In Plain Sight

by Barbara Block

  “Mostly luck. You know when you started talking to the waitresses at The Pancake Palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that got me thinking about the fact that everything in the case—Marsha, the reservoir, Estrella—had one thing in common. Wellington. Everywhere I turned the school popped up.”

  “Which was when you went to see Garriques.”

  “Actually what I did was walk in and ask if I could see the principal. I just wanted to get some general background information on Marsha and Estrella, and I thought that talking to the headman would be a good place to start; but the longer we talked, the more I got the feeling that this guy was hiding something, and I wanted to know what it was.”

  “I wished I’d gotten that feeling.”

  George grinned. “People see what they’re accustomed to seeing. He’d always been a good guy to you, so that’s what you saw him as. I was just more open to impressions.” George took another sip of beer. “I think one of the things that flagged him for me was he got into this buddy-buddy mode.”

  “Buddy-buddy?”

  “You know. Us ex-cops got to stick together. Something about it felt phony. Which was why I went downtown and got one of my friends to pull his record.”

  “I’m impressed. They still had it after all this time?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’d be amazed at what they’ve got.”

  “I’m sure I would be. So what was on Garriques’s file?”

  “A fair number of excessive violence complaints.”

  “He was a boxer,” I said, thinking about how Garriques had killed Porter. “Maybe he just liked hitting people.”

  “He was the subject of two internal inquiries,” George continued, ignoring my interruption. “Garriques was cleared, but reading between the lines, I’d say the department was looking to get rid of him. He’d grown into a liability.”

  “I wonder if they knew about his family connections?” I mused.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me at all,” George said. “This place really is a small town. It’s hard to hide things.”

  “I don’t know. Garriques did pretty well in that department,” I observed.

  “Yes, he did, didn’t he?”

  George and I both lapsed into silence for a minute.

  “So you went back and talked to Garriques?” I finally said, taking up one of the conversational strands.

  George shook his head. “No. I went and found Estrella’s friend, Pam. I figured if Estrella said anything to anyone she’d have said it to her. Well, she had. Unfortunately Estrella was dropping lots of acid at the time, so Pam wasn’t inclined to take Estrella’s story too seriously. Then when Estrella got killed, Pam figured maybe Estrella’s story was true and that if she didn’t want to be next, she’d better pretend she hadn’t heard anything.”

  “Then why did she talk to you?”

  “Because I pointed out she could serve a couple of years for dealing. In the nicest possible manner of course ...”

  “Of course ...”

  “After that she got a little more conversational. The description she gave me, the one she got from Estrella, matched Garriques in a general way. But given Estrella’s possible mental state it wasn’t enough to move on. I needed more.” George paused and asked me for the second beer. After I’d opened it and he’d taken a sip he continued. “I went to talk to Ana Torres next. I was hoping Estrella had told her something.”

  “Had she?”

  “No. She said the two of them hadn’t talked ever since Estrella started running with a bad crowd. Which is why I ended up following Garriques. It was my last shot. I figured maybe I’d rattle him. Well, I did. I just didn’t get the result I wanted.”

  I sighed. “We could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble if we’d gotten together.”

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you answer my messages?”

  “At first I was too busy to, and then I couldn’t. It’s hard to phone from the trunk of a car.”

  “Not if you have a cellular phone.”

  George laughed. Suddenly I became aware of the fact that his body was pressing up against mine. God, I shouldn’t have brought the pot. I’d forgotten how horny it makes me feel. To distract myself I told him about Porter and the farm and Brandon Funk.

  “How is he anyway?” George asked.

  “Worse off than you are. He’s going to be in here for a while.”

  “Why did he come out?”

  “He told me he and Garriques got in a fight about Marsha. It must have been bad because Garriques told him to get out of town. When Funk said no, Garriques told him that the same thing that had happened to Porter was going to happen to you and that he was going to leave him holding the bag. Again. But this time Funk decided to do something. He was going to the farm to try and help you.”

  “Except Garriques followed him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He should have gone to the cops.”

  “He was still scared about being blamed for Porter, and he didn’t want to get involved in all the family stuff that was going to go down. After all, Garriques is his brother-in-law. I think he was hoping that if he rescued you, you’d get Garriques and he could stay out of it.”

  George reached over and took the beer. Our fingers touched. A tingle went through mine. “Too bad you didn’t shoot Garriques in a more strategic area.”

  “I’m just happy I hit him at all.”

  George’s expression darkened. “I hope that sonofabitch goes straight to hell. You know he shot me and left me to die.”

  “I know.” I put my hand on George’s arm.

  “It was like being buried alive. I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

  “Don’t think about it,” I murmured.

  “I can’t help it. It sneaks up on me. I shouldn’t have followed Garriques out there. No, what I shouldn’t have done was come back the next day and looked around without telling you. Or Connelly. Or somebody.”

  “You didn’t expect he’d be there.”

  “That’s no excuse. I knew better.” I could see George’s jaw muscles clenching while he remembered what had happened. Then he told me the story again because he needed to talk. “I’d just gotten out of the car when he’d pulled up. He asked me what I wanted and I gave him some bullshit answer, and looking at him I knew that he knew I was lying. That bastard pulled his gun on me before I could get to the car. I grabbed for it. I got it away from him, too, but the damned thing slipped out of my hand. It went off when it hit the ground.” George blinked. “You know what Connelly told me?”

  “What?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  “He said the reason Garriques shoved me in the trunk instead of finishing me off was because a real estate agent was coming out with his client and he didn’t know what else to do with me. I guess he didn’t have another change of clothes. It’s hard to show a house when you’ve got blood all over your pants.”

  “I think it was more a matter of his not wanting Fast Eddie to find out what was going on. People like that tend to frown on unscheduled killings.”

  George frowned. “Fast Eddie. What the hell does he have to do with this?”

  I explained about the real estate agent and the homestead.

  George snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Fast Eddie’s last name is Marino.”

  “It certainly is.”

  George shook his head. “It’s lucky you came out before he finished the job.”

  “I would say so,” I agreed as I tried not to think about the two I hadn’t been able to save.

  Even though I didn’t want to, I found myself picturing Marsha’s death. Had it been gray or sunny the morning Marsha died? Was she listening to the radio when her world came to an end? She’d been sitting in the back of the parking lot at The Pancake Palace waiting for Garriques to bring her her money and probably thinking about how her life was going to take a turn for the better. She must have been happy to see Garriques, pleased wh
en he got in her car. Finally something was going to work out right. Only instead of giving her the thirty grand, he jammed one of his wife’s hypodermics in her. At least that’s what Connelly had told me. I guess he felt he owed me something.

  It must have happened so fast Marsha didn’t have time to react. She certainly wouldn’t have been expecting it. And then all Garriques had to do was hold her and wait until the insulin took effect. How long would it have taken? Twenty minutes, half an hour at the most. In his confession Garriques had said she hadn’t fought much; she hadn’t tried hard to get away. After she’d become unconscious he’d driven her car over to the reservoir and tossed her in. Then he walked back, got in his car, and went to work.

  “What are you thinking about?” George asked when another minute of silence had gone by.

  I sighed. “Mostly about Marsha and Estrella.”

  “What about them?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I was just thinking how one bad deed can give birth to so many. Porter steals a camera from Garriques and Garriques loses it, kills him and buries the body. Then Marsha finds out about it and tries to blackmail him.”

  “And he kills her,” George said.

  “And then Estrella sees the murder and he kills her.”

  “She could have gone to the police,” George said.

  “She was afraid to. She was afraid she’d be deported. And anyway you told me her friend said that she didn’t think Garriques saw her.”

  “That’s true,” George murmured. “According to Connelly Garriques didn’t. But later that morning he decided to go back to the reservoir and make sure he hadn’t left anything lying around. He saw her backpack ...”

  “So he came and got me,” I said bitterly. “He wanted me to find her for him. And I did. I told him where she was and he went and killed her.”

  George reached over and drew me to him. “It wasn’t your fault.” He stroked my hair with his good hand. “You didn’t know.”

  “But I should have.”

  “And Estrella should have been home. If she hadn’t been sleeping one off, she never would have seen what she had and she’d be alive today.”

  I drew back. “So what’s the moral of the story here?” I said angrily. “Lead a virtuous life or else? I refuse to buy that.”

  “Sssh.” George raised my chin with the tip of his finger. “Come on. Let’s smoke the rest of the joint.”

  I nodded in Root’s direction. “What about him?”

  “Too bad.”

  I lit up. We got about three puffs each before Root started complaining.

  “You’re smoking in there again, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” he cried.

  “You’re imagining things,” I told him.

  “Oh, no I’m not.”

  George grinned. “I guess we’d better put it out.”

  “One more hit each and we will.” I took one and passed the joint along to George. He took in a big lungful and held it for a moment. Then he exhaled and pinched out the roach.

  “This is pretty good stuff,” he said as he handed it to me.

  “I only get the best,” I told him as I put it away.

  “I just have one question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How did you know that I was at the farm?”

  “Your pen.”

  George looked puzzled. “My pen?”

  I elucidated. “You dropped your pen in the barn.”

  “How’d you know it was mine? It wasn’t monogrammed.”

  “I didn’t. But when I was looking through your desk ...”

  “My desk?” George’s voice rose. “You were in my house?”

  “I just said I was.”

  “And you went through my stuff?”

  I nodded. “It was pretty interesting. Especially your dresser.” Now why had I said that?

  “Was it now?” George said softly. “You know what happens to women when they break and enter?”

  “What?”

  “This.” He leaned over and kissed me. I kissed him back.

  “What are you two doing in there?” Root cried as the hospital bed groaned under George’s and my weight.

  We didn’t answer.

  We had better things to do.

  Please turn the page for

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  THE SCENT OF MURDER

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  Chapter 1

  It was the middle of October, and I was up on the ladder tacking a crepe paper skeleton to the wall behind the fish tanks when the girl walked in. For some reason, that’s what I’d come to think of her as—the girl. She looked about fifteen, and she’d been in Noah’s Ark three times in the past week and a half. She’d run her hand over the leashes, stopped and studied the fish tanks, and become absorbed reading the labels on the bags of cat food, but as soon as I’d start walking towards her, she’d bolt.

  I had the impression she was working up her nerve to approach me, which was funny, considering the way she looked. I mean, you’d figure that anyone sporting Kool-Aid blue hair, heavy black eye makeup, white lipstick, and a nose ring big enough to fit Ferdinand the Bull, wouldn’t be afraid of anything. Or maybe she was actually a shy, retiring soul who was getting into Halloween mode a couple of weeks early, and I was being uncharitable—a not uncommon occurrence, I’ve been informed, by the person that works for me.

  In either case the girl had something new with her today: a large albino ferret lay draped over her left shoulder. It looked as if she’d decorated her oversized camo jacket with an ermine pelt. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she strode over to the far shelves and paused to read the label on the flea and tick defoggers. After a minute of doing that, she turned and headed towards me. Her pace was slow, she kept stopping and pretending interest in this and that, and I’d managed to finish with the skeleton by the time she reached the ladder.

  I nodded towards the ferret, as I climbed down the last rung. “He’s a big boy.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across the girl’s face. “He weighs almost three pounds.”

  “I like the halter he has on.” It had multi-colored stones pasted on the thick, blue nylon cloth. “Where’d you buy it?”

  She pulled the zipper on her jacket up and down with her free hand. “I made it.” The expression on her face gave me the impression she wasn’t used to getting a lot of compliments.

  “You did a good job.”

  She stroked the ferret’s back. “My mother hates him. She says he smells bad.”

  “A lot of people feel that way.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. I like ferrets.”

  “He’s my best friend,” she blurted out. She must not have intended to say that, because she looked embarrassed and changed the subject. “I thought this store was in a house.”

  “It was, but the house burned down awhile back.” Now it was my turn to change the subject. I didn’t like to talk about the fire. The scars on my calves were enough of a remembrance. “I moved the business here.”

  “Bummer.” The girl shifted the ferret to her other shoulder.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I said, suppressing the vision of the flames licking at my legs.

  The girl grimaced. Whether it was out of sympathy or boredom, I couldn’t tell. “But you are Robin Light?” she asked. “You do own this place?”

  “Yes. I own Noah’s Ark.”

  She frowned. “Somehow I expected you to look ...” she hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I thought your hair would be redder. I thought you’d look more put together.”

  I didn’t know who this girl was, but she was definitely beginning to get on my nerves. Okay, so maybe my hair was getting a little brownish—red does fa
de out when you get older—and maybe my clothes—jeans, a black tee shirt, and an old flannel shirt—weren’t a fashion statement, but, given that I was cleaning out cages and feeding animals, the outfit seemed appropriate. More appropriate, I wanted to say than hers. Instead, I did my customer smile and asked if I could help her.

  “Maybe.” She began petting the ferret. He raised his head, twitched his nose a couple of times, then put his head back down, obviously exhausted by the effort.

  I reached over and scratched him under the chin. “I used to have an albino once. His name was Snow.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I had to give him away. My other ferrets kept attacking him.”

  “That’s what happened with this one. My friend gave him to me because his other ferrets were biting this one’s tail.”

  I was about to say something about how it was interesting that animals seem to instinctively dislike what Victorians called “sports of nature” and how people do too, but I looked at the girl and decided it might be more politic to keep quiet instead. Contrary to what some people say, I do not have a terminal case of foot-in-the-mouth disease.

  She ruffled the ferret’s fur. “Poor Mr. Bones.”

  “Mr. Bones?”

  “You know. White. Death. Bones. Get it?”

  “It’s not that difficult,” I snapped. I’d just given up smoking three days ago. It was not doing wonders for my disposition.

  The girl scrunched up her face as if I’d just slapped her. Jesus. One moment, she was Tank Girl, the next, she was Little Orphan Annie. I wished she’d get her act straight. “So what can I do for you?” I repeated, trying to keep my growing irritation out of my voice. I had a long list of things to do before Tim, my employee, came in and I could go home. Playing Twenty Questions wasn’t one of the things on the list.

  “I want to leave Mr. Bones with you for awhile.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t board animals. We don’t have the space.” I reached in my pocket for a square of bubble gum. It wasn’t a Camel, but it was going to have to do. “Why don’t you try one of the vets,” I advised, as I unwrapped the gum and popped it in my mouth. Its sickly sweet aroma filled the air. “I hear Grace out in Liverpool is good with exotics and I know he boards animals. Why don’t you call him?”