off. I edged to my left, into the dining area, which formed a straight line with the galley-style kitchenette. I'd popped in there briefly when I helped myself to a beer, but I hadn't been able to check for exits. I was hoping for a back door, but the kitchen was a dead end and there didn't appear to be any other way out.

  I glanced over at the kitchen table, which was still covered with stacks of papers. I picked up a sheaf and sorted through. What ho! Well, at least now I knew what had made the guy so cross. These vicious-looking batos locos had been licking their pencil points, trying to fill out insurance forms for a series of bogus injuries they couldn't even spell right. "Wiplash" and "bruces" and "panes in my looer and uper bake." One had written: "Were drivin north wen this car hit us from behine and nockt us into a telepone phole. I bump my hed on the winsheld, suffrin bruces. Ever sins the acident, I hadve wiplash and panes in my nek. Also, bad hedakes, dobull vishun and shootin panes in my bake."

  The attending physician on most forms was a Dr. A. Vasquez, with a chiropractor named Fredrick Howard running a close second in popularity. Now that I looked closely, I realized that all the "victims" had given identical accounts of their "accidents." What Tomas had been doing was copying out the same information on form after form. Properly briefed or not, my investigative instincts began to stir and I could feel my excitement mount. This was part of what Dolan and Santos were looking for, grand theft in progress with the names of the players spelled out nice and neat. There was no sign of a file cabinet, from what I'd seen so far, but Raymond had to keep all the paperwork somewhere. I chose a completed claim form at random, folded it quickly, and shoved it down my blouse front, patting it into place. I left the remaining papers as I'd found them and returned to the spare room, crackling faintly as I walked. When I reached the doorway, I spotted Raymond standing near the window, going through the pouch of personal possessions I'd brought with me from the jail.

  "Help yourself. All I got on me is ten bucks," I said from the doorway.

  If he was embarrassed to be caught, he gave no indication of it. There was a brief pause while he went through a series of tics we both ignored. "Who's Hannah Moore?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Hannah Moore's not your real name."

  "It isn't? Well, that's news to me." I tried for a tone somewhere between facetious and perplexed.

  "This driver's license is a fake." He tossed the license on the floor and turned his attention to the other items in the.

  "If it's any of your business, my license was suspended about a month ago," I said snappishly. "A friend of mine put this one together for me. You have a problem with that?" I crossed the room and snatched it from the floor, plucking the plastic pouch from him in the same agitated movement.

  "I don't have a problem," he said. He seemed amused by my display of temper. "How'd you get your license yanked?"

  "I was picked up on a DUI. Two of 'em since June."

  I could see him digest the information, undecided at this point whether he believed me or not. "What happens if you get stopped by a cop and he runs the fake?"

  "I'll end up in jail again. What difference does it make?"

  "So what's your real name?"

  "What's yours?"

  "Where's your car at?"

  "Out of commission. I need some work done on the tranny, but I don't have the bucks."

  We locked eyes. His were large and darker than I remembered. He needed a shave, his jaw shadowed by a day's growth of beard. He'd changed into casual slacks and a short-sleeved silk shirt in a teal shade that made his eyes look very warm. His taste in clothing was sure classier than his taste in household furnishings. I had to guess he was making money, especially if what Santos said was true. Raymond's neck jerked, after which he turned his head and yelled something with his hand against his mouth as if coughing.

  I heard the door to the master bedroom open. A moment later, Bibianna padded into the room. She was barefoot, wearing a short white silk shift that made her skin seem dark by contrast. She stood in the doorway while she lit a cigarette, watching me with interest, her eyes unreadable. She had her hair pulled up in a slatternly knot on the top of her head. Her gaze slid over to Raymond. "Where's the telephone?"

  "It's broken."

  "It's not broken. I saw you using it a little while ago."

  "Now it is. You don't need it."

  "I want to call my mother."

  "Some other time," he said.

  She pushed away from the doorframe and turned on her heel, disappearing down the hall toward the living room.

  He stared after her. A nearly imperceptible tic had started near his mouth. He did a neck roll and moved his right arm in its socket to ease the tension. The man had to be exhausted at the end of a day. He shook his head. "I don't get it. I've done everything for her. Bought her clothes. I take her fancy places, get her anything she wants. She doesn't have to lift a finger. She doesn't even have to work. I took her on a big cruise. Did she tell you about that?"

  I shook my head.

  "You ask her. She'll tell you. All the food you could eat. They had a six-foot swan made of ice, this fountain pouring champagne. I get her this apartment. You know what she says to me? It's trash. She hates the place. What's the matter with her?" His bafflement was mixed with belligerence. "Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me what I have to do yet."

  "I'm not exactly an expert on what makes a relationship work."

  "You know the problem? I'm too nice. It's the truth. I'm too good to the woman, but I can't help myself. That's just how I am. We were all set to get married. Did she tell you about that?"

  "You mentioned it, I think."

  "She broke my heart and I can't figure out why she did it..."

  "I got news for you, Raymond. You can't hang on to someone who doesn't want to be here."

  "Is that it?" He studied me so intently that for a moment I thought I might actually persuade him to let go of her. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his look brooding in the fading light.

  "Raymond?" Bibianna called him from the living room. "What's this?"

  "What."

  A moment later, she reappeared. She had a knife in her hand, a narrow switchblade with a bone handle. The blade was dark with dried blood.

  His eyes settled on the knife. "Where'd you get that?"

  "It was on the kitchen counter. This is yours. I recognize it."

  He held his hand out, ignoring the original question. I thought about the smashed mirror tiles and the broken chair leg, blood splattered on the wall. Hesitantly, Bibianna placed the knife in his hand, her expression troubled. Again, the
power had shifted. He pressed a button on the handle, easing the blade into its slot. He tucked it in his pants pocket. He blinked. He jerked his head to the side and his mouth opened wide.

  She watched him with caution. "Where'd all the blood come from?"

  "Put your clothes on. I'll take you out to dinner. We can bring something back for her," he replied.

  I felt a momentary stir of excitement, longing for a short period of unsupervised time.

  "Why can't Hannah go? She's probably starving."

  "She can have a bowl of chili until we get back. There's a big pot on the stove."

  I spoke up casually. "Really, Bibianna. I'm fine. I'll just keep the dog company." Like me and Perro were old pals. I was dying to be alone, eager to get a call through to Dolan while I could.

  The two of them went through a long debate – where to go, what to wear, whether they should wait for Luis and make a foursome out of it. I could feel my stomach shrivel from anxiety, but I didn't want to seem too impatient for their departure. Raymond was all in favor of waiting for Luis, but Bibianna said she didn't want to eat a meal with him and Raymond didn't press. I could feel myself mentally shifting from foot to foot.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  They didn't leave until nearly seven, after an agony of argument and indecision. Perro remained in his usual place by the door, gnawing on his chain. He had the kind of teeth you might see on a dinosaur skeleton, perfect for grinding up alligators and other modest-size mammals. Once the door closed behind them, I headed for the spare bedroom, where I took a minute to fish the claim form out of my bodice and tuck it under one of the couch cushions for safekeeping. Then I began to search for the missing telephone. I started in the master bedroom, checking every drawer. I couldn't believe he'd have stashed the phone among her possessions, so I skipped her chest of drawers and concentrated on his. She'd probably gone through a brief search herself without luck.