Leonard finally picked up on the fifteenth ring. If I hadn’t been able to see him from where I was, I would have thought he wasn’t there.
“Yeah. What?” he answered.
Great telephone manners I thought, looking around me. It’s a good thing he’s a computer guru. “Leonard. It’s Lee,” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“Who is this?” he bellowed into the phone. Obviously, he couldn’t.
“It’s me. Lee,” I repeated a little louder.
“Oh, yeah. So? What do you want? Do you have something for me?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered, looking around me again. Robby Weinblatt appeared out of nowhere and was heading in my direction. I spoke fast. “Listen, show up at D.I. tonight around nine p.m. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
I hung up, just as Señor Robby descended on me.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Rosita, my niña. She is home from school sick today,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a sincere and humble manner when all I really wanted to do was kick his spine up through the top of his head. The boy had really taken the Simon Legree character from Uncle Tom’s Cabin to heart.
“We don’t take personal calls here, Maria Theresa,” he said, even though he and I both knew that everyone did just that.
“Oh, si, señor. It will no happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” he said, leaning down into my face, putting on more of his tough guy act. I was pretty sick of him by now, this pimply-faced kid, and as it didn’t really matter anymore, I stood up quickly, forcing him to back up. Also, instead of slouching down, as I had been doing, I stood erect. My five foot eight inch frame towered over him by about four inches, the little nerd.
“I will go now and add the paper to the copy machine. Then I make a delivery to Kinko’s on the bicycle,” I said, using my best Spanish accent. “Did you want anything else, Señor Robby?” I asked, striding toward the copy machine that was directly behind him.
“No. Go ahead,” he said, stepping aside just in time. I would have knocked him over, but he was too fast for me. He was baffled by my aggressive body language but didn’t say anything. As for me, I didn’t give a damn whether he was baffled or not, fed up as I was with him and men in general.
At the end of the day, throwing caution to the wind, I called for a taxi to pick me up and take me to my car. If I was ever going to get to San Jose on time, there was no other way. Getting into my car, I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could spot anyone watching me. I didn’t but that doesn’t mean much.
I drove to a nearby gas station, gassed up and then hauled out an overnight suitcase from the trunk. The suitcase contained a change of D.R.O. or Designer Rags Only. Not without some merit, there is a persistent D.I. rumor that anyone who shows up to work dressed in less than what you’d see in a nineteen-sixties sitcom will be flogged by the CEO, personally. A slight exaggeration but just. I happen to know that Lila H. Alvarez has not renewed contracts based on PIs having worn polo shirts and jeans into the office, even on a Saturday or Sunday.
As an impressionable eleven year old, I once saw my mother clean fish in a beaded Halston original. When asked, she retorted that she was wearing an apron, after all, and went on scraping the scales off the halibut. I won’t go into what she wore as Den Mother to Richard’s Cub Scout group. Let’s just say he has yet to recover.
This mandate does not include the IT Department, which has little if any interaction with the clients, so Richard is off the hook these days. As a result, he wears faded T-shirts and ripped jeans exclusively.
I pulled out a black three-piece suit made out of a non-wrinkle fabric that in a pinch could probably be used by NASA as a space suit. The bias cut skirt, with a slight flared hemline, had a matching long-sleeved jacket, both reminiscent of the thirties. The sleeveless blouse was patterned with wide diagonal turquoise and black stripes. The suit was not only stunning, but it wore like iron and was machine washable. It was a shame it spent its life in the trunk of my car, but it packs so well and looks so great after months of being crushed, that’s where it has to live. I added chunky Mexican silver and turquoise earrings, sheer stockings, and Ferrigamo’s basic black pumps, that also wear like iron. I ran quick fingers through my hair, trying to coax a do—succeeded minimally—and added some lipstick and mascara.
I must have looked okay when I emerged five minutes later from the station’s ladies’ room, because one of the attendants tripped over an oil can while staring at me. Back in the car, I reached under the passenger seat for my black snakeskin Judith Lieber handbag, containing all my identification. I kissed the all-revealing memo and thrust it inside my bag.
After starting the car, I headed south with the rest of the traffic toward the Santa Clara Hall of Justice, based in San Jose, some twenty miles away. Out of nowhere came the memory of the crushed stud earring I had shown to Lila on Sunday. Actually, I had forgotten about it with all the noise about Bingo Bango.
I had a small panic attack wondering where it was or if I’d lost it, when I remembered I had transferred it from my pants pocket to my change purse late Sunday night. Keeping an eye on the road, I grabbed at my handbag, found the small leather coin purse and dug at the contents with my free hand, all while driving with the other one. I am nothing if not the consummate California driver.
Fortunately, I located the earring amongst all my change when the bent post pricked at my finger. I snatched it out and, holding it over the steering wheel, studied the mass of contorted gold holding what Lila said was a genuine, one-karat diamond. Even with the gathering rain clouds, the stone sparkled in what sunlight managed to sneak through. Balling it in my fist, I pressed that hand against my mouth, deep in thought. I could feel the crushed metal and stone concoction locked inside my tightly closed hand and knew, just knew, it had something to do with the murder.
Large drops of rain pinged at the windshield, bringing me out of my trance. I returned the jewelry to my bag, turned on the wipers, and concentrated on the road ahead.
Government buildings are contained within several blocks on a multi-laned street called West Hedding, most notably among them are Santa Clara County’s Hall of Justice and Main Jail. These two imposing buildings are on the same side of the street, numbered 190 and 150, respectively, separated only by a small common green. Plunked in the middle of the common is a three-story elevator with an overhead walkway crossing West Hedding’s many traffic lanes and connecting to the five-story parking garage on the other side. I pulled in, parked the car, trotted across the enclosed walkway, and joined several other people taking the elevator down to the ground level common.
Ordinarily, I would have turned left and headed for the Hall of Justice, which contains dozens of courtrooms trying criminal cases continuously during the forty-hour workweek. I’ve been to the Hall many times to testify for our clients in the past but never to its neighboring jail.
Opening my umbrella and now turning right, I headed for the modern glass and cement complex holding hundreds of people against their will, albeit for the protection of society. It was a sobering thought that Carlos was one of them.
I entered a lobby that looked like it could belong to a condo or apartment building, if it weren’t for the metal detector, scan belt and uniformed officers scattered here and there.
“May I help you?” said a smiling, blond female officer from behind a black metal counter. I noticed that despite her youthful smile, she was wearing a revolver at her side.
Before I could answer, from across the lobby, the doors of a chrome elevator opened and Mr. Talbot stepped out. He saw me, came out the exit side of the detector and shook my hand. He looked a little frazzled, so I could only imagine the condition Carlos was in.
“Carlos is waiting for you,” he said, taking me by the arm and pulling me away from Blondie’s earshot. “Before you go in, let’s chat a little.” He drew me over to a corner of the lobby.
“How’s he doing, Mr. Talbot
?”
“He’s a bit down, Liana, but that’s only to be expected.”
“What happened at the arraignment?” I asked. “I called your office on the way over here, but your secretary said you wanted to talk to me yourself.”
“It’s not good,” he answered. “No bail. He’s been remanded over for trial.”
“Damn.” I wasn’t surprised but was still disappointed in the outcome.
“Most of Carlos’ assets are in Mexico,” he explained, “and even with his mother offering all the cash she could raise, a million five, the prosecution protested. They could have saved their time and energy. I knew the judge would never consider such a flight risk. And if the prosecution decides to go for murder one, the judge knows Mexico would never let the U.S. extradite him back to the States under those circumstances.”
“So he has to stay locked up until the trial,” I said, chewing on my lower lip. Mr. Talbot nodded. I went on, “When will that be?”
“There won’t be a preliminary hearing until at least six-weeks from now. Carlos might not come to trial for months,” he said. He started to say more but hesitated.
“What is it, Mr. Talbot? Tell me,” I insisted.
“Frankly, Liana, we’re going to need all the time we can get to prepare his defense,” he replied. I studied his aged face, not liking the doubt I saw behind the pale blue eyes.
“There’s more to this, my dear,” he said, leaning in. “There’s something going on inside of Carlos, here.” His two hands clapped dramatically at his chest. “I haven’t seen this behavior myself, but there were a couple of erratic flare-ups witnessed by others. What I’ve been reading in the police reports describe him, more or less as a….” He stopped speaking for a moment, reluctant to go on.
“What?” I prodded.
“A hothead, a man who might lose control and kill someone. Indeed, he has threatened to.”
“Carlos? A hothead?”
“As I say, I have not been witness to this, but that’s why I wanted to see you before you went up,” he continued. My mind flashed back to Mira and Frank’s comments about Carlos’ recent behavior. “Something’s going on with him that he’s not telling me about. I have an instinct for these things. Whatever it is, it has already done him serious harm and I need to know what it is.”
“I see,” I said, feeling an invisible fist punching away at my solar plexus like nobody’s business.
Mr. Talbot studied my face as he said, “Talk to him. Perhaps you can get him to open up. I don’t have to tell you the prosecution has a very good case of circumstantial evidence and unless….”
“Unless what?”
“Unless the real murderer is found out, this trial may not go the way we want it to go.”
My thoughts flitted to a wedding supposedly taking place in a short time and the carpel tunnel syndrome I got from writing out two hundred wedding invitations. Was it all for naught?
“Then I guess what I’m going to have to do is catch me the real killer,” I said. “And I’ve got to do it before the wedding. That gives me three weeks.”
He nodded. “It’s a tall order.”
“I’ll have the help of my family.”
“And through the years I’ve seen you and your family do some pretty remarkable things,” he replied, putting his hands on both my shoulders and looking directly at me. “But it’s still a tall order.”
“I know, and I’m scared to death.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I won’t let it get around the neighborhood.”
Chapter Seven
Life is Not a Dress Rehearsal
Mr. Talbot left, and I signed in with smiling, pistol-packing Blondie. Fortunately, Carlos had left my name as a visitor, and it was already logged into the computer. Otherwise, it would have been an hour’s wait to be processed. Clipping on an identification card, I was handed a yellow piece of paper with a three-digit number written on it and given instructions to hand it over to the guard at the Visitor’s Door.
I took the elevator to the fifth floor, along with several others holding yellow slips, and waited my turn. After snapping the slip from my hand, the guard took me into a large room. A line of Plexiglas enclosed cubicles ran dead center, separating inmates from visitors. Red plastic chairs, in various stages of decay, strained under the weight of live bodies, many of which looked to be in various stages of decay themselves. Black phones hung to the right on either side of the Plexiglas dividing the fifteen or so cubicles from each other. It looked like every TV movie-of-the-week prison I’d seen. Only it was real.
I went to where Carlos sat in his orange jumpsuit on the other side of the Plexiglas, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. Even his golden tan couldn’t hide the pallor beneath. Bloodshot eyes looked up at me, and he tried to stand. A hefty guard came over and pushed him back down
in the chair. Carlos looked stunned but compliant. As I took my place in the empty chair, we picked up our phones simultaneously. Carlos spoke first.
“How’s Mira?” he asked, his normal melodic baritone sounding stressed. “I wasn’t able to call her today. I’m only allowed so many minutes on the phone, and I talked longer with Mom than I should have.”
“Well, I’m sure your mother needed you,” I consoled him. If I could have, I would have reached over and hugged him. Damn and blast, he looked worse than I thought he would. “Mira is doing better, Carlos,” I said. “Try not to worry about that. Her temperature’s down and the cough has subsided.”
“Good. Good,” he said and gave me a slight smile. His words rushed on, “Give her my love. Tell her I love her very much and when I can, I’ll...I’ll….” He stopped speaking and blinked several times, not knowing what else to say.
“Sure, Carlos. Sure.” Searching his face for a moment, I decided a full frontal attack was best. “Carlos, before we get into anything else, we have to talk about your recent odd behavior. You need to be honest with me.”
“What are you talking about?” His whole body froze. He stared at me through the glass. “What odd behavior?”
“Oh, come on, don’t give me that. What’s with all the redneck, tough guy stuff? Who is this macho idiot I’ve been hearing about, yelling, banging on walls, making threats, and scaring everyone, especially Mira?”
Gaping at me, he nearly dropped the phone. “What? I’ve been scaring Mira? Did she say—?”
“Yes, she said,” I interrupted. “And so has Frank and anybody else who’s been witness to your Neanderthal routine. Even your own lawyer has mentioned it. What’s going on?” I demanded.
Dropping his head to his chest, he shook it imperceptivity. “It’s nothing, nothing,” he murmured.
“Really? Well, I don’t believe that. Your erratic behavior has Mira worried more about you than she is about getting better. She says it’s like she doesn’t know who you are anymore. She doesn’t need this added stress, my friend.” When I want to, I can slather on the guilt like nobody’s business. After all, I am my mother’s daughter.
“Oh God, Lee,” he said, raising his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Well, being sorry might be a step in the right direction,” I whispered into the phone, “but it’s not going to cut it with a judge and jury. You’re not doing yourself any good by keeping silent. If something’s going on, you’d better tell me.”
Carlos stared at me with such a look of sadness, my heart did a flip-flop. He almost replied but instead tapped at his chin with the end of the receiver, his eyes a thousand light years away. Setting the phone down, he covered his face with his hands. I could see he was grappling with a monumental decision, so I let him have at it. We sat for a minute or two, Carlos with his head in his hands and me holding onto a dead phone watching one of the guards by the door clean his nails.
Just when I was wondering how much longer this would go on, Carlos lowered his hands and began to speak. I gestured that I couldn’t hear him, pointing to the phone. He picked it up, and his strained
voice replaced the silence in my ear. “Lee, I’m going to tell you something nobody else knows, not even Mira.”
Carlos took a choppy breath and went on, “Before I was adopted by Mom and Dad, I spent the first four years of my life watching my birth mother being knocked around by my real father. You know about him, don’t you?”
I nodded, saying, “Columbian would-be drug lord, right? Spent part of his time in Mexico City.”
His head jerked up and down in agreement. “That’s where he met Rosa, my…my birth mother. She was sixteen.
His name was José Louis.” His voice, so filled with emotion moments before, now took on a monotone. “Rosa worked in a brothel but was involved with him on and off. He got her hooked on drugs, which she used even when she was pregnant with me. I was born with a clubfoot. The doctors say it wasn’t the drugs, but it kept her family from wanting anything to do with me. One day he…José Louis…went berserk and beat her to death right in front of me.”
“Jesus,” was all I could say.
“He took off right after that,” Carlos said. “I don’t think they ever caught him. I went into an orphanage. That’s where Mom…Tex…found me a few months later. They say I didn’t speak for weeks after it happened. Just sat and stared. Mom paid for the operations to fix my foot before she knew she could adopt me. She’s that kind of lady.”
“I had no idea, Carlos,” I stuttered. Through the years, I’d noticed the scars on Carlos’ foot, but Tex had said it was an old childhood injury.
“I know the sisters at the orphanage told Mom about how I got there, but we’ve never talked about it. Ever since, I can’t stand to see a man beat up on a woman or animals. I once took a dog away from a jerk who was beating it. You remember Rocky, don’t you?” I nodded mutely. “The sweetest dog God ever made.” I reached out for his face but touched my side of the Plexiglas, forgetting it was there.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 30