by April Smith
My desk is moved to the other side of the bullpen and I say goodbye to the Bank Dick’s Undercover Disguise. There’s no room in the new location, so I leave it on the rack, inscribing my addition in ballpoint pen to the timeworn layers of advice: “Always make backup disks.”
My first case on C-1 involves an attempt by a disgruntled employee to hold the owner of a stationery store in a garage for ransom. He escaped and ran to the house of a neighbor who called the police. The suspect is now in custody. Being low man on the totem pole, my assignment is to go back to the neighbor, who has already been interviewed twice, and verify certain facts in his statement.
The abduction took place on Sixth Street, just off La Brea. This time of day the straightest shot would be Santa Monica Boulevard, which is how I come to be passing that corner once again.
What I see causes me to veer out of traffic and park in the middle of the bus stop.
It is the stop for the same bus Violeta would have taken to work on the Westside, the one she stepped off that night, the Number 4.
Maybe she crocheted along the way, maybe she dozed — past McDonald’s, Crown Books, Lou’s Quickie Grill, the crimson Formosa Café, the Pussycat Theater at Genessee, the Jewish bakeries in the Fairfax district — but Violeta Alvarado always got on the Number 4 at the same place and got off the Number 4 at the same place and was unchanged by the journey. She wasn’t part of the scramble. She knew who she was. She had come to America, that was her journey, and it ended here, at an intersection of dead roads, surrounded by a group of leering stoned-out creeps — misfits, night people, the forgotten, the invisible, the diseased, the disenfranchised, the damaged beyond help — at the coldest hour, just before dawn.
I know that hour of the night and I know that crossroads. I believe I have spent most of my life in that time and place, surrounded by spectres, deathly cold. The difference between us is Violeta carried hope like a simple charm, it was given to her the day she was born on a petate mat in the jungle, a birthright as uncomplicated as sun glancing off the leaf of a bamboo tree, and now, in the light of just such an ordinary, evanescent event, that gift has been shown to me.
I get out of the car and walk slowly, wonderingly, across the sidewalk. The haunted are gone, or at least absorbed by the larger numbers of those who are getting on with business, despite the odds. Drawing closer I see that what I’d glimpsed from the road is real: the picture of El Niño de Atocha is still standing, and furthermore, the windowsill is full of amazing objects. People have left flowers, toy cars, candies, and coins. The Bible is there, untouched. Nobody has stolen from El Niño.
In the shelter of the ledge other candles have been added: good luck candles printed with pictures of saints as I saw in the botánica, a fat red and green one left over from Christmas, a ragtag collection of half-burned tapers standing in juice cartons or anchored in crumpled bits of aluminum foil. All are lit. Someone has kept them lit. For the first time I can feel my mother and father inside me together, then rising together from this tender company of flames; rising up.
I don’t know how long I stand there before going back to the car and picking up the radio.
“This is signal 345. Do you have signal 587 in service?”
Dispatch: “Yes, we do.”
I give my location. “Could you ask him to respond?”
“Is it an emergency?”
“Not an emergency. Just a miracle.”
I lean against the G-ride until Donnato pulls up ten minutes later, bubble flashing, swerving to a halt and further blocking the bus stop.
He throws the door open and hurries toward me with a worried look. I reach for his hand, in front of that doofball Joe Positano, and everybody.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to express particular gratitude to Sonny Mehta for his commitment, as a publisher, to the vision of the writer. Warm thanks also to Sarah Burnes for her insights and for staying on the case, and to Molly Friedrich, whose unstoppable enthusiasm for the manuscript made everything possible. Boz Graham of CAA and Walter Teller of Hansen, Jacobson, Teller, and Hoberman provided expert advice, and the keen editorial talent of Sandi Gelles-Cole was essential throughout.
Two dear writer friends provided more steady encouragement than anyone deserves: thank you to Robert Crais for showing the way, and to Dan Wakefield, generous of soul, for his undaunting faith, wisdom, and good fellowship — in many ways the godfather of this book.
Deep appreciation is also expressed to the comrades and conspirators who read early drafts or otherwise contributed: Deborah Aal, Michelle Abrams, Seth Freeman, Janice Forman, Lauren Grant, Nicholas Hammond, Janis Hirsch, Robert F. Iverson, M.D., Evan and David Levinson, Milena and Jorge Pardo, Gerald Petievich, Julie Waxman, Harry Winer.
And to those whose courageous spirits illuminate every word: Maria Zambrano and Maria Florencia Fernandez.
An enormous debt is owed to the experts who gave freely of their time and knowledge: Carla Gates, George K. Ganaway, M.D., P.C., Matt Parker, Maria P. P. Root, Ph.D., Jane Sherwood, R.N., and the nurses on the Coronary Care Unit at New England Deaconess Hospital, and most especially Marc Taylor of Technical Associates, Inc., for sharing his expertise in forensic science.
The cooperation of the men and women of the Los Angeles field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation added immeasurably to the veracity and heart of the novel; they embody a mix of professionalism, skill, and humanity that is truly inspiring.
Finally, the author is fortunate to have been given the enduring gifts of family: from her mother, Bernice Smith, who taught her to swim; her father, Philip H. Smith, M.D., who taught her the art of storytelling; and her brother Ronald L. Smith, whose many talents include the nurturing gift of laughter.
She has also been blessed by warmth and caring from her second family, Austin and Arthur Brayfield, and is grateful beyond measure for the joy of her children, Ben and Emma, and for the uncompromising editorial eye and steadfast support of her husband, Douglas Brayfield, whose love, strength, and tenderness have sustained both author and work.
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