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All Things Considered

Page 27

by A B Plum


  “Not long enough for Beau to forget you left with me.”

  She shivered. This was all such a damned long shot. Hiding out in San Francisco. Hoping Elijah found something—anything—to clear her of four murders. Praying it would take the police more than five minutes to get out of Beau she’d left with Elijah.

  “You will tell the police you took me to the train station, right?”

  “Yep. No law against it. You’re not a fugitive from justice.”

  Unlike most Angelenos, Elijah observed the twenty-five-mile speed limit on the quiet Los Altos residential streets. Her jangled nerves were grateful for the tranquil interlude. Which ended as soon as they turned north on El Camino Real, clogged with four lanes of stop-and-go traffic. If she missed the train to San Francisco, could she risk waiting for the next one?

  Her breathing sped up. Elijah didn’t notice. Did he notice the cars and trucks and bikes weaving in and out? One miscue … Her stomach clenched and she swiveled her gaze to stare out her window. She’d grown too accustomed to riding in the cocoon of a chauffeured, stretch limo with tinted windows. The Jeep closed in on her like a coffin.

  A black Lincoln limo pulled up next to them at the stop light. Ryn’s heart stuttered. Was the passenger rolling down his window? She pressed her back into the Jeep’s bare-bones seat. The light changed, and the other driver streaked ahead of them, moving forward in the traffic while they stood still.

  “Any leads on Beau’s kidnappers?” No segue. No transition. Just follow the bouncing ball Ryn calls her mind. “With The Monkey Boys and Comfrey, I forgot about that mystery.”

  “Ummm. I’m not convinced that story is anything but Beau’s imagination.”

  “Remember, though, he told me about a secret penthouse? He said a Mexican man visited there several times. Any chance el Mejicano is the elusive Señor Vega?”

  “I’ll call in a few favors in Los Angeles.” He followed the exit to the train station. “There’s no place like LA to hide out. If Señor Vega wants to stay hidden, he will stay hidden.”

  “I hope that holds true for me in San Francisco.”

  Elijah shot her a look. “With your luck, you’ll run into Danny and Amber as soon as you get off the train.”

  “Any idea what they’re doing in San Francisco?” Ryn pointed at the entrance to the Mountain View train station.

  “The way I got it? She’s leading a seminar on songwriting. Danny’s meeting with someone about Stone’s last CD.”

  “Are they staying at the same hotel?” Ryn tapped down her suspicions of an affair. Surely Danny had more sense.

  “Amber’s at the Fairmont. Danny’s at the Ritz.”

  “Not likely I’ll run into them since I’m staying at Motel 3.”

  Elijah chuckled. He focused on the traffic for a minute before saying, “Listen to Uncle Elijah. Stay away from the fleabag places. They’re not safe for men, and they’re damned scary for women.”

  The worst fleabag still beats city jail. Ryn bit back the retort. “Thanks.”

  Three miles down the track, the train’s headlight announced its imminent arrival. Ryn used the few seconds to review the short-term plan. Elijah: Pick up Lulu at SFO at noon. Ryn: Page him from a pay phone at the San Francisco train station. Ryn: Long before dark, find a place to spend the night. Call Elijah again with her location. Elijah: Hook up with McCoy before the police interviewed him and Beau.

  “Our best bet is you holing up and listening to McCoy’s tape. Listen hard.”

  The long, mournful train whistle brought a snapshot of the lonely, eerie whistles preceding the roar of night freight trains speeding past the house Ryn had shared with Mama.

  Elijah handed her the backpack and broke the memory. She asked, “You’ve got the elevator key, right?” Of course he does.

  He patted his shirt pocket and locked eyes with her. “I’ll watch out for Beau. He’ll be okay.”

  Uh-huh. As long as he doesn’t answer the phone before Lulu gets here.

  Four passengers besides Ryn boarded the northbound train. She mounted the steps and turned to her right without looking over her shoulder. Inside, she found two facing seats and spent several minutes fumbling for her ticket. The conductor’s collecting it required another ten seconds of her attention. The voices in her head started nattering as soon as the wheels clicked out a rhythm. She closed her eyes …

  Sometime later, the conductor informed her they’d reached the end of the line. She opened her eyes and swallowed the sand in her throat. Drool had dribbled down her chin. It hurt to speak.

  So much for an inconspicuous entrance at the end of the line.

  “You need help?” The conductor brought his face down to meet Ryn’s. He sniffed loudly.

  She stood, a little off balance, but able to pull on her backpack. “I’m okay.”

  His eyes dug into the back of her head as she swayed down the empty aisle. Her heart jitterbugged in her chest, but she pushed through the open train doors, clomping down the steep steps. The loading platform was deserted, but plenty of passengers milled inside the station.

  Not a single one guesses I’m the prime suspect in the murder of four men.

  She walked the inside perimeter of the train terminal twice before heading to the restroom. The line had dwindled, but she still had to wait. The plan to call Elijah faded into the ether. Four blank bays, once holding those anachronisms known as pay phones, stood empty. Dammit. She bit her tongue and inched forward into the restroom smelling of urine, excrement, and despair. She swallowed and entered a filthy stall. Thank you, Provera.

  Hands damp (no towels. Or working dryer), she returned to the waiting room. Time to rethink The Plan. First, buy a disposable phone. Call her paranoid, but using her cell to call Elijah amounted to painting a red X on her back. A homeless woman, with all but two bottom teeth missing, her face mashed in like a raisin, took the seat next to Ryn.

  The woman pulled a can of cat food from an oversized pocket in her baggy coat. She scraped the contents on a plastic plate she drew out of her side pocket. A second later, an orange and white kitten poked its head from an inside pocket and mewed.

  “Ohhh, how old?” Ryn resisted the impulse to touch the tiny kitten.

  “You a lover of felines?” The woman arched a brow at Ryn.

  “I am. Maj. She’s about six years old.” Please let Maj keep Beau distracted.

  “Nice name. MyCat—that’s what I call my little one here. She’s maybe eight weeks old.” The woman lowered the plate and kitten to the floor. She looped a soft belt around the kitten’s tiny middle. “Found her last week in a sewer ditch. Too deep for her to climb out.”

  I know that feeling. Ryn inched forward as the kitten took her first nibble.

  “Heard her mewin’. Lucky she didn’t drown with the rains we’ve had.”

  “She’s a lucky kitty.”

  “Go ahead,” the woman said. “You can pat her.”

  Ryn leaned down. So did the woman. She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t look back. Two guys over your shoulder watchin’ your every move. You in trouble?”

  A lump exploded in Ryn’s throat. The smell of cat food rolled in her stomach. She croaked, “Yes.”

  “I’ll sidetrack ’em. Go out the door to your left. Catch a street car.”

  Stunned, Ryn whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Give your Maj a hug from MyCat.” The woman stood, gathered the kitten and marched into the middle of the terminal, stopping in front of two non-descript guys. “Hey,” Cat Woman circled the men, drawing them to face the opposite end of the terminal, and yelled, “you keep your paws off my cat. Ya hear me?”

  Several passengers milled around the threesome. The men backed away. Cat Woman followed, voice booming in the vast openness, “What? You don’t like cats? You the kind of men who hurt cats when you wuz kids?”

  A female security guard sauntered toward the scene. “There a problem?”

  “Sure is,” Cat Woman’s righteous tones
brought more of the curious.

  Ryn stood, wobble-kneed, removed her coat, and tied it around her waist as she twisted the bill of her softball cap forward. She followed the sound of street cars without looking at the growing chaos behind her and walked into the fog.

  Before she reached the corner, a shadow appeared at her side and guided her toward the black Lincoln limo purring like a kitten at the curb. “Watch your head.”

  “It’s hard as cement.” Just like in the movies, she thought, as the back door swung open to reveal a pair of trousered legs and shiny black Gucci loafers. The feet moved slightly to accommodate her.

  Is this how Hansel and Gretel felt when they stepped over the witch’s threshold? If so, Ryn felt sorry for them. It was embarrassing to shake so hard she could barely slide across the soft leather seat.

  “Good afternoon, Mees Davis,” said a froggy voice with a slight accent.

  “What do you want, Señor Vega?” The quiet Latin music in the background did zip to quiet her pounding heart. Surely he wouldn’t kill her in the car—even with the fog.

  “Yo quisiera ayudarle.” I would like to help you. He opened the bar, removed a bottle of champagne, and filled two glasses, offering the first to Ryn.

  Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She shook her head—eyes on his hands, waiting to see him slip knock-out drops into her glass. “How can you help me?”

  “Paciencia.” The frog smiled a dazzling smile. With his café au lait skin, black eyes, and ebony hair—expertly barbered—he was every young girl’s vision of Prince Charming. Stunning white teeth, a classical nose, and a strong chin added to his aura. But it was the dimples that mesmerized Ryn.

  West Coast drug king, and he had the dimples of a choirboy.

  Would she ever learn that very few people got the looks they deserved?

  They glided through traffic as if they owned the streets. Behind them, the train whistle wailed. “Will you take me back to the train station, please?”

  “We will, of course, let you out wherever you would like.” He refilled his glass. “After you and I have talked.”

  Uh-huh. Ryn crossed her legs. Her bladder was screaming again.

  “I did not kill anyone you know, Mees Davis. Ni su amor Stone. Ni su madre. Ni los chicos locos. Ni el doctor”. His dark eyes met hers and narrowed. “I did, however, consider killing Stone.”

  Ryn held her breath and squeezed her legs tighter, waiting for him to add, “Just as I am considering—”

  “Just as I think you have thought about killing him.”

  Ryn stared at Vega. That one sentence changed him from prince to snake.

  “Jamấs. Never.” She held her head still, refusing to add emphasis with a quick shake. The Frog-Snake could believe her or not.

  She had to listen to him for a decade. If she hadn’t known what a scumbag he was, his pathos might have reduced her to tears. His goal in life … in life was to become a contributing citizen in this wonderful adopted country.

  Tell it to Elena Ramirez, Maria Fuentes, Sarita Camacho. Their lives, like those of half a dozen other women at Esperanza House had been nearly destroyed by contributions from scum like Vega.

  “You are a very good listener,” The Frog rasped, contradicting Stone’s complaint, You never listen, Ryn. Never. “Perhaps I should have done business with you instead of with Stone. He was a very stubborn man.”

  “He hated drugs. They killed his father. Drugs burned out Beau’s brains.”

  The Frog sighed, a long, wistful, misunderstood sound. “Pero como yo acabo de explicar,” he switched, without an explanation to English. “As I explained I approached Stone with a legitimate and lucrative business proposition. It had nothing to do with drugs.”

  And hell froze over after all the ice caps in the North pole melted.

  Ryn shrugged. “He never mentioned any business dealings with you.”

  “No importa. What is past is past. You and I can reach an agreement.”

  Her heart dropped, and her bladder contracted. But this time she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  What was wrong with this guy? No was no in English and in Spanish.

  The Frog looked offended, then melancholy. “I often wondered if the death of Stone’s mother affected his business judgment?”

  His eyes turned liquid. He stared, like a loyal bird dog, for a long second at a spot behind Ryn. The little hairs on her arms felt cold as icicles.

  “We talked about his mother’s sudden death, you know. How accidents happen.” The froggy voice turned soft, sad. “He refused to believe I had nothing to do with her death. He refused to discuss me backing him in Latin America. He threatened me.” The Frog snorted. “Said he would hold me personally accountable if anything happened to you.”

  Unable to breathe, Ryn bit down on her tongue. Stone, why didn’t you tell me? If she’d known about the devils he was wrestling, could she have helped?

  “I see you do not believe me, either,” The Frog stated, daring her to lie to his movie-star face.

  “I’m the prime suspect in the murder of four people, Señor Vega. I know you didn’t drive the car that killed Lavender. Did you order the accident?”

  So much for nearly biting her tongue off.

  The silence boomeranged between them—so intense Ryn could hear the whir and click of his brain as his eyes narrowed. He breathed like an animal lying in wait. His index finger touched another button. The limo stopped. Ryn could tell because the streetlights and buildings no longer moved. She scooted forward, clutching her backpack. She opened her own door.

  Standing on the street corner, she watched the fog swallow the limo. The tail lights winked red like animals around a camp fire before the silvery mist blotted them out. Shane? Shane? Come back, Shane. Can I use your cell phone, Shane?

  Chapter 41

  Definitely not the Ritz. Or the Fairmont. The Bay Bridge Inn. A step up from a roach motel. A hundred steps up from the train terminal. Ryn flashed on a snapshot of MyCat. When this is over …

  Cat Woman whispering to Ryn flickered on the edge of memory. Ryn slammed that door shut. Now wasn’t the time to think about Cat Woman or MyCat. But I won’t forget.

  Clean and functional, Ryn’s room at the Inn—smaller than her closet in Beverly Hills—smelled like Lysol and artificial lemon deodorizer. A firm double bed occupied seven-eighths of the floor space. Four spotless, white towels hung in the windowless bathroom. TV reception, according to the ancient, white-haired desk clerk, was non-existent on clear nights—which made the place nice and quiet.

  No phones in the rooms also contributed to the quiet. An old-fashioned, wooden booth with a rotary phone stood under the staircase. The neighborhood southeast of the Marina didn’t have drunks or panhandlers on every street corner, tempting Ryn to forget supper and call Elijah from the motel. She shivered as she imagined going back into the fog in search of food and a phone. The fog definitely made her jumpy. Logic aside, Señor Vega could be out there.

  When Ryn passed the front desk to reach the phone booth, the clerk smiled and encouraged her to leave the door open if the space was “too close” with the door shut.

  The old woman told half the truth. With the door open or closed, the space contracted to the size of a coffin. Perching on the tiny corner seat or standing, Ryn cracked both elbows and misdialed four times. She sighed and gave up.

  Shoulda bought a disposable phone after Vega dropped you off.

  Back in her room, Ryn pulled a thick wool sweater over her sweatshirt and added a flannel shirt under her ski jacket. God help her if she fell down. She’d flail around like a turtle on its back. Outside, the damp pierced her bones, long accustomed to SoCal sunshine. She stamped her feet, blew, on her gloved hands, peered into the murk and stepped into the misty void.

  A black limo turned against the WALK light. Yelping, Ryn jumped back onto the curb. Her foot slipped on the slick pavement, and she landed, heart ringing in her ears, on one knee and both hands. A flap of f
lesh peeled back from her left palm. Owwww. She bit down on her bottom lip and wiped away dirt and rocks imbedded in the other hand.

  “Screw you, Vega,” she shouted and pushed herself upright—slowly, trying not to moan. She’d be black and blue tomorrow, thanks to her new buddy. “So much for Latin courtesy.”

  The light changed to green. Her whole body tensed for the sounds of oncoming traffic. She hunched her shoulders and stepped into the pedestrian lane. Within seconds the NO-WALK SIGN flashed. Shiiit. Her knee screamed, but an adrenaline jolt revved up her sluggish pace to a hop-a-long jog. A car completed the turn and she froze. An instinctive jump landed her on the opposite curb. She staggered, but stayed on her feet.

  Damn. Maybe I done Vega wrong. In this fog any driver could run a light.

  The smell of oregano and tomato sauce and baking bread drifted into the air. Her mouth watered. OPEN … OPEN … OPEN flashed in the distance. Maybe she hadn’t risked her life for nothing. Legs wobbling, she limped toward the light. The walking wounded required more nourishment than a bowl of Cheerios eaten ten hours earlier.

  SEAT YOURSELF. Gino’s was so dark Ryn considered asking for a white cane to navigate the floor covered in wood chips. She chose a booth in the back, stretched her stiff leg across the vinyl seat, and searched for the restroom. Where else would she find a phone? First, she ordered a small mushroom pizza, a house salad, and a draft Bud. When the waitress tucked her pad in her pocket, Ryn limped toward the EXIT sign in the back.

  Surprise, surprise. Three phones lined the wall in the near dark opposite a door marked Ladies. A couple of guys, faces turned to the wall, had claimed the phones on either end. Ryn approached the middle phone. She’d memorized the number for Elijah’s disposable and punched in the numbers. She stared in front of her reading the initials, phone numbers, and email addresses etched in the metal plate supporting the phone. A few rocket scientists, brain surgeons, and other geniuses, had posed a variety of sexual conundrums.

 

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