“So if he was a new man,” I said, “why was this woman scared?”
“She wouldn’t tell me at first.” Westerbrook fished in her purse for a cigarette. “Mind if I?”
“I don’t think they want you to smoke out here.”
“The dead? Let them tell me.” She lit up. “I managed to get her to talk a little. That’s what I’m good at.”
I was beginning to believe she was very good at that.
“Mrs. Salazar thought the Bonillas were into selling a little marijuana.”
“Why?”
“She’d see cars coming around at all hours. People getting out, running up to the door, running back. Typical profile.”
“Was Bonilla ever busted for it?”
“No, that’s the thing. The cops came out once, Mrs. Salazar said, but nothing was found. She thinks the cops gave Bonilla a pass.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. And neither does this Mrs. Salazar.”
“Hold on,” Westerbrook said. “She said she started watching the house because of all this. And one day she’s walking on the sidewalk and sees a guy watching Bonilla’s house. Right in front of her house.”
“What kind of guy?”
“Gangbanger. He’s wearing a wife beater, and Mrs. Salazar can see, clear as day, the three dots on his arm.”
“The three what?”
“Dots. A Latino gang tattoo.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”
Channing Westerbrook took a drag on her smoke. “I called a source we have on gang activity. I asked him about it. The dots stand for a phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“Mi vida loca.”
“My crazy life?”
“Now here’s where it gets interesting,” Westerbrook said. “I also got the autopsy report on Bonilla. You’ll never guess what he had on the back of his neck.”
“Three dots.”
“You’re getting good. Only these dots were connected. A triangle.”
“Maybe he was into geometry.”
“There was a cut across it, right through the triangle. A fresh cut.”
“You must have thought about what this adds up to, or you wouldn’t have called me. You mind telling me?”
The reporter stubbed out her cigarette on the bottom of one of her sandals. Her toenails were painted purple.
“Suppose,” she said, “Bonilla really was into drug trafficking. And the guy with the dots was watching him because he was a rival of some kind, or working for a rival.”
“All right.”
“Now, Bonilla shoots his wife. When he takes off from the house, Three Dots follows him.”
I nodded, feeling again like I was being pitched a crazy Hollywood story.
“Then Bonilla shoots himself, falls over. Three Dots has stopped, too, only back a way. Maybe there’s two of them. Three Dots runs to where he can jump the rail and scampers down. Maybe he wants to make sure Bonilla is dead. Unfortunately, Jacqueline is still alive and sees him.”
Westerbrook stopped. I’m sure she sensed my discomfort. It must have been all over my face. “Go on,” I said.
She cleared her throat. “So he killed Jacqueline.”
My chest felt empty all of a sudden, all the energy sucked out of it. “You know how crazy that sounds? How could you prove any of it?”
“I don’t have to,” Westerbrook said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean this is your quest. Your search for answers. You don’t have to find them, you just have to look. I know you want to. And I want to record it. I want your story, Ty. Exclusive. For a New Yorker article, or a book. Maybe both.”
“Not interested,” I said. “All I want to do is find the guy who might have killed Jacqueline.”
“I can help you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“If . . .”
“Why? Why me?”
“Like I told you, I can smell a story. And I don’t want to do remotes for local news forever.”
I started to consider the possibilities. Someone like this on my side, with resources and contacts, could help a lot. I didn’t want any publicity, but maybe that would be a small price to pay to find out what really happened.
“How about I think about it?” I said.
“Call me at this number.” She handed me a card. “And don’t wait too long. Oh, and one more thing. Keep this between us, huh? I don’t want to get in bad with the station. Yet.”
“How about quid pro quo?”
“What sort of quid did you have in mind?”
“Get me a copy of the police report.”
She thought about it. “Will that seal the deal?”
“It’ll sweeten the pot.”
“Not good enough.”
Now it was my turn to think it over. “All right, Ms. Westerbrook. You’ve got a deal.”
With a gleaming smile, one that was going to make her a star someday, she put out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Buchanan. Let’s make it Channing and Ty, huh?”
20
THE GENIUSES WHO designed two holidays to follow one after the other were maybe thinking, Hey, let’s get all happy and festive at the end of the year. Give people a good excuse to shut down work, like Scrooge complained about, the old Humbug. We’ll do the Christmas thing, then the New Year’s thing, and the bubbles will flow.
Only when you’ve just lost the one you love, it’s a double hammer blow. The Christmas hole and the New Year’s pit.
Which is why I didn’t go to Al’s for his annual New Year’s party. Besides, I thought I’d better spend the night at Fran’s again, at least one more time. I didn’t want her to be alone.
We ended up eating popcorn and watching an old episode of Everybody Loves Raymond.
“Thanks for being here, Ty,” she said. “I know you could be out with—”
“Hey, come on. I love Everybody Loves Raymond. I’d much rather watch that than stay up with a bunch of people getting sloppy.”
“Not much point, is there?”
“I’ll crash in Jacqueline’s room again if you don’t mind.”
“You’re always welcome.”
I kissed her cheek.
Fran smiled for what seemed the first time in weeks. “You know, when Jacqueline was a little girl, one of her favorite things was to be alone in the backyard, just thinking. She used to take out a bowl of oyster crackers and grapes and be by herself.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“That was just part of her. She had friends and liked playing with them, but she liked to be alone, too. One time she said she thought there was more to the world. And when I asked her what she meant she said, Just more.”
“I can hear her saying that.”
“When she was nine or ten I sent her to Sunday school at the church on the corner. She came home one day talking about Jesus and her father had a fit. But Jacqueline told me her secret that she had Jesus now and for me not to worry. Can you imagine that? A little girl telling her mother not to worry.”
“I can totally see her doing that.”
“In high school she always kept searching. That’s just the way she was. And then she found you, Ty. You were part of her more.” She teared up then, and we just sat in silence as the TV droned on.
Fran went to sleep around ten. I sat on the couch and watched the ball drop in Times Square.
21
NEXT MORNING FRAN and I watched the Rose Parade and some football, and I hung around the house most of the day. I pulled some weeds in Fran’s garden and soaked up a little sun. Around four I got the bright idea I might take a drive. Since it was New Year’s Day, I thought it would be quieter in a little section of town I knew I had to visit.
Quiet was definitely the wrong word.
South Central Los Angeles was, at one time, a pretty nice place to live. Simple wood frame homes lined cozy streets and trimmed lawns. Now the windows have iron bars. Patios are en
closed with industrial strength grating. Chain-link fences surround patchy grass.
Gang tags mark commercial buildings along Figueroa. Even the Higher Ground Baptist Tabernacle looks more like a boarded up warehouse than a place of worship. The graffiti has something to do with it, along with the windowless brick façade.
A few years ago they started calling it South Los Angeles, dropping the Central to try to take away some of the stigma. Nice try. That didn’t keep my pulse from spiking as I drove down West Forty-fifth Street.
Like everyone else in L.A, I was aware that gang activities were up, as well as killings. The political and civilian overlords had put a choke hold on the LAPD, and a federal court had extended a consent decree that made life harder for the cop on the beat. With all that cracking down on the cops, the word had gone out on the streets—life was good again if you wanted to score some turf.
So I was sure some gangbanger with a semiautomatic was going to gun me down the moment he saw my Westside face in the open window of my car. It didn’t help that the late afternoon sun was darkened behind some mean-looking nimbus clouds. Sitting in my silver Cabriolet I stuck out like a searchlight.
I drove on. Maybe there was a little bit of me that didn’t care if I got it. Jacqueline was gone. Why should I make a big effort to keep going?
It was easy to find Mrs. Salazar’s house. I’d memorized Bonilla’s address from the account in the paper and approached the house directly across the street. It was faded yellow with flaky, white trim and Spanish tile roof. An old-fashioned television antenna was stuck on top. I wondered if it did anything but sit there.
The yard had no fencing around it, and the grass was clipped next to the cement walkway that led to cement steps. There was a spreading bougainvillea near the steps that made the yard almost inviting. But the black iron bars on the windows sang a different tune.
From the sidewalk, a little girl on a pink bike looked at me as I started up the walk. I probably seemed as much a part of the neighborhood as a Mormon missionary.
“Hi,” I said.
She smiled. “I got a new bike.”
“It’s very cool. Is it fast?”
“Uh-huh. I like to go fast.”
“Me, too,” I said. “High five.”
She slapped my hand and I said, “Later,” and proceeded up the walkway to the front door. It had a heavy black screen on the outside. I knocked. After a moment a voice from behind the door asked who it was.
“Mrs. Salazar?”
“Who is?” she said.
“I’m a friend of Channing Westerbrook.”
Pause. The door opened a crack.
“I talk already to her.”
“If I could just have a moment of your time—”
“For why?”
“It’s very important that I—”
“No. Go way now.”
“But—”
“No.”
The door started to close.
“Your neighbor killed my fiancée.”
The door stayed open just a crack. “I can no help.”
“Please,” I said. “Just two minutes.” I felt like a vacuum cleaner salesman, and in a way I was. I just had to get in to see her, and then I could close the deal, whatever that turned out to be.
She unlatched the chain and opened the door. As I went in, I saw the little girl on the bike, still looking my way. She waved. I nodded.
The house smelled of fried food and air freshener. It was modest and neat, like Mrs. Salazar herself. She seemed to be in her late sixties. Skin the color and look of almonds, and graying black hair cut short. On the wall above a blanket-covered sofa was a crucifix. I was staring at it when she said—
“Ernesto kill your woman?”
“You know the story?” I said. “How he shot himself?”
Mrs. Salazar sighed. “He shoot Alejandra. I no know why. She is so pretty and nice.”
“You have no idea why he’d do that?”
“No.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “The baby.”
“What?”
She looked at me. “Baby. Alejandra. She was going to have a baby.”
That was a bit of news that had been left out of the newspaper stories.
“Did she tell you this?”
“Sí. We talk. So sad. She was woman of God.”
“May I sit?”
“No, please. I no want to say more.” Fear had replaced the tears in her eyes.
“Believe me, I won’t say anything to anyone. All I want is to find a man.”
“Man?”
“The one you saw, with the three dots.”
“I tell the woman and the police. That is all I know.”
“You haven’t seen him around here since?”
She shook her head. “Only police.”
“You’ve seen the police?”
“They are driving around. I think they watch the house.”
“Bonilla’s?”
“Sí.”
Why would they be doing that? What good would it do to watch a house that had no occupants?
“Can you tell me more about Alejandra?” I asked. “How well did you know her?”
With a shrug, Mrs. Salazar said, “A little. She work at the market.”
“How long had they been married?”
“Only a little, I think. They move in maybe a year.”
“You said Alejandra was a woman of God?”
“Sí. She is talking of God a lot. She seem to be happy. Until . . .”
“Yes?”
“Last time I see her, she is seeming, I no know—” She balled her fists. “Ansiosa.”
“Tense?”
Mrs. Salazar nodded.
“How long was that before she was killed?”
“A day. Two. Now, please to go. I no want no trouble.”
I didn’t move. I felt like Mrs. Salazar was the last thread I had. If I let go, I’d never find my way back. Jacqueline. I just kept thinking she didn’t have to die.
Before I could say another word, an explosion from outside rattled the house.
Mrs. Salazar screamed.
I ran to her window. I could see, about five houses down, a huge flame. A car was on fire. Black smoke billowed into the air. People from all over were running out of their homes to look.
“What is?” Mrs. Salazar said.
“I don’t know.”
“Go, please.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
My body was vibrating like a hot wire. I drifted toward the street, not sure what I was going to do. It was dreamlike, all these people—black, brown, white, young, old—charging toward the scene.
I floated forward, not wanting to get too close. This was not my neighborhood. I was an outsider.
Then I saw two things that took my breath away.
First was a smaller crowd gathering across the street from the fire and screaming. As I stepped closer I saw why. The little girl who had smiled at me was lying on her back on the street.
And then I saw the other thing. A man, walking rapidly, in the opposite direction from the fire. In the confusion no one seemed to notice him. But I did.
In the shadows.
Ratso.
22
HE RAN AROUND to the back of Bonilla’s house.
Heeding a small voice in my head, I rushed back to Mrs. Salazar’s and told her to call 911 for the little girl.
Then I charged across the street.
There was a small strip of brown grass along the side of the Bonilla house. No sign of Ratso. I squatted as I passed a couple of windows on the side. If Ratso was inside I didn’t want him to see me.
At the corner of the house I put my back against the wall, like an escaping prisoner. I peeked around the back. The backyard consisted of a cramped lawn area against a wooden fence, a slab of cracked concrete, and a slatted overhang.
And no sign of anyone. There was a doorway about ten feet away from me.
I slid along the back wall. The screen d
oor was closed, but behind it I could see the inner door open.
I couldn’t hear any interior noise. What I heard instead was the distant sound of sirens.
To the side was a pile of what might have been firewood kindling. Perfect. I selected a chunk the approximate size of a child’s arm. And slipped off my shoes.
My pulse drummed.
I slipped around to the other side of the screen door and slowly opened it. The door made only the barest squeaking sound.
I was inside. An old washer and dryer set took up most of the space here. An inner door led to the front of the house.
I listened. A faint scratching sound came back at me. Like sandpaper.
Stepping to the door I tried to form some sort of strategy. Maybe I should just run in, screaming, and jump him. Or give him a good shot across the legs with my club to get him down.
Or I could continue on my quiet pace and try to see what he was doing first.
I chose to sneak. Even though I had the jump, this was not my world. I was a lawyer, not a thug.
But I didn’t care about that fine distinction. I was being driven by adrenaline.
The scratching sound got louder. I pressed forward in the tiny hallway. There was another open door up ahead.
Ratso was in that room doing something.
The smell of stirred dust hit me as I got nearer the door.
My piece of wood scraped against the wall. I froze.
The scratching noise stopped.
I raised the club in case he decided to jump out into the hallway.
No jump. Silence from the room.
I had to see what was going on. It was possible he was on the other side of the door holding his own weapon. A tire iron. A gun.
Now what?
All that came to mind were the innumerable cop break-ins I’d seen on TV and at the movies—fast, furious, loud, and ready to inflict damage.
Club at the ready, I took a deep breath and made my move. With a swipe at the air in front of me, I let my weapon lead the way into the room.
Empty.
There was no furniture in the room, but the carpet had been torn up in the middle, leaving a gaping wound. I knew then I hadn’t heard scratching. It was tearing.
Then I saw the other door. Leading out of the room. Open.
Try Dying Page 6