Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “How did you know?” I said in wonderment.

  “I saw Jackson pull them out for an intern the other day. I assumed she wouldn’t take a mess of metal like this home with her.”

  I turned on the overhead lights in Victor’s small, windowless office. His medical school diplomas hung on the wall behind his wooden desk. The credenza was topped with pictures of Victor with Beatrice, a lovely, open-faced blonde in her midsixties. They both appeared relaxed and happy, sitting at the edge of Rome’s Trevi Fountain, and standing side by side in Hawaiian shirts by a waterfall. A group shot showed Victor and Beatrice with Carmen, Paco, and Lucia posed behind a birthday cake. The photo on his desk displayed a much thinner Beatrice waving from a wheelchair.

  Nick turned on the old desktop computer and entered the password at the screen prompt. The computer hummed and a sky blue background appeared. “I’m in.”

  While he searched the computer, I sifted through the stack of mail at the corner of the desk: Global Health Magazine, letters addressed to Victor from pharmaceutical companies, medical journals, and a small “Thank-You” postcard with “You’re the best. xoxo, Ynez” written on the back. I paged through his At-A-Glance calendar. Paco’s wake last Wednesday was the lone entry for the week. The following week he had penciled in “fund-raiser” on Monday evening, “Ynez” at noon on Tuesday, and a haircut appointment on Thursday. I fanned through the remainder of the pages and found nothing. No cryptic notes; no other notes at all.

  “Look at this.” Nick pointed at the e-mail he had open on the computer screen. “This came in Wednesday night.”

  I read over his shoulder:

  Will do. Should I reschedule your patients for Friday afternoon or move to next week?—Helen

  “We knew Victor e-mailed Helen that night,” I said. “That must be her reply.”

  Nick scrolled down. “But read the original e-mail he wrote her at seven thirty.”

  Helen, I won’t be in Thursday for personal reasons. Reschedule my appointments.

  “A little brusque for him,” I said. Victor restrained himself in person but the keyboard unleashed his inner verbosity. The congratulatory e-mail he had sent when I joined the clinic went on for pages. “What do you want me to see?”

  “Helen replied with a question a minute later, and he didn’t respond. Unless he called her?”

  “She told me they didn’t talk on the phone,” I said. “What about the rest of his e-mails?”

  “All business. None of his incoming e-mails have been opened since Wednesday.” Nick sat back in the chair. “Why did he e-mail Helen instead of calling her?”

  “She didn’t answer her phone?”

  “She answered the e-mail instantly.”

  “I’m more curious about why he only told Helen,” I said. “I would assume he’d phone or write Carmen or Tony if an emergency came up. We need to see his phone records.”

  Nick grunted agreement then went back to his screen search. I opened the bottom desk drawer.

  Labeled manila folders were arranged in alphabetical order to the back. I skimmed through the headers and stopped at the light blue file marked “Payroll” to check for recent firings, perhaps someone holding a grudge. Helen Leonard and the rest of the medical staff earned standard wages for their positions. Jackson and Miguel were paid just above minimum wage. Teresa’s entry stopped me.

  “Teresa made two hundred dollars a week, in cash. That’s a lot of money for a part-time Saturday job,” I said.

  “Maybe she works more hours than you thought.”

  “And is paid in cash?”

  “Do you think it’s relevant?”

  “Just odd.”

  I flipped through the remainder of the files and then pulled out the folder I found tucked behind a black three-ring binder in the back of the drawer. I opened the file inside. The two letters on top were both addressed to Paco Rojas, dated three weeks ago.

  Bernard Gates signed the first on Gates Realty stationery. He thanked Paco for their recent discussion about the progressive changes coming to Westlake. Gates outlined his background and success stories, and then requested a follow-up meeting with Paco to discuss the value and sale of his building. Gates assured he would personally help relocate the Rojas family to a new home. Stapled to the letter was a copy of a recent newspaper article, touting the wisdom of selling commercial property in the current market for the best price before a decline.

  The second letter was from Raymon Cansino of C&C Commercial Properties and Investments. In it, Cansino insinuated that Paco’s building was targeted for inspection and a fast sale would protect Paco from a burden of fines and fees. He claimed his interested buyers would absorb all penalty costs on top of a generous offer to buy.

  Beneath the letters I found an Internet article about city plans for the Subway to the Sea, the controversial extension of the Metro Purple Line from downtown Los Angeles to the Westside for traffic-challenged Angelenos.

  “Liz.” Nick drew my attention up to the computer screen. “Victor’s latest Internet searches were about real estate: the county assessor, the Los Angeles housing department, commercial property law, eminent domain, and property values in Westlake.”

  “Maybe because of these.” I set the letters in front of him.

  He read them, and then opened the drop-down “History” menu on the browser. “Victor searched those companies and the individual men several times. And he researched the value of Paco’s building and searched property liens and possible complaints.”

  “Cause and effect?” I said. “Victor researches the building, Paco gets killed, and a few days later Victor disappears. Both Realtors were at the wake. Bernie Gates was the Realtor who said he had Paco poised to sell.”

  “It’s worth talking to one or both of them.”

  “But this information doesn’t tell us where Victor is. Did you find anything else before we call Carmen?”

  “He bookmarked senior dating sites,” Nick said, laughing.

  “No. Don’t tell me Victor was two-timing Carmen on the side. Makes me curious to meet Ynez tomorrow.”

  Nick saw how serious I was and stopped laughing. “In his defense, they could be old bookmarks. Can’t blame a guy for looking.”

  “Any cybersex e-mails hinting he took off with a cougar?”

  “Considering Victor is in his seventies, his cougar would be at least eighty. No web winks from octogenarians. His online reputation is intact.”

  We dialed Carmen’s hospital room from the speakerphone. After we ran down the details, she couldn’t account for the real estate searches and drew the same conclusion we had—Victor was helping Paco research the value of his building.

  “Except Paco Rojas wouldn’t sell for any amount,” Carmen said.

  “Everyone has their price,” I said.

  “Not Paco. He lived in the same building his whole life, through wars, riots, and earthquakes. I’d be more than shocked if he and Lucia planned to retire somewhere else. They would have said something. Did you find anything else in Victor’s computer? Notes? Letters?”

  “Ynez Briano sent a thank-you note. He wrote her in for lunch next week on his calendar. Miguel mentioned they’re close. How close?” I said.

  “Victor seems very fond of her. She’s been a patient at the clinic for a few years. They planned a lunch date together? I have no idea why. I didn’t realize they saw each other outside the clinic,” Carmen said.

  “I’ll find out when I see her tomorrow. But I think the lunch date is telling. Putting future events like lunches and haircuts on his calendar strengthens a theory that his disappearance was unplanned,” I said.

  “And confirms that something awful happened to him,” Carmen said.

  “We’ll find him, Carmen,” Nick said.

  We ended the call with a promise to be in touch the next day.

  Two pops echoed through the empty halls, like distant fireworks. Tires screeched from the alley behind the clinic, the engine fading south, away f
rom 7th Street.

  Nick jerked back in the chair. “That sounded like gunshots. Is there a back door?”

  “Around the corner past the dispensary, and down the other hall. But you’re not going out there, are you?”

  “No. I want to be certain no one can get in. I’ll be right back.”

  My mind darted to Lucia across the street. The gunfire could have triggered flashbacks to Paco and upset her. I pulled out my phone and dialed.

  Lucia picked up on the first ring. “Victor?”

  “It’s Liz. Are you and Cruz all right? Nick and I are right across the street.”

  “Come over. I can’t talk. I’m waiting for Victor to call.” A click and the line went silent.

  She didn’t mention the gunfire. That was good. Waiting by the phone for Victor to call? Troubling.

  Nick came back and said, “The back door is metal with a steel bar. No one can get in, but I heard shouting in the alley. Someone was shot.”

  Sirens blared outside. I returned the files to the back of the drawer and put Victor’s desk back in order. We locked up and exited Park Clinic into a sea of flashing red and blue lights. LAPD patrol cars blocked off the alleyway. When we reached the sidewalk, an ambulance pulled out of the alley with lights and siren on and turned east onto 7th. Small groups of people, including Buzz Cut and Tattoo Neck, were gathered on both sides of the street under the glare of the streetlamps.

  From the midst of one of the small groups, an unshaven youth in a plaid shirt and jeans pointed a longneck bottle of beer across the street at Botanica Rojas. “The bruja’s hex again. This is her fault. Let’s get her.”

  Others took up the cry, turning their attention from the alley to Botanica Rojas, and chanting, “Get the witch, get the witch.”

  “Burn the building!” The ragged group marched across the street, away from the squad cars. New people joined the mass heading toward Botanica Rojas.

  “Damn it. Wait here.” Nick followed the crowd into the street.

  Lucia and Cruz were at the second floor window looking down. I fumbled for my phone and hit redial as I darted across the street, panicked that the mob would see them.

  When Cruz answered, I said, “Get Lucia away from the window. I’m almost at the door. Don’t buzz anyone in unless you hear my voice on the intercom.”

  Angry and threatening shouts surrounded me. My heart pounding, I desperately searched through the swarm of faces for Nick. Police, in helmets and riot gear, poured en masse into the street. The growing mob hurled empty bottles at the officers and rocks at the botanica. I bumped my way through to the sidewalk, with my purse clutched to my chest.

  As I reached the curb, the front window of Botanica Rojas shattered into pieces. A teenager in an overgrown fade haircut lit a rolled newspaper with a lighter. Nick pushed through the group and tackled the torchbearer at the waist, wrestling him to the ground through a din of shouts, sirens, and the rapid click of Tasers. A kid in camouflage pants picked up the burning paper and backed into the street. Buzz Cut grabbed the kid, throwing him to the ground. Tattoo Neck stomped out the flames.

  I ducked into Lucia’s downstairs stoop, panting, and hit the intercom button. “It’s Liz. Buzz me in.”

  When I entered the vestibule, Lucia and Cruz appeared at the top of the steps.

  “What should we do?” Cruz said.

  “Is the back door secure?” I said.

  Lucia nodded. “Bolted and chained. But our botanica—”

  “Nick is in front of the shop with the police. I want both of you to stay inside the apartment and keep away from the windows.”

  Cruz put an arm around Lucia and eased her back to the apartment. As soon as I heard the door close behind them, I went back outside for Nick.

  Police outnumbered the crowd that remained. Five people, including the youth who incited the riot and the two torchbearers, were hauled off in a police van. Police barricades blocked off the squad cars and the officers investigating the alley shooting. I spotted Nick in front of the broken window at Botanica Rojas, talking with a patrolman in riot gear.

  “My friend owns the building, damn right I defended it. I have to find my girlfriend. She’s five feet five, dark hair—”

  “I’m here, Nick.” I locked onto his arm. His clothes were filthy but, aside from a swollen cheek, he appeared to be unscathed. “Lucia’s upstairs, safe. What do we do about that?” I pointed at the window.

  “Will you find a glass repair company to board it tonight? I’ll wait out here and guard the shop.”

  My face was damp with perspiration and my hair matted to the back of my neck as I climbed the steps to Lucia’s apartment. Music poured into the corridor. Cruz was at the open door. Inside, Lucia was at the dining room table singing along to Lola Beltran.

  “It was the only thing I could think of to distract her,” Cruz said.

  “Good idea.” I slipped into the chair next to Lucia. “I’m sorry. The botanica’s front window is smashed. Nick will make sure no one gets inside the shop. I have to find someone to board the window tonight.”

  “My hex is working. It won’t be long.” Lucia went to the desk and opened her address book. “Paco has a glass repair service he uses. Here’s the number. You tell them Paco needs them.”

  The 24-Hour Glass Repair agreed to come within the hour. I sat by the desk for a minute to catch my breath.

  “Liz? Are you all right?” Lucia said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, more to assure myself than to answer her. “The botanica is safe. The police will be outside investigating all night.”

  Cruz clutched her waist. “I heard shots. Are you sure we’re safe?”

  “Yes. Keep the doors locked, especially the one downstairs. Is Teresa home?”

  “She came in a few hours ago then left again,” Cruz said.

  “I’m going to wait outside for the repairmen with Nick. We’ll come up after the window is boarded.” I sidetracked to the kitchen, put a piece of ice in a paper towel, and took it downstairs.

  Nick sat on the curb, hands folded, his elbows resting on his knees. I gently put the ice on the red welt on his cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find out who was shot in the alley?”

  He shook his head. “People aren’t exactly stopping to chat with the guy protecting the ‘Witch’s Pantry.’ The whole neighborhood is against her. Lucia’s followers believed in the good she practiced as a santera, and now they believe she hexed them.”

  “Could Osaze help us?” I said.

  Our friend Osaze Moon was a respected Vodoun in Hollywood. Last autumn Nick and I witnessed him perform a ritualistic voodoo hex-breaker over a curse cast in the 1800s. Osaze’s ceremony was convincing, even to a nonbeliever like me.

  “Asking a Vodoun to break a brujeria tie is like asking a rabbi to perform a Catholic exorcism. Two completely different cultures.” He thought for a while then said, “Some Santeria followers practice Catholicism. Father Nuncio might be able to stir up compassion among them.”

  A horn tooted from down the street. The 24-Hour Glass Repair truck stopped behind the police barricade. We asked a policeman to let the truck bypass the roadblock. Two repairmen nailed large pieces of plywood over the Botanica Rojas window. Nick paid with a credit card, and the men left with a promise to replace the glass early Monday.

  When Nick and I reentered Lucia’s apartment, the overhead lights were off. Candles flickered on the altar, and the floor lamp in the corner emitted a restful glow. Lucia sat alone at the desk, talking on the phone.

  She broke into a huge smile. “It’s Victor. I told you he would call.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nick and I swapped looks, surprised and relieved. I beat him in a close race through the living room to the desk. Lucia gave me the phone. I put the receiver to my ear, and then set it into the cradle.

  Lucia glowered. “Why did you do that? That was Victor. Why did you hang up on him?”

  “No o
ne was on the line. I only heard a dial tone.” I was perplexed—Victor, or whoever called, had hung up. Or Lucia imagined the call. “Are you sure it was him?”

  Her face clouded. “It was Victor. He calls me every night. If you don’t believe me, ask Cruz.” She called the caretaker out of her bedroom for confirmation.

  “The phone rang five minutes ago. Lucia answered,” Cruz said. “I thought it was one of you or Teresa.”

  “It was Victor,” Lucia said. “He’s with Paco.”

  The buzzer to the downstairs door interrupted further debate. Nick answered the intercom.

  “Los Angeles Police Department,” a male voice said. “We need to speak to the building manager.”

  Lucia marched out to the dimly lit corridor with Cruz, Nick, and me following. Two uniformed LAPD patrolmen came up the stairs.

  The first officer, middle-aged with a military haircut and squared jaw, approached us and said, “I’m Officer MacCauley. Are one of you the building’s manager?”

  “I’m the owner,” Lucia said, folding her arms. “What do you want?”

  “Ma’am, does a Teresa Suarez live in one of these apartments?”

  “She’s not home. Come back later.” Lucia turned her back on him and went inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Cruz opened the apartment door and went in after her.

  The second officer, Wynant according to the name on his uniform, eyed the welt on Nick’s cheek then glanced at the apartment. “Everything okay in there?”

  “Mrs. Rojas is rattled,” Nick said. “Her husband was killed last week. A mob just trashed her storefront.”

  “What happened to your face?” Wynant said.

  “I got clocked protecting the shop downstairs,” Nick said.

  “Does Teresa Suarez live here?” MacCauley asked, pointing to Lucia’s apartment.

  “Down the hall,” Nick said.

  MacCauley and Wynant went to Teresa’s door and pounded. When she didn’t answer, they came back and MacCauley said, “Can you describe Ms. Suarez?”