by Lee Bellamy
A shadow fell across Milo's face. He fingered his coffee cup thoughtfully. "There's a sick world out there. The mere idea that a life could be sacrificed for the sake of a movie is so shocking it may appear to border on fantasy. But it's true. I've seen them, though I've never allowed them in my stores. Snuff movies do exist."
"That's so hard to believe."
"I know. It's mostly foreign children they kill. In this country we value life highly, but a child from Mexico, or Central or South America, who fits the specific requests of a wealthy pedophile, can be packaged...delivered...sold deep within this country in no time."
"In America? Land of the free? That's incredible."
"Yep, right here in the good old U.S.A. Sometimes they're passed around from pederast to pederast. If they're lucky, they're eventually discarded and sent back home. But sometimes the child falls into the hands of a sadist, and then his fate—or her fate—is pretty bad. These sadists get their kicks through torture and infliction of pain, or—the ultimate thrill—murder. Sometimes the results are filmed...or taped now, and there's your snuff movie, worth a fortune when it's shown around to the rest of the sickos. Then afterwards...well, you can see that a poor Mexican youngster with no ties is easier to dispose of than an American child."
I thought of Ashley, so sweet, so innocent. "But it's so sick. How could anybody get away with such a horrible crime?"
"Easy. An American youngster has a school record and a family. But if a child has been taken off the streets of Guadalajara or Acapulco, who's to care? Even if they've got parents—there are thousands of these nameless, faceless children whose parents have been told the child is going for adoption. The parents agree because they want their child to have a better life than they had. So here's this guy in a shiny new Cadillac who looks nice. He gives them some money. They never hear from their child again."
"But in the movie I'm checking on, it's not a child who's killed, it's a young woman."
"Sure, that happens too. Prostitutes, runaways, druggies, same thing. Society's throw-aways."
Perez asked, "Where do they make these things?"
"Mexico...South America...anywhere, including right here in the San Joaquin Valley. I've never seen Virgin in the Pines, but I've heard of it. Taped near Huntington Lake they say."
So it was real, not Rudy Rio's imagination. I took a healthy slug of my porter. "Where can I get a copy?"
"I don't know." With undeniable candor Milo continued, "Sorry, Holly, I can't help you there."
I managed a feeble smile. "Guess I can't put it on my Netflix queue."
He chuckled politely. "No you can't." He checked his watch and took a final swallow of his coffee. "Anything else? I've got to run."
After he left, I sat silent for a moment, absorbing Milo's grisly discourse amidst the sound of tinkling glasses, the chatty murmur of the after-work crowd.
Perez broke the silence. "So where do you go from here?"
"I'm stuck. If the Porn King of The San Joaquin Valley can't get his hands on Virgin in the Pines, how can I? Without it, what can I prove?"
"Hey! You've only just begun." Perez reached across the table and laid his long, strong fingers lightly on my arm. "Don't be discouraged. You've got people to interview, haven't you?" Quickly, he withdrew his hand, as if it had acted without his own knowledge or consent.
I sat up straight and nodded briskly. "I'm not at a dead end. I can talk to her friends, Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel. Oh yes, and that reminds me..." I slipped my cell out of my purse. "I was supposed to call Velia Champion and get Joy's address."
I went outside where it was quiet, found the Champions' number and dialed. Velia's hello sounded strange.
"Hi, Mrs. Champion, this is Holly Keene."
"Holly?" A vagueness filled her voice, as if she was distracted and couldn't place my name. "Holly, of course, I'm sorry. It's just..."
"Velia, what's wrong?"
"Mother Champion passed away last night."
My heart sunk. "Nevada?"
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry. I only met her once, but I liked her very much."
"She died in her sleep. We're all stunned."
What else to say? "You must be shocked," I managed. "Maybe she was ninety, but she seemed so spry...so healthy."
"But she wasn't, you know. She was blind and deaf and senile. The doctor said natural causes. I feel so sad, but God knew it was time. He called her home."
God could have held off a little longer, ninety or no, I thought, but no point in saying that. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, not really. Oh, you wanted Joy's address and phone number, didn't you? I found them. Hang on."
When she came back on the line, she gave me Joy's new address and number, and I jotted them down. "Thanks," I told her, "and about Nevada...again, I'm terribly sorry."
"Thanks," she said with an audible sigh. "There's only one good thing about Mother Champion's passing."
"What's that?"
"Jay is on his way home. He got an emergency leave to attend his mother's funeral."
Again I struggled for words. "I'm sure you'll be awfully glad to see him, despite the sad occasion."
"Oh, yes!" Velia's voice suddenly came to life. "My darling's coming home, if only for a little while."
"Maybe I'll get the chance to meet him while he's here. I'd like to ask him about Crystal."
"Jay arrives tomorrow. The services will be held on Tuesday. I don't suppose you'd want to, but—"
"I'll come to the funeral."
"Oh, could you?" She sounded pleased. "I would love for you to meet Jay."
"What time?"
"Two o'clock. It's going to be a graveside service at the Clovis Cemetery."
"I'll try to be there." Only death or a deep coma could keep me away.
When I pressed the end button, a cloud of gloom descended upon me. She had a lot of spirit, that old lady. She wanted to live to a hundred and see men on Mars, only now she wouldn't, and it wasn't fair. Death was not fair.
Back at the table, I told Perez. "She was frail, but she was still enjoying her life."
"She was ninety," Perez responded, not unsympathetically, "and when you're ninety—"
"You can go any time," I finished, getting even gloomier.
Perez regarded me critically. "Hey, lighten up. You can't take every case personally. You're beautiful, Holly, but not when you frown."
"That's a sexist remark." I sounded sullen. I didn't care.
"What is? That I called you beautiful? Oh, shit!" Perez burst into laughter again. Just wonderful, how I always seemed to amuse him. "If it's sexist to admire a pretty girl, then I'm fucking well guilty."
The man could be really annoying, deliberately, it seemed to me. I was in no mood for his sewer mouth and male chauvinist behavior. "I'm not a girl, I'm a woman. Also, I don't like hearing that word."
He raised his eyebrows at me. "Oh? The Fig Garden princess is offended?"
"I've heard the word before. It's just not..."
"Suave? Is that what you're trying to say? You want suave, no problem. I can fucking well give you suave."
He had crossed the line. I swept my purse from the table and stood up. Rigidly calm, I told him, "You're baiting me. I don't like it and I don't think you're funny. Take me home. If you don't care to, I'll call a taxi."
"I'll take you home, M.T." If he was sorry, he didn't look it.
Outside the restaurant, we climbed back on the Harley. It was dark and the fog was rolling in again—suitable for my foul mood. Perez took off down Moroa like an escaping bandit. Sheer fear made me keep my eyes squeezed shut most of the way. I almost forgot what I was mad about. He wasn't going to know it though.
My knees were freezing cold by the time he let me off in front of Mother's. I said an ultra-polite, "Good night," adding archly, "it's been fun, Charlie." I waited for him to eff off again.
He sat there solemn faced, shaking his head. "You're a pain in the butt, Keene. I've
never—" He stopped abruptly.
"You've never what?"
"Nothing. Call me if you need me."
"I won't."
"Oh, yes you will," he told me and roared away.
Good riddance to him. Forget him. I went inside, telling myself I should spend my time on more important things, like Nevada's death which had put me in a rotten mood, let alone Milo's confirmation that snuff movies do exist—that he'd actually heard of the obscenity called Virgin in the Pines.
This case was sick. Why was I involved in such perversion? Snuff movies—my God! And why was I getting involved with a man who used offensive language? And I was getting involved, I knew that, because I kept thinking about the warm feeling I got when I pressed against him on the motorcycle.
I was tempted to tell Barnicut to go find Crystal himself. And keep the fifty thousand himself. Maybe I should quit B & P. Then I would never have to lay eyes on Perez again, which would be none too soon.
Chapter 8
After a nice Sunday morning breakfast with Mother and Ashley, I got out my laptop and set it up in the den. I hadn't checked my bank account in ages. Normally I checked every day, but these were not normal times. I entered my user name and password, then sat stunned at what appeared on the screen. My checking account with the United Bank of San Fernando Valley was overdrawn! I gasped a horrified, "Oh, no!"
Mother came rushing from the kitchen, eyes wide. "Holly, who died?"
"My Visa and MasterCard checks both bounced." I showed her the screen. "My God, look at those overdraft charges!"
"Didn't you have enough money in your account?"
The truth dawned. My financial settlement with Tom was done, except for one five-thousand dollar CD that had come due in January. He was supposed to cash it and deposit the money to my account. Fool that I was, I assumed he had. "Tom didn't deposit the money. That bastard!"
I rushed to the phone and dialed the number of the dumpy little apartment in Reseda where Tom had moved. The phone rang and rang. My palm grew sweaty as I clutched the receiver, willing him to answer. At last a click and Tom's weak, slurry, "Hello?"
"Tom, where's my money?"
He jacked around for ten minutes with his stupid excuses. For the thousandth time I wondered how I could have married such a loser. Finally the truth. Vegas again. One of his buddies gave him this great, can't-lose blackjack system, so instead of depositing the CD...
He planned to put it back, of course. More, in fact, from all that money he was going to win.
The money I'd counted on was gone—tossed across a Las Vegas Blackjack table. I tried to control myself—about as possible as staying calm in the middle of a six-point-zero earthquake. I was about to lose my credit rating. Collection agencies would soon be pounding at my door. No, correction, Mother's door.
Tom could provide no solutions. All he could do was whine. Men. How could I ever trust one again?
Mother got her licks in after I hung up. "Why on earth didn't you cash that CD yourself, Holly? Good grief! You knew you couldn't trust the man."
I could hardly focus on an answer. "You're right, I should have, but I was so busy—moving out of the house, getting Ashley and me to Fresno...and he promised. I never thought he would sink this low."
"Ah, well, sweetheart, don't feel bad. It's always easy to look back and see what you should have done."
Miracle. Mother actually backed down and acted sympathetic. She's not the kissie-huggie type at all, but she surprised me with a big, warm hug. "I know you're in debt," she said. "What I could do is get a second mortgage on this house. You could have the money."
I was so surprised—and so touched—I didn't know what to say. I wanted to shout no, but that would hurt her feelings. I couldn't accept her offer, though. It wouldn't be fair to her. And if I did accept, there would go the tattered remains of my self-esteem.
"We'll see," I said. "Maybe in a few days I'll have some money coming in."
Oh, sure. All I had to do was find a copy of Virgin in the Pines, track down who made it and who killed her. I would also need to discover where and how they disposed of poor Crystal's body, and the fifty thousand—correction, twenty-five thousand—would be mine.
Was it only yesterday I was thinking of giving up the case? Not anymore. I had to try.
I went out to the garage, wheeled out the old power mower, and mowed the shaggy winter lawn, not caring if my rows weren’t even, tooling around like a maniac, as if I had a vendetta against all tall grass. Mother appeared once at the window. I waved blithely. She looked relieved, like, well, she's out there mowing the lawn so she must be okay now. I wasn't. When I finished tossing the plastic bag of clippings into the dumpster, I didn't feel much better than before. But at least, for a little while, I'd got my mind off the bills.
Early Sunday afternoon, Mother took off for a bridge tournament in Sacramento. I called both Gussie Kerkorian and Joy Daniel, but neither was home. To heck with it, I decided. I'd promised Ashley, it was time to take her to the zoo.
They say Fresno's Chaffee Zoological Gardens is the best small city zoo in the country, but even so, most Fresnans won't go in the wintertime. We didn't care. Ashley, dressed warmly against the nippy day, adored the animals. We ooed and awed our way past the hippo—the monkeys—the adorable tiger cubs. We wandered through the tropical rain forest and the computerized snake house. A few young couples and their children had braved the winter crispness—happy families having fun.
As we went along, I developed a big case of the blues. For the first time, I got a dose of what it meant to be a single parent. Everyone was with someone except me, or so it seemed. I felt isolated and alone. In her little pink corduroy jeans and pink jacket, Ashley was so delightful—so bright—so excited about the zoo—that I kept wanting to turn to Tom and say, "See? Isn't she darling? Take a picture. Look what she's doing now." Then I'd remember—Tom and I weren't together anymore.
It's tough, very tough, breaking up a family.
In the brilliant words of Reece Barnicut, it was a hardball world. Sitting on a bench in the zoo that January Sunday, watching my little girl play, I felt broke, a failure, alone. Me find Crystal? Never. Me get out of debt? No way. Me find a new daddy for Ashley? Tears sprang to my eyes. But I'd hang in there, somehow.
Monday morning I tried Joy Daniel's Sanger number again. She finally answered her phone with a strident, "Hello?"
"Yes, hello. I'm Holly Keene, a private investigator. I'm looking for information about Crystal Hargrove."
I waited. Silence. "Crystal Hargrove?" I persisted. "You knew her, didn't you? Aren't you the Joy Daniel who used to be her roommate?"
"Who told you?" Sullen.
"Her sister Velia," I replied pleasantly. "She knows all about this. She gave me your number."
"I told the police everything I know." She was on the brink of anger now.
I got pleasanter still. "All the same, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to come out to see you. It's very important."
"You think I'm sitting on my butt watching soap operas? I've got twenty acres of grapes to take care of here."
In January? I wanted to ask, but refrained. "I can understand that, Joy. Growing grapes is a lot of work. This won't take long."
"I can't tell you anything more. Crystal was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl. That's it. Now leave me alone." Click! She was gone.
Lovely. What a charmer. Well, Joy Daniel wasn't going to get rid of me that easily. No more phone calls. I would show up on her doorstep unannounced.
I dialed Gussie Kerkorian's number again. This time she answered. I went through my introduction again. "It's about Crystal Hargrove. I'd like to come and see you."
"Why, sure," Gussie chirped. "I've known Crystal since grammar school. Come on over."
I had assumed she lived in a nice neighborhood, but I was wrong. Gussie lived close to downtown, on a street lined with run-down houses that were new and respectable back in the 20's, but not anymore. Actually her small bungalow was o
ne of the better-kept on the block. No junk cars parked in the front yard, no leftover Christmas lights strung around the eaves. Even so, the white-turned-gray paint was peeling, and the lawn had gone to seed. Getting out of my car, I noticed a man in dirty tennis shoes and a ragged overcoat standing around to the side. His hands were cupped in front of his fly. Then I saw the stream—dead aimed at a bed of canna lilies.
I averted my gaze, climbed the porch steps to the door and knocked. Gussie answered. I liked her on sight. She was almost my height, open-faced and smiling, with a cap of short, shiny black hair and smooth olive skin. She was dressed in a black jump suit that showed off her figure—full but solid. She had big, brown, laughing eyes. "Hi!" she said, "I'll bet you're the one who called—the P.I."
I said I was. "Incidentally, there's a man urinating—"
"Can you believe it?" Gussie burst into laughter. "Don't men love to pee out in nature! Come on in and have a seat." She threw open a torn screen door. "Want a Diet Coke?"
“Sure.” When I was settled in the tiny living room, notebook on my lap, I asked, "Do you have a problem with the homeless around here?"
"Are you kidding? They're all over the place. They use my flower beds for a bathroom. They go through my garbage. They take anything that's not nailed down. My neighbor has two sago palms in his backyard—you know, those expensive ones? He's got them chained to the ground. Chained! What is the world coming to when you have to chain your palm trees?"
I assured her I certainly didn't know, silently wondering why she lived here.
"I won't be here forever." Gussie nodded towards a bedroom off the living room where I could see a white-haired old man in a hospital bed. "My father's sick. I came back from Carmel two years ago to take care of him, and I've been here ever since. Two years!" She shook her head in disbelief. "Two years in this hick town when I could be in Carmel. Oh Jesus! Well, someday..."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I'm a hairdresser. I worked five years for this kooky shop in Carmel. Oh, the stories I could tell you! Someday I'm going to write a book."