The Witch On Twisted Oak

by Muller, Susan C.

  Mamacita kept her back turned. She hesitated slightly. “No, nothing.”

  Adam’s smile was so big Ruben thought he might puke. “What are you grinning about? Did Jillian stay over for a little early morning wake-up nookie?” He hesitated. Adam may have talked about his other girlfriends, but he never talked about Jillian. Not that way. And he shouldn’t have, either.

  If possible, Adam’s smile got even bigger. “I had fun last night. Must have had close to a hundred kids come by. Most had store-bought costumes, but a few had made some real clever outfits. What about you, did you sit in your apartment all night and sulk?”

  The muscles between his shoulders tightened. He didn’t sulk. He just thought it was a stupid holiday. Probably invented by dentists and candy makers. “For your information, I went over to Mamacita’s, and, no, not for fun. I think I should stay there until we catch this guy.”

  She might not let him back in, but he’d worry about that later.

  Adam’s face fell. “Did something happen? Do you think she’s in danger?”

  “Nothing happened but a gruesome murder within shouting distance of her pillow and a photo of her front door in the paper.” Didn’t anyone but him take this seriously?

  “What does she think of you staying over?”

  Not much. “She’s fine with it.” He worked at booting up his computer so he wouldn’t have to look at Adam.

  “Well, did you learn anything useful while you were there?”

  “She called the lady a witch, but I doubt she meant that literally. She doesn’t approve of psychics and people who give advice that changes the natural order of the Universe.”

  “How does she know the lady changed anything? Maybe it was part of the Grand Plan that she give that piece of advice.”

  This entire discussion was too deep for him. He was starting to develop a headache. It would go well with his backache. “What did you learn? You buzzed out of here last night like your tail was on fire.”

  “Your DNA from the niece won’t be ready for days, probably weeks.” Adam shot him a glance that spoke volumes, but Ruben ignored it and Adam continued.

  “It’s not a high priority. Even the blood at the scene won’t be ready for a while, but it was all the same type, which indicates it most likely all belongs to the victim. If so, she didn’t get much of a chance to fight back. Surprising for someone who was expecting trouble.”

  Ruben snapped. “Don’t tell me you buy all that bullshit about her seeing the future?”

  “I have no idea what she saw or didn’t see. I do know she told the niece she expected to die violently before dawn on Halloween. I’d have been waiting with my back to the wall and a gun in my hand, but she was playing with her Tarot cards and listening to music. Weird, ugly music, but then I have better taste than most people.”

  Ruben could listen to almost anything except heavy metal, but he preferred soft jazz. This time, however, he had to agree with Adam. The music playing that night was strange. He couldn’t even identify the instrument being used. Sounded like fingernails on a blackboard to him.

  Adam pushed his glasses up with one finger and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what do we do now, sit here and wait for someone to come in and confess?”

  “Unlike some people, I made progress last night. We’re meeting with the gang task force in ten minutes.”

  “So you think you’ll waltz in here and I’ll hand you El Jefe and solve your case for you.” Detective Rory Cleary wasn’t as big as Ruben, but he made up for it in attitude. “Well, here you go. If you can take one of these bad-asses off the street, more power to you.”

  He slapped a six-inch stack of folders in Ruben’s hand. “Not one of them will go down easy. I strongly suggest you call for backup before you make your move.”

  Cleary was a short, muscular African-American. His stained T-shirt stretched tight across bulging biceps and his jeans showed two inches of patterned boxers. A gold tooth gleamed when he smiled. If he had bathed the night before, he must have used eau de muskrat.

  If Ruben hadn’t known the man was a cop, he would have crossed the street to avoid him. All the gang detectives looked, dressed, and smelled like the people they were trying to infiltrate. They probably did more to keep the streets of Houston safe than two dozen patrolmen, and in return, decent citizens shunned them.

  “You’ll be the first person I call,” Ruben said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m not so hung up on him that I care who gets credit for taking him down. And I appreciate the time you spent putting this together.”

  Cleary’s attitude backed down a notch. “I heard this guy struck a little too close to home for comfort. Every guy in the squad is just a phone call away if you need us.”

  Adam and Ruben took the stairs two flights down to their office. Their normally stuffy squad room smelled like a perfumery compared to the one used by the gang task force.

  Ruben divided the stack of folders and dropped half on Adam’s desk. “If we finish before lunch, I’ll buy you a sandwich.”

  “From the vending machine? No, thanks. I feel a slow-down coming on. Make it James’ Coney Island and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Only if you put your tie in your pocket. I don’t want to look at mustard stains the rest of the day.” Ruben’s chair groaned in protest as he leaned back and propped his feet on his open bottom drawer.

  Two hours later, Ruben slapped the last folder closed and rolled his shoulders. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “What a load of crap.”

  Adam yanked off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie. “I pulled out two guys, but they barely qualify. They may be bad-asses, but I doubt they’re our bad-asses.”

  “I only found one to even put in a photo lineup. They were all too tall, too skinny, or already in jail.”

  Adam reached for the phone. “I’ll call Narcotics; see if they can have a list for us to check after lunch. Meanwhile, James’ has two dogs and a bowl of chili with onions just waiting for me.”

  “And I get to sit across from you for the rest of the day. I can hardly wait. Check your desk for Tums and Certs before we leave.”

  Chapter 7

  Ruben patted his full belly and smiled. The break from the office had been good for him. The walk to James’ Coney Island and back, even better. His body felt looser and his head clearer.

  He took one last deep breath of the crisp autumn air before entering the 1200 Travis Building. Adam hated the glass and brick skyscraper, complaining it looked more like a bank than the headquarters of the nation’s fourth largest police department, but Ruben felt energized every time he walked through the tall double doors. Even deeply tinted, the glass let in light and a view of the street, alive with pedestrians.

  On the elevator, Ruben punched six, but Adam reached past him and punched eight. “I’ll check in with Narcotics and meet you back in the office in a few minutes,” he said.

  Adam had worked Narcotics for two years before transferring to Homicide, and if any of his old buddies were still there, he’d likely be more than a few minutes, which suited Ruben just fine. That would give him time to call his sister with some degree of privacy.

  The squad room was unusually quiet for mid-day. Ruben didn’t know, didn’t care, if everyone was working a case, at lunch, or in the bathroom. He should have at least ten minutes to talk with no one eavesdropping.

  He hated calling Emily during the middle of the day. He disliked calling her at any time, but interrupting her at work was especially unpleasant. The monthly family Sunday lunch at Mamacita’s was about all he could take of her superior attitude.

  “What do you need, Ruben?” Her voice was sharp and dripped distain. “You know I’m working now.”

  So was he, so she ought to know it was important or he wouldn’t be calling her. He drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “Have you seen Mamacita lately? I’m concerned about her.”

  “I saw her last week. No, she cancelled on me. It’s been clo
ser to three weeks, but I’ve talked to her a couple of times. If you’re so worried, maybe you should take the time to go over there and check on her yourself.” No warming thaw came over the phone line.

  Ruben bit back the irritation filling his voice. “I have been over there, that’s why I’m concerned. She looks thin, even frail. I spent last night with her. She wasn’t completely dressed and didn’t have much of anything to eat in the house.”

  “Maybe she’s tired of you and Vincente sponging off her. Sounds like she trying Tough Love to get you two guys to cut the apron strings.”

  He stopped trying to keep the anger from his voice. He’d stayed with Mamacita a few weeks last spring on doctor’s orders, after his appendix burst. Vincente had lived with her for six weeks over the summer, after he got his doctorate from MIT and while he started a new job and looked for an apartment.

  He’d not only paid his share of the groceries, but mended lamps and fixed the toaster. Vincente had hung new curtains, repaired the fence, and re-caulked all the windows. That wasn’t exactly sponging.

  And neither one of them had ever left their kids with her while they went on vacation.

  “Considering how busy you are, you probably didn’t realize that an especially gruesome murder was committed not ten yards from her bedroom window. Until we catch the guy, I’ll be giving up my comfortable apartment, well stocked with food, and sleeping on her twenty-year-old, lumpy sofa.”

  He took a deep breath. Pissing off Emily wouldn’t help the situation. “Now, I don’t think she looks healthy and I’m concerned. Since you’re a doctor, I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Leave it to you to work murder and mayhem into any conversation. The more vile and disgusting, the more you relish it. You always blow things out of proportion, baby brother. Everything has to be an emergency to make you feel important. I’m an ophthalmologist, Ruben, not a GP. Unless something’s wrong with her eyes, I can’t do anything for her. Even then, I couldn’t help her. I don’t work on my own family. I don’t even see my own kids.”

  Lucky kids. If she’s that pleasant with her patients, it’s a wonder she’s still in business.

  “You’ve already said you’re staying there, Ruben. You talk to her. Make her go to the doctor.”

  He tried to match the contempt in her voice, but he hadn’t had as much practice. “Thanks, Sis. I knew I could count on you.”

  Ruben thumbed off his cell phone and placed it in his pocket as Adam crossed the room with an armload of files.

  “The stack’s bigger, but there’s likely to be some overlap.” Adam divided the pile. “Let’s take the same half of the alphabet we had before. That way we’ll be able to spot anyone we’ve already checked.”

  Ruben got right to work, glad to be able to put the conversation with his sister out of his mind.

  At least for a while.

  Adam had been right. The stack was bigger, but it took less time. If it was due to the number of overlaps or that they each had their system down, Ruben didn’t know, but they both finished by two-thirty.

  He’d checked with the morgue when they came in from lunch, and Yolanda Garza’s post mortem had been pushed back to three.

  Adam hefted a stack of photos. “I’m not thrilled with any of these guys, but we have enough possibles for a photo lineup. What say we swing by the morgue and then head for Twisted Oak and see if Bobby or his little sister can ID any of these low-lifes as El Jefe? Maybe Mamacita or one of the neighbors will remember seeing him.”

  Ruben shook his head. “We’ll get more accomplished if we split up. I’ll handle the lineup while you head over to OST and catch the autopsy. Who’s doing the post?”

  Adam checked his notes. “Twinkle Toes.”

  “Excellent.” Ruben grinned.

  Their favorite medical examiner might be Broadway’s loss, but he was HPD’s gain. The doc played show tunes at full volume, even doing an occasional shuffle-ball-change or singing along with the music, during all procedures, his silver handle-bar mustache the only remainder of his acting days. He worked with meticulous care, and if he declared something as fact, that made it solid gold in Ruben’s book.

  “I’ll stay here and bring the murder book up to date and organize the photo lineup. Then I want to swing by my apartment and pick up some clean clothes and check my mail before I head over to Mamacita’s. I’m going to stay with her until all this is settled.”

  Adam hesitated, and Ruben’s blood ran cold. What was he reluctant to say?

  “That’s a good idea. We don’t know who this creep is or what he had against the victim, and despite the age difference, she looked a lot like Mamacita.”

  Ruben waited. He could tell from Adam’s face that he had something more on his mind, and the longer it took him to say it, the worse it must be.

  Adam glanced down, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sure it was the murder, and all those people tramping over her yard, but I thought she looked a little tired the other morning. Has she been ill?”

  Shit, now he couldn’t pretend it was all his imagination.

  El Jefe glared at the beam of sunlight that slipped through the heavy curtains and hit his desk. He worked hard to keep his neighbors from knowing when he was home and when he wasn’t.

  The lights in most rooms were on an electric timer with a rotating schedule. His garage was located behind the house and the door opened before he hit the driveway.

  He had no mailbox, only a postal address and anonymous yardmen cleaned his lawn once a week, summer or winter.

  What good was all that if he couldn’t keep his damn drapes closed?

  He reached up and yanked the curtains shut, then stapled them together.

  That should do the trick.

  He swallowed down an edge of temper. A minor inconvenience, that’s all. So why did the slightest flaw bother him so much in this house, but not in the apartment he listed as his real home?

  The house would be called modest on a good day, but still ranked miles above anything he’d ever known as a kid. He’d purchased it under a false name to be used as a place to lay low when the heat was on and to do business with people he didn’t want seen by his uppity neighbors at his swank apartment.

  Yet its second-hand furniture fit him in a way the high-priced designer goods never would, and he found himself spending more and more time here.

  If life had taken him in a different direction . . .

  But a penthouse with black leather, chrome, and chandeliers was what he’d dreamed of since childhood. A picture in his mind cut from a movie or magazine that said he’d made it. No one could look down on him now.

  But they did, and he never seemed to get warm in that place. Only here where he could put his feet on the coffee table or eat on the sofa.

  He didn’t plan to jeopardize any of this because two muscle-bound clowns couldn’t do their job right.

  He’d clean up the loose ends himself. Should have done that in the first place. Never trust amateurs.

  Then, even without the help of that witch, he’d get the information he needed.

  Chapter 8

  Ruben tromped up the steps to his old home, a duffle bag over his shoulder and a folder with the stack of photos in one hand, and a bag of steaks in the other. He’d stopped by that butcher’s shop on his way and picked up four ribeyes, two for tonight and two for the freezer.

  If Emily made another smart-ass comment about him freeloading, he might tell her what he really thought about Mamacita babysitting her demanding, spoiled kids.

  The door swung open when he pushed it. His heart lurched. Hadn’t she promised that she kept it secure at all times? He sat his packages on the floor just inside the door and straightened slowly. Nothing seemed out of place, but where was Mamacita?

  He hitched his coat back behind his gun and unsnapped the safety flap. He rested his fingertips on the handle, but didn’t pull it out of the holster. Mamacita would have a fit if she saw him with a gun in his hand.


  She was probably in the laundry room or upstairs. Should he kick off his shoes? No, she’d accuse him of being an alarmist, and when Emily found out, all hell would break loose.

  He moved almost silently from room to room. His pillow and blanket were still on the sofa, but folded neatly. Nothing else seemed disturbed.

  In the kitchen, a loaf of bread sat on the counter. A plate with the majority of a sandwich still on it rested in the sink. He’d never seen a dirty dish last more than a few minutes in Mamacita’s kitchen.

  The door to her room was closed and he placed his hand on the knob. He held his breath as he twisted slowly, soundlessly.

  She lay with her back to him, her shoes beside the bed and an afghan over her legs. He watched until he was certain he’d seen her breathe, then backed out and closed the door.

  Grief washed over him as he sat in a kitchen chair and dropped his face into his hands. He wasn’t ready to lose his mother. Not to a murdering madman, and not to illness or old age.

  When he’d pulled himself together, he returned to the front room to lock the door. He picked up his belongings and dropped the duffle bag on the sofa. The folder echoed as he slapped it onto the kitchen table.

  The steaks were marinating when Mamacita came out. Her shoes were on, her dress smoothed out, and her hair pinned up.

  “What are you doing here, banging around in my kitchen? I thought we agreed you didn’t need to hover over me like I was some helpless old lady.”

  “We didn’t agree anything of the sort. I told you I was going to stay here until I was satisfied that you were safe.”

  Mamacita harrumphed and lifted the plate out of the sink. She slid the half-eaten sandwich into the garbage with her back to Ruben, then placed it quickly in the dishwasher.

  “I brought over steaks, potatoes, and salad. The weather’s been so nice I thought I’d grill out in the back yard. Maybe we could even eat out there, on the old picnic table.”

  Mamacita actually smiled. “That sounds lovely. I can’t remember when we’ve done that.”