Her voice grew hazy.
“Yeah, I remember. This is weird.”
Weird was a bad sign.
“When I search her name, I get the Caddie and the Porsche, but not the Lexus. When I search the tag, I get the Lexus, but not the Caddie and Porsche.”
I said, “Weird.”
“Must be a glitch in the system. I’ll get back to you.”
Driving a vehicle registered to the real Meryl even though the real Meryl didn’t own the vehicle sounded like more than a glitch. I wondered how she did it.
I sat behind the tow truck until I was ten minutes late, then backed away and circled the block. I was turning into the parking lot when Scott James called. I wanted to answer, but let it go to voice mail. The imitation Meryl Lawrence had my undivided attention.
I parked, and got into her car.
“Nonfat, no-whip mocha and a skinny vanilla latte. Take your pick.”
Her expression hovered between a smile and a frown, as if she didn’t know what to make of the coffee. She chose the vanilla.
“You must have good news.”
I sipped the mocha. Cold.
“The florist remembered Charles.”
She eyed me over the vanilla, waiting.
“Is he the man in your drawing?”
“No. They couldn’t offer much in the way of a description, but he’s not the man in the sketch. That’s definite.”
I couldn’t tell if she thought this was good news or not.
“But they remembered him?”
“You don’t like the coffee?”
“I don’t give a shit about the coffee. What do they remember?”
“Mid to late forties, brown-on-brown, suit. A generic business type. He told the clerk the flowers had to be impressive. Sounds like the kind of turd you thought he’d be. Trying to take advantage.”
I sipped more mocha, and pushed her with Lerner.
“The good news is, I’m closer to Lerner. I got a line on Jacob’s old friends. They’ll know Lerner for sure, and someone will know how to reach him.”
Her nostrils flared, as if she resented the subject.
“Let’s go back to Charles. Did you speak with Amy’s neighbors?”
“I didn’t go back to her house. I won’t find anything new, and asking her neighbors about Charles is only a waste of time.”
“Your time has been paid for. Maybe one of her neighbors saw him. Maybe she gossiped about him.”
She was definitely all about Charles.
“Speaking of which, my time is something I want to discuss. We need to reconsider our arrangement.”
“Excuse me?”
“I quoted a price based on what you told me, which didn’t include a murder and a police investigation. The police are all over me, and I’m working around the clock because you’re in a rush. Two thousand dollars doesn’t cut it. I want another three.”
“You’re trying to screw me.”
“I’m getting close, Meryl. Amy and Charles are in the crosshairs.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re close. It sounds like you’re ripping me off.”
“The flowers weren’t delivered to Amy’s home. Charles sent them to a house in Silver Lake. I think she’s living there. Maybe with Charles.”
“Where?”
“Three thousand.”
“You’re making this up.”
“You hired me because I’m good. You want to part ways, fine, we can part. I’m close.”
She didn’t seem as angry as I expected. She was breathing fast, but she looked hungry and excited.
“I’ll give you another thousand.”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“A thousand tomorrow, and another if you find her in the next two days. If you find her today, you’ll get both plus a five hundred bonus.”
“Sounds good.”
She dropped the latte into the parking lot.
“You’d better find them, you sonofabitch. Get out.”
I got out, and went to my car. She backed up fast and drove hard to the nearest exit. She was angry, but I thought she was also scared. I waited until she was gone, then tapped Joe Pike’s number.
Pike said, “I’m on her.”
The woman who would be Meryl Lawrence had secrets, but my secrets were better.
41
SCOTT JAMES left a message that was short and direct.
“If you meant it about helping, call me. I’m on my way to the Boat.”
I was surprised and relieved. The liar Meryl had pushed me harder than ever to find Charles, and find him quickly. Charles had told Amy their deal would close in a couple of days. I didn’t have to be the World’s Greatest Detective to see the connection. The secret Meryl knew about Amy’s upcoming deal, and wanted to find Charles before the deal closed. Since she knew about Charles, the deal, and the Echo Park house, it seemed likely she knew about the man in the sport coat. I wanted the man in the sport coat, and so did Scott James.
I tapped the callback, and Officer James answered.
“Did you mean it, when you offered to help?”
His voice was low, and tense, as if people were listening.
“I meant it.”
“I want the man in the sport coat. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“You know something.”
“I know things, but not who he is. I want him, too.”
“Okay, listen. The ATF analyzed the bomb from my car. You know what taggants are?”
“Detection markers.”
Taggants had been required in plastic explosives since the nineties.
“The explosive from my car and the stuff we found in Echo Park don’t have taggants.”
I took a breath and let it out. Plastic explosives were light, stable, and as easy to shape as pizza dough. A brick of polymerized explosive could be rolled into long, thin strings or pressed flat into sheets or braided like hair. This shape-changing malleability and stability made it ideal for lunatics to sneak aboard airliners. Taggants were added to make the material detectable. Amy’s material would be perfect for the people she wanted to reach.
“Has Carter put Etana with the explosives?”
“Not yet, but they’re digging. Etana had three brothers. His oldest, Ricardo, was found in a canal down in Venice last night. Carter thinks their deaths are connected.”
I jotted the name, and crunched the numbers. Carlos Etana was too young to have been connected to Juan Medillo, but an older member of his family might have been.
“Have they checked for a connection between the Etanas and Juan Medillo?”
Scott sounded surprised.
“You know about Medillo?”
“I’m magic. I also know he’s been dead for seven years, and someone’s been paying the property tax in his name. Maybe someone named Etana.”
“I’ll try to find out. They only learned about Ricardo this morning.”
The Amy file was behind my seat. I took it out and flipped through my notes from Eddie Ditko and the title company. Nothing explained the connection between Walter Jacobi and Juan Medillo, or how Medillo had come to own Jacobi’s house. I paged to the memorial announcement. Beloved brother and son. Loving sisters and father.
“Who’s working the house?”
“Doug Stinnis and Edie Quince.”
Stinnis. The detective who called Solano.
“Did they talk to Medillo’s family?”
“They talked to the father yesterday. Stinnis didn’t like him, but they thought he was credible.”
“Meaning he has no knowledge or involvement?”
“They believed him.”
“What about the sisters?”
“They haven’t found the sisters.”
I glanced at their names in the memorial. Nola and Marisol.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Married and left town. The father says he doesn’t know where they are.”
“He doesn’t have contact info for his daughters?”
“They had a falling-out after Juan’s murder. Stinnis says it must’ve been bad. All these years later, the old man did nothing but trash talk. He says they probably knew and were ripping him off, but he hasn’t heard from them in years. Claims he doesn’t even know their married names.”
Beloved brother and son. Loving sisters and father.
“They got married, moved, and he doesn’t know their married names?”
“I’ve gotta go. Detective Stiles is looking at me.”
“One more thing.”
“I’ll call you back. I’m supposed to be looking at mug shots.”
“Has the lab work from the house come back?”
“I don’t think so. The asshole you chased sprayed the place with bleach.”
“Try to find out. See if a woman’s DNA was in the house.”
Scott was quiet a moment.
“Why are you asking about a woman?”
“Find out. Let me know.”
“I knew you knew something. You totally know something.”
“I know things, but not enough.”
I hung up and reread the memorial announcement. Seven years after Juan Medillo’s memorial, the loving sisters had vanished, and the loving father did nothing but trash talk.
Families.
The memorial announcement pictured a cross, angels, and a heavenly beam of light. It was written by Nola Medillo, and included the name and address of an Eastside church.
I dialed Information, and let the computer connect my call.
A woman named Ms. Cortez answered. I told her I was trying to reach Nola Medillo regarding a property owned by her brother. Ms. Cortez stopped me before I finished, and couldn’t have been more helpful.
“Nola’s a friend. Let me put you on hold, and I’ll call her.”
Nola Medillo’s married name was Terina. Eleven minutes later, I was crossing the city to meet her. No callbacks. No waiting. The karmic books were finally balanced.
42
NOLA MEDILLO TERINA and her husband lived in a neat frame house a few blocks north of the Pomona Freeway, less than one mile from her father. She was a trim, plain woman in her early forties. She answered the door with an awkward smile, pushing strands of hair from her face.
“This has to be a mistake. You’re confusing my brother with another Medillo.”
“No, ma’am. Juan Adolfo. Your Juan.”
I showed her a copy of the property title. She looked more amused than suspicious when she studied the document.
“Juanito couldn’t afford shoes, let alone a house.”
“You didn’t know he owned the home?”
“I had no idea. Please, come in. Is it mine now?”
Her expression and body language screamed sincerity.
I followed her into the living room, where she perched in an overstuffed chair. Her home was simple and comfortable. A gas fireplace with an ornate mantel filled the end of the room. Small vases and bowls that might have been in her family for generations dotted the mantel along with pictures of herself and her husband and siblings.
“I don’t know, Ms. Terina. I’m not here to distribute his property. I’m hoping you know how he came to own it.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Do you know the name Walter Jacobi?”
She shook her head.
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“He was Juan’s cellmate up at Solano.”
Her face darkened, but only for a moment.
“Juan wouldn’t talk about his life in the jail. When we saw him, he wanted stories from home.”
“The house belonged to Jacobi. The title changed hands while they were cellmates.”
“This is illegal?”
“No, ma’am, but someone has been taking care of the house and paying the taxes in Juan’s name.”
She looked curious.
“Pretending to be Juan?”
“In a way. The problem is, the house is being used as a place to do crime.”
She darkened again and glanced at a hutch in the corner.
“This is silly, Juan with a house. Absurd.”
The hutch was narrow and dark. A framed color photograph of a boy sat alone on the middle shelf. It stood on a thin box, as if on a pedestal. The boy appeared to be in the fourth or fifth grade, and wore a short-sleeve white shirt with a tie and his Catholic school emblem. The boy could have been her son, but I knew he was Juan, young and smiling before drugs and crime and prison. She noticed me staring.
“You see the smile? Look at his happy smile.”
I looked away from the smile.
“Ms. Cortez told me you and your sister and Juan were close.”
“The three of us, yes. Maybe me more than Marisol, but I’m the oldest.”
“Owning a house is a big deal. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”
She stared for a moment, and glanced away. Embarrassed.
“My brother was an addict and a criminal. Maybe he was ashamed, how he came to have it.”
“Your father told the police he didn’t know about the house. Was he telling the truth?”
Her eyes lost their soft warmth when I mentioned their father.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“He told them he thinks you and your sister know. He says Juan would have told you, and you and Marisol are ripping him off.”
She tensed and drew herself taller.
“My father is an asshole.”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but the police think he’s an asshole, too.”
I thought she would smile, but she didn’t.
“A horrible man. Hateful. Juan’s life was hell because of that man.”
She glanced at the smiling boy again, but now her eyes held no joy.
“For my sister and I, Juan only showed the beautiful smile and happy eyes. This is who he was to us, but not our father.”
“Someone knew about his house, Ms. Terina. If Juan wouldn’t tell you, who would he tell? Friends? A girlfriend?”
She pushed at her hair again, and went to the hutch.
“The prison sent us his things. Unfortunately, the package was sent to our father.”
She stared at her brother’s picture.
“There were letters. Some, from a special young man. My father destroyed them. He burned them in the yard like a madman.”
I saw the scene, and understood the estrangement.
“I’m sorry. It must have been ugly.”
“One, I read. Most of it, not all, before the madman took it.”
She set Juan’s picture aside, and brought the box it sat on to the couch.
“He came to the memorial. He came out of love, but my father is such an unfortunate man.”
Nola Terina opened the box, and took out the registry from her brother’s memorial. A silk ribbon marked the page where the people who attended signed their names. She ran her finger down the list, and stopped at a signature in the middle.
“Here. You see? Hector something.”
The handwriting was scrunched and difficult to read.
“Pedroia?”
“Yes. He was so nice to come.”
I copied the name as she continued.
“A sweet boy, I thought, and our father repaid his kindness with cruelty. Marisol and I, our hearts broke. We resigned as his daughters that day.”
“Hector Pedroia.”
“This was seven years ago, but he worked at a restaurant, the El Norte Steakhouse. He was a cook.”
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She phoned the restaurant for their address and gave me directions.
Hector Pedroia had left the steakhouse years ago, but the owner knew where to find him.
43
HECTOR PEDROIA’S Original Taco Cuisine food truck was parked near Chinatown not far from Union Station. The tacos were expensive, but the line was long. Pedroia was working the register while two younger cooks prepared food. The truck was painted a bright, happy aqua, and sported a handwritten menu offering tacos made with lamb shank, Cuban lechón, birria, and other designer selections. The birria was stewed goat. Not a popular meat in Anglo markets, but simmered with guajillo and ancho chiles, it was one of my favorites.
I got into line and waited.
Pedroia gave the woman ahead of me a pick-up number and change, and flashed a hurried smile.
“Yes, amigo, what would you like?”
“Two birria and a lamb.”
“Anything to drink, my friend?”
“I’m good. When the line slacks, I’d like to talk. Nola Medillo sends her regards.”
Pedroia didn’t slow or change expression. He barked my order to the cooks and rang up the tab.
“Habañero crema with the lamb? A drizzle topped with cilantro? The birria, a few slivers of radish?”
“Perfect.”
My number was forty-two. I waited with the crowd on the sidewalk, and watched the three men work. The grill cook turned out a steady supply of hand-pressed corn tortillas, grilled meats, and vegetables. The line cook, whose station was next to Pedroia, assembled each taco with flair, placed them in aqua cartons, and called out pick-up numbers. Pedroia took several more orders before he glanced my way, and said something to the grill cook. The grill cook took over the register, and Pedroia moved to the line. He filled a carton with tacos, held up the box, and gestured for me to meet him behind the truck.
Pedroia offered the carton and a handful of napkins when I arrived. He had to be in his mid-thirties, but his face was lined beyond his years.
“I didn’t mean to pull you away. I would’ve waited.”
He shrugged, as if such concerns were pointless.
“The birria was my grandmother’s. She claimed my family has made it this way for a thousand years, but she was given to fancy. I made a few changes.”