Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  Matt Bailey parked his car and sauntered toward us in jeans, a sport coat, and pointed cowboy boots. “Sorry I’m late. I got hung up on a call. Where can we go to talk?”

  “How about a cup of coffee?” Nick said. “I’ll buy.”

  We crossed the lot to the Chinese-Mexican-American Deli at the top corner of the mini-mall and slid into an orange vinyl booth at the window inside. Nick and I sat together with Bailey facing us. Our waitress, a young woman in a white apron, hairnet, and nose ring, took our order for three coffees. She turned over the porcelain cups on saucers already on the table and poured in a brew that might have been coffee but smelled like burned rubber.

  Nick stirred two packets of sugar into his cup. “Dr. Morales called Bernie Gates at Gates Realty this morning.”

  Bailey arched his brow. “So Morales is back?”

  “No one has seen him,” Nick said. “He’s allegedly been calling Mrs. Rojas, too.”

  “Allegedly?” Bailey said.

  “I took the phone while Lucia was talking to him,” I said. “Victor, or whoever heard my voice, hung up on me.”

  “On other calls, Victor told her he was with Paco Rojas,” Nick said.

  “Her deceased husband?” Bailey stared at the cup in front of him. “Morales hasn’t been home. The neighbor called, asking what to do about his mail. His phone records show no activity, either from his house or his cell, since last Wednesday. His last call came from the clinic.”

  “The call from the clinic could have come from any one of a number of people. Some of the staff stay past six, and Park Clinic doesn’t have security cameras,” I said.

  “You’ve been doing your homework,” Bailey said.

  “I work there,” I said. Or used to.

  “It doesn’t matter who called,” he said. “If Morales is making phone calls, he’s not missing. I received information this morning that made me think he took off on his own.”

  I tilted my head. “What kind of information?”

  “The good doctor deposited a five-thousand-dollar cashier’s check in his bank account Thursday morning.”

  “From who?” Nick said.

  Bailey shrugged. “I contacted the issuing bank. The check was purchased with cash. Morales made the deposit at an ATM in Boyle Heights.”

  I pushed away my cup. Even with milk and two yellow packets, the coffee tasted like something off my garage floor. “I don’t understand.”

  “Not much to understand. Bottom line, the guy’s not missing,” Bailey said. “Meanwhile, I have two homicides to investigate. You said you have information on Morales and the Paco Rojas case. Talk to me about Rojas.” He drained his cup and beckoned to the waitress for a refill.

  “Victor and Paco paid protection money to a local gang,” I said.

  “No surprise.” Bailey pointed through the window at Buzz Cut, Biceps Boy, and Tattoo Neck on the street. “There, at twelve o’clock. That trio identifies themselves as ‘mall security.’ My money says every shop on this street pays protection. So what’s your point?”

  “Paco Rojas paid protection, yet he was killed in a gang drive-by,” Nick said. “Teresa Suarez ran the protection business for the gang, but she was shot in a local alley. Gangs are tribal. Tribal cultures usually don’t attack their own. If they do, it’s because of money or a woman.”

  “Money,” Bailey said. “Saldivar was on the River Gang shit list for skimming off cash. The only thing I can’t figure out is why he was shot in front of a rival gang member’s wife. Teresa Suarez was killed the day after she visited her husband in prison. My guess is her husband told her why Saldivar was shot and she opened her mouth to the wrong person.” Bailey looked at me. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Outside the clinic on Saturday, talking to the guys out there.” I cocked my head in the direction of Buzz Cut and his friends.

  “What was she wearing that day?” he said.

  I would guarantee that Bailey cared as much about fashion as I cared about locker room gossip. I eyed him cautiously. “A black jacket, slacks, and a tan sweater.”

  “I searched Teresa’s apartment this morning.” He reached into his sport coat, pulled out a piece of paper, and unfolded the photocopy of both sides of my business card with Bailey’s number in my handwriting and Teresa’s notations on the back. “This card was in the pocket of the only black jacket in her closet. The jacket, I assume, she was wearing on Saturday when you wrote out my number for her. Did you tell her to call me?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I can’t comment. Teresa became my client on Saturday. Our conversations are privileged.”

  “She’s dead, Liz. Don’t be like everyone on the street. Help me solve these murders.”

  Bailey’s earnest plea almost swayed me. I wanted to help him. But, because Teresa didn’t confess she committed a crime, and because she didn’t name the person or people she feared, everything she told me had to stay confidential. Her revelation that Paco, not Saldivar, was targeted was hearsay, and not admissible in court. I was bound by privilege even after her death, and it sucked.

  I shrugged in futility.

  “You won’t help? Do you know who killed her?” Bailey said.

  I sipped my coffee, ignoring him.

  He leaned across the table. “Did she tell you who killed Saldivar?”

  Even if I revealed to him that Paco was the target, I had no proof. I peered through the window, avoiding his question. Carmen crossed the parking lot from the clinic to her car, probably to go home to dress for the fund-raiser.

  “She can’t tell you, Bailey,” Nick said.

  “Maybe you’d feel more open to talk at the station, Liz,” Bailey said.

  “It wouldn’t make a difference. I’m sorry,” I said.

  Nick waited while the waitress topped his coffee then said, “Listen, maybe the reason Teresa took your phone number is right there in front of you. Read what she wrote. ‘River.’ You know Saldivar was in the River Gang. ‘bh.’ You know Saldivar lived in Boyle Heights.”

  “Big deal,” Bailey said.

  “Raymon Cansino works in Boyle Heights,” I said.

  “Thousands of people live and work in Boyle Heights,” Bailey said. “I don’t have time to play a game of Clue with you two. Tell me what you know, Liz.”

  “Raymon Cansino tried to convince Paco Rojas to sell his building,” I said.

  Bailey stretched his legs into the aisle and leaned back with his arms crossed. “Did Teresa tell you that?”

  “Liz and I searched Victor’s office Saturday night,” Nick said. “One of his last computer searches was on C&C Properties. Cansino was pushing the Rojases to sell.”

  “How would Teresa know him?” Bailey said.

  “Lucia or Paco could have mentioned him to her,” Nick said. “She could have seen Cansino at the wake and recognized him. Or maybe she saw the letter in Victor’s office. She did work at the clinic.”

  “It’s a stretch, but I’ll check Cansino out,” Bailey said. “You searched Morales’s office? You’re a busy pair.”

  “He’s a friend, and he’s missing,” I said.

  “He was missing. Now he’s collecting checks and working the phones.” Bailey signaled the waitress. “I have to leave.”

  Nick slid out of the booth and waited for the waitress to bring the check. Bailey and I walked to the door together.

  “We’ll talk about this again. I want you to reconsider telling me about your conversation with Teresa,” Bailey said. “Do the right thing, Liz.”

  “I am doing the right thing. By the way, Raymon Cansino will be at the Park Clinic fund-raiser at the Mayfair Hotel tonight. You might want to drop by.”

  “Will there be banquet chicken?” Bailey said. “I love banquet chicken.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Bailey left us in the parking lot. I had time before I had to get dressed for the fund-raiser, and I wanted to make a stop before I went back to the Valley. Nick fiddled in his pocket for his k
eys.

  “Are you going home?” I said.

  “Not yet. I offered Oscar an incentive to do some digging on the Saldivar/Rojas shooting for me yesterday. I’m going over there now to see if he came up with anything. Could be interesting. The River Gang is deep into the worship of Santa Muerte, and Oscar has a strong relationship with the followers.” Nick unlocked his car and took a small velvet jewelry box from the glove compartment.

  “What’s that?”

  He opened the box, revealing a weathered two-inch twist of frayed hemp on black velvet. It looked like something Erzulie would cough up.

  “The incentive,” Nick said. “His information in exchange for a piece of twine from the rope that hung his hero Jesús Malverde in nineteen hundred and nine. One of Malverde’s devotees in Sinaloa gave it to me as a thank-you for a favor.”

  An artifact from the execution of the narco-saint? I didn’t ask what kind of favor Nick performed to earn the bounty. “Is it authentic?”

  “Might be. Might not. Oscar believes the rope holds the spirit of Malverde, so to him it’s priceless.” Nick dropped the box into his pocket and locked his car. “I’ll pick you up at your place at five thirty.”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to Oscar’s with you. I want to see this.”

  “No way, Liz. I have to go alone.” Nick’s phone rang. He answered and listened. “I don’t understand. Let me talk to Syd.” A pause, then, “Tell her to call me.” He hung up without saying good-bye then stared at the pavement.

  “Who was that?”

  “Sydney Tenbrook’s assistant at the Times. They can’t run my article about Paco and Lucia. Her assistant gave me an excuse about fact-checking.”

  “I thought Sydney was enthused about your idea,” I said.

  “She was. I’m calling her private line and find out what changed her mind.” Nick dialed then said, “Syd? Nick Garfield.”

  He cajoled, nodded, and made promises, then hung up and said to me, “A salesman got a ‘friendly’ call suggesting that the Times would look foolish promoting an article on a business about to go under. The salesman wouldn’t tell Syd who made the call. The only people who knew about the article aside from us and Lucia were Carmen, Cruz, and Victor, or the alleged Victor.”

  “Not so. I’m sure my parents knew. Dave knew. And Erica Gates overheard me tell Tony Torrico on Saturday. Any one of them could have told a wider variety of people,” I said. “If Bernie told Erica that Botanica Rojas was about to be sold, she could have made the call to spite you for embarrassing her this morning.” Or to spite me.

  “Or someone who wanted to divert public attention away from Lucia and her building until they convince or bully her to sell,” Nick said.

  “They won’t hurt her, Nick. If Lucia died without a will or administrator, the property could be tied up in the court system for years.”

  “Unless Lucia signed over her legal power of attorney to Victor after the wake. Don’t forget about the five-thousand-dollar deposit Victor made to his account Thursday morning. I’d hate to think he took the money as a bribe to secure the sale of her building,” Nick said.

  “Crazy. Impossible. How could all of us, especially Carmen, be that wrong about Victor Morales?”

  “I suspect the answer lies over there.” Nick pointed at Botanica Rojas on the other side of the street. “I have to go, Liz. I’ll let you know if Oscar came up with anything when I pick you up tonight.”

  “Five thirty sharp. Don’t forget, we have to pick up Robin, too.” I cupped my hand along the side of his face before he left. “Be careful, Nick.”

  Instead of going to my car, I scanned the Park Clinic lot for Carmen’s Volvo to make certain she hadn’t returned. Determined to make another attempt to locate Cruz’s résumé, I went back into the clinic. Miguel looked up from his newspaper; Jackson glanced at me from her desk. Their welcoming smiles told me I hadn’t made the Least-Wanted list yet.

  Feigning ignorance, I said, “Is Carmen in the back?”

  Miguel shook his head and went back to the paper.

  “She left to get dressed for the fund-raiser, hon.” Jackson wiggled her fingers in the air. “She’s got to look special tonight.”

  “Darn.” I snapped my fingers. “I can’t believe I missed her. I think I left my phone on her desk this afternoon, and I’m expecting an important call. Do you mind if I run back to her office and get it? I’ll only be a minute. No need to bother Miguel.”

  The forgotten phone ruse worked for me in the past, a broad enough deception to get me back to the offices and cover me if I got caught.

  “Sure, hon.” She opened her drawer and handed me the key ring. “Her key has her name on it. Just lock the door when you’re done.”

  I slipped through the hall and rounded the corner to the offices in back. If Carmen told Tony and/or Helen about Erica’s complaint and my unwelcome status, I would repeat my lost phone excuse. The techs, busy shuffling patient files, didn’t pay attention as I passed them. The dispensary technician had her back turned. When I reached my destination I rifled through the ring until I found the key I wanted.

  Victor’s lock opened easily. I stole inside and closed the door. Opening his bottom desk drawer, I pushed through files until I found what I came for. I took out the folder and then flipped through the rest, looking for a Rojas file, Cruz’s name, or any file with job applications. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  “Who’s in there, Helen?” Tony Torrico’s voice came from right outside the door.

  I froze. The door didn’t open. Inch by inch so not to make a sound, I crouched behind the desk. What the hell would I say if Tony came in? I lost a contact? Needed to use the phone? On the floor? I did what any sane, rational person would do—I gritted my teeth, waiting until I heard Helen’s reply.

  “Mrs. Sosso in room five. Her stitches look infected, Doctor. She’s in pain.”

  “On my way.”

  After their voices faded, I shoved Victor’s personal file under my sweater and pressed my ear to the door. Satisfied I was in the clear, I opened the door and left. I gave Jackson the keys, showed her my phone with a smile, and then got the hell out of there.

  Thirty minutes later I was home at my desk with Victor’s file. I searched through the papers for Cruz’s application three times and came up blank. But an even stranger discovery prompted me to check again. I was right—the letters to Paco from Bernie Gates and Raymon Cansino were missing.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Jazzing Up,” the headline on the glitzy silver and gold invitation to the fund-raiser, was the Cherries’ creative attempt to tie their money-raising effort to “jazz up” the Park Clinic plumbing to the Jazz Age past of the Mayfair Hotel. The “Formal Attire” line centered in script at the bottom meant I had better plug in the hot rollers before I jumped in the shower.

  While the rollers did their thing on my freshly shampooed and dried locks, I slathered on lotion and put on my makeup. Satisfied with the curls tumbling to my shoulders, I added an extra layer of mascara to my lashes, dabbed tinted gloss on my lips, and then slipped into my pale lavender knee-length dress. Tiers of delicate lace draped in inverted Vs over the chiffon skirt, reminiscent of a sultry 1920s flapper dress. I put on open-toed bone pumps then stood in front of the mirror, swishing the skirt and my curls.

  Erzulie watched with her head on her paws from the top of the dresser. I modeled for her opinion. She didn’t move. Not even a complimenting blink. Something was missing. The dress didn’t need accessories other than my blue porcelain and pearl earrings. Erzulie lifted her head and pawed the trinket next to her—Lucia’s protection bracelet. She sniffed at the bangle, and then swatted it across the dresser top.

  I could take a hint. I slid the bracelet onto my left wrist and glanced over my shoulder into the mirror—it worked. I jammed lip gloss, my license, a house key, a twenty-dollar bill, and my phone into my beaded evening bag. As I twirled for Erzulie’s final approval, the doorbell rang.

  * *
*

  There was something so incredibly sexy about a man in evening clothes, and Nick carried the look with chic sophistication in a European-tailored black suit, pale blue shirt, and silver silk tie. His slim jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and cut to the waist in an invite to slip my arms around him and dance all night.

  He stepped back on my front stoop and gave me a soft, appreciative whistle. “Amazing.”

  “Thank you, but aren’t you supposed to touch me while you’re complimenting? We don’t want the evil eye to haunt us tonight, do we?”

  His soft, slow kiss tasted like peppermint. He took my arm and escorted me down the steps to the car, where I attempted to climb into his SUV with grace—not an easy feat in a short dress and three-inch heels.

  Before he shut the door he said, “Fasten your seat belt.”

  I chuckled, proud of my familiarity with at least one of his movie references. “I know. ‘Bumpy night.’ Quoting All About Eve again?”

  He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “I was going to say ‘because it’s rush hour and we’re late,’ but nice call on the quote, kid. You’re learning.”

  “We still have to pick up Robin.”

  “Already taken care of. I got caught in traffic and thought I might be late, so I asked Dave to pick her up.”

  “You didn’t.” I covered my eyes to block visions of Robin slamming the door in Dave’s face. “You know she hasn’t forgiven him for the two nights she spent in jail. I have to call her.” I fumbled for my phone. “She’ll have a fit if he comes to her door unannounced, Nick.”

  “Have faith, Liz. They’ll work it out,” he said, turning right on the boulevard. “It’s only a drive downtown, and we’ll take her home. I have something more important to tell you.”

  “Oscar?”

  “The draw of the mystical is amazing. Oscar delivered. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the Malverde twine. Two River Gang members were paid ten thousand dollars to murder Paco, then five thousand to murder Teresa. There’s another five thousand on the table for the next hit.”