Erica’s eyebrows shot up. Nick eyed her askance.
I summoned all my grace and said, “Erica, this is Nick Garfield. Nick is a Religious Philosophy professor. He’s didactic before his second cup of coffee. Nick, this is Erica Gates.”
Erica gave him a pompous “hello,” then said to me, “I’m sorry for the Suarez family but something like this was bound to happen. Teresa lived in that hellhole building with a devil worshipper.”
A chunky, plain-faced woman interjected from behind us, “Are you talking about the girl who was murdered by the hex Saturday night?”
“Si. Maleficio,” another man said.
“Forget the hex. Is anyone here willing to help the police find the real, live person who shot her?” Nick said.
“Why should they help?” Oscar Estevez pushed his way through the crowd. “Senora Rojas hexed them and their families. We have our own problems. Am I right?”
A scattering of patrons nodded agreement.
“Lucia Rojas should move away before someone forces her out,” Oscar said.
“You’re threatening an old woman?” Nick looked down at him.
“I’m protecting my friends from a vengeful bruja.”
“And cashing in on their fear.”
Oscar cocked his chin. “I help my friends when they come to me. We got the bruja’s message when she burned Fidencio’s restaurant. Her tenant was murdered in an alley. Good people are afraid to go out at night. Yeah, I hope Lucia Rojas comes to her senses and moves.” He received approving nods from the crowd.
“Or you could take a stand against the gangs like Paco Rojas did,” I said.
“And died because of it,” someone said from the back of the crowd. “Gangs are a police problem.”
“Lucia’s devilish threat provoked unrest. She has to leave the neighborhood,” Erica said.
“And Gates Realty would be there to buy her building,” Nick said, arching his brow.
Erica darted her eyes at me, then at Nick. “I wouldn’t know. That’s my husband’s business.” She made a show of checking her watch then snapped across the counter, “Juan, where is my order? I’ve been here forever.”
“Coming now, Senora Gates. Lo siento.”
Anxious to end the confrontation, I prodded Nick toward the door. “We have an appointment to keep.” When he was out of earshot, I turned back to Erica. “I’m sorry. Everyone’s on edge.”
She ignored me.
When I got into Nick’s car, I said, “What were you doing? Trying to start a riot?”
“Oscar shoots off his mouth too much. Or do you mean the self-important prig? I don’t like when people misquote the Bible. So she hates Teresa and Lucia—why drag religion into it?”
“Why did you bring up Bernard Gates?”
“Bernard Gates? Erica Gates? Not too hard to make that connection. Let’s go to church.”
* * *
Our Lady of the Wayside Parish, between 8th and 9th Streets, was a short ride from the bakery. I walked with Nick through the parish parking lot, raising my eyes to see the top of the steeple towering into the sky over the light sand adobe church exterior. Father Nuncio, in a short-sleeved blue shirt tucked into black pants, greeted us warmly from the church steps. We strolled together to the rectory next door.
The deep red walls and carved wooden furniture inside the sitting room evoked the feel of a Spanish hacienda. I set the cardboard tray from the bakery on a rustic side table beneath a portrait of the Virgin Mary.
“Ah, Mexican coffee and conchas. A treat. Thank you.” Father Nuncio smiled serenely and sat in a straight-backed chair near the window. Nick and I settled on the leather sofa facing him.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Nick said. “We came to talk with you about Mrs. Rojas.”
“How is Lucia?” the priest said with concern.
“We’ve been with her every day since Paco was shot,” I said. “She’s coping with his death, but there are times she imagines he phoned or is downstairs in the botanica. Her isolation is the larger, more troubling issue. The neighborhood is in an uproar over the hex she set in motion at the wake. Her friends in the area abandoned her, Father.”
“Everyone?” Father Nuncio said.
“The rumor about the hex spread,” Nick said. “Lucia is the focus of local unrest. People blame her for the grease fire at Fidencio’s, Teresa Suarez’s murder, and every illness or accident in the area. Neither Liz nor I have the power to control the word of mouth. We’re concerned for her.”
“I heard the news about Teresa Suarez. Sad,” Father Nuncio said. “I didn’t know Teresa, but Paco and Lucia spoke to me about her. They liked her very much.”
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you come to know Paco and Lucia? Did they attend your church?”
“Ours is an unusual friendship. I met them at one of our festivals the first year I arrived at the parish. Paco and Lucia were both baptized Catholic as infants. They weren’t regulars at Mass, but they attended quite a few of our neighborhood celebrations. I saw them often, and occasionally I visited them at the shop to chat.”
“I imagine you had a few interesting discussions on religion,” Nick said.
“Lively,” the priest said with a chuckle. “Especially with Paco. The origin of Santeria is linked to the Catholic Church, so we had much in common and we had many differences. As early as the sixteenth century, Spanish Catholic priests baptized Africans before they were put on slave ships to Cuba. The slaves simply merged the Yoruba religions into Catholicism. The syncretic religion that evolved was Santeria. It spread from Cuba to South America and Mexico, then here to the States. Yes, Paco, Lucia, and I had strong doctrinal differences but I also considered them friends. How can I help her?”
“Help us convince the locals that the hex won’t hurt them,” I said.
The priest opened his hands. “They can’t be hurt by something that doesn’t exist. There is no such thing as a hex.”
“I agree,” I said. “But as Nick just said, the rumor took life. Lucia won’t defuse it.”
Nick leaned forward. “I realize you’re not in the hex-breaking business, Father, but we came hoping you could stir compassion for Lucia in the parish. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“Say no more. I’ll visit Lucia myself, and I’ll reach out to our lay ministry. Is she living alone in the apartment?”
“No. Cruz lives there with her,” I said. “I understand you referred her. I wonder if you would fill in a little more of her background for us?”
Father Nuncio furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry. Who is Cruz?”
“Cruz DeSoto, the live-in caretaker Dr. Morales hired on your referral?” I said, apprehensive. “I was told you recommended her. I saw you talking to her at the wake.”
“Lucia’s nurse? Yes, we spoke at the wake,” Father Nuncio said. “She introduced herself to me. It was the first time we met. Perhaps you misunderstood. Maybe one of our parishioners referred her?”
Or Cruz lied. I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry, Father. I must have made a mistake or heard wrong. I’ll check her referrals.”
“Thank you for helping us with Lucia,” Nick said, standing. “Your support will make a difference.”
“Compassion is one of the linchpins of my work. I’ll pay Lucia a visit tomorrow. I have faith in the goodwill of my parishioners. She won’t be alone.” Father Nuncio escorted us out of the rectory.
As we stood outside on the steps, my phone rang in my purse. I took it out, saw the name on the screen, and then excused myself to take the call.
When Nick met me at the car I said, “Dilly just gave me the names of the agents who repped the sellers of both lots bordering Lucia’s building. Want to take a guess?”
“Gates or Cansino?” Nick said.
“Both. Gates sold the lot to the west. Cansino sold the lot to the east. The question is, how does this information relate to Victor’s disappearance—or does it?”
“Let’s see if we can find out.�
�� Nick started the car. “Gates Realty is close by, on Wilshire. Buckle up.”
I hesitated, trapped. I couldn’t tell him Erica Gates was my client, too. Dropping in on her husband was ethically fuzzy. Despite my urge to investigate, I didn’t want to risk crossing another privacy boundary.
“Both of us don’t need to talk to Gates. Drop me off at the clinic. Carmen and Tony should be aware that Cruz lied about Father Nuncio’s recommendation.”
“Gates might be more open to talk to a couple,” Nick said. “We won’t be there long.”
“Nick, I really don’t want to.”
“After my run-in with his wife, I’ll be more comfortable with you there.” He turned out of the church lot and drove north.
The Empire Building stood on the south side of Wilshire Boulevard, several blocks west of Good Samaritan Hospital. Nick parked in the building’s underground lot, and we climbed a flight of stairs to Gates Realty on the ground floor.
A fortyish brunette with a short, tight perm sat behind the front desk in the modern, industrial office. She smiled pleasantly as we entered. “Do you have an appointment?”
“We don’t,” Nick said. “We stopped on a whim. My wife reads auras. She felt a strong pull when we passed your sign.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The Gates Realty receptionist began to say something, stopped, then cocked her head.
“I was kidding,” Nick said, grinning. “We came to inquire about a building in Westlake. My name is Nick Garfield. Is Mr. Gates in?”
She cracked a dimpled smile. “You got me. And here I was, about to ask your wife to read my aura. I love that stuff. Bernie’s here. I’ll check and see if he’s busy. You can wait over there.” She directed us to a cove of chairs nestled in front of the street-side window blanketed with property flyers.
“Aura reader, Nick? That’s your intro?” I whispered as we sat down. “Did you sleep in Lucia’s sanctuary last night?”
“I considered snake charmer but couldn’t make it work.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Garfield?” Bernie Gates lumbered into the lobby, tucking in his striped shirt as he approached. He pointed to the property brochures on the window, smiling. “A loft in the downtown arts district came on the market today. A decorator’s dream.” He winked at me. “And I have two spacious upper-floor condos with views from downtown that will make your friends weep with envy.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernie Gates.”
Nick stood. “Nick Garfield. And this is—”
“Liz,” I said, rising to greet him. “I’ll just wait out here while you two talk.” I turned to sit down again.
“No, no,” Bernie said, stopping me. “You come too, Mrs. Garfield. It’s more comfortable in my office.”
Mrs. Garfield had a pleasant ring. Did Mr. Garfield believe in rings?
“No, really. I should check my phone messages,” I said.
“I insist.” Bernie cupped my elbow and led us to a large, windowless office in the rear of the suite.
Stacks of papers, sports memorabilia, and sales awards jammed the top of his desk and filing cabinets. He invited us to sit down, and then eased himself into a leather chair behind the desk. “What kind of property are you interested in?”
“I understand you talked to Paco Rojas about selling his building on 7th Street,” Nick said.
Bernie’s eyebrows darted up. “Are you interested in buying it?”
“No,” Nick said. “We’re friends of Mrs. Rojas. Several Realtors approached her recently. We’re curious about the rush this soon after her husband’s death. We heard you have an honest reputation. We came to you for the truth.”
“I understand.” Bernie folded his hands on his belly, grinning after the compliment. “Well, I was very interested until the call I got this morning. I was told Mrs. Rojas went with another Realtor. Bizarre turnaround, if you ask me. Mr. Rojas was adamant about not selling.”
“Who called you?” I said.
“Victor Morales. Know him?”
Nick and I exchanged glances. He nodded at Bernie. “We do. And he called you this morning?”
“Not more than an hour ago. I had phoned Mrs. Rojas on Friday to offer my condolences again and my services if she ever decides to sell her building. Morales called this morning, saying she appreciated the gesture, but my services wouldn’t be needed.”
“Did you speak to Mrs. Rojas on Friday?” Nick’s foot tapped on the floor in overdrive.
“No. I left a message with the woman who answered the phone.”
Cruz relayed Lucia’s messages to Victor while playing dumb with us?
I leaned forward, confused. “Victor Morales returned your call this morning? That’s—”
Nick discreetly touched my knee, and said to Bernie, “We didn’t know. Will you tell us why you’re interested in the building?”
“Everyone who deals commercial wants that listing. I suppose I can tell you why, since I’m not getting it. The developer who owns the adjacent properties offered a bonus to the selling broker who brought him the Rojas building. Paco Rojas wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t even take a second phone call. I guess the widow thought differently.”
“What kind of bonus?” I said.
“Cash over and above commission. Three weeks ago, I heard the developer might give exclusive leasing rights on any new development to the selling broker,” Bernie said. “Morales wouldn’t tell me who the widow went with to represent her. But wait a minute. Did she tell you? How many people are speaking for Mrs. Rojas, anyway?”
“Mrs. Rojas speaks for herself. We want to make certain she has accurate information and is aware of her options,” Nick said. “Do you know Raymon Cansino?”
“Sure I do.” Bernie blew out a sigh. “Cansino sold the building on east side of the Rojases. Elbowed me out after he heard I sold the building on the west to the developer. Don’t tell me Mrs. Rojas is going to use Cansino.”
“We don’t know,” Nick said.
“What is his reputation?” I said.
Bernie looked from side to side. “Between us, because Mrs. Rojas seems like a nice lady? Cansino is a soulless bastard. I wouldn’t let my worst enemy do business with him.”
“Thank you for the advice and the information, Bernie,” Nick said, standing.
“Tell Mrs. R. that I’ll be glad to make another offer if she changes her mind again.” Bernie rolled his eyes at Nick. “Women.”
I walked into the hall ahead of them, unshielded against the scowling woman waiting in the lobby. I offered Erica Gates my most gracious smile, wanting more than anything to be invisible.
Bernie bypassed me to reach his wife, and then turned to make introductions. “Erica, this is—”
“I know who they are,” she said with disgust.
Nick grinned. “Hello, again. I hope I didn’t offend you this morning, Mrs. Gates. My sincere apologies. Your husband’s a great guy.”
Erica ignored him and said to me, “Can we talk in private?”
“Of course.” I held up a be-right-back finger at Nick and followed Erica.
We went into an empty conference room two doors off the lobby. She shut the door and faced me, her breath reeking of coffee and cigarettes. “What are you doing here?”
“We came on business. Nick needed information from your husband.” The truth should have composed me, but her anger had me on guard.
“You told Bernie about our meeting.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t, Erica.”
“Your actions are as cavalier as your boyfriend’s attitude. I was told what was said in the Wellness Group was confidential. You had no right to tell your friend about my family then bring him to see my husband. I’m reporting you.”
“Erica, I didn’t tell Nick about you or your family. Mr. Gates doesn’t know you and I are acquainted.”
“He does now. And I’m forced to explain how I know you, unless your callous boyfriend already told him.”
“I assure you,
Nick doesn’t know you’re my client. And the sooner we go back to the lobby, the less you’ll have to explain.”
“You have a lot of nerve talking to my husband without my knowledge. You stepped over a line. Carmen Perez won’t think much of your unprofessional actions. Neither will the state medical board when I file my complaint.”
I struggled for outward calm. Inside I was panicking. “Erica, our meeting with Bernie had absolutely nothing to do with you.”
“You had no right.” She stormed out of the room.
A report to the Board of Psychology would trigger an inquiry. Visiting Bernie, regardless of my inept effort to avoid it, was a foolish blunder that could harm my reputation. I had to apologize, change Erica’s mind, but when I returned to the lobby she was gone.
Nick and I exchanged appreciative good-byes with Bernie and left. As we descended the steps to the garage, he said, “Gates is a good guy but the wife is a shrew. What was she so pissed about?”
Easy answer—me. But telling Nick the truth would be another privacy breach. “She was still upset about this morning.”
“She’ll get over it. How does she know you? Did you meet her at the wake?”
“I’ve seen her around. What do you think about Victor calling Bernie? Do you believe it was really Victor?”
“Whoever it was, I doubt if Lucia was aware of the call. Why would she spend the past three days helping me write an article about the botanica if she planned to sell?” Nick opened the passenger door for me, and then got in the other side. He started the car then dialed his car phone. “Let’s see if Dave or Bailey got Victor’s phone records yet.”
Dave answered, his voice scratching over Nick’s speakerphone as he read off the phone company report. “The last call made from Victor’s cell phone was on Wednesday morning to Carmen’s home phone number. The last call made to his cell phone was from Park Clinic on Wednesday evening at six forty-five. And the last ping registered was from the Westlake area Wednesday night.”
“What’s a ping?” I said.
“Loosely put, a ping is a hit from an active cell phone to the closest tracking tower. Tells us the general area the telephone activity originated from. Victor’s cell phone has been out of service since Wednesday, and his home phone has been dormant for over a week. If he’s making calls, they’re not from either line,” Dave said.
Bruja Brouhaha Page 19