La Donna Detroit

by Jon A. Jackson

  DiEbola nodded, as if John were in the room. He was aware that John was observing him on a monitor. He glanced at the digital clock nearby: 1:17, in red numbers. “Are the dogs out?”

  “No sir. It’s a little cold.”

  “How cold, John?”

  “Below zero, sir. It’s, ahhh …” He sounded as though he were checking his console. “Minus five, sir. I thought it better to keep the dogs in. They don’t perform well in low temperatures. And the wind is kicking up. Fifteen knots with gusts to twenty. Sir. But I can put them out, if you—”

  “No, that’s fine. I just wondered,” DiEbola said. He still sat on the edge of his bed. He didn’t appear sleepy or confused to John but, rather, pensive, alert. There was a long silence, more than a minute. DiEbola just sat there, his head cocked as if listening.

  John was uneasy. He wondered what the boss had heard. The house was very tight, the rooms well insulated; it was impossible to hear any but the loudest noises. One felt more than heard the wind gusts buffeting the house.

  It was never quite dark in this house. In the evening, when everyone had gone to bed, or should have been in bed, the captain of the watch, as he was called, would dim the lights in the halls by remote control. At his console in the anteroom off the entry, the watchman had an array of video screens on which he could, by pressing the appropriate buttons, view almost all of the rooms and living spaces on the main floor of this large house: the hallways, the exits, the living room, the dining room, the boss’s study, the kitchen, and even the boss’s bedroom. He could also view the grounds from several positions. All of these discreetly placed television cameras could be manipulated from the console to scan these areas, to focus very tightly on suspicious shadows. And lights could be intensified to dispel those shadows, if need be.

  The watchman must be prudent, of course. The boss liked security, but he didn’t like to feel spied upon. If, for instance, he got up in the night to use the toilet, as a man of his age will do, he would expect the watchman to scan the bathroom quickly and briefly, just to make sure that there were no lurkers, but the beady red light on the camera had better wink off by the time the boss unbuttoned his pajamas.

  In the same spirit, there were no cameras in the guest rooms, nor upstairs, where the servants and his chef stayed. There were microphones, well hidden, but they were not to be abused. If the boss, entertaining guests in the living room or study, wished his conversation to be quite private, he had a discreet means of silencing the microphones or shutting off the cameras.

  And if the boss were to step across the hall from his bedroom to the room occupied by his so-called niece, Helen, the watchman might observe him arise from his bed in his silk pajamas and exit his room, but as soon as his destination was determined, the cameras would go dead, as would the microphone in her room. Presumably.

  Outside, day and night, in balmy summer or bitter winter, the twenty acres of the well-fenced and electronically observed estate on the shores of Lake Saint Clair were regularly patrolled by a squad of young, athletic men in constant communication with the captain of the watch and armed with automatic weapons. Dogs were also employed, rangy Doberman pinschers.

  From one day to the next, nothing untoward ever happened. But the drill was never relaxed. The captain of the watch served his eight hours, maintained his log of communication, watched his panel to see where his patrollers were, and, if he suspected that any man was goofing off, dawdling, not paying attention, that man would be instantly contacted and warned to “stay on the ball.”

  Over the years, due to the lack of incident and the perfection of the electronic surveillance, the staff of patrollers had been cut from eight to five, and recently to just three. Reserves of two or three relief men stayed on standby in the little dayroom in the barracks, so-called, over the garage. The security staff were carefully chosen and trained and paid well. Performance was all but impeccable, and morale was high. It was a good job, a piece of cake. Nobody wanted to lose a cushy position like this one.

  “The men are on eight-minute patrol,” John said. “That’s standard for this temperature. Eight minutes out, fifteen minutes in. I thought I’d have them take the dogs out on the hour.”

  DiEbola seemed to consider this. Finally, he said, “John, let the dogs sleep. And keep the men in the barracks.”

  Without meaning to be insolent or disrespectful, but in shocked surprise, John said, “All of them? What for?”

  “It’s cold out, John. Too cold for dogs. You said so. Send the patrol to the barracks. They can catch a nap, if they like.”

  “Okay, sir.” No hint of objection or argument; John had recovered. “What about the gate, sir?”

  “What about it?”

  “The guy on the gate, maybe he could have a relief, since all the patrol will be in the barracks.”

  “The gatehouse is heated,” DiEbola said. “He’ll be all right. But I’ll tell you what, John, since you’re concerned, why don’t you go up and relieve him?”

  “But who’ll run the console?”

  “The console can run itself,” DiEbola said. “Anyway, the alarms are all on. If anyone climbs a fence you’ll know.”

  “Well, sure, but.… How long, sir? I mean till the guys should go back on patrol, and …” He meant, how long did he have to stay away from his precious console? And there were other concerns that worried him, but he said nothing about them.

  “The morning shift comes on at seven?” DiEbola asked.

  “Eight,” John said.

  “Fine. Until eight, then.”

  “We could run an hourly walk-around,” John suggested.

  “Just call the men, John. Now. And then go to the gate and send those guys to the barracks. Everybody in the barracks. It’s too cold out there. I don’t want anybody freezing his butt on my time. Leave the console on and take a headset. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks, sir,” John said, dubiously. The fact was, he was scared. Not twenty minutes before, he had observed the chef, Pepe, come out of his room on the second floor, dressed as usual in jeans and a T-shirt with a Dos Equis beer logo, in stocking feet. He had strolled casually along, down the stairs and along the corridor, until he had merely brushed against the door of the room occupied by Helen, the boss’s “niece.” He had appeared at the door of the control room a few seconds later.

  “Hey, Juan,” the young man called, his voice lowered in deference to the hour. He was a very pleasant young man; everybody liked him. “I’m going to get a snack from the kitchen. You want anything? I got some good salmon. I could make you a sandwich. Maybe some poppers? Ees very good.”

  John had been sorely tempted, but he’d decided against a snack, even though Pepe’s poppers—jalapeño peppers stuffed with jack cheese, dipped in batter, and deep-fried—were delicious. He was a man of great circumspection: a snack was too irregular. He’d thanked the chef but said no.

  He’d watched the young man go on his way, into the kitchen, where he rummaged in the refrigerator, got out various items, and quickly, neatly prepared the poppers, made a sandwich or two, and then prepared a tray, complete with a couple of opened beers. The chef stopped on his way back and offered the tray. It was too good to pass up: John had taken a popper. It was very tasty.

  “Ees Miss Helen still up?” Pepe had asked, innocently, glancing at the array of screens.

  “I don’t know,” John had lied. He had, in fact, just monitored her room. She’d been listening to pop music, played quite softly on the radio, and it sounded like she was smoking. He’d heard a match, a puff, a little sigh.

  “Maybe I’ll check,” Pepe had said. “She might want a little snack.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Pepe,” John had advised him. “You know the boss doesn’t like her disturbed. You want to be careful about that. The boss … it’s more than your job is worth.” He had decided against telling Pepe that the boss was still in his study, doubtless engrossed in surfing the Web.

  “I’l
l be careful,” Pepe had assured him. He’d placed a forefinger on his lips, smiled, and gone on his way. A moment later, the door to her room had opened and he’d disappeared inside. On the monitor John had heard some whispers, giggles, and some muffled sounds.

  Jesus, he’d thought, the man is nuts! Screwing around with the boss’s girlfriend.

  Now, with the boss back in his bedroom, just across the hall from Helen, John was terrified. He was tempted to say something. But it wasn’t his business. He wasn’t supposed to be listening. He decided to leave it. Let the kid take his chances. The boss had lain down, he’d soon be asleep. He got up, donned his parka, and went outside into the bitter cold.

  After a few minutes, DiEbola rose, put on his robe, and left his bedroom. He did not even hesitate at Helen’s room but went directly and quietly to the front reception room. John was gone. The console was fully operative. He sat down in John’s still warm chair. From here he could monitor the two main corridors in the large house: the one on which his room, Helen’s, the study, and so on, were located, and the upstairs corridor, on which the guest rooms and the suite occupied by his personal chef, Pepe Ortega, were. There was nobody afoot.

  All these screens, he thought, and nobody to watch them. There was something pathetic, he thought, about an unwatched video screen. On the gate monitor he could see that John had arrived there. John looked a little put out, but he settled into the gate man’s chair with a cup of coffee from the automatic maker, and glanced up uneasily at the camera. Then, shaking his head, he fished out a cigarette and lit it. He picked up a magazine from the desk, flipped the pages.

  DiEbola watched the screen that displayed an automatic scan of the dayroom of the barracks. The men were all accounted for. They were hanging up parkas, kicking off insulated boots, stacking their gear on tables. “Did you see those northern lights?” one of them said. “Even with the lights from the city, they’re pretty bright.”

  Another answered, “I seen ’em. But that wind’s too fucking cold to be standing out there gawking.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” said another man, and the relieved men trooped off to the sleeping bay, where two others were already lying down.

  DiEbola was pleased. He dimmed the lights further in the corridors and entry. He flipped a switch and heard Mexican pop music playing in Pepe’s room. Another switch: Helen was listening to a late-night disc jockey spinning “easy listening” music. She was moving around. He tried to imagine what she was doing. A clink. Pouring a drink? Then a low vocal sound, “Mmmmm. Yeah.” A laugh.

  She was talking to somebody. “You’re crazy,” she whispered. “What if he comes in here?”

  A man’s low laugh. “I’m just the delivery boy,” the voice said, “the pizza man.” It was Pepe.

  DiEbola sat listening, anger and titillation mingling as the two bantered and played. He heard or imagined he heard cloth sliding on naked skin, the sound of a zipper. “You like that?”—Pepe’s voice. “I got something you like better.”

  “What took you so long?”—Helen. Then they were in bed, judging from the sound of coil springs, rather muffled. In quick order: many oohs and ahs, gasps, moans, grunts. DiEbola listened intently, breathing shallowly. He was mortified to find that he could not suppress his own sexual excitement. But ultimately, he felt a strange, almost despairing sadness.

  He shut the sound off. He also shut off the house alarm system and killed the lights in the back of the house, the ones that illuminated the grounds on the lake side. He doused the lights in the corridor and went back to his room, feeling his way and carrying an extra parka, insulated overalls, and boots from the reception closet. He donned these quickly in his own room, then went to the rear stairs and up to Pepe’s room.

  The Mexican radio station played, some kind of salsa beat. He began to look quickly through the drawers of Pepe’s dresser. The room was lived in, but neat. A maid came in every day to change the linen, vacuum the carpet, and dust. There were magazines lying about, the bed mussed. Pepe had sat around, killing time, waiting until it got late enough.

  In the closet there were a couple of suitcases, one of them empty, the other containing some summer clothing that Pepe clearly did not need. There was also a nice leather satchel or overnight bag. It contained a couple of towels. Household towels, good big Turkish bath towels. DiEbola couldn’t believe that Pepe would steal towels—anyway, he wasn’t going anywhere, as far as he knew. But there was something under the towels, wrapped in a lightweight jacket.

  The most important item, at first sight, was a snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver, a Smith & Wesson, Model 58. Under another shirt, however, was a 5.56mm Bushmaster automatic pistol and three fully loaded banana clips—nothing less than a miniature submachine gun. Next to it, however, lay the truly significant find: a leather folder that contained a badge and a laminated plastic ID card, identifying the man in the photograph as Special Agent Pablo Ortega, of the United States Drug Enforcement Agency.

  Hastily, DiEbola replaced these items and restored the bag to its proper place in the closet. He took a second or two to see if he had disturbed any telltale devices that would alert Pepe that the trove had been found. But there was no way, he knew, to spot such things; their very essence was to be invisible to the unsuspecting eye. It didn’t matter, he decided.

  He got out of the room as fast as he could, sweating slightly, just a sheen on his forehead. Perhaps it was the warmth of the parka. He was halfway down the stairs when he encountered Pepe, on his way up, carrying a tray over which a tea towel was spread. In his left hand he carried a bottle of Dos Equis, from which he had apparently been drinking.

  “Whatcha got there, Pepe?” DiEbola asked.

  Pepe stopped, his eyes narrowed in the dim light. Then he smiled broadly. “A snack, boss. You want some? I got some jalapeño poppers.” He gestured at the tea cloth with the brown bottle.

  “No thanks. I was looking for you.”

  “For me, boss? So late?” Pepe stepped back down a couple of steps until he stood at the bottom of the stairs and allowed DiEbola to come to him.

  “Yeah. I was restless. I got up. There’s northern lights. I thought you’d like to see them. I bet you never saw the northern lights.”

  “Northern lights, boss? What’s that? The aurora? No, I never seen them.” He stepped away, putting the tray down carefully on the floor, looking over his shoulder at DiEbola, talking, still holding the beer bottle.

  “So you were restless, too,” DiEbola said, nodding at the tray. “Those things’ll keep you up all night.”

  “Not me, boss.” Pepe glanced at the door that led to the back entry. “Northern lights. It looks cold out there.” The light at the back entry shone on snow swirling past the steps. “Too cold for me. I got no boots”—he glanced down at DiEbola’s feet, at his parka— “no coat.”

  “There’s some stuff here,” DiEbola said. “I’ll get you something to throw on.” There was a little anteroom where the household staff kept kindling, firewood for the fireplaces, and various household tools, shovels and the like. The staff kept a couple of jackets and slip-on boots handy for fetching firewood. This equipment was normally stored in one of the garages or sheds, but in winter they brought it in here for convenience.

  DiEbola rooted around until he found the boots, which he tossed out to Pepe, then a wool coat. “C’mon,” he urged, “you gotta see this. We’ll just step out for a second. It ain’t that cold. Go ahead.”

  He prodded the young man and followed him out through the entry onto the back porch. It was rather light out, reflections of the snow from the lights on the perimeter and at the front of the house. Deep shadows, but light enough to move about. The wind was huffing, snow hissing across the crusted surface. In the distance it was black. The lake.

  Pepe stopped on the porch and shivered, despite the coat and the boots. “I don’t see nothing, boss.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna see nothing from in here. Go on out there. I’m right behind yo
u.”

  “Ees fucking cold, boss!”

  “Just a few steps. Down the path here.” DiEbola prodded him with his gloved hand.

  “Jesus, boss! Okay, okay, but I’m freezing my ass. This Detroit, ees too fucking cold!”

  The man hopped a few steps down the path and stopped, looking up, his arms clutching the coat closed, still carrying the beer bottle. “I don’t see nothing, boss.”

  “You know what, it’s too light. Let me turn out these porch lights.” DiEbola stepped back onto the porch and flipped off the porch light. He also picked up an axe that the help had left there for splitting wood. He held it behind him and rejoined Pepe. The lights were visible, now, like curtains of pale fire that swept back and forth across the heavens. The rosy lights of the city seemed to tinge them with color.

  “Wow!” Pepe said. “I never seen nothing like it.”

  DiEbola swung the axe. The blade chunked into the man’s head. He fell face forward into the snow. DiEbola hurried back to the house and raced upstairs. He stripped a sheet off Pepe’s bed and ran as quickly and quietly as he could back down the stairs and outside. With fierce concentration, panting and sweating, he rolled the body into the sheet. There wasn’t much blood, less than he’d expected. He kicked snow over it.

  A few minutes later he had fetched the toboggan that the maids used to haul firewood from the shed, loaded the body on it, and begun to trudge out toward the frozen lake, dragging the loaded toboggan behind him. Twenty minutes later he was back at the house. He stowed the toboggan and carried the grisly package of blood-soaked sheet into the house. He returned the outdoor gear, carefully wiped clean, back to the reception closet. He turned up the lights in the corridor to their ordinary dimness, then listened to Helen’s room. She seemed to be sleeping.

  He turned on the alarm system. It was nearly three. He scanned the console. Everything looked in order. John was still poring over the magazine in the gatehouse, the guy on watch in the barracks was talking to another one of the guys who apparently couldn’t sleep.