"He'll pay. He gonna pay us, bro. I know the man real good. He good to me and the money is on the way. He promise me," Enrique said.
Michaela squinted to get a better view. Juan went over to one of the cages and took out a rooster. "You know what's gonna happen if we don't get paid. You know what, lil' bro. I gonna be real mad and the shit will fly. I tell everyone it was you who did that guy in."
"What?"
"Yeah. You better take care of it, or else."
Joe covered Michaela's eyes as she heard a loud crack. Her stomach flipped. The men left the barn a minute later, still arguing. They heard the sound of an engine, and figured they were leaving.
"You didn't want to see that," Joe said as they stood up.
"Right." Michaela glanced at the dead rooster and thought that she and Joe just might have stumbled onto the largest piece in this mystery yet. Her gut told her that not only was Benz more of a lowlife than she'd figured, but that Juan and Enrique Perez had something to do with Bob's disappearance and Audrey's murder. However, they obviously weren't the only ones involved. The sick feeling in her stomach worsened, as she had to consider that the boss they were referring to was none other than Hugh Bowen.
THIRTY-FIVE
"MICK, THOSE ARE NOT GOOD GUYS BACK THERE," Joe said after she told him what the Perez brothers had discussed. They were making it back to the highway, winding down along the coastline. "So, you know them?"
"Sort of. I've met them." She explained to Joe how Enrique was Hugh's jockey and Juan, his brother, worked around the ranch.
He shook his head. "You gotta tell Hugh Bowen about this."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"They were rambling on about a boss man. It just might be that the boss man…is Hugh. I hate to think it, but it adds up. What doesn't add up is his sincerity over being in love with Audrey. I really believed that he loved her. I can't imagine why he would kill her. It makes no sense."
Joe shrugged. "None of this is making sense. The only thing that does is you heading back to Indio with me now, and forgettin' this whole mess."
"Can't do that. We're close. I can feel it. Maybe it is Hugh who caused Bob's disappearance and killed Audrey. I just don't know anymore. I have no clue what to think. But those two bastards back there do know who it is, or at the very least they're up to no good, and I suspect that it all ties in to what happened to Audrey. And Benz? He might be a part of this after all."
Joe asked her about Steve Benz and how he played into everything. She shared her thoughts on him and what a creep he was, how he also connected to Olivia, Callahan, and Bridgette, not to mention the weirdo Friedman. There were too many paths she could wind her mind down, and she had no clue which one to take.
Joe's cell rang. "Hang on. Yep." Michaela could hear the high pitch of a frantic woman on the other end. "Now calm down, Marianne. It's okay." He held the phone away from his ear.
"It's not okay!" Marianne yelled. "Get your ass back here now before we have a lawsuit on our hands."
"You gonna have to take it down a notch, hon, and explain to me what this is all about." The shrillness in Marianne's voice did not subside, although Michaela couldn't make out what she was saying. "Uh-huh," Joe said. "Dammit! What in the hell! That's it. He's grounded forever. Tell him that. I'm in L.A. No, I can't get back right now! I told you I was gonna be gone all day, that I had business in the city to take care of. No I didn't mean Riverside. C'mon, honey. Can't you take care of this? Marianne?" More yelling from the other end. "Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell them four o'clock. Now honey, calm down, please. It don't do any good to get so upset." He shut off his phone. "Little shit!"
Michaela cringed. "Do I dare ask?"
He sighed. "Little Joe has a bit of a temper and if someone looks at him cross-eyed he takes it upon himself to kick the crap out of that kid. I've tried everything from taking away the PlayStation to making him clean the toilets. Don't know what to do."
"I don't like the sound of this."
"Today, he went too far, broke a kid's nose on the playground. The parents are threatening a lawsuit, and the principal wants all the parents in his office as soon as possible."
"Guess we'd better head back, huh."
Joe nodded and grew silent for a minute. "No. Take me to my cousin's place down in Venice. It's not that far. I can borrow one of his cars. Won't be a problem. I know you want to go and handle a few more things. I shouldn't let you. But my gut tells me that as soon as you took me back home, you'd be back here to see what more you can find out."
"Joe."
"Michaela? Am I wrong?"
"Okay. Maybe, I would like to figure a few of these angles out. Like I said, I think we're close and I do want to hunt down that boxer. Terrell Jardinière."
"What if I send a cousin to talk to him?"
"No. Audrey was my friend. I need to do this."
He nodded, gave her directions to his cousin's place, and then handed her a Post-it with the address of the gym where Jardinière supposedly worked out. "Careful. Call me when you get back?"
"Thanks, Joe. You know I will. I'm sorry about the kid."
"Nothing we can't handle." He shook a finger at her. "Be careful. And here, take this." He reached into a backpack he had with him and took out a small can.
"What's this?"
"Some mace, Mick. I make Marianne carry it, and my sisters. Don't know why I hadn't thought to give this to you 'til now, but I want you to have it. Use it if you need to. Even if you aren't sure if you need to but feel scared or threatened by someone, pull it out, keep your hand on the trigger."
She smiled. "Thanks, Joe." He was the closest she'd ever come to having a brother. Michaela watched him as he ran up the front steps of a condo on the beach. Apparently the cousin wasn't hurting for cash. Out of curiosity, she wanted to see what one of Joe's cousins was like, but decided against it. Maybe she wasn't ready for that part of Joe's world.
She took her Thomas Bros. map out of her glove box and thumbed through it to get directions to the gym where Terrell Jardinière worked out. Down near Muscle Beach. Then she was on her way, in hopes of putting one or more of the pieces to this puzzle together.
THIRTY-SIX
THE ARTICLES MICHAELA HAD FOUND BY SEARCHING Google for Terrell's name, along with what Joe had discovered about him, gave her the same information. Terrell Jardinière was once an up-and-coming boxer out of Los Angeles in the late nineties. He'd apparently had a stroke and, although he survived, he'd retired from boxing.
The gym near Muscle Beach occupied a two-story building a block from the water. She could hear and smell the gym before she even opened the door. Nothing like the odor of sweat and the sounds of groans and grunts to make a woman's heart go pitter-patter. Inside, the gym turned out to be pretty much what she expected of a gym in Venice: from muscle men obviously on boatloads of steroids, to serious boxers in the ring, dodging and punching each other out. Who actually considered boxing a sport? The idea of two men going rounds in attempts to beat the crap out of each other made her queasy, and seeing it in action even more so.
"Can I help you?
Michaela turned to see an older, rail-thin black man. At first she didn't respond, because she hadn't planned this thing out very well. Here she was, one of maybe three women in the gym, and the other two were working out—boxing, actually. The man stuck out his hand. "Brian Dell. I own this place. And you are?"
"Hi. Sorry. Just kind of watching." She'd have to wing it, which she was getting good at anyway. Brian Dell seemed like an okay guy. "Michaela Bancroft."
"Morning, Ms. Bancroft. Are you here to find out about our self-defense class, or are you interested in taking up boxing?"
She started to laugh when she realized he was serious.
"Neither, actually. I'm looking for someone and I think he used to train here."
"You the ex-wife looking for back child support or something? Cause if that's the case, I hate to tell you, I won't be gi
ving out any details."
"No. I think this man knew a friend of mine who was killed."
"You the police?"
"No. I'm only trying to find answers concerning my friend's murder."
"Murder, huh? Well, if one of the boys here gone and killed someone, I certainly don't want them in my place. Who we talking about?"
"I don't think this man killed my friend. I think he knew her. That's all."
"Alrighty then, like I said, who we talking about?"
"Terrell Jardinière," Michaela said and brushed her hair back behind her ears.
Dell glanced at the fighters in the ring. He didn't answer her for a few seconds, his face taut and filled with what appeared to be sadness. "No, Terrell certainly could not have killed your friend. Terrell had a stroke a few years ago. I used to train him."
"I know about the stroke. I'd like to talk to him."
Dell shook his head. "You can't. Terrell's been living in a home for the last few years. He can't do a lot for himself anymore. Such a shame. I go to see him occasionally. Good guy. Good fighter."
"He lives in a nursing home?"
"Yep." Dell's expression changed from one of sadness to what Michaela thought was anger. His eyes darkened, and the brow on his forehead creased. "State takes care of him now. Man, it's not good, you know."
"I'm sorry. It sounds like you're close. He must be a good man."
He nodded. "The best. Terrell was always good to everyone he knew. He lived in South Central all his life. He started boxing and I discovered him, got him set up in a place here in Venice. I wanted him away from some of those guys he grew up around. You know, he didn't need any bad influences. He was winning fights and making money. He don't deserve to rot in that nursing home."
"Can I ask what kind of money Terrell was bringing in?"
"You could, but let me ask you, why all the questions about Terrell? What's this story you got going with your murdered friend?"
Michaela sighed. Truth time. She told him about Audrey and the phone call.
"Sounds like a mystery to me," he said. "No way Terrell could've called you. The man can't eat on his own. No way on God's green earth that he could have picked up a phone. You would have known something was wrong with him by his speech. To answer your question about how much Terrell pulled in, it was getting close to six figures. And, everyone knew he was a rising star, destined to make millions. He had an aunt who kinda raised him, and she blew all of it away once he wasn't able to control it."
She shrugged. "That's horrible."
"The world can be a cruel place. Man like Terrell doesn't deserve what happened to him. He did do a few print ads for some vitamin company and a boxing glove outfit. But he didn't make a wad of cash doing that. Maybe a couple thousand bucks or so."
"Hey, Brian," one of the boxers in the ring called out.
"Yeah. Be right there." He told Michaela, "Wish I could help you out and I'm sorry to hear about your friend, but there's no way in hell Terrell made that call to you. No way. I better get back at it."
"No problem. Just one more thing: You have an address for the nursing home where he lives?"
"It's called Sheltered Palms. It's in the mid-Wilshire district. Don't bother going to see him though. Like I said, he can't tell you anything."
"Thanks."
Michaela left the gym. The same question kept playing out over and over in her mind: If it wasn't Terrell Jardinière who'd called her last night, then who was it, and why? Furthermore, why had he used this poor ex-boxer's name?
THIRTY-SEVEN
SHELTERED PALMS WAS A CONCRETE INSTITUTIONAL building with a decent-sized water fountain out front and a handful of palm trees that weren't exactly sheltering. The grounds were nice, though, in a parklike setting of grass and flowerbeds. A dozen or so patients lounged outside by the water fountain and another half dozen were either walking on the lawn or sitting in wheelchairs, some accompanied by caretakers.
Michaela figured she might not have an easy time getting in to see Terrell. She was already running a story in her head. Once inside the building, which smelled of disinfectant and age, she found the front desk, where an older nurse sat behind a glass partition. Nurse Ratched came to mind, the scowling woman's eyes boring into Michaela as if to say What the hell do you want?
"Yes?" was what she actually said as she slid the window open.
"Hi," She gave the biddy her best smile. Not even a flicker of pleasantry emanated from the woman. "Um, I'm here to see an old friend. I'm from out of town, and it's important that I see him."
"Did you make an appointment?"
"No. I didn't know that was necessary."
"It's necessary." The nurse slid the window shut and looked down at her paperwork.
Michaela rapped on the glass. The nurse frowned. "Please," Michaela said.
The woman slid the window open. "What?"
"This is important. I've traveled a long way and I'm only here for the day. I really need to see my friend."
The nurse sighed. "Name?"
"Michaela Bancroft."
"There's no one here by that name." She started to shut the window again.
Michaela stopped it with her hand. "No, that's my…Do you have a manager? Someone who is in charge?" She was pissed now.
"What's your friend's name?" she asked, ignoring Michaela's question.
"Terrell Jardinière."
The woman looked up at her and smirked, shaking her head. She handed her a badge. "Put this on. He's in room 306. Third floor. But if he's a friend from the past, he won't remember you. Elevator doesn't go to the top anymore, if you get my drift."
"I'll take my chances."
Michaela rode the real elevator to the third floor, passed a nursing station and walked down a long, dingy hall. Entering room 306, she saw a man in a wheelchair, his back to her, looking out barred windows. "Mr. Jardinière?" He didn't respond. She came around, letting him see her. "Mr. Jardinière?" His fingers moved slightly and he seemed to be trying to focus his gaze on her. "Can I talk to you?" No response. Maybe Brian Dell and the nurse were right: This was probably a waste of time. But still, she was here and she had to try and see if he could communicate in some way. She turned his wheelchair slightly so that she could sit in a chair opposite him and hopefully be able to decipher any body language or sounds he might make. This was definitely not the man who had called her. He was still a big man; He had on a tentlike patient gown and a pair of sweatpants. His brown eyes, although distant, expressed sadness.
"My name is Michaela Bancroft. I know that you used to be a great boxer. I spoke with your trainer, Brian, today." Terrell tilted his head slightly and his eyes seemed to light up. "Yes. He says that you were great." Michaela sighed. Why in the heck was she here? Whoever had called had only used this man's name for some reason. None of it made sense. She decided to tell him her story. She found herself crying again when she talked about Audrey and everything that she'd gone through in the last few days. Terrell didn't respond, but she believed that he was listening, and it felt good to let it all out; then, she felt ridiculous to do so in front of a stranger. A man who was ill, at that. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jardinière. I thought you could help me. Someone called me the other night claiming to be you, and asking about Audrey. But it obviously wasn't you. I wish I could figure this all out. Who murdered Audrey and why her brother, Bob, disappeared."
Terrell made a noise. She looked at him. He was trying to say something. It was difficult for him. Michaela couldn't make sense of the sounds he uttered. "Did you know Audrey? Did you call me?" Terrell shook his head…barely. "No. What is it? What is…?" Here she'd told him the whole story, but he hadn't reacted until that moment. What had she said that triggered him? Wait a minute. "Bob? Did you know Bob Pratt, Mr. Jardinière?" He became further agitated, trying hard to speak. "You did, didn't you?"
At that point a caretaker who looked like a linebacker walked into the room. "Hey, Terrell, pretty visitor today." He smiled at Michaela, who smi
led back. 'What is it, T? You lookin' a little off. Time for your meds." He glanced back at Michaela and then at Terrell. "What's going on in here? He's usually very subdued."
"We were just talking."
"Uh-huh. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. It's time for his medications."
"Oh no, please."
"Are you a relative, Blondie?" She frowned. "Yeah, don't look like you two are cousins. I need you to leave."
"One more thing." She looked at Terrell. "Do you know what happened to Bob?"
Terrell became extremely agitated this time and was trying hard to say something. But all he could get out was the word Bob.
"You need to leave, miss, or I'll call security."
"I'm going. I'm so sorry. I really am." She reached out to touch Terrell on the shoulder. The caretaker pushed her hand away.
She walked to her truck, upset and baffled, but convinced that somehow Terrell Jardinière knew what had happened to Bob Pratt.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MICHAELA HEADED TOWARD THE FREEWAY AFTER leaving Sheltered Palms, almost in tears again, thoroughly frustrated and not knowing where to turn or what to do next. It was peak traffic time, and the last thing she felt like doing was trying to make her way home amid the sea of cars and smog. She pulled over and called Ethan to check on Rocky. Although she'd kept busy, he'd been on her mind and it had taken all of this craziness to keep her from losing it.
She was relieved to hear Ethan's voice. He sounded upbeat. "Hey, Mick. I told you that I'd call as soon as I knew something."
"I know. I'm just checking in."
"I don't have any answers so far, but he's happy and comfortable."
"That's good."
"I guess you've taken my advice," he said.
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