Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

  "Is there anybody else who might—"

  A quick intake of breath. "I just got it! This isn't about Sherryl Lynn Hastings is it?"

  "No, it's about an animal hair analysis."

  "Ooooh! You know, before Napoleon died, he wrote down that the English holding him in captivity were poisoning him. When he died, a valet saved a lock of his hair and it got passed down and down, and the hair was kept safe until neutron activation analysis developed and it got tested. Know what they found?"

  "Ya got me."

  "He had been poisoned. With arsenic. Over a four-month period!"

  "Do you think there might be anybody else who could give me a visual—"

  "Ooooh! I know, the Chief Vet's assistant is over at the Dragons of Komodo habitat." She pointed a long, white-tipped nail. "Go that way, past the Aviary. I'll page him and tell him you're on the way."

  She's already texting her friends before he's out the door. Insta-news, insta-gossip.

  The flock of pink flamingos hardly notice Doug as he goes by. Some of them are resting on one leg, bathing in their pool and slow-stepping on their stilt-legs around the water. He catches up with the number-two man at the African wild dogs.

  "I'll tell you one thing, Detective," the Chief Vet's assistant says, turning the vial in his palm. "I'd classify them as simian."

  "As in monkey?"

  "I see that one of the hairs has a follicular tag, meaning that it was pulled out by the root. You've got a good test sample there for a macaca, a marmoset, a capuchin; something like that."

  ***

  LASD Homicide Bureau is located at the end of a discreet industrial-office strip, sharing space with the Headstart Preschool, and a computer company advertising "solutions." It's a running joke at the bureau when anyone is stuck, to stop in and ask the guys a few doors down to solve the problem. Outside the Bureau's blackened-glass doors is a pass-code pad. Nobody casually drops by LASD Homicide.

  Doug hurries up the walk, punches in his code and heads for the squad room. He can't resist a quick stop at his computer—the inbox stacked with emails. Interagency e-bulletins about a string of armed robberies and a serial rapist in Ventura leap onscreen. Nothing remotely connected to his case.

  "Long time no see." A familiar voice speaks behind him. It's LaShawna Leone, cool and controlled, with a designer takeout coffee that smells like caramel and cinnamon. Nothing new there. Doug's never seen her look anything but cool and controlled, smelling like caramel and cinnamon.

  "Want half my Starbucks?"

  "Naaw thanks. How's the tooth?" He rolls his office chair out a ways and settles in.

  "Settling down after a week in hell."

  "That's how long it's been since I seen you?"

  "Hope I'm not in trouble with your wife for this meeting."

  He laughs. "You? No way. She knows who's got my back."

  "When do we get the autopsy report?

  "Parts of it by Monday. They were cutting yesterday. A couple days more for collection reports."

  "And the swabs?"

  "Same. Did you run Sherryl Lynn's roommate through LACDIS?"

  "He's clear. Alibi checks. He was working at a restaurant the whole day she went missing—a 12 hour shift. Then he went to a karaoke club. He was seen all night long."

  "They already ran a check on her Beetle when it was found. No sign of struggle. Looks like she left the car and never returned."

  "There's one disconnect, though."

  "What's that?"

  "Her father said he sent her money for a fender-bender. Receipts for the repair—a new hood and front fender were replaced in Ojai. The roommate knows nothin'."

  "Why's that strange?"

  "Because he knows everything else; what she ate, fear of spiders, what was in her shoe closet. She told him everything. Why would she keep the car repair a secret?"

  Doug looks into the distance of the squad room. Phones blip, deputies hustle past on other business. "No idea."

  "Didn't you indicate some work had been done on the Mustang in the dog-kill case?"

  "Right, the front end had fresh paint."

  "We never thought much about it but now Sherryl Lynn's had a repair too. This one's done in secret."

  "People often keep fender benders off their insurance. So what?"

  "These weren't small repairs. The Mustang front end, the Volks front end too."

  "What's the connection?"

  "How about a hit-and-run?"

  A looks comes over Doug's face. "I'll take half that coffee now," he says.

  "I thought you might find that interesting. Your turn. Whatya got?"

  Doug pulls out the hair vials.

  ***

  Now they stand in front of the Captain who looks at the hair vials on his desk like they are radioactive waste.

  "So you two think this is about somebody using a monkey to kill people…." He looks like he's ready for them to burst into giggles and yell, "April Fool!." Only they don't. He pushes the vials back over the desk. "There's only a couple labs in the country do this kind of testing. Call Arizona and see if they do it. If you really got a monkey at two crime scenes, I'll let you run with it."

  ***

  "I thought you were on a church picnic," Doug calls, closing the door on his Charger. Tabby lounges in the doorway smiling as he walks to the front porch.

  "The kids went. It was one of those all-day things just for kids and tweens."

  Up close he can smell air-dried clothes and sweet-smelling hand cream. "So it's you and me?"

  "Looks like it, and I know exactly where I want to go." She pauses. "Everything okay with Leone?" She looks into his eyes, searching for pain or anxiety about the case. She finds none—or no more than usual.

  "Do I have to go into it?"

  "Course not. Just askin'"

  "Where did you want to go?"

  "I need you to come in the bedroom."

  "Huh?"

  "Yeah, I think there's something wrong with the bed."

  "Something's wrong with the bed, huh? Well, we better test it out."

  He holds the door open and pats her bottom on the way in.

  "I was hoping you'd think of something like that," she replies, settling into a kiss, and giving the door a quick push closed with her elbow.

  ***

  A few hours later, Doug wakes with a start. Tabby slumbers beside him—after lovemaking they'd both fallen dead to the world, and the clock says 3:00 P.M. Too early for the kids to be back. He watches Tabby's slow breathing and thinks, for the millionth time, what a lucky guy he is.

  How many years did he hope and pray for the chance of marrying a good woman—not some foul-mouthed, promiscuous creature like the one his young mother had turned into—but a girl who lived in a house, and slept in a real bed, and had a father and mother who knew where she was after school. Looking at Tabby in the bed next to him, lying on clean sheets with their children at a church picnic, Doug feels gratitude wave over him, body and soul.

  In the quiet he contemplates their bedroom—filled with artwork that Tabby loves. Her favorite artist of all time is Granville Redmond, a deaf-mute who grew up to become California's foremost Impressionist painter. His Opalescent Sea hangs over the bed and Doug has already resolved to one day buy Tabby a Granville Redmond original, although it'll take some doing. The guy sells for big bucks these days.

  He gazes at their canvas copy; beneath a grey sky, ocean surf roils and bursts upon rocks. It looks like a storm is coming in but the sky is cracked with a sliver of light. Whether the storm is coming in or finally blowing itself out is left for the beholder to decide.

  Tabby stirs. "Am I a sleepyhead?"

  "A beautiful one."

  Beside the bed his cell phone rings. It's Leone.

  "Sherryl Lynn's father just called. He left out details about Sherryl Lynn's car the first time around. The repairs were for a hit-and-run she did. Sherryl Lynn killed a senior citizen a month ago."

  Chapter Sixteen


  Needless to say, we never made it to the bank.

  North we went. North to San Francisco, through Mendicino and beyond.

  Hank Williams and the boys blasting on the Firebird's player. We didn't stop till Humboldt County where trees grow a hundred feet in the air, and it rains and gets cold.

  Up this way, you don't stop just anywhere and get out of the car to have a looksee. Not unless you want a 12-gauge welcome. Humboldt is weed country. Pot territory. Growers live here. Everybody's got a secret, locals are careful about asking too many questions.

  We settle in at the Redwood Rest-a-While Motel. Convenient weekly rates. HBO. WiFi. We eat at The Organic Egg across the street. There's even a decent chiropractor in town who understands supplements and herbs. I'm letting the guy give me acupuncture.

  At breakfast we chitchat. Cinda likes it here. She mentions we could rent a cabin, get a local handyman to build a wheelchair ramp. She could waitress a little at the café. We avoid mentioning the elephant sitting in our booth. We have to go back to LA. Maybe not right now. Maybe only overnight. But we have to go.

  ***

  On Sunday morning Orella wakes.

  Both dogs are dead.

  Her sons were almost arrested.

  Humiliation falls like a bludgeon.

  Perhaps another woman would give up.

  Neither son will appear before noon, but the thought of having the house to herself gives no joy. Restless, she dresses, and without thinking the car keys are in her hand.

  The SUV seems to drive itself towards the 5 freeway and flows freely to the 101 south. At the Grand exit downtown, she finally knows where she's going. The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels glows from blocks away in the morning sun. Sunday morning Mass. A talk with God. She will ask for a sign, what to do next. This modern, 189-million-dollar-plus tribute to the Lord seems at odds with Orella's traditional sensibilities. But she doesn't question it and parks the SUV underground. Over the main entrance, a stylized Blessed Virgin floats, arms spread in welcome. Orella hardly recognizes her.

  She enters the enormous ambulatory with its warm, sandblasted walls. Services won't start for another hour, and there is no one in the sanctuary except for a custodian and a junior priest moving between the pews. The silence is helpful. Orella chooses a seat and kneels. Upon the Altar, a relaxed-looking Christ hangs on a cross. Not up high, but three feet off the floor. No eyes rolled to heaven, this Christ looks beyond pain already on his blonde-wood cross. This place was built with deep, careful thought—but the more she tries to concentrate, the more disoriented she feels. Where is the humiliation? The respect, the fear? This is Catholicism with all the blood let out of it. She takes a rosary from her handbag and squeezes it hard. No answer comes from the relaxed Christ beyond pain. She does rosary after rosary, and no sign comes.

  What am I missing? Who am I missing? Please Lord speak to me. Suddenly it comes. Malverde. The Narco Saint. El Narco-Santon. How long has it been since she made tribute in person?

  Jésus Malverde is as real to some Mexicans as the Blessed Virgin. His shrine endures in Mexico, surviving several attempts at removal, as well as disapproval from the church. Drug growers, processors and traffickers worship Malverde and pray for his favor and protection.

  Making the sign of the cross she leaves the pew and retreats to the back exit, passing an ornate retablo, a 17th century relic hand-hewn from gilded black walnut. It's a striking contrast to the cathedral's modernity. Like Malverde, like herself, it seems out of place, transplanted from another space and time.

  She exits to the wide plaza and fountain outside, bordering West Temple Street. A black and white passes by. Then another and another. Is it a sign? Yes! Policia can help. The people she's feared all her life can serve as a tool. She'll set them on the trail of the man with the monkey. A letter would do it. Unsigned. No fingerprints. She'll do it first thing in the morning, when the boys are still asleep. A hearse comes into view. Another sign? Yes, the same time she pays homage to Malverde, she could bury Ambrose. Do these things, Orella's intuition urges, and maybe somebody up there will give you a break.

  ***

  Maria Stamos, the real Maria Stamos, helps her shop and pack. The bags bulge with gifts—good quality t-shirts, pants and jeans of all sizes, candy and treats. In Sinaloa any number of luxurious country homes are available for Orella to stay in—the cartel family has fully staffed villas tucked away in the countryside—but she insists on staying close to the funeral home where Ambrose rests. This poses a bit of a security problem, but it has to be worked out; Orella is adamant.

  A Travel Advisory Warning from the US State department online prints out along with her ticket.

  Recent violent attacks and persistent security concerns have prompted the US embassy to urge travelers to defer unnecessary travel to Michoacán and Tamaulipas, to parts of Chihuahua, Sinaloa, Durango, and Coahuila, and to advise travelers residing or traveling in those areas to exercise extreme caution.

  She and Maria continue packing and piling on bags. Luis appears in the bedroom doorway. He's clutching a phone close to his chest, obviously someone holding on the line. "Mamá, Federales called the funeria looking for Ambrose."

  Orella and Maria exchange looks.

  "They say it's too risky for carnales. Just wives and girlfriends, now. It's bad enough just for you."

  It has been unwise for a while now to gather the bosses anywhere in public that the military could bust or rivals could attack.

  "They say me and Mateo shouldn't be around either." Maria meets her eyes and gives a slight nod.

  "Luis," she calls. "Tell them it's just Maria and me. We'll only stay a couple of days."

  Maria surveys the small mountain of bags. She selects two carry-on cases with rolling wheels and dumps them out to start fresh. This means traveling light.

  ***

  A black Town Car picks them up at 6 A.M. Two grey-haired ladies bound for Tijuana International Airport. Orella is buttoned up in a shapeless dress with a grey wig similar to Maria's natural hair. No one cares about people entering Mexico from the American side, especially two older ladies with clean ID from Baja. Orella waves a sealed letter at the driver. "Stop at a mailbox, por favor?"

  Two hours later, the crossing point yawns across six lanes of light traffic. Right across the street from the fence separating the United States from Mexico is Aeropuerto Internacional de Tijuana. Their driver navigates it with finesse, smooth as a shot of Patrón Tequila.

  ***

  A few hours later they touch down in Culiacan. Stepping onto the tarmac is like walking into a sauna. The city is semi-tropical and this is July, high 90s and humid. Ignoring the baggage claim, Orella and Maria walk straight out to the sidewalk. A taxi shoots out of line to pick them up and they relaunch into airport traffic as horns wail behind them. On the front seat, the tip of a WASR-10 peeks from under the driver's newspaper. The gun is a cheap knock-off of an AK-47 made in Romania. Culiacan is flooded with them. The driver's eyes meet Orella's in the rearview mirror and she nods.

  Convoys of armored vehicles and masked soldiers pass by, but no one makes them stop. Lights of the airport recede. Orella lowers her head and the grey hair slips off, into her purse. Suddenly, the driver curses. A Dodge Nitro with the black and white lettering of policia bears down on them from behind, lights flashing.

  They pull over and stare straight ahead as the officer approaches. The sound of his shoes on the road triggers a wave of perspiration under Orella's dress. Alongside, he looks in the car and asks the driver in Spanish to step out. Orella thrusts her hand across the seat with three American hundreds in it. The officer looks welcoming, but her driver misses the look. His hand moves, the newspaper rustles. Orella screams as the officer takes a WASR blast in the face. THUMPTHUMPTHUMP the shots shake the taxi to its frame. Orella and Maria throw themselves across the back seat, cracking heads. Maria moans.

  The driver floors it, pulling sharply into traffic. Horns blare but no one stops or gi
ves chase. They speed past luxury car dealerships, shopping centers and glittering gambling casinos. A hard turn takes them into a casino parking lot, carooming over speed bumps, showering sparks from the undercarriage. On the other side of the lot a 4x4 waits. Armed men jump out and race to the cab, hauling them out. Orella calls one of them by name as they rush for the 4x4. The men push them inside and the vehicle peels toward the centro of the city. The women rub their sore heads.

  In a while the new driver slows down but still runs red lights—this is everyday driving in Cuilacan. Orella and Maria exhale in unison, still clutching the door handles as the 4x4 whipsaws between lanes. As they draw nearer the centro, an end of town with art museums and cafés, young people are out on the streets, laughing and walking. Their relaxed spirits contrast the tension inside the vehicle. Orella had been one of these youngsters once—a high-breasted, long legged beauty, fresh from the country. Now, it feels like a million years ago.

  The 4x4 pulls over again, a few blocks from the Hotel Ocho Palmeras, and they transfer to a Mercedes with a uniformed driver and two bodyguards. Nerves still jumping, the women disembark. Fixing their hair and clothing is a failure—disarray clings to them outside as well as in. The new driver goes to check them in, and they head straight through the lobby. Adrenaline still charging through her body, Orella hears the soft sounds of a Spanish guitar. The music transports her for a moment, away from the smell of gunpowder and sharp sweat. The playing is skillful and sweet, soothing as a mother's touch. It's coming from inside the café where she glimpses a young man just about the same age as Ambrose, strumming an acoustic instrument—it's the dinner hour, 8 P.M., only one hour later than Los Angeles time but a whole world away.

  Maria touches her arm to keep moving. Behind them, the bodyguards jingle room keys.

  The casita isn't 4-star according to American standards, but the air-conditioning works well and it's sparkling clean. Her party has taken two side-by-side casitas for maximum privacy—guesthouses away from the main hotel.

  Maria and Orella are in no mood to enjoy it, but a flamboyant bouquet of dahlia pinneas sits on the table and a small fridge has been brought in, filled with delicacies, champagne and wine. In one of the bedrooms off the living room Orella strips off her rumpled dress before getting into a cool shower. Under the spray, with gunfire still throbbing in her ears, she thinks about the guitarist. She could hire him to play at the Malverde shrine as a tribute. Classical music, not the corrida-narco music, but something sweet and plaintive, more in line with making sure Ambrose has a safe journey to heaven.