“You can’t leave it to them,” Hannah pleaded. “You know what will happen if you leave it to them.”
“Hannah, stop. Getting hysterical isn’t going to help anyone.” Josie squared her shoulders, uncomfortable with this confrontation because it was hers alone. “We’ll find a relative, but I can’t take everyone in.”
“Billy isn’t everyone.”
The snap of those words was like a slap across Josie’s face. Hannah stood up so fast her chair toppled. She caught it and grappled with it, but it fell out of her grasp again and hit the hardwood. Max raised his head and whimpered. Archer opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. Instead, he moved to help her but thought better of it when she lunged to right it herself. Grunting in frustration she pushed her hair behind her ear. Her chocolate colored cheeks were a mottle of brick red, and her eyes glistened with tears of frustration.
“If his own mother didn’t care, why do you think anyone else in his family will?”
She lifted the chair. It landed on four legs as if to prove her argument was solid.
“Hannah, stop. He’s fine. He’s safe.” Josie reached out, hoping to reassure her but the girl shrugged her off.
“He’s not safe like he would be here.”
Grabbing her shoes off the floor, Hannah Sheraton turned and walked past the two adults. The next thing they heard was her bedroom door slam.
CHAPTER 9
1996
Teuta lay alone thinking she was glad that her father, Yilli the goat herder, was not alive to see her the way she was: unable to move, to take care of her family, to enjoy the love of her husband. Teuta felt the darkness of her heart but could do nothing to lighten it. She did not know how many days she had watched the sun come up and go down or how many times her husband had spoken to her and she had not answered. She was pondering this when the door of the bedroom opened. Her oldest daughter entered and walked softly across the room with the fussing baby in her arms. Teuta did not stir when she came to the side of the bed. She let a thought cross her mind. She thought: poor little girl, taking care of a house and a family that Teuta, the wife and mother, didn’t care about anymore.
“Nënë?”
The girl’s eyes were wide with concern. She was only nine, far too young to know about anything bad in this world, and yet she felt its evil. Poor thing, Teuta thought again, and yet she could do nothing more than lie there, look at the girl, and close her ears to the sounds the baby made.
The girl, though, was smarter and braver than her mother knew. When Teuta did not reach for her baby, the girl did not hesitate. She put him under the covers and in the bed with their mother. Teuta kept her eyes fixed on the wall, she did not wrap her arm around the little boy, nor did she breathe in the scent of him, or touch his soft skin, or let his little fingers touch her lips. She didn’t pull aside her clothing so he could suckle. It was her daughter who unbuttoned her mother’s blouse. Teuta didn’t even have the strength to stop her. She should have berated the girl but could not. Teuta tried to ignore the warm bundle that had been put in bed with her, but the baby moved and his downy little head brushed against her lips as if he was asking for a kiss. Teuta’s heart softened when his little fingers touched her nipple. He was so helpless and innocent. What was a mother to do?
With great effort, she took her child and pulled him close. She looked at his sweet face. What, she wondered, would become of him? What could his life be in this sad and hopeless place? Perhaps, it would be better than she thought. Perhaps he would grow and be well; perhaps not. Only time would tell.
“Mjaft shpejt. Një dhi e vogël rritet,” she whispered.
Yes, soon enough the small goat grows. For now he is only a small goat. She would worry later about when he was big. She pulled aside her clothing and offered the baby her breast.
2013
Mike Montoya parked his car in the driveway of Greg Oi’s home, set the brake, opened the door, swung out, and took a minute to admire his surroundings. He didn’t often have cause to come to a place like this, on a chore like this.
In Los Angeles violent death came to people on streets that ran past bars and adult bookstores, in houses where too many bodies were packed in spaces too small, or cars, or catch basins, or empty lots, or dry gutters. In the South Bay, car crashes, surfing accidents, and overdoses in pleasant houses or beachfront apartments were the norm. Murder was the exception rather than the rule. But behind the gates of Rolling Hills, a homicide investigation was rare. Then again, everything here was rare.
Down the hill, folks sweltered; up the hill people were warm. Down the hill, folks were assaulted by sounds; up the hill they were blessed with silence. Down the hill the air was heavy; up the hill it was still. Down the hill smelled like a mixture of ocean, sunscreen, fast food and exhaust; up the hill the scent of jasmine, freshly cut grass, and a hint of stables blanketed the terrain. Down the -
Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a blood-curdling scream. Mike ducked, hunkered down, and pulled his weapon only to find himself positioned and primed to execute a peacock. The damn thing had fallen out of a tree and landed on the hood of his vehicle. It struggled to its feet, craned its neck, and spread its tail feathers as it tried to impress its own reflection in the car’s windshield.
“Get off there.”
Mike hit the fender. The bird ignored him. He hit it again only to feel like an idiot when the peacock continued to admire itself. Mike tugged on his jacket and turned toward the house. The bird screeched once more as Mike crossed the curved driveway, took the low-rise steps that led to a wide entry, and pressed the doorbell. He didn’t hear it ring. When the intercom didn’t engage, he reached for the huge brass knocker shaped like a double-headed eagle. Before he could use it, the door opened and a willowy young woman in low-slung jeans and a tight little top that bared a perfect midsection appeared. She gave him a lazy look and held the door like a stripper’s pole.
“Mrs. Oi?” The young woman shook her head. Mike held up his credentials. “Mrs. Oi is expecting me.”
The woman opened the door wide enough for Mike to step inside. It occurred to him that this might possibly be a diffident daughter, entitled and dissatisfied, but that assessment didn’t feel right. If she was the maid, Mrs. Oi was a very understanding woman. If she was a friend, she didn’t seem particularly concerned about a cop at the door or the circumstances that brought him there.
“I’m Detective Montoya.” He put out his hand.
“She back.” Her accent was thick, but her English was decent.
The girl didn’t bother to shake his hand before leading him through the house. They went past a tufted ottoman the size of which Mike had only seen in an opera house. It was covered in an animal print, what animal he couldn’t say since he knew of none that walked the earth with a purple hide. A chandelier the size of a small planet hung from the domed ceiling. Inside the concave of plaster was a mural depicting snow-capped mountains, rocky hills, and an army of what appeared to be mythical warriors. There was a sweep of stairs to his left and a red and gold dining room to his right. Under his feet was a black and white marble checkerboard.
If the lady of the house was wailing and gnashing her teeth in grief, she was doing it in private. The place was cathedral-quiet and that was not pleasant. It was one thing for a sprawling house like this to be filled with kids, quite another to imagine Mr. Greg Oi sweeping down the stairs in his pink heels and satin halter dress, his bath perhaps drawn by this young lady.
“I’m sorry about your father.” Mike took a flier. The girl snorted. He went to the opposite end of the spectrum. “Have you worked for the Oi’s a long time?”
The girl sighed heavily as if she were bored silly and moved like every step required super human effort.
“Mr. Oi’s death must have been a shock,” Mike suggested.
The girl shrugged. Mike gave up trying to engage her and turned his eye to his surroundings. He felt like he was on the jungle ride at Disneyland.
In the cavernous great room the walls were painted shades of beige accented with black. The furniture was upholstered in the hides of things that at one time moved on four legs: zebra, cheetah, leopard. Impressively healthy decorative trees were rooted in pots the size of small bathtubs and crafted out of red mud. Huge abstract paintings hung on the walls. Mike paused in front of one thinking it had all the energy of a feeding frenzy.
In the next room, a mahogany bar stretched the length of one wall. The corners were carved into the heads of elephants, their trunks raised as if to call a thirsty traveler to their watering hole. There was an exquisite pool table, club chairs and a chess table. On the wall was the mounted head of an animal. It had been a beautiful thing: delicate of face, horns fragile, taffy-striped, and spiraling toward the ceiling. The glass eyes were so artistically formed that Mike could see the look of both terror and forgiveness in them. In a Plexiglas case on the bar, a stuffed rodent sat on its haunches, perpetually alert. The house was a museum full of dead, skinned, and mounted animal parts. Mike had imagined Greg Oi a more sensitive soul given his taste in fashion. Unaware that he had stopped to consider the rodent, Mike’s thoughts were interrupted by a theatrical sigh from his guide.
“Forgive me,” Mike muttered.
The young woman flipped her hair, and their safari began anew.
In the breakfast room a large glass table was set for a party of six, complete with red placemats, bamboo chargers, white bowls and crisp black napkins choked by rings of gold shaped like emerald-eyed snakes. Mike glanced toward the chef’s kitchen half expecting to see a wildebeest strung up for the butcher. All he saw was a gleaming kitchen. They went through a laundry room. The girl was holding the back door, but Mike hesitated, retreated a step, and craned his neck.
“Do the Oi’s have children?” Mike asked when he joined his reluctant hostess.
“No.”
She held the screen door wider.
“A guest then? Relative?”
“No.”
Mike smiled. She knew that he knew she was lying. He had seen someone darting around the corner, but it wasn’t this woman’s place to divulge anything about the household. He tried one more time. “How long did you say you have worked for the Ois again?”
“Long time.”
She turned her back on him. Mike caught the screen door before it slammed shut. Outside, a bee buzzed past his ear and he looked after it. It was nice to be in the presence of a living creature. They were on the move again, stalking their prey. Mike knew they were close when he heard the call of a special breed - a rich woman at play. When the girl-relative-maid-whatever stepped aside at the end of the flagstone walk, he was duly impressed by the playground.
In front of him was a nearly Olympic size pool, classically cut into a rectangle. Infinity pools stair-stepped each end and the bottom of the pool sparkled arctic white. The edging tile was robin’s egg blue and the concrete was pocked to perfection so that no privileged foot would slip upon it when wet. A queen size float turned lazily in the still, clear water. Curved beds planted with lacy, exotic bushes softened the edges of the decking. Four lounges, a glass table shaded by a huge umbrella and surrounded by six chairs, and an island of an outdoor kitchen made for a space that was bigger than Mike’s house and better furnished.
“Damn it! Damn it all to hell!”
He turned toward the screech, catching the young woman’s eye as he did so. She raised an arched eyebrow. There was only the slightest twitch at the edge of her lips. She cocked her head. Mike was on his own.
“Thank you.”
The woman was headed back to the house by the time he got the words out. She had left him on the rise of a sweeping lawn that rolled right up to the edge of a stunning tennis court.
It was blue-on-blue, lined in white, surrounded on three sides by a tall chain linked fence. Beyond the far fence was a veritable forest of vegetation and above that a hill had been shaved flat to accommodate those who still owned horses. On the court a guy in white shorts and a coolie hat stood next to a basket of balls. One hand rested on the net post the other on his hip. He had good legs but he was watching a woman with great ones. A machine blasted balls at her, and she blasted them right back. Mike was walking down the wide steps when the little blond let loose.
“Damn it! Screw it!”
Her rant was made more interesting when she started wielding her tennis racket like it was a machete instead of executing a precise slice. Her tiny feet minced in circles. Suddenly, she missed a step and tumbled onto the court. The guy in the hat was on her in a second, but she shoved him back.
“Forget it. Forget it, Rob. Leave me alone. I can do it myself.”
She got to her knees, found her feet, leaned over, and retrieved her racket. That’s when Mike laughed just once. The woman wasn’t wearing bike shorts under her tennis skirt. She wasn’t even wearing tennis panties with a respectable ruffle. Kat Oi was wearing a thong, and when she bent over Mike got an eyeful of her tight rear end. Attractive as it was, he was beyond embarrassed and grateful that Wendy wasn’t with him. The blond stiffened. The pro cringed. Mike composed himself.
“Mrs. Oi?” Mike called. “I’m Detective Montoya.”
He took the last two steps quickly, proffered hand, and was rejected yet again. The pro peeled off to pick up the balls as Kat Oi stormed off the court, grabbed a towel, and pushed past the detective.
“I know who you are. I’m not stupid. You said you were coming.”
“Of course. Would you rather talk out here?” he asked. “Or maybe you’d like to change.”
“Doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. Greg’s still dead. You’re still here. Let’s get this over with.”
Mike saw the man in the coolie hat look up. Their eyes locked. Mike was thinking the same thing he was: a dead husband might have been a good reason to cancel a tennis lesson. Whatever else the man was thinking was tucked away as he went about his business, collecting balls, and feeding them back into the machine.
“I’ll pay you next week, Rob. Same time.”
Kat Oi slipped this over her shoulder, and once again Mike Montoya was following a woman who was unimpressed by him. The walk was much brisker on the way back to the house than it had been on the way out and definitely chattier.
“Don’t read anything into me playing tennis today. Just don’t. People grieve in different ways. I’ve already called who I need to call. Just don’t think everybody sits around wringing their hands in situations like this. Some people need a physical outlet. That’s the kind of person I am. I don’t fall apart when stuff like this happens.”
She ripped open the screen door and Mike wondered how often ‘stuff like this’ happened to Mrs. Oi. He caught the door and it bounced against his palm.
“I’m not here to make judgments.”
“You better damn well not. You try to make me out to have something to do with any of this, and I swear I’ll sue your butt.”
“I’m just here to get some information that might help us find out who killed your husband and who-”
“And who pulled that little stunt at the office last night?” Kat’s voice rose. She had ratcheted it up as she hit the bar before Mike made it through the breakfast room. When he joined her, she was still talking. “I heard about it. I went down to see it myself, but they wouldn’t let me in. You tell those guys who won’t let me in that I need some personal things.”
“If you tell me what it is, I’ll find out if it can be released,” Mike suggested.
Kat lifted a heavy decanter. She paused. “No, I want to get it myself.”
“Did you see the office?”
“No. I just told you the cops wouldn’t let me in. Which is just ridiculous. It was just vandals. Those idiots who worked for him did it. That’s a no-brainer. It’s been nothing but misery since they decided to strike.”
“My office is working with the Torrance PD. It may be some time before we’ll be able to release anything to you.”
<
br /> Mike moved easily around the room until he could see Kat’s profile. She was petite, pretty, and had probably been stunning not too many years earlier. But the Southern California sun had taken its toll. Now that her face was screwed up into a ball of frustration and displeasure, her attractiveness was questionable.
Kat poured two fingers of Scotch into a heavy glass, led Mike out of the game room, and plopped herself on the zebra striped sofa in the living room. She crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. He thanked God for small favors. Kat’s skirt was flared and the thong was covered. She took a swig of her drink and then spread her arms over the back of the sofa while he settled in an armchair. Mike crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then crossed them once more. The chair had looked inviting, but it was stiff and unforgiving. The horsehair upholstery was bizarrely soft and prickly at the same time. It was an ignominious end for a majestic creature.
“I’d like to know about your husband,” he began.
“Greg was a good guy. You can put that down on paper. I thought he was a good guy.” Sincerity slid across those icy words without gaining traction.
“How long were you married?” Mike poised a pen over his notebook.
“We were together four years.” She took another drink and caressed the couch as if indicating that everything in this kingdom did, indeed, belong to her now that the king was dead.
“That’s a long time,” Mike noted.
“Ho-oh.” Kat’s foot fell off her knee, the hand holding the drink pointed straight at him. “You think I’m going to give you a woe-is-me shtick? Forget it. I’m not saying I was perfectly fine with things. You take the good and the bad. I know how you found him. You think it’s easy living with someone who wants to look like your sister? Look at me. I’m a size two, and Greg was a big man. He kept trying to get into my clothes. I told him to buy his own, but he said he liked being close to me. Like that’s why he wanted to wear my clothes. Bullshit. I just had better taste than he did.”
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