by Kirk Russell
‘No.’
‘At some point the apartment manager will clean out everything.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
‘She had a cat,’ Raveneau said. ‘Do you know anybody who’d like her cat? I’ve got it, right now.’
‘I don’t know anybody.’
After Gloria left and they were still in the apartment, la Rosa summed up her opinion.
‘That’s one cold fish.’
But Raveneau didn’t see her that way at all. He thought she was deeply sad and close to breaking down.
‘Why don’t I call the cousin before we leave here,’ la Rosa said. ‘I’ll make a run at her woman to woman. I think I’ve gotten a feel of her from the emails.’
‘Sure, but from the way Gloria was talking I wouldn’t count on the cousin knowing she’s dead. It’s not clear to me that Gloria has told her own parents yet.’
Raveneau overheard Julie Candiff answer the phone and after la Rosa explained, the words, ‘Oh, no, oh, no.’
La Rosa was on the phone with her forty minutes or more, finally pulling something out of Julie that sent her to the bedroom closet. With the phone still in her left hand she reached up on a shelf and pulled down three empty purses they’d previously checked. In a burgundy-colored leather purse she followed Julie’s directions and found a seam near the bottom bound by Velcro. When she pulled the Velcro apart it exposed a pocket sewed behind the lining. In it were six driver’s licenses, all with Alex’s face but none with her name or true driver’s license number. For each license there was a credit card. When she hung up with the cousin she looked at Raveneau and said, ‘Looks like Gloria was right about credit fraud. So is that what got her killed?’
TWENTY-FOUR
Not long after Stoltz started his five year prison sentence, his new cellmate, a pug-faced guy who went by the name of Chulie, suggested with a good-natured grin that since they were trapped with each other and without women, they should service each other sexually. When Stoltz declined, Chulie turned sullen.
Then came the night Stoltz was lying on his back trying to go to sleep, trying not to obsess about what had happened, and breathing the rank prison air while listening to the animal howls of some crazy asshole down the cell block, when something inside him snapped. The lights, noise, loss of reputation, the narrowing of his existence down to this locked building full of losers caused a tightening in his chest that felt like a hand crushing his heart. He could barely breathe and croaked Chulie’s name.
But Chulie thought he was calling for a different reason and when he’d realized it was medical help he’d wanted, decided to watch rather than yell for a guard. In seconds Stoltz became drenched in sweat and overwhelmed by fear. Four hours later a disdainful prison doctor told him his heart was fine and that his head was the problem. An anxiety attack was not uncommon for those just starting their sentence.
‘Let me give you some advice,’ he said. ‘Your life has changed irrevocably. Nothing will ever be the same. People will never accept you in the same way, and those who tell you later that the fact you went to prison doesn’t matter to them will all be liars. You’ll be an ex-con for the rest of your life and that means you’ll always be a lesser human being. It does mean you’ll never again have the life you had before. Accept that and acknowledge you took another man’s life, and then you can move on. There’s a price for what you’ve done. Fight it and it’s going to eat you from the inside out. The claw marks in your chest today came from your head. Think about that.’
He didn’t take that advice and got through five years of prison by vowing to get his old life back. Now, he almost had it. Not quite, but almost. In prison he had part-time access to a computer and gave away his best ideas to those that could help him get back on his feet later. Some of that paid off. He was ready to fight and win again, and a hatred of Raveneau was growing in him. The hatred he nurtured for Whitacre and Bates was for all of them now, but he needed to keep that in balance. Still, he was sure Raveneau would be back. Raveneau would be the one. Raveneau was the locus, the center, the eye, the one to watch.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Let’s play a little basketball,’ la Rosa said as they got back from Jurika’s apartment near dusk. ‘I keep thinking about Heilbron and need to clean the smell of him out of my pores.’
‘You and me, one on one?’
‘Sure, why not, unless I’m too intimidating.’
‘You’re not.’
‘You sure?’
‘Where would we play?’
‘I belong to a club. They’ve got pretty good indoor courts and there’s usually one open. It’s in South San Francisco but you could go down Third and avoid the traffic.’ She touched his arm. ‘But honestly, not if it scares you, and it’s only fair to tell you I played point guard at San Jose State for two years. Most of that was on the bench, but I’m sure I can still embarrass an old man. Come out and play with me.’
‘I haven’t played in years.’
‘I believe you but you’re all that’s available and we can keep talking about the case on the court.’
At his last physical Raveneau’s doctor told him, ‘Buy a blood pressure monitor. Go to Longs or Walgreens, plenty of places sell them, and start taking your blood pressure in the first hour after waking in the morning because that’s when it’s highest. Keep a log. You’re borderline and I want to see if we can bring it down with exercise before we get into a prescription.’
Raveneau bought the blood pressure monitor and used it twice before rolling the rubber hose tightly around the cuff and putting it in a drawer. The readings he had gotten weren’t great but they weren’t terrible and he already had enough other things to worry about. He did buy a new pair of running shoes and started aiming for three to four runs a week. He averaged one or two.
He met la Rosa outside the club and she insisted on paying his guest fee. It was a nice club, clean, a lot of modern weight and aerobic equipment, a spin room, rows of racquetball courts, a whole world of people living a way he didn’t have much connection with but probably ought to. He followed her on to the court and shot a dozen baskets before she said, ‘OK, let’s do this.’
La Rosa went around him and scored as soon as she got the ball. She took the first game of one on one without working hard at all and he learned that she had a pretty good jump shot, but that she favored the left side of the key, which was also her go-to side for lay-ups. She had a third shot, a fall-away hook that she bounced off the iron twice, and made only one of three of in the first game.
No one was going to be shooting any free throw fouls and she bumped hard as she worked in, pushing him back with her ass and shoulder, telling him something more about her and her style. She wasn’t shy with her elbows either and rode a hand on him, pushing back whenever he dribbled across the key and in. He spun, came up, and bounced one off the glass and the rim as she pushed him and he landed hard.
‘Is that how they played in your league?’ he asked, and got a grim smile as she dribbled at the top of the key and broke around him again.
‘There need to be more women on the homicide detail,’ she said as her shot dropped, and then added, ‘Three isn’t enough. The change is too slow. It needs to happen faster.’
‘That would mean a bigger department and they’re not hiring right now. They’re talking but not hiring.’
‘Maybe some people need to retire.’
‘Yeah, who do you have in mind?’
‘It’s about old boy networks and prejudices. It’s time to change.’
‘I don’t know about any network.’
‘It’s men looking out for men. Time for change.’
Raveneau was one of these guys who once he got warmed up, stayed that way. He’d always been like that and was down about ten pounds since the blood pressure scare with the doctor. He wasn’t carrying much fat but he wasn’t fit the way he should be either. A crease of sweat formed center of his chest, then his back, and she didn’t shy away from his swe
at-soaked back either. Her hand was right there, pushing hard against him, tips of her fingers digging in and nothing sexual in it; la Rosa fighting him as he worked his way in and got two points.
She checked the ball. He shot from the top of the key and swished it. She checked the ball back to him and he scored twice, before she picked up a rebound and he got to meet the real Elizabeth la Rosa.
She didn’t back into him this time. She dropped a shoulder and drove past on his left, and when he fouled her as she went up and said, ‘Sorry,’ because he’d caught her pretty good and hadn’t meant to, she said, ‘My ball,’ took it to the top of the key and started in, faked the same move, spun, went around him, her knees grazing his belly as she put it in.
When they started out they said, five games, and when she won four in a row and lost the last one, she wouldn’t quit until they’d played another. His T-shirt was sweat-soaked and her cheeks and forehead were shiny, and sweat ran down from the damp hair at her temples. She wasn’t big or tall, five nine, maybe one forty-five, but she was agile and quick and graceful, until fatigue caught her in the last game.
Raveneau dropped four shots in a row and took an early lead. That just made her angry. She got angry and he got faster. She wanted the last game, wanted to show him up, show him what basketball training and an eighteen year advantage in age was worth, but if Raveneau was anything he was tough when it mattered and now he wanted the game. Maybe his hair was salt and pepper, but he wasn’t an old man and he wasn’t moving out or away just at the age when he was finally getting good at his job.
He fell behind. For five games in a row she ran the same move and now finally he smoked the ball out of her hands as she went up. Next play he got the ball back and she was in his face saying, ‘Nice play, but now you’re going to have to get around me and score, or take another chance with that goofy-foot jumper of yours.’
Raveneau didn’t answer, knew she was just waiting for a chance to steal the ball back, and she slapped at it now and almost knocked it loose, and then he was on the move. When she cut off the inside lane he tried a hook shot, some throwback to an era before la Rosa had been born. It hit the backboard and went in.
A couple of people had come over to watch and playing to them, Raveneau dropped a three pointer. He scored again and then had her. He was only one shot away and after she scored twice he got a rebound, worked it in and took it home for the win.
‘One more game,’ she said the second the ball dropped through, and he shook his head.
‘That was it,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’
‘No, come on, one more.’
‘I’m beat.’
‘You’ve got one more in you.’
‘I’ve always got one more in me.’
He played another just to get to know his new partner better. His knees ached, his breath came harder, and he didn’t have the drive he carried through the game before. He was ready for a beer when she beat him by one shot. Sweat had formed droplets on his forearms and soaked through his hair and clothes. He was spent but it felt good and they had a beer at the club bar before leaving.
‘That was fun,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to do that again. For an old guy you’ve got some staying power.’
‘You’re beating this age thing to death. Maybe you’re missing all the talk about fifty being the new forty.’
‘I’ll be chief of police by the time I’m fifty and the homicide detail will be half female.’
He didn’t answer that. He smiled and put his glass down.
‘Let’s go back at Heilbron tomorrow. See you in the morning.’
TWENTY-SIX
Raveneau woke to a hollow banging noise that died away within moments. When the sound woke him a second time he came to wakefulness with the memory of a corrupt police officer in Guatemala tip-tapping the barrel of his gun against the driver’s window of a rented car, waiting for Raveneau to roll down the window. He listened to the noise another thirty seconds, realized it was three in the morning and got out of bed quietly and fumbled for his clothes. Once outside he walked across the big roof toward the noise, carrying a flashlight he hadn’t turned on yet. He figured it was someone trying to break into the warehouse underneath him. He looked over the parapet and then clicked on the light.
Almost directly below was a metal access door to his landlord’s business. When his flashlight beam caught the top of a billed cap, the would-be burglar dropped the iron bar he was using to get through the metal door and zigzagged into the darkness. He ran back toward the street and that was fine with Raveneau. Let the guy run. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with him inside the building. But a few seconds later, as he swept the asphalt lot below with the light, he heard the buzz of a bullet passing and the popping of another round going off. He ducked down behind the parapet, swore, and killed the light. Down the street a car with its headlights on accelerated away, and without a make on the car Raveneau walked to his phone. But he was plenty angry the guy had taken a shot at him.
Two officers arrived ten minutes later. They wrote it up as Raveneau limped around on the street. One of the officers looked at him and asked, ‘You twist your ankle when he took a shot at you?’
‘No, I’m just sore because I got a little exercise. I’m not used to it.’
The cops laughed.
‘Anything else you want us to do?’
‘No, I’m good.’
‘Then we’ll take a drive around. And you think it was a Honda?’
‘Oh, hell, I don’t know, I could barely make out the shape. But it looked like a Honda, probably late model.’
After studying the damage to the door, Raveneau wrote a note for the owner. He’d give him a call in the morning. Around the deadbolt the door was badly dented and the lock had been all but hammered off. Han would need to replace it all tomorrow. When he got back up to the apartment it was 4:30 and he was too wired up to go back to sleep. He showered, dressed, made coffee and drove into work.
There, he found a note from CSI. They’d gotten a hit on the second set of prints taken from Jurika’s apartment and came up with a Deborah Lafaye, who’d been pulled over on Green Street three years ago and pled guilty to driving under the influence. Through the DUI arrest they had a Fulton Street address in San Francisco. He stared at her name, repeating it silently to himself because there was something familiar. Then he googled her and got it. He clicked on to the website of her charity foundation. The foundation’s stated mission was to bring modern medical techniques and supplies to the world’s poor. He skimmed that, read her bio, looked at photos, and tried to imagine a reason she’d be in Jurika’s apartment. He couldn’t come up with one and continued to click around on the website as he mulled it over.
Then he called la Rosa and woke her up.
‘It’s Saturday,’ she said. ‘What are you doing in there?’
‘I shot baskets for a couple of hours earlier this morning and then I figured I’d just come in and work.’ Now he told her what happened last night. Then he picked up the CSI note and read it to her. ‘CSI got a hit on the second set of prints, a Deborah Lafaye.’
‘The world health foundation, the woman with the fingernails.’
‘You got it right away. I had to google her.’
‘It must be a mistake.’
‘They double-checked it.’
Now she was quiet as she did what he had done, trying to picture this minor celebrity in Jurika’s kitchen. He remembered the fingernail story. Lafaye had most of her nails ripped out in a torture session and she wore the misshapen result like a badge of honor. He’d seen her on a talk show holding her hands up to the cameras, though none of that was on the website.
La Rosa did what he did, took another angle, asking, ‘When was the DUI?’
‘Three years ago as she was driving away from a restaurant. The note says they ran the prints twice, but I’ll check with them again. Then I’m going to call her.’
‘Call me first.’
The prints s
till came back as Deborah Lafaye’s and la Rosa came into the office. She watched him cross the room and said, ‘The way you’re walking reminds me of my dog when he got so old he could barely stand in the morning. I finally had to have him put to sleep. He was blind by then and he couldn’t hear either. You have reading glasses, don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Listen, I’ve been reading more about Lafaye. She’s a pretty big deal and she’s got some friends with throw weight.’
‘Throw weight?’
‘Yeah, like a missile. It’s a word out of the Cold War, another event you missed. Check out the web page, you’ll see a picture of her with Clinton. Seems like I remember when she started out and it hasn’t been that many years. She’s brought that foundation a long way.’
Like a true cop, la Rosa read the arrest article first, and he made coffee. Though it was Saturday and the office empty but for one interview underway, la Rosa had dressed in a coffee-colored suit and shoes to match. Maybe that was for an anticipated meeting with Lafaye, but who knew whether Lafaye was even in town. He got the impression from the website and everything else that popped up on Google that Lafaye traveled a lot. Seeing her nice clothes reminded him of a period of several years when he’d worn nice suits every day and told people that it was out of respect for the dead.
But that respect for the dead had also coincided with when he was most full of himself. Looking back now, he figured he’d known a few very good inspectors and some very bad ones and the clothing hadn’t made anyone better or worse. Some of the bad inspectors had dressed immaculately yet couldn’t find a soldier on an army base.
The good ones connected to some pulse running through everyone. One of the very best had taken him aside at a retirement party and walked him out into a warm May night on a patio to tell him, ‘Dump the expensive suits, you don’t need them. I’ve been watching you and you’re the real deal, but you’re missing details because you’re spending too much time trying to keep coffee off your tie.’