by Lee Bellamy
Halfway to the car, I remembered my plan to show up unannounced on the reluctant Joy Daniel's doorstep. She might not be overly impressed if I showed up on her twenty-acre ranch in my high heels and Rodeo Drive suit. I went back inside, grabbed my jeans, Nikis, and sweater, and threw them into the trunk.
When I arrived at B & P, I found Tish Regillis sitting in plump splendor behind her telephone console, popping her morning stick of gum. "Don't you look corporate," she exclaimed.
"Why, thanks, Tish." I told her about Rudy.
"Jeeze! That poor little guy. He's really dead?"
"Very. Where's Perez?"
"Hasn't come in yet, but Himself is here."
I walked past Tish straight into Barnicut's office and found him reclining behind his desk, same suit, same shoes resting on his blotter, same cigarette, same snotty expression, same pencil. Did the man ever go home? Change his clothes? Have a life?
"Yes, Holly?" Same smirk.
"Good morning." I sank into the chair across, deciding not to bother with preliminaries. "Rudy Rio's dead. Somebody shot him in the head last night."
Not one muscle twitched in that saturnine face. I continued on, giving him a brief version of what happened, up to when I fled the trailer yard.
He asked, "So then you called the police?"
"When I got back to my car, I called the police with my cell."
"Hi, M.T."
I turned and found Perez, coffee cup in hand, slouched against the door frame. Black leathers...hair all windblown...face stung red from the cold...he'd been riding hell-bent again. He gave me his mischievous little grin and saluted me with his coffee cup. If he remembered my angry words the other night, he didn't let on. "I heard about Rudy. You must have had a tough time."
"I'm doing just fine, thanks." That sounded stiffer than I intended, but too late now. I turned to Barnicut again. "I dialed 911, reported Rudy, and waited at the side gate. Five minutes later two police cars came to investigate. I led them to Rudy's body. They took a look and called a detective from homicide. It turned out to be Lieutenant Diaz. When he showed up, I explained how I happened to find the body...fudging a little, of course. He asked a lot of questions and let me go. I didn't get home until after midnight."
"You didn't mention the snuff movie?"
"No, only that we'd been hired to investigate the theft of the trailers. I told Diaz that Rudy called me and said he had some information, so I went to the trailer yard and found him dead. Diaz seemed satisfied with that."
Barnicut pressed his fingers together and pursed his lips. "So the DVD was gone when you got there."
"Gone. There was nothing left but an empty box lying by Rudy's body." That wasn't a lie, I reassured myself. It just wasn't the whole truth. Barnicut didn't need to know about the second DVD. Not yet. This was my case. Until I saw Virgin in the Pines, he could go chase himself.
Perez asked, "Holly, did you meet Jay Champion?"
"No, I just missed him earlier. The police called him last night. He was on his way to the trailer yard when I left."
"Too bad."
"I'm going to his mother's funeral this afternoon at two o'clock. I'll meet him then."
Barnicut raised an eyebrow. "Must have been pretty scary, huh? Finding Rudy's dead body like that, all by yourself? Did you scream?"
Damn! Barnicut had an uncanny way of knowing exactly where I was most vulnerable. "No, I did not scream, Reece." I spoke slowly, as if I were explaining to someone dumb. "Contrary to what you might think, not all women get hysterical in a crisis." I acted out a nonchalant shrug. "Naturally, it was unsettling, finding poor Rudy with a hole in his head, but I handled it."
"Any idea who did it?"
How wise of him to change course. "Not really. Rudy was killed late yesterday afternoon. The coroner hasn't figured exactly when yet, but it had to be after five o'clock when he called me. Bill Hatcher confirmed that Rudy came to the front office to use the telephone a little before five. Both the front and side gates to the trailer yard were open all day, so anyone could have gone back to Rudy's trailer and shot him. It's so isolated, no one would have heard. The police think the murder has something to do with the trailer thefts—a falling out of thieves perhaps."
"And what do you think?"
"That it wasn't the trailer thefts. That the murder has something to do with the snuff movie. Someone found out Rudy was talking and wanted him silenced."
"But who?"
"I don't know who, but I suspect Jay Champion. Rudy had just come into some money. He didn't say how he got it, but I'll bet either he was blackmailing someone or the money was a bribe. Either way, doesn't it seem strange that Jay Champion arrived home just hours before Rudy was shot?"
As I talked, Barnicut started shaking his head, repeating, "Uh-uh…wrong...no..." When I finished, he announced, "Holly, that is bullshit." He punched a button on his phone and got Detective Noel Diaz on the speaker.
"Noel, that little guy who was shot last night? Rudy Rio? You're handling that one?"
"Right," came Diaz's gravelly voice. "We don't have any leads yet."
"You talked to the owner, Jay Champion?"
"Yeah. Funny, huh? Guy gets home from Afghanistan just a few hours before his night watchman gets shot. Very peculiar."
"Could he have done it?"
"Sure, he could have done it. He was running around town by himself about the time it happened. Of course, he would have been pretty conspicuous in his uniform, but...yeah, he could have done it. So could anyone who worked there. Nobody's off the hook on this one."
"Gut feeling. What do you think?"
"What do I think?" Lieutenant Diaz paused. "I think, no. The guy's a hero. He just flew in for his mother's funeral so why would he want to go out and shoot somebody? He had himself under control last night, but underneath I could tell he was pretty shaken. First his mother dies, then one of his best friends gets murdered. He told me he and Rudy were old buddies from 'way back. One thing. His son, Tyler, was with him. The kid wasn't behaving in a normal manner."
"How do you mean?"
"Angry...crying... 'Distraught' you could say. Of course, he's had a double loss, too. First his grandmother, then Rudy. Tyler knew Rudy all his life. The kid wouldn't calm down. His father finally had to take him home."
Barnicut asked, "Who was he angry at?"
"His father...the world. Hey! The kid’s eighteen."
When Barnicut hung up he shot me his super snooty look. "See? It could have been anybody."
I wasn't about to back down. "I don't care what you and the lieutenant think, it could have been Jay,"
"Uh-uh." He pointed a finger at me. "Don't ignore logic. Here's what happened. Rudy got plugged by one of his thieving buddies who maybe didn't get his share of the loot. That's all. You're on the wrong track." He craned his neck around to look at Perez. "We should drop this, Gil. She's in over her head on this one. She doesn't know what she's talking about."
Perez started to answer, but I quickly raised my hand to silence him. I could conduct my own defense. "Hey, wait," I told Barnicut, "I do so know what I'm doing." That sounded like one of Ashley's lines, but I was mad and didn't care. "We made a deal, remember? I'm supposed to find Crystal—or at least what happened to her—and that's what I intend to do. So don't interfere, okay?" I waited for Barnicut to trash me, but to my surprise he kept his mouth shut. "No argument?" Silence. Barnicut just sat looking at me with his mocking little smile. As for Perez, I didn't even look. Head high, shoulders back, I got off my chair. "So if you don't mind, I shall get back to the case."
I swept out of Barnicut's office with the dignity of the Queen of England, the composure of Meryl Streep and Judi Dench combined—truly a masterpiece of an exit. Perez caught up with me outside in the reception room and lightly touched my arm. "Not a bad performance, M.T. Come with me."
Curious, I followed him into his office. He sat down at his desk—first time I'd seen him there—and motioned me to sit across. "So te
ll me," he asked, "what's coming down?"
"I told you—"
"You told Barleycorn." He nailed me with his piercing dark eyes. "I want the real story. You must have had one hell of a time last night."
"You will never know." With a vast relief, I sank back in my chair, my annoyance with Perez forgotten. Crude though he was, at least he cared, and right now I needed somebody to talk to. In fact, until that very moment, I hadn't realized how much I was bursting to share the real story of last night's nightmare. I proceeded to tell him almost everything—about Bill, the sleezeball salesman...the horror of finding Rudy...my dead-of-night jog around the trailer yard to the side gate (leaving out my conversation with the owl) and finally how I found the copy of the DVD beneath Rudy's mattress.
Perez asked quietly, "Where is it now?"
I patted my purse protectively. "Right here. I didn't dare leave it home."
"You haven't seen it?"
"My mother loves to watch the late night comedians. I couldn't pry her away from the TV."
An amused smile curved his mouth. "And naturally you couldn't level with her."
"Mother? Are you kidding?"
"So okay." He stood abruptly. "I've got a DVD player. My house is ten minutes away. Let's go."
I had no desire to go to Perez's place and opened my mouth to say so. Then I thought at this point I would go to Atilla the Hun's house if he owned a DVD player. I scooped up my bag. "Okay, let's go."
Out in the parking lot, without so much as a glance behind him, Perez strode to his motorcycle and called, "Hop on."
"Are you crazy?" Keys in hand, I made a beeline for my Camero. Across the parking spaces I shouted, "How could you possibly think I would get on your motorcycle when I'm dressed like this? Really!" I unlocked my car and beckoned to him. "You ride with me this time."
Perez slung his leg over the bike, settled into the saddle and scowled at me. "God, but you're vain."
I opened my car door, slung my purse in, and slid in after. "The trouble with you," I called, "is that you can't stand the thought of a woman in control." I slammed the door, started the engine, and rolled the window down. "You're a typical macho male." I almost threw in "Hispanic" but decided against it.
Perez raised his eyes heavenward. "Mierda!" he called, the first Spanish word I'd heard him utter. He revved up the cycle and motioned me to follow.
As I trailed him down 41, it dawned on me that I, who had watched only one dirty movie in my entire life, and considered it gross, was about to see my first porn—possibly snuff—movie with a man I scarcely knew—a man with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. Not a comforting thought, but I would do it. This was business.
***
If I'd thought about it, I would have guessed that the bachelor half-owner of a prosperous detective agency would be living in fancy digs to the north. A condo at classy Heron Pointe perhaps, or a house overlooking the lake at Woodward Park. Not Perez. He headed south, not north, on 41, got off at Tulare Street, drove west through downtown, and bumped across the six sets of Santa Fe railroad tracks that mark the border of Fresno's west side. I, dutifully following, found myself in a district where many a WASP Fresnan has never trod.
China Town is on the west side. High crime thrives on the west side, although it's not as bad as it was before the old public housing projects were torn down and replaced with better housing. Still, druggies conduct their business there. Rival gangs, including branches of the Crips and Bloods from L.A., terrorize the neighborhoods. Drive-by shootings are common.
Perez kept on for about a mile, finally turning the Harley into the long driveway of a sprawling, two-story brick house. I followed, wondering, just as I had with Gussie, why on earth he lived here. Granted, the house wasn't shabby. It sat in the middle of a huge yard with a neatly trimmed lawn and clipped bushes. Even so, Mother wouldn't be caught on the West Side in an M3 Bradley tank.
Three ecstatic dogs barked and tore around in circles as Perez coasted to the end of the long driveway. They leaped with glee when he parked and got off. I parked directly behind him. No lawn in the back, I observed. The ground was plowed, apparently the site of a spring garden. A little old Mexican man, dressed in khaki pants, faded shirt, and sombrero, was hoeing a furrow. He straightened when he saw us. Stooped and whip-cord thin, he had a dark, weather-beaten face seamed with deep wrinkles, especially around his eyes.
Hostile eyes.
I slid out of the car thinking, I'm out of place here. This isn't my territory.
Perez called, "Papá, quiero presentarle a Holly Keene." He turned to me. "Meet my father, Salvador Perez."
I slung my purse strap over my shoulder, stepped over to Salvador, and extended my hand. "Delighted to meet you, Mr. Perez."
Frowning, the old man set his hoe directly in front of him, gripping the handle tight. Go away, white girl his body language informed me. His black eyes shifted to his son. "¿Quién es ella?"
"Ella trabaja conmigo. Ella es una detective."
Salvador took one hand off the hoe and reluctantly clasped mine. He grunted, and shook it briefly.
Well, I'd try once more. For some unknown reason I wanted this little man to like me. I dredged up the remnants of my tenth grade Spanish. "Buenas tardes, Señor Perez. ¿Cómo está usted?"
A pained expression crossed the old man's face. "Besa me cola." He turned his back to me and continued his hoeing.
"What did he say?" I asked Perez.
"He's delighted to meet you."
I gave him a look. "I'll bet. He doesn't like me."
"He doesn't like your Spanish. You said good afternoon instead of good morning."
"I was close. How do you say it then? Buenos...buenos..."
"Don't worry about it." He laughed and took my arm. "Come on, let's go inside."
We went in a back door into a big, busy kitchen. A young woman stood at the stove. Three little children romped on the floor. He's married. "Meet my sister Consuela and her kids," Perez went on. He spoke in Spanish to his sister and led me into the living room. It wasn't House Beautiful, but it was okay. Comfortable furniture—lots of books and magazines. A giant flat screen TV sat on a TV stand in the corner with surround sound speakers and a DVD player on the shelves beneath.
A big calico cat with an expression as uppity as Barnicut's strolled into the living room, tail high. Perez scooped him up and stroked him. "This is Elpidio."
I smiled and stretched out my arms. "Hi, Elpidio. Here, let me have him." I love cats. I have a way with cats. I took this one and cuddled him to my chest. Elpidio went into his limp cat act immediately, purring loudly. I stroked his long, sleek fur. "This your cat?" Perez nodded. I gave him a conceding smile. "So you own a cat, so you can't be all bad."
He returned a grin. "Does this get me off your shit list?"
"Don't press your luck." I sat on his couch, set Elpidio in my lap, and opened my purse. "I came over here for one reason." I pulled out the disk and handed it to him. "Let's take a look."
"Aha." Perez took the DVD, glanced at it, flipped it in the air, and caught it. "So okay, let's play this mother."
He shoved the DVD into the player. With his finger on the start button, he paused and looked around. "Just one thing..." He studied me, his expression grown serious. "Have you ever seen a porn movie before?"
"Dozens."
"Yeah, sure. Look, this isn't Disney. And if you're not used to it—"
"Let's get on with it. I'll be fine. We don't even know if it's the right one."
Perez pressed the button. A title flashed across the screen, black on white: Virgin in the Pines. So here it was—the snuff movie. There went the goose bumps again.
No credits. The title dissolved to a grove of pine and redwood trees. In the center stood a long, low altar covered by a white cloth with a gold cross emblazoned in the center. A reedy Mozart piano concerto played softly in the background.
An old memory surfaced in my mind: "The Singing Cathedral Tree," a tourist trap up
north somewhere where my parents took me ages ago. All I can remember is a grove of redwood trees, a cleared space with an altar, and a soprano blasting "Ave Maria" from an ill-concealed phonograph behind it. Except for the pine trees, this could be the same place. It was just as phony.
A fair-skinned girl in a filmy white dress, white stockings, and little white ballet shoes skipped into the scene. A wreath of pink flowers with a veil attached crowned the mane of long black hair that floated cloud-like down her back. She stooped to pick some flowers, sniffed them in delight, then broke into sort of a frolicking virgin ballet—swaying, turning, leaping—stopping now and then to sniff her posies. She wasn't a very good dancer.
Crystal.
I didn't have to see her face up close to know. "Danced like a tree stump," Gussie said, and that's what this girl was doing. After five years of ballet at Miss Severance's dancing school, I knew a good tour jeté when I saw one. Crystal's was not. She leaped as if her feet were sand-bagged, landing with the grace of a bounding cow. She moved her arms as if she were pumping iron. She forgot to point her toes. When the camera finally closed in, I felt no surprise. This was the beautiful face in the newspaper picture. This was Crystal.
The scene went as Rudy said. After she'd danced a short while, three men in black studded leather roared up on motorcycles. Two of them looked like Mountain Man with their great bushy beards. The third, the biggest and tallest of the three, appeared to be beardless, a black mask covering his face. A big snake tattoo curved around his right arm.
Talk about poor acting! When she saw the bikers, Crystal went into a cornball, Perils of Pauline routine. Her hands flew to either side of her face, fingers spread, and she let out fake scream after fake scream. She started to run, not too fast, so of course they caught her. They dragged her back, kicking and screaming to the altar, where she kept begging hysterically, and unconvincingly, "No! please no!" a performance for which she would never have won an academy award.