Yiolanda jealous of Stefani? Probably not, but I relished the possibility.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The policewoman led me to a room with desks that faced each other but were separated by glass and linked by phones. I’d only been waiting for a moment when another woman led Yiolanda to the desk opposite me. Without high heels or the buoyancy of her own audacity, Yiolanda was a different woman. The dull green uniform that hid her body had turned her into a janitor. In parallel motions we picked up the phones.
“Thank you for coming, Andy. I need you.” Her eyes were red and swollen; black lines underscored them.
“Let’s hear why.”
“What happened to your cheek? It looks puffy.”
I touched the spot that was the most tender. “This is nothing. You should have seen it two days ago, but never mind.”
She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything.
“They only gave me twenty minutes. Tell me the truth and tell me now. Why hasn’t Rolando bailed you out?”
“He doesn’t want to! He hired Kingman, but he hasn’t come to see me yet.”
I’d met Rolando’s lawyer a couple of times when he’d drafted contracts for the restaurant. His office was downtown, close to my brother’s, and his specialty was real-estate law. Given the situation, he hardly seemed the right person for the job.
Yiolanda lowered her voice. “Rolando believes I killed that poor man.”
“Did you?”
She cowered. “Of course not! I wasn’t even in Vegas! I haven’t been there since last year.”
“If you’re going to lie, talk to yourself.”
She gave me her best innocent stare.
“Stefani—remember her? She works for California Air. A week ago she saw you at the airport waiting for them to call your flight to Vegas.”
I was bluffing, but Yiolanda wasn’t in a position to notice.
Her recovery speed was phenomenal. Within seconds tears had formed at the corner of her right eye. “Yes! I went to Vegas! I had an appointment with a doctor.”
“No doctors in L.A.? That’s strange.”
“I had to go speak with my mother’s doctor. I had to check on her.”
“You better start praying you can lie your way through a murder trial.”
“Andy, my mother is a very sick woman!”
I started to put down the phone. Yiolanda motioned wildly, pressing her hands together as if in prayer.
I decided that if I were going to match wits with Yiolanda, I might as well go all the way. “Your mother called at the restaurant while you said you were visiting her. When she asked to talk to you, I claimed you traveled to San Carlos with Rolando. You’re lucky she didn’t catch you at a casino.”
Yiolanda sighed deeply as if she hadn’t had time to sigh at any other time during the day. “I had something important to take care of back home. It’s none of your business.”
“Everything’s my business these days. I’ll give you one more chance. Don’t blow it.”
“I told you, I have a debt. I went to Vegas to pay part of it.”
I didn’t believe that story either, but I didn’t have contrary evidence. “Why didn’t you tell me so five minutes ago?”
“Andy, it’s embarrassing! Rolando would hate me for it.”
“Rolando has lots of reasons to be disappointed, but we’re running out of time. How do you think he felt when the police told him your fingerprints were on the murder weapon?”
“I never touched a gun before in my life! It’s that woman, Mrs. Leonard.”
“The widow? What could she have to do with this?”
“She wants to implicate me. Her husband and I were merely friends.”
“Come on.”
“Believe what you want. She was jealous of our friendship. She would do anything to hurt me.”
Edith wasn’t dangerous. Her jealousy was the whiny kind, not the kind people did anything about. Yiolanda’s story was wrong, but I wasn’t quick enough to figure out why. “How can I help you, if I decide to?”
“I can prove I was in L.A. the night Leonard died.”
“Go ahead. What’s stopping you?”
“I need the memory chip from my camera.”
“Call Rolando and have him bring it.”
“I—I don’t want to do that.”
I made a production of sitting back against the chair and pretending to be nonchalant.
“Oh?”
“Have you ever been to Garden Terrace?”
“Why would I go to a five-star restaurant?”
“Last Friday I had dinner there with a friend.”
“You’ve got a receipt in your name?”
“My friend paid the bill.”
“How convenient.”
“The waiter took our picture.”
“So?”
“It shows the date.”
“Cameras don’t know what day it is. People program them. Your camera could claim you were at Garden Terrace any night that suited you.”
“There was a big birthday party that evening. The staff had decorated with blue balloons that kept falling down from the ceiling. Even if the waiters don’t remember my friend and me, they’ll remember the large party, and they’ll recognize the balloon in the corner of the picture.”
“So far so good. How can you prove the time?”
“The time?”
“You could have had dinner at nine and jumped into the midnight plane for Vegas.”
“We were among the last to leave. The waiter should remember that.”
“Who were you with, anyway?”
“You don’t need to know his name.”
I pulled at a hangnail. “Tell me anyway.”
“Lyle Deeds. He’s an old friend.”
The name sounded familiar. “Can he vouch for your whereabouts the whole night?”
“Andy! Of course not. He dropped me off at my home around two a.m. I heard the church bell of Sacred Heart as I arrived.”
“So there’s this picture in your camera. Why tell me?”
Silence.
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“It looks funny.”
“You’re worried about appearance while you’re being held on a murder charge? Are you crazy?”
“No, I mean it looks like Lyle and I are close friends.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“My leg is over his. And his hand. You’ll think I’m horrible. But I didn’t notice until later.”
“His hand is where?”
She nodded her head towards her crotch.
“So that’s the kind of friends you are.”
“We were flirting. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Why don’t you explain that to Rolando?”
“He won’t believe me.”
Then I remembered. The man had come to the restaurant a few times with other locals. “Lyle is one of Rolando’s high school friends, isn’t he?”
Yiolanda looked down. There weren’t many other places for her to look. “Yes.”
After marrying Yiolanda, Rolando had no more friends, only competitors.
“Please, Andy, you must do this for me. You must get the memory chip and get it to Kingman. Then Rolando doesn’t have to know.”
“He’ll probably find out anyway.”
“I’m afraid he’ll delete the image before I can use it in my defense.”
Yiolanda had told me a lot of things I couldn’t believe, but this much was true: Rolando might destroy an electronic image in an angry moment before he had time to think about it. My boss wasn’t an overly jealous man, but I understood why Yiolanda couldn’t take the chance.
“He might notice the camera is missing.”
“It’s not in the camera. I took it out so Rolando wouldn’t see it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“But—”
“I said I’ll think about it. Where’s this memory card at?�
��
“On the left side of the bed there’s a nightstand. The bottom drawer contains a small inlaid box. I got it from Spain when I was seventeen.”
“Save the history. What’s inside?”
“The box is locked. Bring me the whole thing.”
“How do you plan on opening it?”
“I have the key.”
“You do not.”
“Some things in the box are private.”
“People in jail don’t deserve privacy. Especially when their own spouses don’t trust them. I’ll get you the card if that’s what you say you need. I won’t do anything more than that.”
She frowned, surprised at not getting her way.
“You’ll find the key in the bottom of my jewelry box, which you’ll find in the bathroom.”
“Fine. We’re almost getting somewhere. Now, how am I supposed to get into your house? Walk in, say hello to Rolando, and then—”
“Every morning he goes out for coffee and to read the newspaper. Around eleven.”
I fingered the set of keys I’d copied from Rolando’s set. They were safely hidden in my pants pocket, but I didn’t want to admit that I had them. “He leaves the door unlocked?”
“We leave a key under the mat.”
“How do I get into the building to get to your door?”
“During the day it’s unlocked.”
I imagined myself sneaking through the building.
“What about the other neighbors on your floor? They’ll know damned well I’m not Rolando.”
“There are only four units. One is vacant. The Hamptons haven’t come back from the Midwest yet. There is only the neighbor directly across, a woman who lives by herself.”
“She sounds perfect. Have her get the card.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me she’s Mrs. Lyle Deeds.”
“Don’t be so cruel.”
The policewoman tapped me and indicated the clock.
I nodded, scooting the chair a few inches away from the desk. “I’m being practical.”
“So am I. She’s too nosy to trust with personal information. She’ll tell the whole building that I’m in jail, and then every time we pass our neighbors on the way to the elevator, we’ll see the gleam in their eyes.”
“What if this woman sees me coming in or out of your place?” I asked.
“Say you’ve come to install a TV system, that I don’t want Rolando to know how much I’m spending on it. She’ll believe you.”
The policewoman tapped me again. I stood, phone in hand. “Please, Andy. Tell me you’ll do this.” She joined her hands in another praying gesture. “My husband will erase the picture. One click and it’s gone.”
I hung up and walked away.
I had a difficult night at the restaurant. Every time I saw Rolando, I wanted to tell him what had transpired between me and his wife that afternoon. Yet I agreed with Yiolanda. Neither of us could predict what her husband might do. I’d never seen him act jealous, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have it in him. The ghost of José Alfredo Jiménez hung over Noche Azul the way it hung over any mariachi establishment. The famous singer-songwriter who’d written standards like El rey and Volver, volver had been killed by a cuckolded husband. The question for me boiled down to whether I was helping Rolando more by stealing into his house or by refusing to do so. No matter how much she’d slept around, Yiolanda didn’t deserve a murder rap because of it. And after everything blew over.…
No. There was no way. Even if she divorced Rolando, I couldn’t be with her. We might have a sweet year or two, but sooner or later Pablo would catch her slipping around Squid Bay with somebody else. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe for some screwed-up reason, sleeping around had become part of her identity, and she didn’t know how to change it. Or want to.
I didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell me that I needed Yiolanda to stay married to her husband and as far from me as possible. It might not be the best for him, but it would save him face as long as he didn’t know too much, and it would preserve my sanity.
Retrieving the memory card was worth the risk.
***
The ten-story building that housed the Díaz condo had a fancy main entrance and a fire escape at the rear. The building was on a residential street across from a small city park. The restful area was sprinkled with palm trees, benches, and a squadron of pigeons. I stationed myself at the north end, far from the condo. If I needed to, I could duck behind a tree trunk and melt into the scenery.
The area hummed with movement—work traffic, children, motor scooters, bicycles, and pet owners with their dogs—but the only person who emerged from Rolando’s building was an elderly, heavy-set woman. I knew she lived in the condo above the Díaz’s; Rolando had introduced me to her at the restaurant a year or so before.
I kept waiting for Rolando to exit the building, but there was no sign of him. I wondered if Yiolanda had sent me on a wild goose chase, but that was unlikely even for her. So I waited, imagining conversations in which I explained to Rolando about the card, and he immediately agreed to bring it to the police station. The closest he’d ever come to being irresponsible was dashing down to San Carlos during the tourist season. Despite Yiolanda’s fears, given the severity of the circumstances, I didn’t think he would act rashly. I had rarely even seen him angry. Maybe he didn’t have enough practice.
Or maybe he had little cause. His closest rival was the owner of Los Guapos, but Rolando always greeted him as a friend, and both their businesses were thriving. Occasionally Rolando lost patience if the wait staff worked too slowly or Corinna ran out of core ingredients because she hadn’t planned ahead, but for the most part Rolando was cheerful at work and treated us well. He even got along well with family members. He was protective of his siblings—besides Liliana he had a brother up in Oregon—and even when Yiolanda made catty comments about them, he didn’t overreact.
I sat on the bench rehearsing my TV repairman story for two hours before giving up. With Yiolanda out of the house, Rolando had no need to leave because he could relax quietly on his own terms.
I went through the motions of another day. Since I was too lazy to drive anywhere, I took a swim at Squid Bay. I rehearsed a few songs I’d been forgetting the words to. I did laundry. No matter what I did, I couldn’t shake Yiolanda from my mind.
At the restaurant, I dodged Rolando. I could do so subtly because he was devoted to keeping up with the kitchen activity and greeting customers. When Pablo caught me looking at my watch for the fifth time and asked what was wrong, I said I had a headache. He could guess where my thoughts were.
The following morning, my patience was rewarded. I’d only been sitting a few minutes when Rolando left the building and headed south. Several cafés were within a few minutes’ walk.
I hurried into the building and took the elevator to the 6th floor. The hall was quiet, so I tried not to make any sound as I took my copy of Rolando’s keys from my pocket. With a quick flip of my wrist, I was inside.
On my previous visit, the condo had been immaculate. By now the home had the comfortable look of a man living alone. Discarded newspapers were strewn throughout the living room along with several empty glasses. The furniture was out of kilter; Rolando had knocked into pieces but not straightened them. On the balcony, an unruly pile of magazines was crowned with crumpled napkins.
In the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. What kind of do-gooder sneaked into his friend's place, no matter how just the cause? But then I imagined Yiolanda. How often had she stared into this same mirror, elongating her lips with dark red to give more curl to her smile?
Yiolanda hadn’t warned me that what she called a jewelry box was a white wooden palace three feet high with half a dozen drawers. Not a single key graced the bottom drawer though it was filled with other things: bracelets, necklaces, rings, earrings, and small souvenirs. I checked the drawer three times to make sure I hadn
’t missed anything. I was pawing through the second drawer when I heard a key turn in the lock.
In a split-second decision, I opted for Yiolanda’s closet over the shower stall, hopped through the master bedroom, and tossed myself on the floor amidst shoes and handbags as Rolando entered the adjacent room. I was trapped like a dog in a locked car except that at least dogs got to watch the scenery
I listened as Rolando kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch. The newspaper rustled as he shook it apart. Every few minutes he would rattle pages as he folded the paper into sections for easier reading. I pushed a few of Yiolanda’s high heels out of the way so that I could sit on a smoother surface. I fingered the shoes in the dark. I tried to put my hand in one, but it didn’t fit.
Eventually my heart rate returned to close to normal. When Rolando reached the third section of the newspaper, I got bored enough to be nosy. I cracked the closet door so that I had enough light to survey its contents. I opened a couple of handbags. Most contained a Kleenex or two. Rouge. A pen. In a third, I found a stack of hundred-dollar bills. I stopped counting at twenty.
A few thousand dollars was enough to buy a used car, a computer, or a dozen flights to Vegas. Not even little old ladies who didn’t believe in banks kept that much cash around the house.
Rolando went to the kitchen and opened a fizzy drink while I tried to calculate how long I could hold on before my anxiety cried out. I began to feel the passing of time. Rolando didn’t need to be at the restaurant for hours; I could be stuck in the closet until then. Meanwhile, my brother would be wondering why I hadn’t shown up for our regular lunch date although given my recent behavior, he wouldn’t be surprised.
To kill time, I crawled to the other side of the closet. I was shuffling through Rolando’s shoes when I heard steps come my way, pass the bedroom, and stop inside the bathroom.
This was my chance. By the time I heard Rolando lower the toilet seat and sit down, I was on my feet. I paused by the bedroom door, ready to run. Even if the bathroom door were open, Rolando wouldn’t be able to see me. He’d be able to hear the slightest sound, but by now it was a chance I was willing to take.
Then I heard the sound of a newspaper section being unfolded so that it could be properly folded back up. At the crescendo of noise, shoes in hand to prevent sound, I rushed to the front door. Typically trusting, Rolando hadn’t locked it. I slipped from the Díaz home without looking back.
Mariachi Meddler Page 14