“Have you heard the news?” I wanted to hear about her trip, but I needed to discuss Rick, and the crackling phone carried no promise the connection would last.
“About Rick? Yeah, are you okay?”
“Yes, well, no! Del, they think I did it.”
“Son of a bitch!” Her hoot was long and raucous.
“That’s not funny. You wouldn’t believe what I’m going through. They think I hit him with that damn bat.”
“Oh, babe. Do you need me to come home?”
Something in her voice sounded hesitant, but I knew what I wanted. “Can you?”
I could hear her sigh all the way from South America. “Harry and Nita have been so kind, I hate to run off. They’re planning a party for me and you know how I always wanted to see South America...”
I swallowed my disappointment. “Sweetie, don’t interrupt your trip. I’ll get through this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sam Patterson is helping me.”
“You’ve already got a new guy?” she shrieked.
“No. Remember Hank Patterson? His father. He’s a retired cop, a real go-getter.”
“Oooh, spending time with the handsome police chief? No wonder you don’t need me.”
“It’s not like you think, and I’ll have to tell you about that. Your suggestion to call him got me in a lot of trouble when he came to tell me about Rick.”
“Sounds like a great martini story.”
“Speaking of martinis, remember that kid, Toby? He recorded us at the bar. He’s threatening to tell the police unless I pay him.”
Her laugh was so loud she might have been next door. “Oh, hon, are you in a hell of a spot! Did you tell the cops?”
“How can I? That thing could land me in a jail cell. The cops don’t even believe I’m being followed.”
“What does that mean?”
“I keep noticing the same cars behind me. There’s a lot going on here. Did you know Rick was having money problems?”
“Who didn’t? He borrowed from everyone. Don’t tell me he never put the touch on you. He was a fucking deadbeat. Walt lent him a ton.”
“Did you know he was gambling?”
“Everyone knew that. What planet have you been living on?”
I drew a deep breath. I had one more question and she was the only person I could trust to tell me the truth. “One more thing… Del, be honest…did you know he was seeing other women?”
The phone line crackled and to my horror, it went dead.
Frantically I called her cell, but there was no answer. For the next half hour, I sat by the phone, alternately waiting and calling her—all to no avail.
Finally, I gave up. At least I’d talked to Delia. With a new spring in my step, I approached my board to study the list of names. What should I do next? Who should I question? The answer was simple, considering Rick’s gambling. El Patron.
****
Tuesday, 2:00 p.m.
After several hours on the Internet researching Benito Dominguez, I climbed into my rental car and headed up Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu. Sam claimed it was easier to show up than call. Luckily, I saw no suspicious cars following me.
Thanks to my research, I knew where he lived. He had purchased the old Castelman Estate on a hilltop in Malibu and I knew the location. As a reporter I joined a press entourage camped outside the gate for a week, waiting for the death of film star Ike Castelman.
Getting into the compound posed a problem, but I could park and wait where we had once done live shots. When he came out, I could tail him until he stopped and talk to him then. The area had changed since Castelman owned the property. Rockslides had sheared away the lower part of the hill, destroying the wide road. What had been rebuilt was nothing more than a narrow strip of pavement. A “private” sign warned away trespassers. I ignored it and turned off PCH.
The road wound around the back side of the hill through orange and avocado orchards and a grassy meadow before swinging back around toward the ocean to start its steep climb upward. Glancing down the rocky inclines that tumbled to PCH and the beach made me dizzy, so I concentrated on the road.
When I reached the grilled gate with a big C carved into two stone pillars I discovered a major mistake. Stone walls, which had not existed when I was staked out with the reporters, ran along the upper hill. There was no place to park. Or hide.
I swung the car around to go back down, but a wiry man in a gray guard uniform approached me, a scowl on his swarthy face.
“This is a private road, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t you see the sign at the bottom?”
A quick apology fluttered to my lips as I slid open the window, but he did a sudden double take. He touched the bill of his hat. “Miss delaGarza. Are they expecting you?”
Feigning comfort I didn’t feel, I smiled. “I’m sorry. I got lost.” I started to put the car into reverse, but he put a hand on the window and tapped it.
“No problem. I’ll call.” He spoke into a microphone he’d lifted from his belt.
This was far from what I expected, but before I could say anything, he waved toward the gate. “They said to go on up. Senor Zapato will meet you in front.”
Why I was being allowed to enter and who was Senor Zapato? Literally translated it meant Mr. Shoe. The gate swung open, and I swallowed my fear and subsequent jubilation and drove through the gates. The compound reminded me of The Godfather as the theme played in my head. I shook it off. No movies!
Sweeping lawns and double rows of swaying palm trees lined the driveway that led to a series of large houses at the end. Unlike the bumpy lower road, this was a wide, well-maintained street. I followed it until it swung in front of a three-story Georgian mansion that stood regally at the center of a wide circular drive. Lots of windows, lots of red brick. A veranda at one end came complete with columns and creeping ivy. If El Patron wasn’t a bookie, he was doing something else illegal.
Senor Zapato was a barrel chested man in a black suit with a thick black mustache, slick ebony hair tinged with gray, and an air of danger about him. If I ever needed a bodyguard he’d be the guy to hire. That was probably who he was. If someone was going to put a bleeding horse head in a bed, this was the guy to do it. Mr. Shoe. He probably stomped out people for El Patron. Like people who weren’t paying gambling debts?
Drawing a deep breath as I stepped from the car, I smoothed down my narrow skirt. I’d chosen a tawny silk blouse to go with my peach suit for my visit. I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want them to think I was weak. Forgoing sandals, I’d opted for a pair of champagne colored pumps.
Senor Zapato greeted me with a gap-toothed smile and performed an elegant bow as he held open my door and spoke in a polite tone. “Bien venidos, senorita. Please come in.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“Senor Dominguez does not need appointments with friends.” His voice carried a thick accent.
Since when was I a friend? I’d only seen the old man at Geneva and the memorial service. Neither time had he displayed friendship.
Senor Shoe gestured toward a set of French doors on the right side of the massive structure. The doors led into a very nicely tended garden with white wicker patio furniture. At the far end of the garden I spied the old man. Sitting next to him was the thin blonde woman who had been with him at Geneva. I’d pegged the two as rich socialites, and while they were undoubtedly wealthy, I doubted they got many invitations to society soirees.
She stood as I approached and flashed a wide smile. “What a wonderful surprise. Thank you for coming to see us.” Her voice was pleasant, slightly accented. She leaned toward the old man who looked up at me with that same scowl.
“See, viejo? Here’s one of your favorite newscasters to see you,” she said in a loud voice. “He had a stroke last year that partly paralyzed his face and he’s grown hard of hearing, but he never misses your newscasts.”
He nodded, and I could see light in his tawny eyes, bu
t though his lips twitched, the scowl never shifted. He lifted a gaunt hand that trembled and I shook it, regretting my mistake. Whatever illegal endeavors this man had once committed, he was no longer El Patron, feared crime leader. She called him “viejo” or old man, and that was exactly what he was.
What was Rick’s connection with this family? Had he placed bets with them? Before I could contemplate further, a major distraction appeared. Paula Gardner swept onto the patio like she owned it, dark hair tossing around her shoulders.
“Paula...” At first I thought she’d followed me, but then the tumblers in my brain lined up like the combination for a safe. Duh! Paula Gardner—the former Paula Dominguez. I’d never known her family.
She was as surprised to see me as I was to see her. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought she came to see you, mija?” the blonde said, tilting her head toward Paula. The resemblance confirmed the origins of Paula’s last name.
“You’re ready to do an interview?” Paula asked, never missing a beat.
The thought gagged me since she sounded so positive. I’d considered it earlier when I was angry over Gwen, but faced with the prospect, I knew I couldn’t do it. Still, the possibility could mask my real intention.
“I’m talking to my attorney about it,” I offered, faking my best smile.
“You drove out here to tell me it’s possible?” Her voice rose a nasty notch. Perfectly groomed eyebrows arched over cold black eyes.
“Don’t start with your bad manners,” her mother admonished with a slap of her daughter’s hand. I nearly laughed. Here was an aggressive reporter trying to score a major scoop, and her mother was dressing her down as mine might.
Did Mrs. Dominguez give her daughter fashion advice too? I couldn’t imagine what she thought about her daughter’s turquoise tank top that left three inches of tanned skin visible between its bottom and the top of skin tight jeans. I let my gaze float back and forth between the pair. El Patron seemed to lose interest in the conversation as mother and daughter battled. Paula rolled her eyes at her mother and turned her hard gaze on me.
“I’m off today, but shall we set it up for tomorrow morning?”
“Like I said, I’m waiting to hear back from my attorney. I’ll let you know.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Are there any new leads in Rick’s death?”
Rick’s death? Not the Wells murder investigation? “You’ll need to ask Mira Loma Police.”
“Someone said you might offer a reward.”
This woman was relentless. I stifled a laugh. I didn’t have money to offer a reward. Still… A sudden thought flashed in my head. “I’ve thought about it, if it helps police...”
“How much?”
“I haven’t come up with an amount…” I smiled and shrugged.
She didn’t ask if she could quote me and I didn’t say I was speaking off the record. I knew my comments would be at the top of her station’s newscast that afternoon. Paula would probably insist on giving the report herself.
“I spoke to Kimberly delaGarza this afternoon and she says…”
This was as good as an interview. “I’ll call you later, if you give me your private number.” I pulled on my sweetest smile and nodded toward her mother. “Then I don’t have to come looking for you and disturb your parents, though it was good to see you both.”
Paula produced a card from her purse that was on a nearby chair. “Call me anytime.”
I sensed she was in a rush—probably to call her station. I gave a quick farewell to her parents and she walked me to the door, probably hoping for further tidbits.
“I was sorry about Rick,” she said. “He was sweet to Mom and Dad.” The sun glittered on a diamond tennis bracelet, and a prick of annoyance pinched at me. How well had Paula known Rick? She was on my list of possible other women, but did I need to move her up?
As I drove away from the compound, I wondered how many women belonged on that damned list. If Rick wasn’t already dead, I might have hired Senor Shoe.
****
I thought about her as I guided the rental Volvo down the steep, narrow drive. Rounding the first curve, the car fishtailed, threatening to spin off the road. Oops, too much of the old lead foot. Jamming on the brakes made the tires spin onto the gravel, and my heart leaped into my throat. I could see rocks and the ocean below me.
I better keep my mind on my driving. The car had touchy brakes and this road was too filled with curves to let my mind drift. As I approached the next turn, I tapped the brakes. It was easier at a slower speed and I made the next couple turns without incident. A sharper curve loomed and I eased my foot onto the brakes.
They went to the floor, but the Volvo didn’t slow.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Not another car adventure. I couldn’t even watch if my life flashed before my eyes. I was too busy watching the road. I jerked the car hard toward the left, pointing toward the hillside, away from the cliff. The tires skidded, but the car carried me around the bend with a heart-stopping screech. Centering the wheel on the road, I let the car continue down without my foot on the gas.
It picked up speed and I pumped the brakes, waiting to get an indication they worked. Nothing. I swung around another curve and as I tried to remember how many turns lay ahead, I nearly blew the next one. Then something popped into my head from driving lessons with my dad.
If anything happens to your brakes, use the emergency brake.
I yanked it up and the Volvo slowed so quickly I had to fight for control. I kept a hold on the brake until the hill evened out to a straightaway. With shaking fingers, I glided the car to the edge of the pavement, let it crunch over the gravel and stop at the edge of a grassy field.
The scent of burning rubber overwhelmed me. My breath was coming in deep gasps and my heart pounded like a drum against my chest.
Fearing I might throw up, I opened the door and stumbled out, falling to my hands and knees. Nausea invaded my stomach and fear sent shivers up my spine. Had the brakes been tampered with? Was someone after me?
Who? And why?
Did Jennifer want the shop all to herself?
Was Carl afraid I might go after him?
What about Bobbi the Bimbo?
A nameless, fuzzy face danced in a tantalizing ghostly outline.
Had Paula or someone back at the Dominguez house been responsible?
The pain of pebbles stinging my palms and scraping into my knees reached my brain with a crescendo about the time I caught my reflection in the chrome wheel wells. God, I looked ghastly.
A gasping laugh escaped me. Here I was, about to die and all I could think of was that my mascara was smudged and my hair hung like a limp black curtain. With a shaky effort, I pulled myself to my feet. The day was still, except for a gentle ocean breeze that stirred the grass. It felt good on my clammy skin. I inhaled a welcoming breath of fresh air. The odor of rubber was gone, and I could smell the faint scent of Eucalyptus trees that lined the road a few yards away.
My phone buzzed as I slid into the car. My unsteady hands fumbled with it before I could put it to my ear.
“Hey, gal, where are you?”
Sam’s voice was such a relief I wanted to cry. I bit hard on my lip, unaccustomed to the emotion. “I’m fine...”
“That wasn’t my question, but what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, fighting to erase panic from my voice. “Where are you?”
“Just finished with Edwards. Very interesting. How about if I buy you lunch to make up for being a jackass this morning? How’s the shopping?”
Our argument seemed so long ago. A sob choked me and I held the phone away from me so he couldn’t hear it. As I pulled the phone back toward me, I heard the sound of an engine and jerked my head toward the road. A black limousine rounded the curve, barely made it around my vehicle and slid to a stop.
Fear skittered up my spine and my fingers shook so violently I dropped the phone on the gravel. It
bounced, hit the edge of the pavement and plastic flew in all directions.
The front door of the limo opened and Senor Zapato stepped out, huge and imposing as a boulder.
“You okay, lady?”
I stared at him in terror. Had he cut my brake lines and followed me to make certain the job was completed? Was that paralyzed old man thing of El Patron’s a trick? Well, I wasn’t going down without a fight. Without answering, I pulled off my shoes and looked around. My only escape route was to run across the field, through the orchard to Pacific Coast Highway.
Hiking up my skirt, I turned and ran. Maybe Zapato’s bulk would slow him. I had a head start and stamina on my side. Not to mention the fear that propelled me. I might have escaped except I stepped into a hole and suddenly I was falling to the grass and tumbling like a gymnast.
Winded and scared, I lay on my back staring up at a clear blue sky. Was that the last thing I would see, or would it be a gun barrel? Footsteps approached and I stared up at Senor Zapato’s dark round face.
His gap-toothed smile surprised me. “What’s wrong? Why did you run?” He lifted me to my feet as easily as I might lift a piece of jewelry. When he touched my shoulder, I started to jerk away, but realized he was brushing the dust from my suit.
“You don’t look hurt.” He leaned down directly in front of my face. “Can you hear me?”
Drawing a deep breath I nodded and pushed away from him. “I’m fine. My car ran off the road.” Despite my effort to be brave, my voice wavered. “I think someone tried to kill me.”
“Que?” His head jerked back toward my car.
“My brakes went out.” Suddenly the sob I’d been fighting exploded and I began to cry. Horrified I was doing it in front of this giant, I turned away.
His meaty hand rested my shoulder and he patted me gently. “You’re okay. Esta bien. No se preocupe. Estoy aqui.”
Maybe I should tell him I worried because he was there. Slowly common sense took hold and I recognized the lack of threat in his gentle taps. He took hold of my arm and squeezed it as though he could transfer some of his immense strength into my own shaky frame. As I calmed, he handed me a handkerchief and I used it to dry my tears and wipe my face. I’d looked bad earlier. That ghastly appearance had probably increased ten-fold.
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