by Mark Wheaton
This was not what District Attorney Rebenold expected to hear. She stared at Michael as if waiting for him to admit the lie. When he did not, her features relaxed, until she seemed on the verge of a smile.
“Well, like it or not, these things do happen in this city,” she said, bemused. “But men like Judson love stirring the pot, so discretion or not, loop me in. I probably would’ve told you to handle it the same way, but I wouldn’t have brought us in on a Saturday. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Michael was about to leave when he sensed Rebenold wasn’t done with him.
“Did you learn anything?”
“The PF think they found the kill site a few yards from the bridge. They brought him into Mexico, took him to this isolated location, cut his throat, then strung him up even before all the blood had drained out.”
“Jesus Christ. Every time I think we’ve got sick fucks up here in LA, I remember we’ve got nothing on the cartels.”
Michael went to his office with the idea of getting something done before heading back home. He pulled out his iPhone as he turned on his office computer and found a single new e-mail, the subject line reading, “Whittaker Case.”
The sender was listed as Rabbit’s Foot. He wondered if it was from Luis. There were sixteen attachments, and he could see by the thumbnails that they were photographs. He opened the first and his heart skipped a beat. It was an image of him and Annie having sex.
For a half second he thought it was something he’d accidentally sent to himself the day before. Only he didn’t recognize the snap. He opened the next few, until it came to him: he hadn’t taken these pictures.
Panicking, he sorted through the rest until he remembered the day—actually days, as they were from two different sessions—they were taken. One was from her house and the second from a motel they favored, a few miles away.
They’d been watching her house even then?
He was pissed. Were these from the people who’d sent Judson to warn him off the case? Had they somehow found out about his meeting with the priest? This was amateur-hour bullshit.
He hit “Reply” to shoot back an aggressive and taunting response. That was when he saw the message had been cc’d to someone. The e-mail address was instantly familiar. It was his wife’s.
He felt something akin to an electric shock racing through his body. The e-mail had been sent at 9:52. It was now 10:02. Helen’s phone was never out of her hand for more than a few minutes at a time. His life flashed in front of him in an instant. There’d be a divorce. He’d be out of the house. The child support would be devastating.
And, of course, there’d be fallout at work.
Lasting fallout. The kind that affected advancement.
It was then he noticed the m had been dropped from the .com in his wife’s e-mail address. Instead of showing up in her inbox, it would have bounced back, undelivered, to the sender.
Even as his pulse returned to something resembling normal, Michael knew this was a new ballgame. The message was clear: we can destroy you, so drop the case. He decided he would do just that. When the priest next made contact, he would beg off. End of story.
He turned back to the e-mail. Somehow Annie managed to look even more vulnerable when she didn’t know she was being photographed than when she did. All she’d wanted was a little justice in the world.
He stared into her eyes a minute longer, then deleted the e-mail.
Luis awoke to the sound of leaf blowers. He put down the knives and peered out the closet door. It was—Oh shit—already light out. He’d meant to be up and out the door well before dawn.
Though he’d initially had qualms about going into Annie’s house, it was the only place he knew for certain would be empty. Any other yard or house, he was sure to attract the attention of all those high-priced security systems. Annie’s just put him at risk that the local cops might be watching it, and maybe that wasn’t the worst thing with bullets flying over his head.
It had been nothing to vault Annie’s back gate after finding it locked. He’d assumed her windows and back door would be locked and was right. He didn’t want to go around front but had no other choice. He didn’t think he’d have any better luck with the front door or windows there, so he went straight to the garage door. It wasn’t locked, but it was an automatic. He could only raise it a few inches, but that proved to be enough. He slipped under, praying that the metallic crunch of the door wouldn’t awaken the neighbors, and scurried to the back of the garage.
He waited, but no one came. He eyed the door leading into the house but feared that the moment he turned the knob an alarm would go off. As he looked for a corner to spend the night, he came across the fuse box on the back wall. He opened it, but despite finding switches conveniently labeled “washer/dryer” and “air conditioner,” none were marked “alarm.” He decided to chance it, trying the door leading to the house. He turned the knob and pushed it open. No alarm. He went in. There would be more places to hide.
He spent the first hour watching the street from an upstairs window. He’d seen the truck a couple of times. It had slow-rolled down the block but hadn’t stopped. Other vehicles went by as well, but he could tell they were residents. No, the men who wanted to kill him pretended to have somewhere to go, but their eyes were everywhere at once.
When it was obvious no one was coming in, he stayed awake regardless, searching the house for anything related to the case. As expected, he came up dry. Annie’s clothes, photos, keepsakes, appliances, books, and other personal items were in every room. Any files, notes, or directories were gone.
In one of the guest rooms, he found new clothes and a few unopened toiletries, suggesting it was Odilia’s room. At some point, exhaustion had sent him to find a place to sleep. The closet in the guest bedroom seemed the best bet, particularly after he’d barricaded himself in with boxes. Still, he’d closed his eyes, believing the next thing he’d see would be a gun barrel aimed between his eyes.
He crept out of the closet and listened. The house was silent. The only sounds came from outside. His body was stiff, a result of sleeping propped up in a tight corner all night, muscles tense, as he waited to be discovered.
Deciding it was time to go, he went downstairs and slipped out the back door. Rather than head to the rear gate, which he thought might be watched, he hopped the wall into the backyard of the neighbor’s house, where a team of gardeners was mowing the grass and trimming bushes. He nodded and walked through the house’s side gate to the truck out front. The group’s foreman was loading equipment back onto the truck. Luis asked him for a ride into town, and the man shrugged.
After being dropped at a bus stop, Luis used the last of his cash for the two-hour ride back into Los Angeles. Once there he considered taking a Metro bus to St. Augustine’s but felt he needed some time to think and walked instead. When he reached the parish an hour later, it was well into the afternoon.
He wasn’t sure what drew him to Whillans’s office. He just wanted a shower and a change of clothes, which could be found in the rectory. Maybe it was because he wanted to feel retethered to the life he’d been away from for a few days.
Whatever the case, when he stepped past Erna’s empty desk—she never worked Saturdays—he fully expected to find Whillans in his office but hadn’t anticipated finding him in the arms of a parishioner.
Luis had seen the woman—Bridgette something; Gildea? Goldea?—around the church a number of times. She was active in a number of the women’s groups and taught Sunday school. In her late forties or early fifties, she was seldom without an inviting smile on her face. He knew she was single but figured her for one of those matronly women who’d accepted it wasn’t in the cards for her early on and had devoted herself to the church instead.
But here she was with her arms around the pastor’s neck, pulling him tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. It was not a
comforting embrace but one of intimacy. That Whillans’s hands were low around her waist confirmed this.
Luis stepped back quickly, but the movement caught the pastor’s eye. He was surprised, a deer in the headlights, until he saw that it was Luis. Then he relaxed.
“Come in, Luis,” Whillans said softly.
Bridgette’s eyes shot to the doorway as she pulled away. Any possibility that Luis had slipped upon an innocent encounter was erased by the guilt on her face. She gathered her purse, touched the pastor’s hand in a grave gesture, then exited without looking at Luis.
Whillans sighed and flopped into his desk chair.
“You’re back. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I have more questions, few answers,” Luis replied curtly, waiting for an answer to the unasked question.
“Yes,” Whillans said, opening his palms.
“‘Yes’?” Luis asked.
“Yes, Bridgette and I have been in a union, a sort of unorthodox marriage, for the better part of ten years.”
Luis couldn’t have been more surprised if Whillans said he’d set fire to the sacristy.
“I don’t understand.”
“My biggest regret is that this is how you’re finding out. I am deeply sorry.”
“I . . . I don’t want your apology,” Luis stammered. “You have to break it off with her. Beg God’s forgiveness.”
“What’s wonderful about you is your first thought is of my eternal soul,” Whillans said. “I understand my actions and accepted long ago that I will be judged by God, as we all are.”
“That sounds like pride.”
“I suppose it does,” Whillans said. “Did you know that for centuries Catholic priests were allowed to be married? It was the First Lateran Council that changed that in the twelfth century. When there was pushback from the clergy, the Vatican began arresting and killing the wives. Some were even sold into slavery. To avoid this happening to their loved ones, the priests accepted the new rules. In a gracious touch, the surviving wives were allowed to be considered widows by the pope rather than divorcées. Lovely of him, don’t you think?”
Luis didn’t reply. He turned to leave, but Whillans raised a hand.
“There’s something else.”
It wasn’t that Maria hadn’t believed her son’s story about the waiting truck; she just wanted to see for herself. She’d fixed herself coffee and breakfast. Sure enough, when she returned to the front window, the truck was gone.
“He just took off,” Miguel said. “Maybe he saw me watching.”
Maria nodded and went back about her business. There were the usual weekend chores to tackle, but she also wanted to finish going through Santiago’s files. It would be the easiest thing in the world to let them slide, as she didn’t fully understand what she was looking at, but she had to keep trying.
“Let me know if he comes back,” Maria said as she walked to the bedroom.
In the early afternoon she left the house to go to the grocery store. She’d just reached the parking lot when Miguel rang her cell.
“There’re two of them now. They’re just waiting there.”
She peeled out of the parking lot and was home in under five minutes. As she pulled up, the two men climbed out of their truck and moved to follow her.
“Mom! Come inside!” Miguel said, leaning out the kitchen door.
But the men were already at the edge of the driveway. The last thing she wanted was to appear intimidated.
“Go to your room,” she instructed Miguel.
“But Mom—”
“Now,” she insisted.
Miguel shot a glance to the men, then sulked away. Once the door was closed, she turned to the men.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a tone she reserved for telemarketers.
The men were a study in contrasts. One was a young white guy she thought looked like Eminem, down to the snarl in his upper lip. The other was Hispanic and wore a suit. A pair of glasses perched on his nose giving him the appearance of a schoolteacher.
“Ms. Higuera?” the suited man inquired.
“What do you want?” she scowled, arms crossed over her chest.
“No need for that tone, Ms. Higuera,” the man said. “I’m Benjamin Valencia. I work for the bank that holds the note on your late brother’s mortgage. I know this is a difficult time—”
“Look, I’m going through his finances as quickly as I can. I’ll get it done, and you’ll get your money.”
Valencia peered at her through his glasses.
“No, that’s not an issue. No, no. We’re legally bound to inform the landowner when outside parties make financial offers on the property. And we have to do so in a timely fashion. It hasn’t been easy getting ahold of you.”
“Someone wants to buy Santiago’s farm?” she surmised.
“Yes. But they want to move fast. The deal is contingent on being able to complete this year’s harvest.”
“Who is it?”
“Are you familiar with the Marshaks?”
Ah, that’s why they sent workers to help, Maria thought.
“They own everything up there, right?” Maria said. “My brother worked for them before he got his land.”
“Correct,” Valencia replied. “Santiago bought this plot of land from them, taking out a mortgage from my company.”
“How much did he owe?”
“Forty thousand dollars of the original sixty-five-thousand-dollar purchase price.”
“And the Marshaks are offering . . . ?”
“They’ll settle the mortgage and pay you an additional fifty thousand dollars to cover improvements Santiago made over the years to enhance the property’s value.”
Every impulse in Maria’s head told her to accept the money on the spot and walk away. It would mean a more comfortable future for her and Miguel. But it was too much. If they’d tossed on an additional ten grand or so, she could’ve accepted that as a condolence.
Fifty grand told her they were relying on her greed to keep her from asking questions. Fifty grand came through middlemen, so the giver didn’t have to dirty their hands. Fifty grand was a payoff that put a number on exactly what they thought her brother’s life was worth.
“Do you have a card, Mr. Valencia?” Maria asked. “I want to think about it for a day or two. I promise it won’t be longer than that.”
From the look on Valencia’s face, it was anything but all right. He handed her a business card and a manila envelope with a thin sheaf of papers inside.
“Take all the time you need,” Valencia said. “My cell is on the back. Feel free to call anytime.”
“Thank you,” Maria replied.
She watched them leave and climb into their truck. She even managed to keep it together as they went down the block. As soon as they turned the corner, she slapped her hand against the side of the house, fighting back tears of anger.
But then, staring at the manila envelope, she got an idea.
XVI
“I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I understand what it feels like to be driven mad by love. That’s how I feel about you. When you were gone, no other thought entered my head. Every single thought was of you. Every. Single. One. Every dream, every memory. It was the most pain anyone has ever put me through. I couldn’t believe how terrible I felt. I’m not a suicidal person, but I wanted to hurl myself off the nearest bridge. That’s how bad it got.”
Jason Marshak stood in the middle of the poorly air-conditioned motel room. He wore only boxers, his skin glistening with sweat, but now from the heat rather than his recent exertions.
“Trust me, I know how fucked up this situation is,” he implored. “It’s crazy. I didn’t plan it to be like this. I’m figuring it out as I go along, too. All I know is that when I look at you, I see our lives together. I s
ee happiness for the first time in my life, not just an endless parade of work and trying to live up to my family’s expectations. I mean, I can see us—just the two of us—on a beach somewhere far away. And I don’t mean just fucking. I mean walking down the beach, your hand in mine, the eyes of every last person we pass staring at us. They’re all thinking, ‘Wow, he’s the luckiest guy in the world.’ I mean eating dinner together. Visiting all the little shops. Me buying you anything and everything you want. Attending events, your hand in mine, my arm around your waist. Leaning over to kiss you.”
Odilia stood silently in the bathroom doorway. She was soaking wet, a towel wrapped around her torso, her hair slicked down against her neck and shoulders. She’d taken a shower the evening before when they brought her back from La Calavera, but there was no water pressure at the Blocks and the temperature was barely lukewarm. This one had been enough to make her feel almost human.
“I mean, I think about our children. How fucked up is that?” Jason laughed, incredulous. “I’ve spent my whole life trying not to get chicks pregnant. But with you? I can’t wait. I want to see your belly with our kid in it, whether it’s the first one, the second, or the third. Heck, maybe a fourth? Why not? You, me, and our kids opening presents around the Christmas tree. Sitting around the table at Thanksgiving. Going on road trips during the summer. Out watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. Or, hey, Cinco de Mayo.”
Cinco de Mayo, Odilia thought. That strangely American drinking holiday somebody—probably a liquor company—decided to pretend was Mexican Independence Day. Maybe Jason’s company was behind it.
She stared back at the middle-aged executive as he searched her face for the hint of a smile or even tenderness somewhere behind her eyes. There was none. He pointed at the towel.
“Take that off. Let it drop to the ground.”
She did. Despite the heat, goose bumps rose on her arms and legs as Jason moved to her. He was a good foot and a half taller than she was. She looked back at him, wondering if this time he’d have any reaction to her burned and blistered skin. When he’d stripped her before, he’d done so with such veraciousness, she thought he might not have even seen the burns and blisters. But as he smiled and lowered himself to his knees, she knew he wasn’t going to say anything. They were right in front of his eyes, but he looked through them.