Where to Choose

by Penny Mickelbury

  Carole Ann did blink now, and inhaled deeply as reality set in. She was the client and Addie Allen was her lawyer. The other woman eyed her steadily, her face as impassive and expressionless as a granite carving and her body as still.

  “Yes,” Carole Ann replied finally. “On both counts.” And she heard Warren exhale.

  “This is a lot of shit to carry all at one time, I know that,” Addie Allen said, and Carole Ann, for the first time, heard the South in her voice. “But I don’t figure you for the bending or breaking kind.”

  Carole Ann shook her head ruefully and managed a sideways grin. “I’ve learned quite a bit about bending in the last year or so, but you’re right. I don’t break.”

  “Good, ‘cause we got a lotta work to do. Decisions to make. Strat­egy to devise.”

  Carole Ann nodded and felt a pang of something—loss? regret?— because someone other than herself was in control, was managing a case that were it not her own, she’d love to be managing.

  “... when and how we’re gonna turn you in,” Addie was saying, and Carole Ann realized she’d missed something salient, though she’d heard enough to intuit the intent.

  “Can you buy me another forty-eight hours?” Carole Ann asked, and explained that she wanted to find and talk to Arthur Jennings. “There’s something about the history of Jacaranda Estates that’s related to what’s happening today and I need to know what it is,” she said, not needing to add that when she turned herself in, she risked her passport and her freedom to travel outside Los Angeles County.

  They talked among themselves for another quarter of an hour until, Carole Ann noticed, Addie stole a glance at the clock on the bookcase across the room. Understanding fully the implications, Carole Ann reached into her purse for her checkbook.

  “Already done, C.A.,” Warren said, shaking his head.

  “What’s already done?” Carole Ann asked, frowning.

  “Jake hired Addie. Or rather, his company did. You’re a client of Graham Investigative Services, and Addie is its attorney, ergo, Ad­die is your attorney.”

  Carole Ann stifled her annoyance at losing control of yet another facet of her life, but capped her protest, shrugged, and raised her palms and eyes to the ceiling. Then she laughed out loud, aware that suddenly she felt like the “heavy load of shit” had been lifted, or perhaps merely lightened. “Where are you from?” she asked her at­torney.

  “North Carolina,” Addie Allen said softly. “Up in the Smoky Mountains, near the reservation. You should visit if you haven’t,” she said, longing heavy in her voice.

  “I haven’t and I will,” Carole Ann said, and meant it, realizing that the familiarity she’d first noticed in Addie Allen was that she reminded Carole Ann of Robbie and Millie: Addie was a mutt. Part Native and part Black and part something else Carole Ann couldn’t identify, but the woman clearly was all advocate, and that inspired within Carole Ann a level of trust and confidence that surprised her. Not only had she learned in the last year to bend, but she’d learned to trust. Both sensations were new enough that she was not yet pro­ficient at them—her bending sometimes felt like breaking, and trusting was terrifying—but both were preferable to standing alone.

  “Not bad,” Warren said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, and Carole Ann knew that it was a major compliment to the meal, coming as it did from a Louisiana native and epicure. “I think this is only the sec­ond time I’ve eaten Pacific Ocean fish, but it could stop me being such a Gulf Coast snob.”

  “I doubt it,” Carole Ann said dryly, and they both laughed, grate­ful for the levity.

  Carole Ann was recovering from the news that Warren was leav­ing town on a flight in three hours. He’d not revealed his plans, he said, until he was certain that she would accept Addie as her coun­sel.

  “And what if I hadn’t?” she’d growled at him. “Would you have postponed your trial to hang around out here babysitting me?”

  “Yes,” he’d responded simply, quietly, and she’d felt like an idiot for being unpleasant.

  “Thank you, Warren. Thank you and Jake and Tommy. This is a hell of a mess I’m in. But even if I get cleared, I’m not certain we’ll have all the answers to all the questions.” And that was the really scary component. They had no better idea, after several extensive brainstorming sessions between Addie and Jake and Tommy, after all of them compared notes and ideas and theories, what the hell was out of whack in Jacaranda Estates, only that something defi­nitely was. Four people were dead and a fifth, Mrs. Asmara, still lin­gering in a coma, would be better off dead. And the LAPD, it seemed, knew who was responsible for two of the deaths. And per­haps even why.

  “Call me when you get to Anguilla,” Warren said.

  “Oh, not you, too!”

  “Oh, not me, too, what?”

  Carole Ann rolled her eyes at the ceiling and sucked in her breath. “First Jake, then Tommy, now you, making me report in like a kid. Or a criminal on parole.” She stopped herself midsentence and giggled. She was a criminal, one who’d be lucky to be on parole. “I’ll call as soon as I can, Warren.”

  Carole Ann had given Jake the information that Jennings lived in Anguilla and it had taken him exactly an hour to produce an ad­dress and telephone number. Carole Ann had called and been so warmly greeted by the sound of an old man’s voice that she almost felt guilty about her mission; for she felt very strongly that what she needed to ask Arthur Jennings, and what she needed to tell him, would destroy his peace. Arthur Jennings remembered her—as a small child, in his words—and remembered her mother and his “dear friend” Roberta.

  “Come right away,” he’d said, not bothering to ask why she wanted to see him. Carole Ann, as a result, was leav­ing on a 6:00 A.M. flight to Miami.

  Which gave her time tonight for hurried visits with two longtime residents, especially since Warren had adamantly refused her offer to drive him to the airport, and for a lengthy brain-picking session with Tommy.

  Nobody had lived at Jacaranda Estates as long as Grayce and Angie and Bert and Luisa, but Mrs. Philpot had been there long enough to know some of the ancient history, and Mr. Grimes was a big enough gossip to know almost as much as someone who’d been around a long time. He also was a good gossip, the kind who asked for and retained the minutiae of situations and circumstances. And since Mrs. Philpot lived across the street from Luisa, that would pro­vide Carole Ann with the casual opportunity to pop in on the both of them without needing cause or reason. Mrs. Philpot also had been so genuinely moved by the fact that Carole Ann remembered her that the old woman no doubt would receive her at midnight or at dawn had she appeared at those hours.

  She could tell from twenty yards away that Luisa’s house still was empty, but she knocked anyway. Before she could decide whether or not to jiggle the door handle and peek into any of the windows, she was hailed from across the street. She received from Mrs. Philpot the information that Luisa, indeed, was not at home, along with the desired invitation to “come visit with me for a little while.” Since pumping people for information was Carole Ann’s job, she didn’t feel the slightest guilt at settling herself on the woman’s living room couch, crossing her legs, and getting down to business.

  Yes, indeed, Mrs. Philpot certainly remembered Mr. Jennings. Mr. Jamilla, too. Nice, polite gentlemen the both of them. And Carole Ann listened to her reminisce for a while about “Mr. J” and “Senor J,” as she called them with a chuckle. She also remembered the trouble stirred up after Mr. Jamilla died but she “paid that kind of foolishness no mind. There’s always people who want something for nothing. And it wasn’t like the man didn’t provide for his family. Left ’em more’n a million dollars. But it was Mr. Jennings worked side by side with him, and it was Mr. Jennings deserved to get back the other J of J and J Contracting.” Mrs. Philpot was on a roll, fu­eled by the righteous indignation of the frequently correct.

  She shook her head vehemently at the mention of Dame Que Es Mio. “I want what’s mine, too,” she said w
ith a snort. “You find any­body willing to give back what they stole from poor people, you make sure you call me! I wanna be in that payback line!”

  Carole Ann grinned and was about to stand up and take her leave when the old woman’s dry humor changed shape and became real, sharp-edged anger. “And that fool across the street! Got the nerve to be using something as serious as payback for past wrongs to cover up his drug smuggling!” She snorted and tossed her head and crossed her arms across her ample bosom and her eyes flashed fire. “Runnin’ back and forth down there to Mexico doin’ his dirty deeds. He’s gonna get his grandma locked up is what’s gonna happen, ‘cause I don’t believe she understands what he’s up to.”

  “Ah, who, Mrs. Philpot?” Carole Ann realized that she’d lost track of the conversation.

  “That Nunez fool! If it weren’t for the fact that I feel so sorry for his grandma, I’d call the police on him myself. Not that that would do a whole lot of good, the way they treat us.” She was revved up and ready to roll again when Carole Ann stopped her with a raised hand.

  “You’re moving too fast for me. Are you referring to Luisa and her grandson, Ricky?”

  She nodded emphatically. “That’s exactly who I’m referring to,” she said with a self-satisfied sniff, barely aware that she’d imitated Carole Ann’s precise language. “But then, no reason she should be able to control him. She could never control his daddy or those other boys.”

  “What was that you said about Mexico and drugs? I missed that part,” Carole Ann said slowly, hoping to get the whole story from Mrs. Philpot.

  It worked. The old woman sighed deeply, then inhaled deeply. “The grandson. Ricky. He runs back and forth to Mexico like he’s some kind of diplomat or ambassador. Here’s a boy with no educa­tion and no job but always got a shiny car and a pocket full of money. Plus, he beats up on his grandma. You think he’s not smuggling drugs?”

  Carole Ann didn’t know what to think and said as much. She won­dered whether Grayce and Angie and Bert knew about Ricky’s trips, then wondered how Mrs. Philpot knew. “How do you know he’s go­ing to Mexico, Mrs. Philpot?”

  She cocked her head to the right, toward the wall. “Mrs. Del Valle. She’s my next-door neighbor. You probably don’t know her, she’s only lived here seven or eight years but she’s from Mexico, born down there, and she has a girl about that Ricky’s age and he’s always trying to get next to her but Mrs. Del Valle just slams the door in his face. Her daughter goes to college and she don’t have time to fool around with the likes of Ricky Nunez. Anyway, he tells Blanca—that’s Mrs. Del Valle’s daughter—about his trips, always trying to impress her. And he gives her presents. Gold and silver jewelry and a TV one time. Mrs. Del Valle made her give it right back! But anyway, she told me herself this time. Asked me to keep an eye on the house—”

  Carole Ann’s raised hand stopped the flow from Mrs. Philpot’s mouth. “Who told you what ‘this time’?”

  “Mrs. Nunez. Luisa. She went with him this time. That’s what I was trying to tell you. And she asked me to keep an eye out for things. That’s how I saw you—”

  Carole Ann didn’t try to follow Mrs. Philpot’s stream of con­sciousness monologue and didn’t try to halt it. She could only think that Luisa was in Mexico and that none of them had known it.

  When had she left? She interjected the question and Mrs. Philpot answered it without taking a breath: Three days ago. The day after the attack on Grayce. Carole Ann recalled Luisa’s bizarre behavior that night, the way she sat almost catatonic, staring into space. They’d attributed her behavior to shock at what had happened but the more she thought about it, the more Carole Ann realized that Luisa’s response that night had nothing to do with Grayce. Her absence the following day was proof of that. And now she was in Mexico.

  Carole Ann stood up. She really did need to leave if she was to see Mr. Grimes. And she needed to think. Quietly. She asked Mrs. Philpot for Mr. Grimes’s exact address and Mrs. Philpot gave it to her and described the house in detail, including the fact that the mailbox listed slightly because Mrs. Grimes backed into it last week. “But they’re not home,” she said finally, after all that. “They’re in Las Vegas. They go the third weekend of every month. They win, too!”

  It was just as well, Carole Ann thought. She didn’t think she pos­sessed the mental strength to process any more information, espe­cially if it contained more surprises. She felt true shock at learning that Luisa was in Mexico. Shock tinged with worry and a creeping unease. She was wondering whether or not to tell her mother when she noticed Jennifer Johnson’s silver 2002 was parked at the curb. The driver’s side door opened as C.A. approached, and the young re­porter got out and walked toward her.

  “Hi, Jennifer,” C.A. called out in greeting.

  “Hi, Miss Gibson,” Jennifer replied, in a subdued, almost shy tone.

  “Why are you sitting in the car? Isn’t my mother at home?” She hadn’t considered that possibility until now and it worried her.

  Jennifer seemed to read her worry for she held up her hand. “Your mother’s home, Miss Gibson. And her friends are with her.”

  “Thanks. And it’s C.A., OK?”

  Jennifer offered a rueful smile and shake of her head. “I looked you up,” she said, and shook her head again. “I guess I do need you more than you need me.”

  Carole Ann had forgotten their earlier confrontation and now dismissed its revival with a wave of her hand. “No time for that, Jen­nifer. We need each other. As equals. How about we go to Espresso Express and share some information.”

  Jacob Graham looked out into the Washington, D.C., night and saw too many shadows. He’d purchased a block-long, dilapidated warehouse in an inconvenient and unposh section of town to house his investigative business, partially because the price was right; par­tially because the area was isolated; and largely because of his plan, now realized, to construct a private patio on the roof of the main building where he could sit alone with his thoughts. Tonight was clear, with a sky full of moon and stars. But he saw shadows.

  Much about the situation in Los Angeles annoyed him: That his client and friend was in bigger trouble than she ever would admit; that Tommy Griffin had too much for one operative to do; that he hadn’t yet established a reciprocal relationship with a Los Angeles agency; that Los Angeles was so damn far away. But annoyances rarely became problems so Jake shrugged off the minor stuff to focus clearly and completely on the two aspects of the L.A. situation that really worried him: The LAPD and Luisa Whatever-her-name- was.

  Jake was a cop even though he no longer wore a badge or col­lected a paycheck from the D.C. police department. He’d done that for twenty-six years—almost half his life—and still would be doing that had not a bullet in the back last year forced his resignation. And, in truth, Jake was grateful for and happy with his new life, and he was downright giddy about the money he was making. For the first time ever, he was able to buy really fine gifts for his wife, and that pleased him. To be able to do it, and to witness her enjoyment.

  Also, for the first time, he was able to live a normal married life—to be able to have coffee with his wife every morning and to be able to actually see her awake every night—even to be able to share din­ner with her several nights a week. In the almost twenty-five years they’d been married, he’d never before done those things on a regu­lar basis. Not that she’d ever complained; he’d been a cop when they married, and she had understood what that meant. But to see and feel her joy at having him present in her life, it was worth the bullet that had paralyzed him for nine months. He didn’t miss the badge. But no matter what changes he’d gone through, Jake Graham still felt like a cop and still found it excruciating to think about dirty cops.

  Still, he knew there was something or somebody dirty in L.A. and the evidence was pointing at the cops and it didn’t matter whether Jake liked it or not.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and stood up. He strolled to the railing that encircled and enclosed the
roof-top deck, leaned on it, and looked down. He counted ten vehicles in the parking lot, including his own. Eight of them, he knew, would be there overnight, and as he was watching, one of the computer experts crossed the lot, got into some round-looking car that looked like every other round-looking car on the road, and drove slowly to the end of the lot. Jake watched as an arm protruded from the car and inserted the security card into the metal box. After three seconds, the gate slid silently open and the car drove away, faster now, though not fast enough to be out of sight before the gate slid closed and locked. “Shit,” he said again, and re­turned to his seat and to his thoughts.

  Luisa Whatever’s disappearance bugged him almost as much as the thought of dirty cops. It was Jake’s experience that normal people didn’t vary the routine of their lives unless there was a rea­son. “Normal” people, to Jake, were people who weren’t criminals, people who had a rhythm and a pattern to their lives. For Luisa to abandon her best friends during a crisis was abnormal. If G.A. was right and the grandson was holding the woman hostage, Jake could simply send Tommy to kick the little punk’s ass and that would be the end of that. But Jake didn’t think it was anything so wonderfully simple. Nobody did. That’s why he was paying a small fortune to a lawyer he didn’t even know named Addie Allen. That’s why Warren Forchette walked away from an impending trial on a moment’s no­tice. That’s why Tommy Griffin was playing boys in the ‘hood in west L.A.—as dangerous an undertaking as anything Jake could imag­ine, and more dangerous than young Tommy knew. That’s why Car­ole Ann soon would be on a plane bound for the Caribbean to see a man she didn’t remember knowing. There was nothing simple about any of this and Jake Graham didn’t like it a damn bit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tommy Griffin didn’t like it that he was limited to being the guardian and protector of Grayce Gibson, Roberta Lawson, and Angie Arroyo. Not that he resented watching out for them. He gen­uinely liked each of them and gladly would defend them to the lim­its of his abilities. What he resented was being limited to that function, even if it was only until Carole Ann returned from An­guilla in two days. Jake had been adamant on that point. But there was more Tommy wanted to do, more he could do in forty-eight hours. Like rid the playground of the thugs ... if they were thugs. C.A. had told him no one had seen any drug dealing or other obvious illegal activity taking place on the playground. So if those gang-banger look-alikes weren’t dealing, what were they doing? He’d seen them and his split-second assessment was that he’d seen tougher in his time. Tommy had grown up in a neigh­borhood in Washington, D.C., that now had the reputation of being not only one of the worst places in that city, but of being one of the worst and most dangerous places in any city. But it had not always been so. When he was growing up, the neighborhood was typical of any working-class neighborhood: The houses and apartment build­ings were small and unostentatious but clean and well maintained; most of the men worked two jobs and a good number of the women were homemakers; kids went to school, played sports, graduated from high school and joined the military (like Tommy himself) or got married. Then the thugs had taken over.