The Janes

by Louisa Luna

  “We’re pushing for grand theft for the IUDs, but realistically his lawyer will probably get it down to misdemeanor,” said McTiernan.

  He opened a door to a small conference room that smelled like coffee and had a long window with a nice view of some office parks and the freeway behind it. But even that was pretty here, Cap thought. All green and blue.

  McTiernan gestured for them to have a seat and asked if they wanted coffee, which Cap accepted.

  “But what does he know?” said Vega.

  “Nothing,” said McTiernan, matter-of-fact. “Got an email offering him a chance to make some easy money and he took it. Didn’t know the buyer. Was instructed to leave the items in a specific locker at the bus station downtown and return a few hours later to get the money from the same locker, which he did.”

  “You have any video from the bus station?” said Vega.

  “Yep,” said McTiernan. “But it’s no great shakes. You can barely make out LoSanto and you really can’t make out the cash dropper.”

  “Can we see it anyway?”

  McTiernan nodded and opened the laptop, cued a video and played it. A block of square lockers, and people coming and going.

  “There’s LoSanto at ten thirty-three a.m.,” McTiernan narrated.

  There he was in a hooded windbreaker, opening a locker in the far right corner of the screen, placing a backpack inside and closing the door. When he turned, Vega could see LoSanto’s face, or the vague shape of it anyway. If she hadn’t known it was him, the chances of identifying him would have been slim.

  “And then we bring it forward,” said McTiernan, dragging the time dot, as the light in the bus station flickered slightly, and people came and went in high speed.

  McTiernan slowed the footage down. A figure wearing a baggy sweatshirt, jeans, and a ski hat with a concentric circle target design on the top approached the locker, opened it, removed LoSanto’s backpack, and shoved a gym duffel inside. Then left, face turned away from the screen.

  “You use any facial recognition software?” asked Cap.

  “Sure, but look at that,” said McTiernan, tapping the screen with his thick finger. “We can’t get anything with that kind of resolution. If this was an airport, not a bus station, maybe. Low-tech, low-fi.”

  “LoSanto know anything else that might be of interest?” said Vega.

  “Not really,” said McTiernan. “My take is that he wanted some quick cash, didn’t think it would hurt anyone, actually thought maybe it was some kind of public service.”

  “Like a birth control Robin Hood,” said Cap.

  “Exactly,” said McTiernan. “Had no idea where the units were actually going.”

  Vega stared at the screen, at the image of the cash dropper. Fuzzy face, maybe Caucasian male but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Did you follow this guy through the security footage?” she said. “Track him to the parking lot?”

  “We lost him in the crowd. I can give you the video but nothing too meaningful came from it.”

  “Sure,” said Vega.

  McTiernan patted his breast pocket, then his pants. He pulled out a black USB drive and plugged it into the laptop, started dragging and dropping files.

  “You interview the girlfriend?” said Vega.

  McTiernan let a tiny wrinkle cross his brow.

  “LoSanto didn’t mention a girlfriend,” he said. “We checked the apartment, too. No female personal items; no extra toothbrush.” He smiled at Vega, curious. “Do you have reason to believe he has a girlfriend?”

  Vega felt an odd warmth surge through her chest and rib cage, like the first minute or two of her handstand in the morning, an instant assurance. Clarity, as people in AA would call it; the light, as the chakra thumpers would say in yoga. Vega had no name for it, only noticed it when things started to line up and make sense.

  “Nope,” she said. “Thought he mentioned one. Might’ve heard him wrong.”

  McTiernan believed her, nodded quickly. “We could ask him again. Couldn’t hurt.”

  Vega shrugged innocently. Couldn’t hurt. She looked to Cap, who nodded helpfully. She had told him all about Sarita the girlfriend, but you would never know it from his face, the perfect mix of eager and oblivious. Vega was quietly thankful for his undercover skills, and she felt her fingers start to twitch in anticipation of a new email to the Bastard, as she could almost smell the cotton candy in the air.

  * * *

  —

  It was close to two o’clock when they found the strip mall where Sarita Guerra worked in a nail salon, or so her paychecks from the past year had shown. The sun through the window was hot on Cap’s lap; he flipped the sun guard down and to the side, but still the light burned a small parallelogram of heat on his thigh. The mall had a hacienda vibe, faux adobe and stucco, a tiled arch above each store.

  Vega parked in front of a taco shop next to the nail salon, powered down the windows, and turned the engine off. Didn’t make a move to get out.

  “We waiting for something?” said Cap.

  He could see only the very edge of her eye behind her sunglasses, a dot of light bouncing off the iris.

  “I don’t want to spook her in her place of business,” said Vega. “Her friends might want to get involved, call 911.” She shook her head, added, “Not worth it.”

  Cap glanced at the time on the dash.

  “We’re a little past average lunchtime,” he said. “Could be a while before she’s out.”

  Vega unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned forward so her head almost rested on the top of the steering wheel.

  “She’ll be out soon,” she said. “She’s a vaper. Probably tried smoking but it made her cough so now she inhales this candy-flavored stuff.”

  “So convenient that now you don’t have to choose between candy and cigarettes,” said Cap.

  Vega didn’t respond, kept her eyes on the door of the salon. After a few minutes a lady with cheetah-print leggings went inside. Then, two women carrying giant purses came out. It was about a half hour later that Sarita came through the door with another woman with the ends of her hair dyed pink. They huddled around the cigarette butt receptacle shaped like a genie’s lamp. Sarita held and lit her vape pipe. The woman with the pink tips smoked a long, thin cigarette.

  “Just stay behind me, okay?” said Vega.

  “Sure thing,” said Cap.

  They got out. Cap leaned on the hood and watched Vega step onto the curb and quickly approach Sarita and Pink Tips.

  “Sarita,” said Vega.

  Sarita turned and froze, eyes flaring. Pink Tips, thin with a tan face full of smoker’s lines, regarded Vega quizzically.

  “Friend of yours?” she said to Sarita.

  Sarita didn’t speak, only took one shuffling step backward, away from Vega.

  “I’m her insurance representative,” said Vega. “Would you mind excusing us? I’d like to speak to her confidentially about her policy.”

  Pink Tips stared at her blankly.

  “What?” she said.

  “Sarita,” said Vega, coming closer to her.

  Sarita backed up another small step. Cap could see the gun-shyness in her eyes, thought she was probably remembering the sound of Vega’s Springfield cracking the glass picture frame. She held the vape pipe with both hands to her chest.

  “Your policy,” said Vega, removing her glasses so Sarita could see her eyes.

  “Wait, so who are you?” said Pink Tips, her voice gaining an edge of impatience.

  Cap came off the hood a second. He had no doubt Vega could handle this situation without thumbs and eyes, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.

  “She’s my insurance representative,” said Sarita quietly. “For life insurance…I have to talk to her confidentially.”

  “Okay, cool,” said P
ink Tips, accepting the story. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and said, “You do you.”

  Vega held her arm out, showing Sarita the way. They walked back to the car, Sarita in front of Vega. Sarita froze again when she saw Cap. Cap hadn’t ever thought he was an imposing figure, even when he’d had a badge to flash, but this girl seemed jittery to begin with; any unknown thing or person would push her into panic mode.

  “It’s okay,” said Vega. “He’s my partner, Max Caplan.”

  “Hi,” said Cap, raising his hand in a wave.

  Sarita only nodded, still looking stunned.

  “Are you arresting me?” she said.

  “No,” said Vega. “We’re not cops. Remember I told you I work for the SDPD? I’m a private investigator; I don’t have the authority to arrest you. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Sarita nodded again, turned around to look at Pink Tips, who was engrossed in texting.

  “Do you understand?” said Vega. “Can you say you understand?”

  “Yeah,” said Sarita. “I understand.”

  “Are you aware that Tony told the police he didn’t have a girlfriend or a spouse?”

  “Yeah,” said Sarita sadly.

  “Do you know why he would do that?”

  “He didn’t want me to get in trouble.”

  “Why would you be in trouble?”

  “I wouldn’t!” Sarita said, a little too loudly. She glanced back at Pink Tips, who still wasn’t paying attention. “I wouldn’t,” she said again, quieter. “He just didn’t want me to get involved. He said we needed to spend some time apart—”

  Now the corners of her mouth curled into an unstoppable frown like that of a little kid. Cap felt very sorry for her.

  “So he could go away for what he did and the cops wouldn’t bother me.” She turned to Cap. “He knows he committed a crime; he just wanted to put away some money for us,” she implored him.

  Cap gave her a sympathetic smile and nod. Keep talking.

  “Here’s the thing, Sarita,” said Vega. “I think there are two possible reasons Tony didn’t tell the cops about you. Either it’s exactly like you say, and he didn’t want you to have to deal with it…”

  Sarita wiped the corners of her eyes.

  Vega continued: “Or you are connected to this money somehow, this crime. You might know some information that would be useful to the police, and Tony doesn’t want them to know that information.”

  “I don’t…I don’t know anything,” said Sarita desperately.

  “Actually, I believe you,” said Vega. “But I think you know someone or something that links you to what Tony did, and you may not realize it.”

  Sarita shook her head, her tight black curls bouncing off her shoulders.

  “No, I swear, I don’t. I swear.”

  “I believe you,” said Vega, “but you may know something, even if you think it’s nothing. Even on the off chance that it might help you, and maybe even take some pressure off Tony, wouldn’t you want to at least try?”

  Sarita thought about it. Her eyes welled again and again she wiped them. She nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” said Vega softly. “But I need you to concentrate.”

  Sarita nodded. Cap thought she looked a little more composed and serious now.

  “Can you remember anyone—a family member, or a friend, or a co-worker,” said Vega, gesturing toward the nail salon, “who expressed an interest in Tony’s job?”

  Sarita thought. “Um, I don’t know, I’m having trouble thinking,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “That’s okay,” said Vega. “You can just say if anyone comes to mind, or if they don’t, you can say that, too. How about anyone who makes a good living, has a lot of cash on hand?”

  “Sure, I guess,” Sarita said uneasily. “My uncle runs a car dealership up in L.A. He makes a lot of money. But we don’t really see him too often.”

  “Great, that’s a good start,” said Vega. “Anyone else?”

  “Lot of the girls have cash who work at the salon—tips and everything like that,” said Sarita, looking back at Pink Tips.

  Cap and Vega looked at Pink Tips too. Cap glanced at Vega. Slim chance anyone in the salon would be involved. Not enough money.

  “I got this cousin,” said Vega, leaning on the car casually, tapping her key against the roof. “Always getting into binds. Does a little jail time now and again. I think pretty much everyone has a relative like that, right?” she said to Cap.

  “Definitely,” said Cap. “More of a gray sheep, though, right? Because they’re not bad people necessarily; bad situations just have a tendency to find them.”

  Sarita’s face brightened up.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “My brother Joe’s just like that. But he’s…he’s not rich or anything.”

  Tension quickly coursed back into her face.

  “He hasn’t been in trouble in a long time,” she said, plainly worried she had said too much.

  “That’s okay,” said Vega. “Remember, we’re not cops. We’re not arresting anybody. We’re trying to help Tony.”

  Sarita seemed to accept this and continued.

  “We don’t see him too much,” she said.

  “When’s the last time you saw him, do you think?” said Vega.

  “Probably around the holidays. Yeah, Three Kings?”

  “Do you happen to remember if he talked to Tony at all?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Probably?” She looked from Vega to Cap, back to Vega. “But that doesn’t mean he has anything to do with this.”

  “You’re right,” said Vega. “Not necessarily. What does Joe do for work now?”

  Sarita pursed her lips.

  “Last time I talked to him he was…” As she remembered she blushed pink in the cheeks. “He was working at a club. A strip club.”

  Cap thought Vega had the expression of a foreigner, or perhaps an alien, who had heard the words “strip club” before but was unsure of their meaning.

  “What did he do there?” Vega asked. “Was he a bouncer?”

  “I think he did a little of everything. What did he call it?” she said, trying to remember something. “You know, like they do in the army? What is that word?” she said, frustrated. “You know, he did some scouting for the dancers, like hiring.”

  “Recruitment,” said Vega.

  Cap watched Vega carefully. He knew what her questions would be before she asked them, but still she managed to make them seem fresh, innocent, curious. She pulled every last bit of information from Sarita Guerra like she was winding the string on a kite, drawing it in for a tight, safe landing.

  * * *

  —

  The place was called Rare Strip; the sign was an animated woman holding a fork with heat lines coming off the prongs. Vega and Cap kept their guns on them, took the chance that there was no metal detector, which turned out to be the case. The bouncer was a fat, bald white guy. Not Joe Guerra, Vega knew, both from the description Sarita had provided and from the photos on Facebook and Instagram.

  Inside was dim and smelled of antibacterial wipes, the music loud but not deafening. The stage was a single runway, three topless girls on poles in various states of straddle, surrounded on either side by small cocktail tables, six booths against the walls on both sides. A bar ran along the wall near the entrance, a single female bartender behind it. Vega estimated about twenty patrons, spread out, a couple of heavies sitting close to the stage.

  There were two guys at the bar, one white-haired wearing a sleeveless fleece vest with a tie underneath, sipping a beer and watching the girls. The other sat at the end of the bar furthest from the front door, wearing sunglasses and a black sweatshirt with the hood up, texting, facing away from the sta
ge. Vega thought it looked like Joe Guerra but couldn’t be sure until she got a little closer.

  “Why don’t you get a table, wait for the waitress, get a drink,” she said to Cap, nodding toward the stage.

  “Got it,” he said. “Let me know what you need.”

  She nodded again, and Cap left her, sat at a table near the edge of the stage. Vega made her way to the end of the bar. She remembered Sarita saying her brother had star tattoos on both hands. Vega sat two seats down from the guy in the black sweatshirt and could easily see the star on his right hand as he texted with his thumbs.

  “Can I get you something?” asked the bartender, a beachy blonde with a tight white T-shirt and no bra.

  “Club soda,” said Vega.

  The bartender filled a glass from the soda gun and passed it to Vega. Vega put some dollars on the bar and squeezed the lime wedge over the water, stirred it with the thin red straw. She swiveled around on her chair to face the stage, turning toward Guerra, who remained focused on his phone. She estimated him at about five eight or five nine, but his chest and shoulders looked broad under the sweatshirt, his neck thick from what she could see of it. Height was never the whole story and sometimes even made people clumsier, more likely to trip over their own feet.

  Vega caught Cap’s eye; he was smiling and chatting politely with a waitress. You okay? said his eye. Vega tilted her chin up to signal Yes, I am just fine, Caplan.

  “You have a favorite?” she said in Guerra’s direction.

  Guerra didn’t respond at first, then seemed to realize Vega was speaking to him.

  He cast a quick glance at the girls on the stage and said, “Nah, I work here. You know, don’t shit where you eat.”

  He smiled at Vega, had that look men got when they encountered an attractive woman in an unexpected place.

  “I like the girl in the middle,” said Vega. “She looks the strongest,” she added, making it sound like an impartial observation.

  “Yeah?” said Guerra, intrigued. He turned to look at the stage. “Her name’s Phoenix, like the city. You want me to introduce you? A hundred for a ten-minute private dance.”