January Justice

by Athol Dickson

  “You’re not ready,” she said.

  It was far more than merely that, of course. I was mad, or else the world was mad, or maybe it was both. But I could only nod. I had opened myself to Olivia, just a bit, in hopes that she would open up much more to me. Through that tiny opening had crept a glacier that would cover me completely if I wasn’t careful.

  She got into her car. She started the engine and rolled down her window. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Then she drove away.

  21

  The rumble of Olivia’s tires on the gravel faded behind me, but I didn’t turn to watch her go. The freezing she had started in my nerves seemed to forbid it. So I stood still as one mad vision fell into another. The gurgling fountain there beside me overflowed into the world. It filled up everything, absolutely everything between the earth and outer space above. I rose on that swirling tide. I drifted through the emptiness inside my skull. There was no calm and distant place where I could make a stand.

  Panic came with chaos to destroy that fantasy. From all directions, unconnected ideas trailed away before I understood them. Everything I tried to cling to vanished. I saw Haley standing at the open doorway of her mansion, smiling down upon me with teeth like stars in a constellation. Radiating from her was the physical texture of our love. How I wanted to be with her. Was that possible? Could I be where she was now?

  “Sir? Sir?”

  I returned.

  Simon stood beside me. “There is a call for you.”

  He was holding out a portable telephone. I took it. I put it to my ear and said, “This is Malcolm,” It helped to state my own name as a fact.

  “It’s Olivia.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you?”

  There was a pause. “Well, I’m okay. It’s only been a minute, after all.”

  I tried to laugh. It came out sounding something like a sob.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I am. Yes.”

  “Well, I just thought I ought to call to tell you there’s a man in a car outside your gates.”

  “Miss Lane’s gates.”

  “What? Oh yes, of course. Well, anyway, he’s parked out there, and when I drove by, I saw him taking pictures with a telephoto lens.”

  That was strange. I thought I said as much aloud, but apparently I didn’t, because she said, “Malcolm, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Okay. Well, I just wanted to tell you that.”

  I said, “Thank you very much,” and then hung up.

  Simon searched my face. “Is there some kind of difficulty?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  We walked down the driveway. It was a long walk underneath the sycamores. When we reached the gates, I punched in the code at the keypad, and they swung open. We went out, and there, as Olivia had said, was a small car parked about one hundred feet away. In it sat the Guatemalan Fidel Castro.

  Simon and I stood and stared at him. He sat and stared back at us. I started walking toward him. He raised a camera to his eye and aimed the long lens at me. When I got closer, he lowered the camera and started the car. I was almost to him when he stepped on the gas. The car leaped forward. I stood still and watched it come. I saw Castro smiling through the windshield, accelerating straight at me.

  Simon tackled me from the side. We fell together on the grass next to the road as Castro roared past, inches from our feet.

  Lying on the ground by Simon, staring at the sky, I said, “Are you okay?”

  “It would seem so,” said Simon.

  “That was a good tackle.”

  “Kind of you to say so.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t learn to do that playing rugby.”

  “No.”

  “Do I hear him coming back?”

  Simon sat up and looked down the road. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Maybe we should move.”

  We got up and hustled toward the gate, but it was too far away. Castro was upon us while we were still a few yards from the driveway. Between the estate wall on one side, and the neighbor’s fence on the other, we had no place to hide.

  “Move away,” I said. “It’s me he wants.”

  Instead, Simon walked to the center of the road and turned to face the oncoming car. He had bits of grass on his black suit and in his gray hair. He reached behind his back and withdrew an automatic that had been concealed beneath his suit coat. He assumed a firing stance I recognized well. Simon waited in the path of the oncoming car with a calmness one might see in someone waiting for a bus.

  When Castro was at fifty yards, Simon squeezed off three methodical shots. Every one of them hit the windshield. One was slightly to the left of Castro. One was slightly to his right. One barely missed the top of his head. The car swerved and missed Simon as it passed. It kept going.

  Simon reached back to replace the weapon in its holster as we walked toward the gate.

  “A sidearm?” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Since when?”

  “It seemed a wise precaution after the incident with the bomb.”

  Teru stood just inside the gates when we entered the grounds. He said, “Was that shots I heard?”

  Simon pressed the buttons on the keypad, and the massive gates swung closed behind us as I told Teru what had just happened.

  Teru looked at Simon and said, “You missed the guy three times?”

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Fujimoto. One does place one’s shots with care.”

  As the three of us walked underneath the sycamores, I thought about the training required to be able to stand in front of an oncoming car and calmly bracket the driver’s head with three warning shots. I thought about the fact that England often attached members of its secret services to diplomatic teams, just as the CIA often stationed people at American embassies.

  I said, “What were you before you went into buttling, Simon? MI6? Royal Marines?”

  “One couldn’t say.”

  “You might as well. One of these days I’ll find out anyway.”

  “Will you indeed, sir?”

  “Don’t call me, ‘sir,’ Simon. My name is Malcolm.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Cutter.”

  I sighed. “Simon…”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.”

  22

  I called Valentín Vega, but the hotel operator said he wasn’t answering his phone. I left a voice mail with my number. He returned the call about an hour after sunset. I told him what Castro had done, and he apologized. Again.

  “A couple of things,” I said. “Get Castro out of town. If he comes after me again, I’ll kill him.”

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  “Mainly for him.”

  “You said there were a couple of things?”

  “The other thing is you. It’s becoming harder and harder to believe Castro is doing this because he’s crazy. I don’t think you’d bring a man like that on a mission.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Cutter, I knew nothing of the incident at the cemetery. When you told me about it, I was most severe with Fidel. I am shocked that he assaulted you again. It is difficult not to view this as a personal betrayal, but I feel I must be patient because I truly believe my friend has lost control. Something has happened to Fidel these last few days. He has been unsettled for some time, but this… this is something new.”

  “You be patient with him if you want to, but I’m the one he’s tried to kill. Being crazy doesn’t change the way I’ll react if he tries again. And I won’t just put him down. I’ll come after you.

  “I understand, Mr. Cutter. Considering Fidel’s behavior, I suppose I cannot blame you. In fact, I appreciate the fact that you are not quitting.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Vega. You might not like what I find out.”

  I didn’t tell him that his hope of clearing the URNG of suspicion in the kidnapping and murder was the least of my concerns. I was much more interested in the bomb through my bedroom window
and the distant possibility of some sort of connection between Haley’s murder and her Guatemalan movie project.

  I decided to start carrying my SIG Sauer P228. It was what the Marines call an M11. The barrel is about an inch shorter than the Beretta M9, which is the other primary sidearm in the Corps. The shorter length makes the range of accuracy slightly more limited, but the M11’s smaller size also makes it easier to conceal, and it’s a fine defensive weapon. I usually wore it in a clip-on holster at my belt in back.

  I had noticed that Simon used an M9, which was standard issue in the Royal Marines. It didn’t necessarily tell me anything about where he had learned to use it so capably, but I thought it was interesting. Sooner or later I would figure out his background. But whatever Simon was before he became a butler, it seemed clear he was on my side now, and for the time being, that was all I really needed to know.

  Over the next few days, I got a couple of driving jobs. One was for a previous regular, an independent producer who had lost his license due to drinking and driving. It felt good when he called. I had begun to think none of my past clients would ask for me again, after what had happened to Haley on my watch.

  The other job was a pair of Japanese guys who had flown in for meetings at Paramount. They spoke in Japanese most of the time. They seemed to assume I didn’t understand them, because most of what they said was pretty sensitive stuff. Apparently, Sony and Paramount were talking about a merger. It was very hush-hush insider information stuff.

  When I dropped them at the airport that night, one of them said, “Remember, we must not discuss this on the plane,” and I said, “Don’t worry, gentlemen. Your secret is safe with me.” I said it in Japanese. It was fun to see the looks on their faces when I drove away.

  Between the driving jobs, I decided to talk with a few of the people listed in the Alejandra Delarosa file Olivia Soto had delivered from the congressman. I started at the travel agency where Delarosa had worked before taking the job with Toledo. I had no doubt the police had thoroughly questioned everyone who knew the woman seven years before, but I had no other leads. Besides, people sometimes remembered new details long after the fact. And if Delarosa had accomplices who were still around, it might shake them up a little to know somebody was asking questions again after so much time had passed.

  The travel agency was in a two-story stucco building near the corner of West Third and Fairfax, not far from Beverly Hills. I was surprised to learn it was still in business, since most people seemed to use the Internet to book their travel. I said as much to the owner, a Latino guy about sixty years old with dyed hair and impossibly white teeth.

  He laid both hands palms down on the desk between us. I noticed that his nails were polished. He said, “Most of our clientele are elderly. They’ve always trusted us to book their travel, and many of them can’t be bothered to learn about computers.”

  “What kind of woman is Alejandra Delarosa?”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “I mean, what kind of a person is she?”

  “She’s very nice.”

  I thought it was a strange thing to say about a kidnapper and murderer, but to each his own. I said, “Did she have any regular customers? People I could talk to?”

  “Not too many. Two or three elderly couples. And Arturo Toledo, of course.”

  “Toledo was a customer?”

  “Oh, certainly. Alejandra booked several trips for him and Doña Elena.”

  “Did he do business on the phone or in person?”

  The agent drummed his fingers on the desk. His nervous energy gave me the feeling it made him uncomfortable to talk about Toledo. Or maybe it was Alejandra Delarosa who frightened him.

  “Mr. Toledo came here once or twice.”

  “Did they seem to know each other well?”

  He pursed his lips. “No… I don’t think so. She always called him ‘Señior Toledo’, and she used formal verbs and pronouns when they talked. He kept asking her to call him Arturo, but she never would.”

  “Did he ever seem afraid of her?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Was she afraid of him?”

  “You mean because he was part of the junta? All the people he disappeared during the war?” The man was tapping on the desk as if it were a telegraph key.

  I nodded. “That would be enough to scare most people.”

  “Yes, I don’t mind admitting that he made me uneasy, but I don’t think he frightened Alejandra. She did quit this job to go work for him, after all.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “That’s all. But I will tell you this: a lot of us were proud of what she did. That man was a monster. He deserved to die.”

  After that, I visited a Catholic church at Pico and South Mariposa, where the congressman’s file said Delarosa and her family had been members. It was a lovely old mission-revival building, with twin towers on the facade facing Pico. Both towers were topped by faded turquoise domes. I followed the arrow on a small sign to the church office, where a skinny Latino woman about fifty years of age looked up from a computer when I entered.

  After I had introduced myself, I said, “Have you heard of Alejandra Delarosa?”

  “Everyone has heard of La Alejandra.”

  “Do you know if she donated money to repair the sanctuary roof?”

  The woman said, “I’ve heard that.”

  “It seems strange that a fugitive would attract attention to herself that way. Do you think it’s true?”

  “I’m just a secretary here. They don’t tell me where the money comes from.”

  On the table was a stack of church bulletins, probably waiting to be distributed in mass on the coming Sunday. I picked one up and looked it over. “I see you have a fund drive going.”

  “For the after-school program, yes.”

  “That’s a worthy cause. How do most people give money to the church?”

  “They usually leave it in the offering box in the sanctuary.”

  “Really? With all the gangs around here, don’t you worry about thieves?”

  She stared at me a moment. “The people here would never steal from us. They fear God too much.”

  I smiled. “They’d better.”

  She offered a little smile in return.

  Still examining the bulletin, I said, “If I wanted to leave money for something in particular, like the after-school program, how would the monsignor know it was for that?”

  “We leave special envelopes beside the offering box. If you put your offering in the envelope, we’ll know it’s in addition to the usual tithes, for a special purpose.”

  “Do people put their names on the envelopes?”

  “Sometimes. That way they get a tax deduction.”

  I nodded. “That’s good to know. Thank you.”

  I put the bulletin back on the stack on her desk, then walked to the door and opened it. Just as I was about to step outside, I looked back and said, “Excuse me. Do you remember when they repaired the sanctuary roof?”

  “Several years ago, maybe four.”

  That would have been three years after Alejandra Delarosa murdered Toledo and disappeared with his money. It seemed like a long time for the woman to remain in the neighborhood after committing such a high-profile crime.

  I said, “Do you mind telling me who’s responsible for opening the box and reviewing the envelopes?”

  “Well, back then that would have been Monsignor Malone.”

  “Could I talk to him?”

  “He passed away two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “I’m sure he was. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I stepped outside and closed the door. I stood there a moment, then opened it again and leaned into the room. “I’m sorry. Could I ask one more thing?”

  She looked up from her computer.

  I said, “I don’t suppose you keep the o
ffering envelopes?”

  “We throw them away after the donations are recorded.”

  I thanked her again and left. If Alejandra Delarosa had given some of the Toledo ransom to the church, it seemed there was no way to prove it.

  I decided to visit Delarosa’s former landlord next. He turned out to be a bald Latino about fifty years of age, who kept an office on Sepulveda Boulevard in Van Nuys.

  I took a set of stairs from the parking lot in back up to the two-room office, which was located above a strip shopping center. The place smelled of cigars. The outer room contained a desk, a chair, and four filing cabinets. There was nothing but a phone on the desk. The landlord sat behind another desk in the inner room. Piles of paper lined the edges of the desk.

  Sweat had stained the armpits of the man’s guayabera shirt and stood in little droplets on his scalp. But the window beside him was closed.

  I greeted him and asked if he remembered renting to the Delarosa family. He said he remembered them vaguely, but only because of the publicity after the kidnapping and murder. “I only met them once when they signed the lease, you understand.”

  “What happened to the husband and daughter afterward?”

  “They broke the lease is all I know.”

  “I heard they were deported.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “What kind of man was Mr. Delarosa?”

  “I just told you I don’t know.”

  “You must have formed some impression.”

  “Just an average kind of guy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m pretty busy here.”

  I moved on, doggedly tracking down every contact I could find in the file, hoping something I asked would stir up a new memory in someone, or else the mere fact that I had come asking might spook someone into doing something that might crack the case. After so much time gone by, I had no other choice. But it didn’t seem to be working. A few of the people on the list were dead or gone, and the rest either didn’t remember, or what they did remember wasn’t useful.