Nate shook his hand. “You too. Cash said you have some photos.”
Henry grabbed the two files in question. “Yeah, here. This is Julio Aragón.” He flipped open the file and handed it to Nate. “And Jeremy Norris.” He opened the second file.
Nate studied Aragón. “He was definitely there.” He handed back the file. “But this guy wasn’t.” He tapped Norris’s photo.
“Okay, good. Look at these.” Henry repeated the process. “Robbie Tran and Christian Dilsey.”
“Dilsey. That’s the other guy.”
“Show him Raymond,” I said. “I want to confirm that it was him.”
Henry handed over the file. Nate studied it and nodded. “Yep. That’s him. And I think that’s the guy who was following me too. He drive a blue Civic?”
“Yep,” Henry said.
“So you want to help us read files?” I asked.
“Sure. What else do I have to do?” He tried to sit at the table and grimaced. “But I think I’ll sit in the comfy chair.”
I managed not to laugh at him, which I thought was impressive. “Here, I’ve already read Jerome and Raymond. See if you can find something I missed.” Nate took the files. “I’ll prep another ice pack.”
“You’re too good to me.”
“You’re easy to please.”
Nate made a face, then nodded in acknowledgment. “Yeah, not arguing.” He went into the living room and collapsed in the chair next to the couch. I brought him an ice pack. He tucked it against his side. “Living the dream right now.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I decided to dive into Eleanor’s file. Maybe it would offer insight into her sons. I started at the beginning, which was depressing. The early police reports listed her as the perpetrator. All of the reports stated that Eleanor was hysterical when the police arrived on scene. She had no visible injuries, but her husband’s arms were scratched. Grainy photos showed obvious nail marks gouged into his arms.
“What’s the deal with this?” I showed the photos to Henry. “The reports say Eleanor was abusing Jerome Sr. They say he was calm, but she was ranting. Did the abuse shift later on? Was she abusing him?”
“How long ago?” Henry took the photos and looked them over.
“These are the early reports. Thirty, forty years ago.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, back then that’s how most domestic violence was recorded. The police show up on scene, the victim—usually the woman—is crying, shouting, the abuser appears collected. The police assume the crazy person is the abuser. It’s because the abuser has spent all their adrenaline, they already dealt with their aggression. The victim, however, is still reeling from being assaulted so they appear to be overreacting.”
That was insane. It didn’t make sense. “Overreacting to being beaten?”
“Well, the police show up after. They don’t see the beating, so in the aftermath, yes, it looks like an overreaction to a cool, soft-spoken man.”
“But wouldn’t the victim have injuries?”
“Most good abusers—not good.” Henry shook his head. “Most proficient abusers do things that can’t be seen. Blows to the top of the head where bruising is hidden, hitting or grabbing arms or wrists, that sort of thing.”
“That’s sick.” I’d gotten distracted from my task in the worst possible way. This was the home that Jerome and Raymond had grown up in. I didn’t want to feel sadness for them, but it was there nonetheless.
“Umm, we are talking about people who habitually hit other people. Of course it’s sick. Look at her hospital records. I bet Eleanor was very clumsy. She tripped a lot, bumped into walls, had minor car accidents.” Henry leaned over and flipped a few pages. “See? She was in the emergency room about once a month.”
I read the highlights of the hospital reports. Henry was correct. All the paperwork suggested that Eleanor was very accident-prone. I continued reading. It was tragic, but compelling. In the nineties, the police reports started to shift. More and more listed Jerome Sr. as the abuser. I snagged his file and turned to the middle. It matched up. He was arrested more frequently until the late nineties when they started arresting him exclusively.
“What happened in the nineties?” I asked. There was probably a more articulate question, but I was beyond asking specific questions.
Henry came around the table and read over my shoulder. He turned a few pages. Matched up the dates like I had. “Police departments started training the officers in recognizing certain behaviors indicative of abuse. All the stuff I just explained about how the abuser and victim behave initially. That wasn’t included in trainings until the nineties. Now, it’s standard. In California, we are required to arrest one party on domestic violence calls. They are big on giving us tools to identify the appropriate party.”
“So this is a new idea? Make extra sure you don’t arrest the victim?” I scoffed. My estimation of police officers was rapidly dropping. And it was already pretty low because, well, I was a drug dealer.
“Hey, man. I didn’t build society, I just live in it.” He sat back on his side of the table.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Up the hill, we have really cool trainings. The Women’s Center comes in and terrifies all the rookies. It’s great.”
“Or they come in and teach you guys better ways to beat your significant others.”
“Fuck you. I’m not a bad cop.”
I stared at Henry. He was upset. The dirty cop who stole drugs from the evidence locker, gave them to a drug dealer, and took a cut of the profit was telling me he wasn’t bad. We were sitting at a table covered in files that he had obtained illegally, and I was the asshole for suggesting that cops weren’t perfect?
Then again, pissing off the dirty cop was probably bad.
“Sorry. Bad joke,” I said.
“You’re damn right. Don’t be a dick. I don’t have to be here helping you.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks. I really do appreciate it. And so does Nate.” I looked into the living room. Nate was asleep, the files open and spread across his thighs. Real hardcore team I had.
“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry too. I know you weren’t talking about me. And there are some guys on the force who do that kind of shit. It pisses me off. I don’t like to be lumped in with them.”
“Of course. I really wasn’t talking about you.” I closed Eleanor’s file and turned to the elder Jerome. Henry seemed to realize that I was letting it go and returned to his files.
I skimmed the abuse reports because I didn’t think I would learn much from them. His hospital records were fewer than Eleanor’s, which wasn’t surprising. Four years ago, the domestic violence calls stopped. Eleanor was dead so Jerome Sr. didn’t have anyone to push around. He had two bar brawls. There was a DUI. It was his second. The first was in 2001. I knew the answer to that one. My grandfather, Clive’s dad, had been an alcoholic. When Clive was a kid, the police used to follow my grandfather home from the bar to make sure he got home safe. No regard for anyone else on the road. I was guessing Jerome Sr. had enjoyed the same treatment.
I found my first interesting piece of information a year after the DUI. It was a hospital record. Jerome Sr. had a stroke. The hospital report didn’t have much information, but the accompanying probation report did. He was confined to a nursing home. He wasn’t yet seventy so that was unusual. The stroke must have done some damage.
“Probation officers file regular reports, right?”
“Yeah,” Henry said.
“I thought so. Jerome Sr. is still on probation, but the reports aren’t included here.”
“That’s odd. Let me see.” I handed him the file. He skimmed it. “Oh, he had a stroke? Just a minute.”
He handed back the file and opened the laptop. It took ten minutes to boot and connect to the El Dorado County Sheriff’s server. It was a lifetime. I filled our coffee cups. I retrieved the files from a sleeping Nate. I checked the time. We had been reading for two hours.
“Got it.” H
enry leaned back and turned the laptop so I could see. “He can’t walk. His motor functions are almost non-existent so he can barely feed himself. Speech is restricted.”
“So they don’t report on him anymore?”
“There’s no point. The reports after his stroke detail the medical trauma, and the first report after he was put in the nursing home gives information about his inability to function, basically.”
I sat back down. “Don’t they still have to do reports though?”
“Yeah, but the reports are bare bones. They just say that he can’t go anywhere and doesn’t have the inclination to even if he was physically able.”
“So we got nothing,” I said.
“What exactly were you hoping was there?” Henry was skeptical.
I thought about that. I didn’t really have an answer. “I don’t know. It would be nice if the reports said, ‘oh, and by the way, Jerome Jr. has a weak spot for puppy dogs,’ or ‘Jerome Jr. has a prize motorcycle and his father hid it and here is a treasure map to find it.’”
Henry laughed. “Yes, I can see why you would think that might be in old police reports about a guy who terrorized his wife and children.”
“He didn’t though, did he?” Nate asked. Henry and I looked at the doorway and found Nate leaning against the wall. “Granted, I only looked at Raymond’s file and half of Jerome’s before I fell asleep, but I didn’t see anything about childhood abuse.”
“He has a point,” I said. There hadn’t been even a rumor of child abuse in any of the St. Maris files.
“He does, but I’m not sure what it is,” Henry said. “What does that tell us?” he asked Nate.
“It means big Jerome didn’t beat on little Jerome or little Raymond.”
“Yes, we’ve established that,” I said. Nate was making me feel particularly dense.
“Maybe the boys weren’t scared of their father. I mean, they could have just learned to be misogynistic pricks from Dad instead of learning to be cowering victims like Mom. It’s pretty classic, in a way. Boys who grow up in violent households tend to grow into men who beat their wives, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. Henry nodded.
“The only thing we don’t know is how Jerome and Raymond feel about their father. This nursing home Jerome Sr. is in. Is it expensive? Who is paying for it? I bet half a rib that it’s Junior.” That speech seemed to take all of Nate’s energy. He pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “Okay, no more Codeine for me.”
“This is why you shouldn’t do drugs, little boy,” I said.
Nate rolled his eyes.
“He’s right. Nursing homes cost a ton of money. Especially if they are high quality,” Henry said.
“So we need to find out if Jerome and Raymond are paying for it.” This was fantastic. We had a plan finally. I loved having a plan. Nate gave a silent nod and closed his eyes.
“Okay, I’ll call and play the sheriff’s card. See if they will tell me.” Henry pulled out his cell phone. I looked at the probation report and pointed out the phone number. He punched it in.
Nate retrieved his melting ice pack and dumped the remainder in the sink. Henry sighed at the noise and went into my study. I could hear the rumble of his voice as he paced.
“So what do you think? What if they do like the old man?” Nate looked down at his T-shirt and realized there was a large wet spot from the ice pack. “Damn it.” He stripped off the shirt.
“Then we have something to exploit, I guess. Of course, even if they are paying for it, it doesn’t mean they like him. It could just be obligation.”
“Or Jerome Sr. has money and they are funneling his money into his care.” Nate balled up the towel and his shirt and tossed them into the small laundry room off the kitchen.
“Good point. You want a fresh shirt?”
“Yes, please. Any chance you have something that will fit me?”
“Not really, but you’ll look cute in a belly shirt.” I laughed as I pictured it. Nate didn’t laugh. I went into my room and found an oversized shirt. It would do.
Nate pulled on the shirt that I tossed him. It wasn’t a belly shirt, but it was snug. “Oh, good. Now, I can count my nipples. You know how sometimes you’re like, oh no, did my nipples fall off? But fear not, I can look down and count them.” Nate pointed at his nipples. “Yep, both are still there.”
“Glad I could help.”
Henry came back into the kitchen. “They wouldn’t discuss billing.”
“Shit,” I said.
“But they were very confused about why the sheriff’s department was inquiring about those nice St. Maris brothers.” He set his phone on the table.
“Nice St. Maris brothers?” Nate asked.
“Yeah. It sounds like they regularly visit their father. Jerome was just in for his weekly lunch, and he brought a new set of audiobooks for his dad.”
“Huh?”
“Audiobooks?”
“Yeah, I guess Jerome Sr. can’t hold books very well and his eyesight is shot, but he loves to read. When the boys—this lady sounded about eighty and she kept calling them the boys—so when the boys are busy they bring him audiobooks. When they aren’t busy, they read to him.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said.
“Isn’t that insane?” Henry didn’t look like he believed it and he was the one who had called.
“This is perfect.” Nate looked like we had hit the jackpot. “We have our leverage.”
“Yeah, but we can’t exactly access the guy.” I hated to be a downer, but I didn’t think we would be able to walk in to a nursing home and threaten the old man.
“No, but we can go tour the place.” Nate had a look that I’d only seen once before. The last time, we had ended up crossing the Canadian border with a trunk full of drugs and a very angry, very crazy stripper following us. We managed to lose her in South Dakota, but it was a road trip I didn’t want to repeat. South Dakota was really boring.
“Are you totally freaked out by him right now?” Henry asked me.
All I could do was nod.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nate and I were watching Ren & Stimpy when my phone rang. I assumed it was Henry so I swiped without looking. Nate paused the show.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Definitely not Henry.
“Laurel. How’s it going?”
Nate raised his eyebrows and grinned at me. I turned away.
“All right. What are you up to?” she asked.
“Watching Ren & Stimpy because I’m a big kid.”
“Wow, you are a big kid. Are you allowed to watch that without supervision?” Her tone was pure condescension.
“Well, Nate’s here. So I’m actually babysitting him.”
“You’re watching nineties’ cartoons with the guy who deals drugs for you? Is that normal?”
“He got the shit kicked out of him last night. We figured he deserved an evening of cartoons.” I was aiming for casual and failed.
“What?” She didn’t sound playful anymore.
“Yeah. You know that guy you hit in the face?”
“Yeah?”
“We accidentally moved in on his territory and he got mad. We paid him off, but apparently, the fee was higher than we realized,” I said. Nate was frantically motioning for me to shut up, but I waved him away.
“So he beat up Nate?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s fucked,” she said.
“Agreed.”
“I guess there’s only one thing to do.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m bringing over pizza and beer. Can Nate have beer?”
“No, but we can. I think some of Andy’s sodas are still in the fridge for the little baby.” Nate threw a pillow at me and then looked sad that he didn’t have a pillow.
“I’ll see you in thirty.”
“You’re awesome.”
“No, I’m dope. Ask Andy.”
*
When Laurel showed up, she rang the doorbell about five times. Nickels sprinted for my room. After half a day of Henry, the assault of a doorbell was too much for her. I kept forgetting to disconnect the damn thing. I answered the door and realized why Laurel was leaning on the bell. Her hands were full.
“Hot chick with beer and pizza? This is better than Christmas.”
“Shut up. Take the beer. I’m going to drop it.”
I obliged and held the door. “Laurel, Nate. Nate, Laurel.”
Nate tried to get up, but by the time he had managed sitting, Laurel had crossed to the couch, set the pizza on the coffee table, and extended a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“You too.” Nate shook her hand. “I usually make a much better impression.” He tried to shrug, failed, and settled on a grin.
“Don’t worry. Cash’s T-shirt looks good on you.”
Nate looked down at the snug shirt. “I think it really shows off my muscles.”
“You have muscles?” I did my best to look shocked.
“She’s kind of an asshole. You ever noticed that?” Nate asked Laurel. She nodded. “You, on the other hand, brought pizza, which makes you my favorite.”
“I brought beer too, but Cash says you can’t have any.”
“See? Asshole.”
I was going to dispute it, but I didn’t have much of an argument. So I got plates instead. I handed them out while Laurel opened the pizza boxes. She offered each one to Nate first so he didn’t have to lean forward.
“I thought you said she was a dick, Cash. She’s being nice to me.” Nate settled back into his comfy chair. He took the soda bottle I held out to him.
“I’m totally a dick, but only to Cash. I’m sure it’s ’cause I have Daddy issues or intimacy issues or something.” Laurel pulled two beers out of the six-pack she had brought and opened them.
“I like that you own it.” Nate saluted her with his soda.
“When I own it, I’m an asshole, but when she owns it, it’s charming?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” Nate said.
“So I dig your friend Nate,” Laurel told me. Nate started laughing.
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