by Lee Bellamy
Feeling like a chump, I dropped my pen and notebook back in my purse, slung the strap over my shoulder, and got off the settee. "That's that."
Jay stood up too. "Not quite."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm a bastard in a lot of ways, but I'm not a piker. Rudy Rio was my friend. You'll still get your fifty thousand if you find out who murdered him and why."
"Was he that good a friend? I don't want charity."
"He was that good a friend." He flashed his irresistible Jay Champion smile. "Is it a deal?"
"Deal," I replied. I didn't even have to think about it.
Chapter 13
If I was going to find Rudy's killer, I'd need all the help I could get. Once more I sank down on Velia's pink settee, reached in my purse, and dragged out my notebook and pen. "Who do you think shot Rudy?"
Jay answered, "I don't know."
"Any theories?"
Velia spoke up. "Don't you think, darling, it had to do with the trailers? You know Rudy stole them. Holly can tell you he flunked his polygraph test. He was your great and good friend—you've told me a hundred times—but you know I never did trust him."
Jay threw me a rueful glance. "Rudy wasn't at the top of my wife's admiration list, as you can see. I can't believe he'd screw me, but then, Rudy was no angel. Maybe he was hurting for money."
"Of course he was," Velia said. "You were constantly slipping Rudy money on the side. Don't tell me you weren't because I know you." She turned to me. "Jay's terribly generous with his friends." Casting her husband a teasing glance, she reached to squeeze his hand. "Not criticizing, darling, but it's a quality that can sometimes be overdone."
Jay acknowledged with a reluctant little nod. "Now and then I slipped him a little extra. But you had to watch him. Rudy was weak—a boozer and chronic gambler. I made it clear if he did any drinking while he was living in my Travel King, in my trailer yard, he was out on his ass. Or if he hopped the Red-Eye Express to Reno one single time, the same. Then this Afghanistan affair came along. I shipped out so fast...yeah, I did leave Rudy high and dry. I'll bet the little bugger bought a six-pack and hopped the Red-Eye the day I left town. So without me keeping an eye on him, it all fits. He needed money. I wonder if he asked Doris—"
"She hated the little pest," Velia interrupted. "She didn't give him an extra penny, and neither did I."
I said, "Then it makes sense, doesn't it? After you left, Jay, Rudy went off on a drinking-gambling spree, and that's why he needed money. And that's why he stole the trailers."
"Hate to say it, but it looks that way."
Velia rose to leave. "I must get back to our guests. Please come down soon, darling."
Jay asked, reluctantly, I thought, "Before you go—I don't suppose you've heard from Tyler?"
"Not a word," Velia answered quickly and was gone.
"That crazy kid!" Jay slammed his fist on his knee. "Eighteen and he's got the maturity of a two-year-[i]old."
"He'll grow out of it." I couldn't contain my curiosity. "What went wrong at the cemetery today? I noticed you had a scene."
"You and the world. Damned if I know. Tyler's your typical rebellious teenager. Won't listen. Thinks he's never wrong. Only... I can't put my finger on it, but something happened while I was gone. He's been acting peculiar, even for him, ever since I got home."
We went back to discussing Rudy again, trying to figure who could have shot the little man. We got nowhere. While we talked I made a mental list of things to do and people to contact. I would run a check through WorldSearch, and get a copy of Rudy's criminal record. Also, I very much wanted to talk to Tyler. He knew Rudy well. He had worked at the trailer yard. Maybe he could fill in a lot of blanks.
Driving back to Mother's, I couldn't get Tyler off my mind. I wondered where he'd gone after he split the cemetery. He must have cooled off by now. Did he have any money? Did he call a friend? The night was chill. I hoped he wasn't still wandering around out there, shivering in the cold and darkness, afraid to go home. Suddenly I remembered the war protestors. I had almost reached Mother's. I hung a U-turn and took off for downtown.
***
Over the years, Courthouse Park in downtown Fresno has been the scene of many a protest. It's a handy spot. Protestors for whatever cause can begin their demonstration at the Fresno County Courthouse. Then, since the federal government is sure to be somehow at fault, they can march to the nearby Federal Courthouse for a fitting conclusion to their outrage. For a time, the gulf war turned Courthouse Park into a zoo. Everyone clapped, shouted, and paraded, waved American flags, brandished their signs—"No Blood for Oil" or "Support Our Troops in the Gulf." Things have calmed down since then. Now there's only the occasional protest against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
My hunch was right. When I got to Courthouse Park, I spotted Tyler parading in a ragged circle with his anti-war buddies, defiantly waving his sign. The remains of his funeral clothes were gone. He looked himself again, a throw-back flower child of the sixties, in torn jeans, a scroungy blue ski jacket, scruffy Adidas, his long blond hair flying in all directions from beneath the red bandanna knotted around his head.
I found a parking spot, got out, locked my car and trotted across the street to the ragged line of protestors, Tyler among them. "Hi Tyler," I said brightly.
"Ho, Holly! Want a sign?" Tyler's expression didn't change. It would have been uncool to show any surprise.
"Not really." I fell into place beside him, matching his pace, high-heels and all.
A car full of teens roared by, the driver madly honking. "TRAITOR!" they called. "COWARD! YELLOW BELLY!"
Tyler broke ranks and ran to the curb. "No blood for oil!" he hollered, stabbing his sign at the retreating car. "Bring our troops back home!"
I joined him. "That was rotten."
His jaw tightened. "Happens all the time."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
No he wasn't. I could tell from his drawn face, the way he kept chewing his lip, that he wasn't fine at all. He wasn't about to open up to me, though, so I didn't press. We got in the circle again and continued walking. I asked, "Can I talk to you about Rudy? I know you knew him pretty well."
"I don't know why anybody would want to kill him. Rudy was a good guy."
"Tell me about him."
"There's not much. Dad met Rudy after he and my mom split up. They got real friendly. Rudy used to bring me toys 'n stuff. He'd play with me and take me for rides. He and Dad made porn movies for a while." Tyler managed a half smile. "I'm not supposed to know that. Then they worked in Vegas together, cheating the casinos. I'm not supposed to know that either."
"Why did Rudy come to Fresno?"
"Rudy gambled a lot—like in Las Vegas 'n stuff? He was in big trouble over gambling debts so Dad took him in—made him the night watchman, which was a joke. Rudy didn't do zilch. Boy, you should have seen Doris when she took over the office. She really got pissed."
"She didn't like Rudy?"
"Not hardly. They clashed, man, they definitely clashed."
Without noticing, we had slowed our pacing until now we had dropped out of the circle again and stood by the curb. Another honking car came by, and I had to raise my voice. "What's your opinion of Doris?"
"She's a bitch," Tyler yelled back at me. "Dad gave me that job before he went to Saudi Arabia. I was doing okay. She had no business firing me."
"Why did she?"
"She claimed I was lazy, but that wasn't the real reason. She was afraid I would guess she was really Aunt Crystal."
I think my mouth dropped open. "You knew?"
"Sure I knew. She wasn't fooling me. The first time I saw her, I guessed Doris was Crystal even though her nose and chin were different, and her hair. But I didn't say anything. Why should I care? It wasn't my business. I think maybe Doris was trying to get rid of Rudy, too, for the same reason. She was rotten to him. Before I got fired, I heard them arguing."
"What about?"
"I don't know—she got after him about everything. She wanted him to work, you know? Like sweep the floor 'n stuff." He sniffed. "That'd be the day."
"Do you think Rudy knew she was really Crystal?"
"Maybe, but I don't think so. He would have mentioned it. I sure never did."
"But if he did know, wouldn't that be a good reason for Doris to want to get rid of him?"
"Yeah, I guess it would. Rudy's a good guy, but he's a little short on high moral character. He would have turned in own mother in if he thought he'd get something out of it." Tyler looked surprised, as if the possibility had not occurred to him. "Maybe it was Aunt Crystal killed Rudy."
There was lot I had to ask Doris-Crystal. Soon as I left here I'd pay her a visit. "Anything else you can tell me?"
"Only that..." Tyler bit his lip and shifted his sign. "Rudy was my friend, you know? I confided in him a lot, and he knew...oh, I don't know...oh, shit."
"What is it, Tyler?"
He stared at me with mute wretchedness. "Nobody can help," he said, his voice despairing. "I don't know what to do, Holly."
I touched his arm. "There's something really bothering you, isn't there?" He nodded. "Why don't you tell me about it? You can trust me. Whatever it is, I promise I'll keep it confidential. And who knows? Maybe I can help."
The remains of Tyler's teenage aloofness crumbled. He looked at me as if he were drowning and I held the only life line in my hands. "I've got to tell someone. Dad was—" Tyler gasped and clutched at his chest. His eyes widened with surprise. He began to sag. I grabbed his shoulders.
"Tyler, what's wrong?"
"I don't know," he whispered. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell forward into my arms. We sank together to our knees, me hanging on to him tight. I yelled for help. His buddies came running. We eased Tyler the rest of the way to the pavement and laid him on his back. Then I saw the hole in the front of his blue ski jacket that hadn't been there before. I unzipped the jacket and opened it. A widening red stain covered the front of Tyler's white T-shirt. It came from a gaping bullet wound centered close to his heart.
Chapter 14
In a corridor at St. Agnes Hospital, in the dim, one a.m. stillness, I dug in my purse for my cell phone and made a call. I was numb-faced tired. I was sick about Tyler. Only one person in the world I wanted to talk to. Right now. I didn't want to wait until morning. With luck, his father wouldn't answer the phone.
"¿Aló, aló?"
Oh, well. "Mr. Perez?"
"¿Aló, aló?"
"Señor Perez? Uh...yo soy Holly Keene here. Uh...yo soy la amiga de su son, Guillermo?"
"Cómo?"
"LA AMIGA DE SU...HIJO, GUILLERMO." Way to go, Keene. If they can't understand your Spanish, talk louder.
"¡Stupida rubia!"
"Señor Perez—?"
"Holly, is that you?"
"Gil? Yes it's me. I think your father just insulted me again."
"He did. So what's happening?"
"Somebody shot Tyler Champion."
"The kid? Is he dead?"
"No . . . we don't know yet. They're operating now. He's in critical condition. His family's here."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, but I was there at Courthouse Park when it happened. We were just standing there talking. Somebody drove by and shot him, and he fell into my arms."
"Where are you?"
"St. Agnes."
"Hang on, M.T., I'm on my way."
***
I had been sitting with the Champions. It wasn't easy. What could you say to parents going through the worst nightmare: that middle-of-the-night, come to the hospital, your child is in critical condition phone call? They were both pale and drained. Jay, jaw clenched, sat with his hands clasped in front of him, silently waiting. Only once did I hear him agonize, "Why did I have to hit him? My own son?"
Velia put her arms around him. "You must stop torturing yourself. Tyler's in the Lord's hands now. We must pray that he'll live, and, sweetheart, I know he will."
Well, I hoped so. But that was an awfully big hole in Tyler's chest. He'd been struck with a shotgun blast. It didn't look good.
Saint Agnes is a three-hundred-plus-bed hospital, located in the north part of town. It sits atop a knoll, a rarity in flat Fresno. From the entrance, you can gaze upon the sweeping landscape below, a pretty sight in daytime with its trees, flowers, lawn, and a ten-foot-high marble statue of Jesus the Healer, palms turned out, casting his blessing over greater North Fresno. I went outside to wait for Perez and stood on the front portico. The night was still. I could barely make out the marble form of Jesus the Healer. Perez arrived. It took him fifteen minutes. Amazing, considering from the west side, it was a twenty-minute ride. Despite the cold, we stayed outside and sat in the moonlight on a white stone bench under a weeping willow tree, not far from the statue. It felt good to sit down. For twelve hours I'd been in my pointy-toed shoes. I looked a mess, my Elie Tahari outfit rumpled, the skirt streaked with Tyler's blood.
"Will Tyler live?" asked Perez.
"They don't know. The bullet just missed his heart. It tore an artery. They're operating now."
"Did you see who did it?"
"No, I was facing away from the curb. That's a wild corner. The police think it might have been a random, drive-by shooting."
"Maybe. Fresno has enough of them. We're getting as bad as L.A." Perez regarded me quizzically. "But you don't really think that, do you?"
"No. I think the shot was meant for Tyler, or…"
"Or you?"
"I don't know." Perez's question echoed the same one I'd been asking myself ever since it happened. It was making me increasingly leery. I reached in my purse and pulled out my notebook. "Can you read it in the moonlight? I copied this from my voice mail. It's the second threat I've received. I didn't take it seriously at first, but now I'm not so sure. There was a lot of noise on that corner. Tyler and I were standing close so we could hear each other. That shot could easily have been meant for me."
Perez read the note. "Did you show the police this?"
"No. Why cloud the issue?"
"You could at least have told me." Exasperated, he raised his eyes to the stars for a moment, then leveled his gaze at me. "You're in big trouble."
"Maybe. Probably. But I needed the money." After a pause I added firmly, "I need the money."
"Tell me all that's happened."
I told him everything—finding the truth about Bill and Jay, the funeral, Doris-Crystal, my conversation with Jay and how the reward was still good if I found Rudy's murderer. "And then there's Tyler. He was about to tell me something, right when he got shot."
"Do you have a clue what he was going to say?"
"No, except whatever it was, it was really upsetting him."
Perez reached into his pocket, retrieved a roll of Life Savers and offered me one. "So what do you think?"
"What do you mean, what do I think? These aren't good for your teeth."
"Take one."
I took a Life Saver and popped it into my mouth. I hadn't had my dinner and I was starving.
"Fifty thousand is a lot of money," Perez said. "Can you trust Jay?"
"Before I met him, he sounded too good to be true. Now that I've talked to him, I think maybe he's reformed. He's truly as great as everybody said he was. Also, I've a hunch fifty thousand dollars is small change to him. He made a bundle in Las Vegas, back in his gambling days, and he's invested it well."
"Then go for it. Find Rudy's murderer." In a fair imitation of Barnicut's nasal voice, Perez mimicked, "You can do it, a smart Berkeley grad like you."
"Oh, sure. It's not that easy, though. Basically, I've got several crimes here—a trailer theft, a fake death in a fake snuff movie, a murder, and a murder attempt maybe aimed at me, but then again maybe not." I was talking to clear my thoughts, but instead, it all got muddier. I flung my hands out. "Everything's so scattered. Basically I've got a mess."
Perez ca
refully rewrapped his Life Savers and tucked them back in his pocket. "So you're stuck. Can't find a connection."
"I've quit looking for a connection."
"Ah!" Perez nodded his approval. "You only wanted a connection to satisfy that neat and tidy brain of yours."
I ignored his jibe. "I was hoping I could link the crimes together, cause and effect, nice and tidy. Well, maybe they won't link. Maybe this isn't your average mystery where one event causes another."
"You're saying they could be isolated incidents, unconnected?"
"Maybe it's just coincidence that Rudy got shot and then Tyler. Maybe Crystal's snuff movie is out in left field somewhere."
"That leaves you out in left field somewhere too, doesn't it?
"No, not really. What I need is a basic premise more than a connection."
"Ah! You need the root from which these evil events have flowered." Perez arched his eyebrows mischievously, attempting, I deduced, to make light of the fact he'd said something pretty smart.
I sat back and feigned amazement. "Wow. That's pretty fancy language. I am so impressed. Actually you hit on it. That's what I meant. What's your favorite book?"
"Ummm, I read a lot of spy stuff. Tom Clancy's my favorite author, like The Hunt for Red October."
"So what's the book telling us? What's the basic premise?"
Perez got a devilish look in his eye. "If you're Sean Connery, you can successfully steal a Russian submarine."
"Get serious."
"How about, the evil menace of a Russian submarine may not be what it seems?"
"Better. Now see what I'm getting at? If I assume my case is a mystery novel, I can give it a premise."
"Ah, you're doing good, Keene. What's your premise?" I started to answer, but he still wanted to play. "How about, Rudy Rio's life of crime was bound to catch up with him?"
"Won't work. Too narrow."
"Don't fake your death in a snuff movie or sooner or later you will be discovered."