I had to admit he was an arresting character, clever and entertaining. Despite myself, I was enjoying his company. “Listen to me, Gustavo. May I call you Gustavo?”
“Maybe someday. Let’s wait and see how this turns out and afterward, maybe afterward you can call me Gustavo.”
“Is this the direction we’ll be going in?”
“What direction is that?”
“Why don’t we can the crap and see if we can find some common ground, okay?”
“Common ground?”
“You know, a place where we can stand as equals, mano a mano.”
He considered his response, not immediately ready to step onto uncertain terrain. Then a broad smile brightened his face. “Okay. I like this common ground idea. I might even like you.”
“Ditto.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You and I both know that Robaire has a history of run-ins with the law. He’s got some cockamamie idea he’s a renowned street artist, which he believes entitles him to vandalize and desecrate any and all property with impunity. He’s a public nuisance.”
“So?”
“So, he’s in jail. And he’ll remain in jail.”
Noel shifted in his chair, causing his weight and his jewelry to shift along with him. He sighed. “He’s been very difficult for me.”
It was my turn to lean forward. “The thing is, he’s no dope. His ideas are misguided but he seems a decent guy. I can’t help but believe he’s salvageable.”
“How do you know this?”
“We had a talk. After he was apprehended. While he was cleaning up one of the graffiti messes he made. To my surprise, I found him articulate and compelling. Wrongheaded, but not criminal.”
“So what do you propose we do about him?”
“You know, if it were me, I’d try to find a way to rehabilitate him.”
“You think I haven’t done that?”
“I’m sure you have, but it’s not likely he’d ever accept anything you would suggest.”
“Because?”
“My opinion?”
“I’m still listening, aren’t I?”
“He’s living in your shadow. Which can’t be easy for him. He wants his own celebrity. Apart from yours.”
“And that’s why he’s defacing walls?”
“He doesn’t see it that way. I’m guessing he sees it as something separate and apart from you. It’s gained him a modicum of notoriety, so he believes it’s working for him. He’s still a kid and hasn’t yet dealt with the downside. As my shrink used to say about me, I believe your son is involved in a conspiracy against himself and he doesn’t know it.”
“What are you, some kind of Siegfried Freud?”
“Sigmund.”
“What?”
“It’s Sigmund. Not Siegfried.”
“Sigmund. Siegfried. Who gives a shit? What is it you’re proposing?”
“How about I show you something?”
“Show me what?”
We were in my Wrangler and Gustavo was none too pleased.
“Jesus,” he said. “My Bentley is parked in your lot and instead of it, you’ve planted me in this decrepit piece of slow-moving shit?”
“It’s nondescript.”
“You’re, what, expecting maybe a crowd?”
“I don’t want us to be noticed.”
I made the left turn onto Harrow Street and slowed. Just ahead was Joanna’s Boutique, a trendy fashion emporium whose formerly immaculate white walled edifice had been swathed in graffiti.
“Look there,” I said as I pulled to the curb, the engine idling.
Gustavo peered out of the passenger side window and spotted his son, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, on his knees energetically cleansing graffiti from the wall. He had been at it for some time and had already removed a goodly portion of his handiwork.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mr. Noel said. “Will wonders never cease?”
“That’s what he’s been doing for several days now. He starts at dawn and works until dusk. Because it’s his so-called work he’s removing, he goes about it earnestly and quickly. Says it pains him to decimate such outstanding pieces of art so he does it fast.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“You already said that.”
He turned to me. “You know, Buddy, somehow, over time, I’ve managed to make a success of my life. Due in large part to luck, no doubt. But I’ve always prided myself on my ability to talk to anyone and everyone. From presidents to janitors. I treat everyone equally and they return the respect. The only person I’ve never able to reach is that guy over there. My son. Go figure.”
“It’s never too late.”
“For what?”
“Reconsideration.”
“Reconsideration of what?”
“Your communication skills.”
He looked at me quizzically. “I’m a great communicator.”
“Or maybe not.”
“What is it you’re saying here?”
“It takes two to tango.”
“Which means?”
“You know damned good and well what it means.”
Chapter Fifty-five
I had made arrangements to have him checked out to my supervision. I showed up early at the site where Robaire Noel was halfway through whitewashing one of his graffiti creations. According to Officer Jason Kurtzer, he was stoically performing the task but was not happy about it.
He looked at me sullenly and was surprised to learn I was there to take him to lunch.
“Why?” he said.
“Yours is not to reason why.”
I nodded to Kurtzer who helped Robaire out of his orange jumpsuit and into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He then helped him into my Wrangler.
“Where are you taking me?” There was a measure of alarm in his voice.
“Surprise.”
I wanted him to regard me as something other than an oppressor. I hoped we might fare better in a more neutral environment where we could shed our respective roles and find equal footing. It was worth a shot.
We lapsed into silence as I headed for the beach road. It was a typical California day, the low clouds had burned off leaving in their stead blue skies and sunshine. We tracked a trail of wild geese in flight heading north. The traffic was sparse, and in short order, we arrived at Jackson’s Crab Shack, a renowned surfer and biker seaside joint that offers freshly caught fare at reasonable prices.
I parked in the lot and sidestepped a plethora of oversized, leather-bound, abundantly bearded riders who had gathered to enjoy the view, the food, and to conduct careful assessments of each other’s cycles.
We found a table on the far side of the patio, away from the biker hubbub. We both ordered shrimp platters with sides of coleslaw and fries. I put myself at risk of breaking the law by purchasing two pints of locally brewed craft lager.
“Okay,” he said once we settled in. “Why are you doing this?”
Before answering, I leaned back in my chair and gazed at the churning ocean and dark-sand beach. Several surfers were braving the waves, most of them successfully. I turned back to Robaire.
“I learned something when we last spoke. It’s been on my mind ever since.”
“And that was?”
“Your point of view. I found some form of validity in it. And although I disagree with you, I wanted you to know that I respect your point of view, even though it’s unlawful. The vandalism you espouse is a crime here in Freedom. There’s no way around that. But that’s not what I had in mind when I invited you to lunch.”
A harried waitress brought the shrimp platters and beer, placed them in front of us and raced off. We set about peeling and chomping on the chubby shrimp and the greasy fries, all the while swilling our handcrafted brew
s.
“So you take me seriously. Okay. So what? What good does that do me?”
“That’s up to you to decide. Kurtzer says you’re almost through with cleaning your various messes.”
“My work, you mean. So?”
“When it’s done, and you’ve paid your debt to society, what’s next for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where do you see yourself, say, in ten years?”
“What?”
“Your life. Where do you imagine you’ll be?”
He appeared to be taken aback by the question. As if he’d never considered it before. “I haven’t a clue.”
“You’re what now, twenty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And for all intents and purposes, you’re a wastrel with a record.”
He took that thought in and seemed weighed down by it. As he fought to come to grips with my statement, I finished my shrimp and dabbed my mouth clean with handi-wipes.
“You’re a child of privilege but instead of taking advantage of it, you’ve elected to squander it. You’re not getting any younger, and although you might not be able to see far enough into the future to understand what might be in store for you, I can. And I think you should listen to what I have to say.”
“You sound like my father.”
“I believe I can arrange for you to be pardoned here and dealt with fairly in Los Angeles. But were I to do that, I’d want something in exchange.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“Rehab.”
“What rehab?”
“There’s a place we’ve researched that can provide you a fresh start. Help you clean the slate. Show you that your approach to your art is misguided and teach you the parameters of art world respectability. Assist you in how to re-discover yourself.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because somewhere inside you, you know how bleak a future you have in store for you. That maybe you’ve misjudged things. And just maybe, innately, you understand that with a second chance, you might still be able to carve out a decent life for yourself.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Of course, it will take some doing on your part. Psychoanalysis will be a part of your rehab and you’ll need to be receptive to it, in order to alter your neurotic patterns.”
A glimmer of hope momentarily lit up his face as he considered the possibility of a different pathway. When he looked at me there was a warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.
“And you’re proposing this because?”
“I don’t know, Robaire. Maybe I see some of the younger me in you. You may be misguided, but you’re not venal. So I thought it might be worth your while to consider things in a way you hadn’t before.”
I finished my beer, picked up my plate, which was filled with shrimp shells and uneaten fries, and dropped it into the garbage bin. I motioned for Robaire to do the same.
Once back in the Wrangler, he said, “How would I go about doing this?”
“You might start by discussing it with your father.”
“He doesn’t much care for me.”
“Try him. You never know. Fathers and sons are a singular dynamic. You and I, we have autocratic fathers in common. But now mine isn’t well and together we’re struggling to overcome our difficult past. And truth be known, although it’s no cakewalk, we’re both faring better for the effort.”
I withdrew for several moments, realizing I hadn’t really acknowledged that before. It occurred to me that we were doing better, my father and me. Which, ironically, pleased me immeasurably. I smiled. “Who knows, Robaire? Maybe you and your father could entertain some kind of therapy together. Might help open you both to a deeper communication.”
He looked at me and shyly smiled. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll at least try it.”
Chapter Fifty-six
She was lying on the cot in her cell, under a heavy woolen blanket. Her eyes were closed but she was awake. Whatever color she once had was drained now. She looked small and drab as she lay there.
“Hello, Julia,” I said.
Julia Peterson’s eyes flickered open and she looked in my direction. “Mr. Steel.”
“May I have a few moments?”
“Moments are all I have. You’re welcome to as many of them as you want.”
She stood and stepped slowly to the chair adjacent to the bars of her cell. She sat down heavily.
“How can I help you?”
“I want some more information.”
“Regarding?”
“Henry Carson.”
She flashed me a crooked grin. “Well, for one thing, he’s dead.”
A little gallows humor appeared to lift her spirits. But if she knew, she wouldn’t much care for where I was headed.
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“How did you convince them to do it?”
She stared at me. “Do what?”
I had been sitting on a bent-cane chair, but I now stood and started to pace. “I couldn’t figure it out. But there was one thing that stuck in my craw. It was the one thing you all said, as if by rote.”
She continued to stare at me and remained silent.
“‘I wish I had done it.’ Which unto itself is an odd pronouncement. Especially coming from three young girls. I wish I had done it. Then you said the exact same thing.”
She stared sightlessly at me, a deer caught in the headlights.
“If I were to get a warrant and search your home, would I find a complete set of steak knives?”
“Do as you like.”
“Would I?”
She looked up at me and with resignation, said, “My life is already ruined. You might as well add murder to the charges.”
I moved closer to the cell. “Why?”
The last of her reserve dropped away. “The humiliation. The shame.”
She gripped the cell bars with both hands. “You have to understand. I lived alone for years and years. My cats were my only company. Men were anathema to me. I had two unsuccessful experiences. One in college, with a man who forcefully stole my virginity. And my pride.”
She stared at me. “After college, when I was teaching at a private high school in my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, I met a man and we began a relationship.
“Ultimately, I moved in with him and we set out to create a life together. Then one night, he hit me. More than once. The next day I moved out. I looked at a map and was intrigued by the idea of living in a place called Freedom. So I came here and started over. But I never took up with another man. Twenty years a spinster.
“Then he showed up. I noticed during our interview that he stared at me more intensely than he needed to. Every time I looked up, he was staring at me. I didn’t think anything of it until the second interview. When he showed up unexpectedly.
“He asked me to dinner and told me he couldn’t get me out of his mind. He said I was the most intelligent woman he’d ever met. He fawned over me and made me feel the way I always thought a woman should feel.
“Then he stayed for a second night and after dinner, he brought me to his hotel, and made love to me. I had never been made love to in such a tender and loving manner. When he left the next day, I realized he had cracked my resolve. I needed him. Shamelessly. I thought I loved him.
“He came back a third time and we never left the bed. It was then that I offered him the job, and by so doing, ruined my life.”
“When did you decide to kill him?”
“I don’t exactly know. Maybe when I accidentally stumbled onto the party. Or when Becky Nyman came to see me. I was riddled with hate. Not just for him. Mostly for myself.
“I arranged a meeting with the three girls, all of whom had been ser
iously damaged by him. I told them how I wanted to do it. They agreed. We killed him that very day.”
“How did you do it?”
I sensed in her an emotional release, the sudden loss of fear and uncertainty. A measure of confidence reflected itself in her gaze. Her perfidy revealed, she seemed strengthened. The bastard got what he deserved. She’d face the consequences without remorse, whatever they might be.
A slight grin lit her face. “We knew how much he liked Steffi. So she called him and asked if she could meet with him at his office after swim team practice. She slyly hinted at the possibility of some kind of sexual activity.
“I went home and got the steak knife. He was surprised when I showed up at his office at the same time Steffi was supposed to arrive. He was startled when Steffi came in accompanied by Connie and Becky.
“As we had arranged, I stood behind him and grabbed him in a bear hug. At the same time the three girls approached and with each of their hands on the handle, thrust the knife into his neck and left it there.
“He couldn’t remove it because I had him in the bear hug. The girls moved away from him and we all watched as he bled out, got weaker and weaker, pleaded for his life, and then died.”
She looked at me, then hurried to the toilet and violently threw up.
After a while, she went to the sink and rinsed out her mouth. Then she looked back at me.
“That’s how.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
The story hit the media early that afternoon. A press conference had been hastily arranged and District Attorney Michael Lytell, accompanied by Her Honor, Mayor Regina Goodnow, informed the attendant reporters that the Henry Carson murder had been solved.
He identified the high school principal, Julia Peterson, but not the three girls, due to their tender ages.
I was singled out for the part I played in bringing the murderers to justice. I was besieged for interviews by local TV and newspapers, the national media, and the cable outlets. I declined them all, preferring instead to surrender the headlines to Lytell and my stepmother.
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