The Second Goodbye

by Patricia Smiley

  Grammy reached out and took her hand. “Before you leave I have something for you. It’s in my bedroom on the dresser in a blue velvet box.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see. Bring it to me.”

  Davie found the box and brought it back to the living room.

  Grammy looked up at her, smiling. “Open it.”

  A jaw-like hinge snapped open. Inside, resting in satin was a pair of small silver drop earrings in the shape of an upside down kite and anchored by a tiny diamond. They were vintage but classic enough to look modern.

  For a moment Davie was at a loss for words. “Poppy gave you these the day you got engaged.”

  Grammy glanced at the earrings and sighed. “He didn’t have much money so they were a big splurge for him. My mother wasn’t pleased because they were for pierced ears. Back in those days only cheap women punched holes through their skin. I thought they were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. He proposed at a diner in Santa Monica. It’s not there anymore. He put a nickel in the jukebox on the table and played ‘When I Fall in Love.’ I still remember the words of that song because I gave my heart to him completely that day. After lunch, we walked to the old Santa Monica pier and rode the carousel.”

  Davie ran her fingers over the soft velvet box to avoid thinking about the lump in her throat. “You used to wear them all the time. Why did you stop?”

  “It’s too hard to put them on anymore. Besides, I want you to have them so you always know how much Poppy and I love you.”

  The passing-of-the-heirlooms made Davie feel anxious. It seemed so final. Bear and her grandmother were the most important people in her life. The thought of losing either of them was painful to ponder.

  She put on the earrings and squeezed Grammy’s hand. “Thank you. They’re precious.”

  At the door as she was leaving, she touched the earrings and felt an unbearable weight in her chest. She recited the words that ended all her Grammy visits. “Love you.”

  Her grandmother threw an air kiss. “Love you much.”

  On the drive home, Davie turned on the car radio. If her aim was to banish the blues, it didn’t work. The wildfire near Santa Paula was still out of control. The Malibu fire continued to blast through parched canyons, destroying hundreds of acres of brush and several outbuildings. Fire crews were working 24/7. So far there had been no casualties, but the forecast looked bleak.

  Once at home, Davie parked in the carport and walked around to the front door. Inside the house, she flipped on the Tiffany lamp and dropped her car keys onto Alex’s eighteenth-century Chippendale walnut table. She set her purse on the kitchen breakfast bar, thinking about her conversation with Grammy—how a boat could be lost in Fort Lauderdale’s shallow water, whether Sabine killed Nate Gillen over a love affair, and the possibility that Sabine was a Russian spy. Except for that last theory, the others seemed credible.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten but her refrigerator held only a wilted head of iceberg lettuce and a block of Jarlsberg cheese—one slice of bread short of a sandwich. Too bad she hadn’t made it to her grandmother’s place earlier. Despite Grammy’s joking about the bad food, the menu was healthy and as a bonus they could have spent more time together.

  There was a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, a housewarming gift from Alex Camden when she’d moved in over a year ago. Davie used to think people who drank alone were losers, but tonight it might be satisfying to unwind. She stared at the bottle chilling on the rack and then closed the door. At least champagne didn’t spoil.

  She strolled into the bedroom and stored her weapon in the bedside drawer. That’s when she detected a faint aroma of smoke. It wasn’t from the nearby wildfires. It smelled of cigarettes. She didn’t smoke, nor did she allow anybody who visited to smoke for fear of damaging Alex Camden’s artwork. It was possible Alex had brought a client inside her house to show a piece of art. Except he knew she had weapons in the house and would have called or texted to let her know he was dropping by.

  The place had only one entrance, a fact that made Bear so uncomfortable he’d bought her a portable ladder with metal steps linked together by chain and a curved arm that was meant to hang over a windowsill in case of an emergency. She’d done a mental eye-roll when opening the box, even though she appreciated his concern.

  She retrieved her .45 from the drawer and walked from room to room but found nothing out of place. The front door had been locked when she came home and there was nothing to indicate her space had been breached. She was just being paranoid. Alex always had a parade of tradesmen on the property. Possibly one of them had been smoking by her window.

  Davie felt restless, so she stripped the comforter and pillows from her bed and dragged them up to the futon in the loft. She’d dubbed it the eagle’s nest because the height gave her a vantage point to watch over the property. At the last minute, she dug out Bear’s ladder and placed it at the foot of the futon near the window, just in case.

  27

  Davie couldn’t shake the feeling of unease as she arrived at work the following morning. This was the third day she hadn’t gotten a call-out for a fresh homicide. She mentally crossed her fingers before stopping at her partner’s desk.

  “Hey, Jason. You want to go for a ride?”

  He looked up from his computer. “Where to?”

  “Jefferson and the 405.”

  “Not if it involves sweating. My suit just came back from the cleaners.”

  “I just need to interview Javi Hernandez’s brother. No sweating required.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  Davie signed out the keys to a green Crown Vic and drove to the onramp of the 405 South, merging into traffic. As she always did, she periodically checked her rearview mirror, but this time looking for a white van tailing her. There was an older model Nissan SUV in the next lane that kept close to her for a while but eventually fell back and disappeared in traffic.

  She glanced at her partner. “What’s happening with your cooking class?”

  “You want to see a selfie with my teacher?” Vaughn pulled out his cell and thumbed through his album until he found the photo.

  Davie glanced at the image on the screen. “Is that a chef’s coat you’re wearing?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his tone defensive. “It gets messy in the kitchen. I picked it up at a cooking supply store after my Sauces 101 class.”

  “Picked it up? It’s got your name embroidered on the pocket.”

  His cheeks flushed. “Okay. So what?”

  “So … interesting. Let me know when you graduate from sauces and move on to pizza.”

  “Dough is week three, so don’t hold your breath.”

  The food distribution center where Daniel Hernandez worked was in a warehouse with rows of multi-tiered metal shelves stacked with boxed food and canned goods. When they walked inside, a coworker pointed to a man standing near a stack of reusable shopping bags stamped with the logo of a local grocery chain.

  Daniel Hernandez had a headset threaded through his short dark hair, bobbing his head to the music. His body was bulked up from lifting weights or maybe lifting MP5s in Afghanistan. His face and eyes were pleasantly round, the double curve of his upper lip pronounced. He looked vaguely familiar but Davie wasn’t sure why. She watched him open one of the bags and drop in a box of cereal from the nearby shelf.

  Davie called out to him as she approached. He didn’t hear her at first, so she tapped his arm. He turned, startled. He glanced at her badge and smiled as he pulled off the headphones exposing a scar running through his military haircut.

  He wrapped the headset around his neck. “You here about the open house?”

  Davie tilted her head. “Open house?”

  He paused to study her blank expression. “You’re from Harbor Division, right? They said they
’d send somebody, but I didn’t expect you today. We’re not done filling the bags, but I can get a couple more people to help if you want to wait.”

  Vaughn handed him a business card. “We’re not from Harbor.”

  He looked puzzled as he read the card. “Pacific? My mistake. We’re donating food for Harbor’s annual open house so I just assumed … so, what brings you here?”

  “I want to talk about your brother’s murder,” Davie said.

  “Which brother? Javi or Sparky?”

  Vaughn shot him a look. “Sparky?”

  “He was lit up in a drive-by a year before Javi died.”

  Davie wasn’t shocked that two members of the Hernandez family had been victims of violence. It was an all-too-familiar story. Still, she couldn’t imagine how it felt for parents to lose two sons to murder.

  “We’re here about Javi,” Vaughn said. “He was killed in Pacific Division a couple of years ago.”

  Daniel Hernandez fixed his brown eyes on her partner. “I know where he was killed, Detective. You don’t have to remind me. So, what do you want? Have you reopened the case?”

  “Unsolved homicides are never closed,” Davie said. “We’ve just taken over the investigation.”

  He grabbed another box of cereal from the shelf and stuck it in a bag. “What do you want from me?”

  “Maybe you can start by telling us about your brother,” she said. “What kind of man was he? Why do you think he was targeted?”

  He lifted his chin and glared at her, his voice cracking with emotion. “My dad worked his ass off mowing lawns to support his family. He charged forty bucks a month per client. He never raised his rates—not once—because he couldn’t afford to lose even one. My mother cleaned other people’s houses. My parents didn’t have a lot of money, but they didn’t raise us to be gangsters.”

  “How many kids in your family?” Vaughn asked.

  Hernandez blew out a puff of air. “Five. I was the oldest. Javi was in the middle. My dad died when Javi was about twelve. I had to leave school and go to work. Javi took care of the younger kids after school until my mom got home. He was a sweet kid back then.”

  “Is your mother still alive?” Vaughn asked. Davie knew she was alive but was curious what Daniel would say about their current family dynamic.

  He nodded. “She works as a school janitor now. The job is easier. The money is good and she’s got benefits. I joined the Marines because I thought everyone was okay. While I was away fighting the Taliban, some homegrown terrorist was killing another brother.”

  Vaughn’s phone chirped. He walked away to answer the call while Davie continued asking questions.

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “If I knew, he’d be dead by now.”

  “Do you know Felix Malo?”

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  “What was his relationship to your brother?”

  “Felix is a drug dealer. Javi was his loyal soldier. They were also friends.”

  “What can you tell me about Alma Velez?”

  Hernandez resumed filling grocery bags. “I know her. I went to school with her cousin.”

  “Can you describe her relationship with Malo?”

  “He wasn’t true to her. Felix screwed anybody who wasn’t in a coma.”

  “Did Ms. Velez know that?”

  He looked away, hiding his frown from her view. “Even if she did, there was nothing she could do about it.”

  “Did you know she has a baby?”

  The ex-soldier tossed a few more items in the grocery bags. “A lot of girls do.”

  “You think the baby was your brother’s?”

  He pivoted toward her, angry. “That’s crazy. Javi had more sense than that. Look, I have work to do. I have nothing more to tell you.”

  She handed him her business card. “Give me a call if you want to talk.”

  “Talk? That’s all you people do. How about finding out who killed my brother.”

  Davie chose her words carefully because she knew Daniel Hernandez was in pain. “I will.”

  28

  Plan the dive and dive the plan.

  That scuba safety mantra was worth remembering. He’d followed Saffron and her partner to the food bank, but the interview didn’t interest him, so he went back to the motel room and crashed with a bottle of Scotch and fantasies of Saffron in his bed, her eyes flickering with pleasure.

  He’d been camped out at a no-tell motel on Sepulveda for a couple of days because it offered nightly rates and was close to the police station where she worked. That suited his needs because he didn’t know how long this job would last. The place looked clean but only a black light could confirm, and he didn’t have one.

  He’d slept in worse places while on assignment. He could get used to anything if there was a payday at the end of the mission, but he was growing restless as this dull job wore on. It would end soon, he guessed. In a way, he was disappointed. Following Saffron was entertaining, but she was asking questions of the wrong people and that would eventually lead her to trouble.

  If the client decided to eliminate another threat, he’d suggest one of several plans he’d developed. The death would have to pass as an accident, so no freak heart attack or hit-and-run. He’d done that before. A drive-by might be plausible—this was L.A. after all, but that almost seemed like a cliché.

  He was stretched out on the bed, listening through the paper-thin walls to the man next door screwing a hooker when his client called, wanting to discuss the surveillance notes he’d sent by encrypted email earlier that morning. His mouth was dry as he waited for new instructions. After he got the go-ahead his body relaxed.

  As soon as he ended the call, he felt the energy escape from his gut and pulse through his arms and hands. The hooker was getting loud. He threw his cell against the wall to shut her up. He could tell by the sound of shattering plastic that the phone was toast. Didn’t matter. It was just one of many he used and he wouldn’t need that one again. He couldn’t leave the carcass for somebody to find, though, for fear they’d raise the phone from the dead. He picked up the broken parts and tossed them into his backpack.

  He was smart enough to know that eliminating one person wouldn’t stop the LAPD from uncovering the truth about his client, but it might slow them down. He would make it seem like an accident. By the time they figured out the truth, if ever, he’d be on an extended vacation, basking in the sun on a beach in Turks and Caicos. He went to his bag and reached into the pocket of the jeans he’d worn the day he’d started this job. His lock picks were there. His St. Christopher medal wasn’t. His pulse spiked as he tore through his bag and then took the room apart looking for it.

  It was gone.

  29

  Davie left the food distribution center and found Vaughn standing outside near the car, still talking on his cell. She hoped the conversation was something routine and not a new homicide. Her partner held up his index finger, indicating he’d just be a minute. A moment later, he ended the call.

  “What was that all about?” Davie asked.

  “An anonymous tip about my case. Could be nothing. Could be everything.”

  She got into the car and started the engine. “What did you think of Daniel Hernandez?”

  Vaughn joined her in the passenger’s seat. “The guy has a Sequoia-sized chip on his shoulder. At least, he must have heard rumors about his brother’s murder, so why not tell us?”

  “Maybe it’s in his best interests to keep quiet.”

  As soon as they got back to the station, Davie returned her attention to the death of Sabine Ponti. She called the insurance investigator who’d processed Jack Blasdel’s boat claim to ask if she found anything suspicious about the case.

  “Most of my cases are suspicious,” she said, “especially when there’s loss of life. In this
instance, the missing person was said to be an accomplished sailor who borrowed the boat from our insured. We first look for what’s called hard fraud. That’s when the claimant simply manufactures the loss. That wasn’t what happened here. The boat was lost. Next we determine if the claimant added fraudulent information to an otherwise legitimate claim. That’s called soft fraud. For example, saying the boat was in Bristol condition or that expensive valuables were inside when the vessel went missing. Mr. Blasdel didn’t hide the fact the boat was old and never even claimed it was seaworthy. Nor did he say there was anything of value inside. Risk Management didn’t want to invite any lawsuits, so they told me to get the claim off the books. The boat wasn’t worth much and we couldn’t prove the loss involved fraud, so we sent Mr. Blasdel a check.”

  “Did Ms. Ponti’s family ever sue?”

  “Not yet. The statute of limitations in Florida is two years. If they don’t file soon, it’ll be too late. We’re betting they’ve moved on.”

  “Do you know if Ms. Ponti had life insurance?”

  “We always check in case the amount of life insurance was unusually high, which could indicate some broader crime like suicide or even murder. Ms. Ponti was covered through her work, but the policy wasn’t worth much, twenty-five hundred dollars as I recall. Three months after her disappearance, her parents declared her dead and filed a claim.”

  “How is that possible? In California the waiting period is five years.”

  “It’s the same in Florida. It’s unusual but the family can file a petition with the court, claiming the missing person was in ‘peril of death’ at sea and in fact died. If there’s no evidence she used her credit cards or bank accounts after the disappearance and she hasn’t been seen alive, the courts can declare her dead.”