I scanned the roof looking for indications of a scuffle, for any signs that Betty might have slipped or that someone might have given her a shove. No oil or grease on the roof surface. Lots of footprints, but no distinct skid or scuff marks. Nothing much except bird droppings and sewer vents. My inspection was punctuated by the caterwauling of an ambulance coming from the direction of Mercy Hospital.
As the sky deepened to octopus ink, I clicked on my flashlight and turned to go.
Behind me stood a slender man in his thirties, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved camo shirt. He must have entered the roof while the siren was blaring. Anxious and twitchy, he carried a day’s worth of beard and was attractive in a rough-hewn way.
“Hello,” I said, walking up to him, hand extended. “I’m Nikki. Thought I’d come up and check out the view.”
He shook my hand. “Caleb Trout.” He looked me over with an expression that was hard to read. Was he a nosy neighbor who wanted to see where Betty had fallen? Was he keeping an eye out because he suspected something about her death? Was he a meth addict waiting on the roof for someone to deal his next fix?
Suddenly Caleb asked, “Find anything interesting while you were here?”
I looked him in the eye. “Now that the sun has set, there’s nothing here to see, Caleb. Nothing here to see.”
I had one more errand before I returned to the dinner party. Caterina would fuss about how long I’d been gone. Let her.
The parking garage was a vault of shadows and exhaust. I heard soft laughter and the scrape of shoes coming from the next row of vehicles. In Betty’s assigned parking space sat a blue Ford pickup. Her silver Jetta was parked in a nearby visitor’s space. I wrote down the Ford’s license plate number, and made my way back to the dinner party.
In bed that night Caterina wore violet silk, and I wore quite a smile.
The next day I drove to Sciortino’s to give a PowerPoint presentation on the marketing event I’d come up with: The Grapes of Ra, a wine-tasting party where we’d decorate the grounds with hieroglyphs, stuffed crocodiles and cobras, and cheap statuary of Horus and Osiris. We’d hire a belly dancer to perform. Guests would be encouraged to dress like ancient Egyptians. And, of course, the guest list would be restricted to people who could afford half a case of Tempranillo!
I must’ve sold the idea well because everyone bought into it. Sometimes I wonder about people.
That evening I took Caterina out to dinner at the City Deli, a hallmark eatery that was popular even when Sears ruled the hood.
Afterward we went for a walk. Caterina was in an interesting mood. She talked about remembering the smell of violets in her grandmother’s basement when she was a child. She confessed to wearing braces until her sophomore year. She told me her favorite flower was the black Baccara rose, a rose noir. Perhaps this conversational intimacy was provoked by the incident with Betty. Maybe she did a bit of soul-searching herself.
When we arrived at my house, the evening was too pleasant for us to stay indoors. We decided to walk across the little-known footbridge that connects one part of Spruce Street, across Kate Sessions Canyon seventy-five feet below, to the other part. The footbridge hangs among tall eucalyptus and acacia trees, suspended by cables secured with concrete at both ends. Walking across this bridge is like swinging in a cab at the top of the Ferris wheel. That half-scary, half-giggly sensation of swaying delighted both of us. Fortunately we were both sure-footed and had no fear of heights.
After strolling through the neighborhood on the other half of Spruce, we returned. That night our lovemaking drew its power from new and deeper wells.
Afterward in bed, my thoughts returned to Betty’s death. “If I’m right and it wasn’t suicide, then it had to be an accident or murder. And I have to agree with the police—an accident, while possible, does seem unlikely. But who would want to murder Betty?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
I nodded. “In Betty’s case, you don’t have the ‘usual suspects.’ She lived off a fat work comp settlement she got from Caterpillar in Indiana years ago. She’d made good investments and never held a regular job after that. So there aren’t any coworkers who might be jealous of a promotion, or that kind of thing.”
“Yes, darling.”
Caterina began licking the inside of my elbow, but I refused to be distracted. “Betty was alienated from her family, so no family feuds.”
“And she didn’t have a partner, so she wasn’t murdered because she cheated on someone,” Caterina observed.
“No; no partner, no spouse. No adultery. No family feud. No big inheritance. No coworkers. So what’s that leave us?”
“Neighbors?”
“Exactly! And guess who owned the truck parked in Betty’s parking space?”
She rolled over onto her stomach and squished a pillow beneath her breasts. “Caleb!”
I nodded. “I bought access to an online database of California vehicle licenses. Looked up the plate number and it was his truck. The day before she died, Betty said she’d argued with someone who kept taking her assigned parking space.”
“Plus he was keeping an eye on the roof. He wanted to know what you saw.”
“I’d say Caleb is my number one suspect.” I failed to mention he was my only suspect. “Let’s get some rest.” I held her in my arms and drifted off. I had hoped she’d stay the night, but around three in the morning, I heard her scurry out of the house, off to her own bed as usual.
On Saturday Caterina sold one of the most expensive scarves in her inventory to an Elton John impersonator. I received an unsolicited pay raise for my marketing work at Sciortino’s. And the production at the San Diego Rep carried all the weight of a marshmallow but was great fun.
After the play, I invited my new lover to do some snooping with me. I dropped her off at Glenn and Mike’s, where she borrowed their pass to get me through the security gate of their parking garage. Betty’s assigned space was unoccupied. I pulled into it. Caleb must be out prowling.
“The second Caleb shows, slide down and stay in the car. I mean it, Cat. Roll down the window to listen if you want, but I don’t want him to know you’re here. If anything goes wrong, call 911. Got it?”
“I love it when you think you can tell me what to do.”
She and I steamed the windows pretty good while we waited to see if he’d make an appearance. A little after one a.m., Caleb pulled his truck up to Betty’s parking spot. It was obvious from his facial expression that he was royally pissed to find the space occupied.
If I was ever going to do this, now was the time.
I got out and confronted him. “You like parking in this spot, don’t you, Caleb?”
He relaxed when he saw it was me. “I just got back from serving three tours in Iraq. I think I deserve whatever parking space I want, don’t you?”
Caleb was taller than me by a few inches, but he was also scrawnier. He didn’t appear armed but you never know. I had a damned good switchblade in my jeans pocket.
“Do I think you deserve a good parking space? I think you deserve a life sentence. I think you liked this parking space enough to kill for it.”
I saw his body go tense, but he regrouped quickly. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you know, but that woman’s death was a suicide. It’s all over the papers.”
“That right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I stared him right in the eye. I lie more effectively that way. “I’m a programmer for a high-tech company that subcontracts to Google Earth. You’ve heard of Google, haven’t you, Caleb?”
“Of course; I’m not a moron.”
“Well, Google Earth gets mapping data from hundreds of satellites that orbit the earth 24-7. And guess what one of those satellites caught you doing the morning of the seventeenth? You shoved Betty Lou Thomas, owner of this parking space, to her death.”
For a long moment, Caleb just stood there. I could almost hear his mental gears click.
Would he bite the bait? I had no idea whether any commercial satellites, let alone Google’s, could pick up that level of detail. But depending on what he did in the military, Caleb probably wouldn’t know either.
“You can’t prove anything. If you could, you’d have given evidence to the police and I’d be under arrest.”
There it was, his admission of guilt. Now I knew this scuzz had pushed Betty off her roof. Frankly, I didn’t care if he had PTSD or a bad case of athlete’s foot. It’s an all-volunteer service and counseling is available. Another vet might’ve gotten my sympathy but not a jerk with a hypertrophic sense of entitlement.
“Just tell me why, Caleb. Maybe then I can have some peace.”
“I ran into her that morning when I took my garbage out. She was at the dumpster too. The minute she saw me, she started in with her whiny nagging. Said she was going to report me to the building manager if I parked in her space again.” Caleb shifted in the long shadows. “I didn’t serve years in Iraq to come home to that kind of crap.”
“So you were bitching at each other when you took the garbage out … and then what?”
“Then a few minutes later I saw her go up to the roof by herself.” He glanced down at the oil-stained floor. “Perfect opportunity.”
I shook my head in disgust, turned away, and walked back to my car. I kept my hand on my switchblade, hoping with each step that he wouldn’t attack me from behind.
I got in the car and drove away.
Caterina asked, “What if he follows us?”
“I’m counting on it.”
She regarded me with something that might be admiration.
“You think our little boudoir games are edgy?” I asked. “Baby, if you want to know what edgy really is …” I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Caleb’s truck two blocks behind us. “I want justice for Betty. I can use your help. Are you in?”
The adrenaline rush affected both of us, but Caterina practically glowed in the dark.
We hadn’t been at my place more than three minutes when Caleb pulled up. “You understand what to do?” I asked my coconspirator. If there was a wild card in my plan, it wasn’t Caleb.
“Of course, darling.”
As expected, he messed with my circuit breaker and snuffed the lights. The window creaked as he raised it to crawl in. I heard a whump! followed by a nervous giggle. I reached into the blackness and fumbled for a moment before landing a second blow that guaranteed Caleb a permanent journey to Nod.
I felt the limp weight of his limbs as we carried him into the moonless night. Heard the rustle of critters with chatoyant eyes, then the metal chime of the suspension coils. Counted steps across the wooden planks. As we tensed for the final effort, I smelled Caterina’s breath. The crash was quieter than expected. In the soft deep black of night, I felt her fingernails pierce my forearm.
The next morning I awoke alone, still chasing vague snatches of dream. I brewed coffee, watched Meet the Press, and set about accomplishing a number of deferred chores. Driving home from a grocery run, I flicked on the radio and heard, “… body was found in Kate Sessions Canyon today beneath the Spruce Street footbridge. The deceased, an apparent suicide, has been identified as Caleb Trout, an Iraq War veteran and resident of Hillcrest.”
At midnight I walked alone through the memorial rose garden in Balboa Park. It was a new moon; the only illumination came from distant streetlights. The fragrance of roses calmed me. In such darkness, every rose is black.
Betty’s not in Hillcrest anymore, of course, but something of her remains. In the queen ordering sprinkles for his Ben and Jerry’s cone, in the corny joke told in a Fourth Avenue café, in the ubiquitous rainbow stickers, I sense both her absence and her presence. She’s the Angel’s Share.
HOMES
BY KEN KUHLKEN
Newport Avenue
Greg Mairs took a Restoril, his third tranquilizer of the afternoon. He washed his face and sat down to organize bills. Sort out which they could afford to pay. Decide which creditors might allow them to coast another month.
Visa, $150 minimum. No grace on that one. Business loan for the truck-mounted dry cleaner that would’ve doubled his commercial accounts, except he’d only had it two months before he turned into a wimp who could barely work an hour without collapsing. And even though he’d needed to sell it for half of what he owed, no grace.
Doctor Ramos. Doctor Schuetz. Sharp Cabrillo Hospital. Xray Medical. These days, more often than he prayed for miraculous healing, he prayed for a windfall that would allow him to at least pay off his medical and funeral bills. So he wouldn’t die as the louse who’d left Barb this stack of horrors, so she wouldn’t have to sell their home. He couldn’t blame his girls if they boycotted his funeral.
Latin American Childcare. He wasn’t about to shirk his pledge to orphans in El Salvador. Gas and electric, down now that summer had arrived, thank God, and the phone bill too. Barb hadn’t gabbed as long as usual with her sister in Minnesota. Her sister wanted to talk about Greg, his death, and the future. Not Barb’s favorite topics.
He slammed the lid on the rolltop desk and went to the kitchen. While he drank carrot juice, he thought maybe tomorrow, if James could abide his company, he’d join his amigo in a big glass of bourbon. “What good does carrot juice do a dead guy?” he muttered.
He sat on the porch staring down Newport Avenue, at the very place where the Silva brothers would’ve stomped him to death for knocking up Angie, their little sister. Except James saved his life by mashing Junior Silva’s head with a Little League bat.
Then James runs from a murder charge, and only returns after twenty years. He risks it all, comes back home in hopes of rescuing Olivia. And Greg does what, after James gave him the chance to live, know love, meet Barb and Jesus, become a father. “Nothing. Zip,” Greg mumbled.
He looked up and watched the fog muster out to sea and begin its advance toward the shore, and tried to imagine some grand gesture, something James would remember whenever he thought of Greg Mairs. But grand gestures usually required money.
He returned to the desk, raised the lid, and sat down. He forced himself to list the bills, almost a full page, add the total, and take the ledger out to the dining nook table where he would remember to go over it with Barb. This time they would talk about his death. Always before, she stopped him and insisted they expect a miracle. He supposed that was her excuse for not giving Chez the truth.
Chez only knew her daddy was sick and couldn’t go on the long hikes they used to take in the Cuyamaca forests, across the desert dunes, or along the beaches of Silver Strand and into the Tijuana sloughs. She knew he couldn’t work anymore, so they’d had to sell the kayaks and Mom’s car, and they watched the blurry TV, no more cable, and they couldn’t go to a cabin in snowy mountains or to Arizona for Padres spring baseball.
Tonight, he decided, he’d tell her the whole crappy truth. He tried to imagine her face when she learned he was as good as gone. Pale, he thought, with her cheeks caved in, tears big as goldfish. Shivering.
His horror at the image got interrupted when the old Toyota pickup made the turn off Guizot Street and pulled to the curb in front of their house. Chez waved. Such a beauty, he thought, with her raven hair and Kobe Bryant grace.
He waved back and hustled to meet her. He picked her up, kissed her cheek, and would’ve held her on his hip while he carried the cleaning gear in, but she squirmed and jumped down. Barb, exhausted from cleaning three houses, came around the front of the car, blew him a kiss, and trudged up the steps to the porch holding Chez’s hand.
While he delivered the vacuum cleaner, broom, mops, and buckets into the garage, Chez zoomed past. She was already in her play overalls that matched her dad’s outfit. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Mom’s mad cause you didn’t make the spaghetti like you were s’posed to.”
She leaped over the low rock wall between their yard and her friend Maria’s.
Inside, Greg found Barb stepping into the shower
. He leaned against the sink. “Babe, tonight, we’re going to tell Chez about you-know-what.”
Over the splashing, she hollered, “Since you didn’t make the spaghetti sauce, how about microwave chicken and that summer squash with cheese that you and Chez like. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” He stayed a minute peering through the beveled glass, admiring her curves that had trimmed and defined over the past few months since she began jogging. He gazed at her breasts, which he still loved to fondle after thirteen years, more than ever since the hepatitis caught hold. For at least a minute he admired the henna-auburn hair she wrapped like a scarf around her neck while she rinsed her backside.
Greg sighed, then winced from a pain like a high-voltage whack to his liver. He groaned, and staggered toward the bedroom, panting and blowing the way he’d learned at Lamaze classes while Barb was carrying Chez. He lay down and kept panting. As the pain dulled to a bearable ache, he sat up and heaved his feet over the side of the bed. He took the pillbox from the breast pocket of his overalls, opened it, and fingered through the pills. No OxyContin, his most trusty painkiller.
He returned to the bathroom, where Barb was out of the shower and wrapping her hair in the Snoopy towel. She said, “You asked what was for dinner, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Greg opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the big new bottle of Vicodin. A lifetime supply, he thought, provided he died on schedule. He loosed a grim “Ho-ho.”
Barb, so accustomed to his laughs she didn’t question them anymore, gave him a patient smile while she slipped into her panties and lounging sweats. He swallowed his third and fourth Vicodin of the day, unless he’d forgotten others.
He followed Barb through the cramped living room to the kitchen, where she looked into the fridge and a cabinet, then turned with an exasperated grimace. “Should I go to the Safeway or do you want to?”
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