“I’d appreciate it, yes.”
The priest moved to the phone on his desk, picked up the receiver, and pressed a button. “Isabel, you remember Mr. Rodriguez from last Sunday…? That’s right. Was he here yesterday…? I see…You’ll let me know right away?” He hung up. “She’s calling around,” he said to Wil. “Is Mr. Rodriguez missing?”
“He was murdered last night,” Wil answered. “At a bar not far from here.”
Father Martin made the sign of the cross and sat down heavily. “Madre Domini,” he said as though infinitely fatigued. “I didn’t know him well, but he seemed so decent. He had a family, hadn’t he?”
“A son grown and gone. A wife at home.”
“The poor woman. What happened?”
Wil told him about it as the priest slowly shook his head.
He said, “And you think this man Zavala you were looking for had something to do with it?”
“He was expecting us. On the phone he used my name.”
“My God.”
“Someone let Zavala know we were coming, Father. Someone Paul may have inadvertently told.”
“Not someone here, surely.”
“Not necessarily, but someone I hope to find.”
The intercom buzzed then, and Father Martin went to pick it up. “All right, thank you,” he said after listening a moment. He laid the receiver down. “Isabel checked with everyone she remembered as being here yesterday, even the volunteers. No one remembers seeing Mr. Rodriguez. I’m sorry.”
Wil stood up; as usual, it had been too much to hope for. He fondled the pieces of foil in his pockets—little sins probably, indulgences Paul kept from a weight-conscious Raeann. Meaningless.
“Is there anything I can do for the family?” Father Martin was saying. “A mass of course, but anything else?”
Wil was touched by his sincerity. “I’ll let you know, Father. Thank you for your time.” He was almost to the door, his hand still in his pocket, when something occurred to him, prompted in part by hunger. “Father, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those mints you gave Paul, would you?”
There was the slightest hesitation before the priest answered. “No,” he smiled, reaching into the pocket of his black suit coat. “But maybe a couple of these would help keep body and soul together.”
Into Wil’s hand he put three foil-wrapped little shapes.
Which proves nothing, Wil thought, eating the Hershey’s Kisses and taking the concrete path toward the parking lot, not a damn thing. The candies could have come from anywhere, could have been there for days, could have anything: likely find a stash of them right now in Paul’s garage. And Father Martin lying? Come on, Hardesty, do better.
Passing the church, he heard the sound of organ music and went in. For a moment he just listened—some hymn he couldn’t place, vague notes in the shafts of sunlight flooding down on empty pews. He spotted stairs and climbed the loft.
The organist was a balding gnome with a florid face who looked as though reaching the pedals was a constant struggle. When he saw Wil he hit a sour note and stopped playing.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Wil said.
“Don’t tell me,” the man said, “another new request. I keep telling them, these hymns take time to learn.” He looked as if he were about to cry.
“Were you here yesterday?”
“Here every day. You don’t have more work for me?”
“Just a question,” he said, noting the relieved look. He described Paul. “Any chance you might have seen him here yesterday, around three to four o’clock?”
“Look for yourself,” the man said. “From up here I see Christ on his cross and a lot of stained glass.”
“Right. Thanks for the music.” Wil was at the stairs when the man said:
“Heard somebody yesterday about the time you said.”
Wil turned back.
“Catchin’ holy hell from Father Martin, he was. Boy, can he skin ’em alive when he wants to.”
“You catch a name?”
“No. But the guy was gettin’ it over some question he’d asked.”
“What question?”
The gnome rubbed his lips. “You notice how stuffy it gets up here? Makes a man thirsty, you catch my drift.”
Wil took out his wallet and passed the man a ten. “The question?”
The bill went into his pocket like metal to a magnet. “I didn’t hear it actually, just who it was about: our illustrious financial advisor and benefactor, ‘His Royal Anus’—ooops, naughty me—Leonardo Guerra. Must’ve been something, because he really got his head handed to him.”
At the Rodriguez house, Wil exchanged cars, told Raeann he’d be at home for a few days, then headed west on the Ventura toward Ignacio Reyes’ place. Hugging the slow lane, he turned things over in his mind. If that had been Paul in the church, why had Father Martin lied? What would have angered the priest—some suspicion Paul had about Guerra and Zavala? Paul hadn’t even heard of the possible link Epstein found until last night on the phone. He’d have been speculating.
Wil turned off the freeway and called Vella from a pay phone, heard that Paul’s autopsy report would be ready “sometime soon.” The coroner’s office was swamped with bodies, Christmas holidays bringing out the best in people as usual. “You unclear how he died, Hardesty?” Vella asked, sounding like Epstein. Wil ignored him and rang off.
Clouds were moving in, deep shadow and brilliant sun striating the foothills as he parked the car in front of the white house. A gardener was making scant progress against the wind. Leaves were dropping from the Chinese elm as fast as he could blow them off the lawn.
Marta was not pleased; reluctantly she showed him in, let him find his own way to the den where Ignacio Reyes nursed a beer. From the man’s eyes Wil wondered how many had preceded it. He seated himself on the couch as Marta appeared with the coffee he’d requested.
“I realize this is sudden,” he said, taking a tentative sip and finding it too hot, “but I came here to resign.” He watched a flush spread over Reyes’ pale skin and decided the tall man wasn’t refused much.
“You disappoint me, Mr. Hardesty,” he said. “I had understood you to be making progress. You want more money, of course.” He got out a leatherbound checkbook and began writing.
“Money has nothing to do with this. It’s become personal.” He explained about Paul.
Reyes’ mouth dropped; he put a hand to his throat. “My son and now my friend. The miserable bastard.”
“My reasoning is this,” Wil said. “If I can get a crack at Zavala, I intend to take it. If I kill him, there might be talk you hired me to do it, or that I was working vendetta on my client’s time. I’m sure you understand that neither is acceptable.
“And there’s another problem. If Zavala learns who hired me, he’ll go after you. He has everything to lose if you identify him.”
Reyes slumped in his chair. “You mean my family is in danger?”
“Potentially yes, more likely no. Somehow he knows who I am, but not about you, because he asked who I was working for. I’ll tally up where we stand, and you can send a check. For now, save your money.” He stood up to go.
“One thing more,” he said. “You keep a gun in the house?”
Reyes shook his head as though having marginal success trying to keep everything separate.
“I recommend you look into it.” Wil scribbled down the name of a gun shop he knew Paul favored. “Tell them you want to learn to use it.”
Reyes got up then, but Wil stopped him as they started for the front entrance. “I’ll take the back,” he said, shaking Reyes’ hand. “You should know also the law is now involved. They don’t know about you and won’t from me, but it’s another good reason for us to stay apart.”
Reyes took a breath as if to say something but didn’t, just led the way to the sliding glass doors. “Vaya con Dios,” he said, then drew back inside.
Wil eased out onto the patio. Skirting the pool,
he followed a fenceline concealed by laurel, then walked to the Bonneville and caught the 101 for home.
Leonardo Guerra took pride in his ability to sniff out fear the way a shark smelled blood. That it was over the phone only enhanced the metaphor. “You’re slipping,” he told the voice at the other end. “This is no time for mistakes.”
“I am not your equal in these matters. I willingly confess to that.”
Guerra felt the barb in the tone, but dismissed it. “You’re lucky that no one else remembered Rodriguez,” he said. “Was there some reason you had in not just admitting you’d talked to him? What would have been the harm?”
“The tree is best nipped in the bud. Perhaps if you had not been so forthcoming about knowing that murderer…”
“Useful murderer.”
“Perhaps you could explain how useful it was for him to tell Hardesty he knew they were coming.”
Guerra heard a rushing in his ears like water through a spillway. “What did you say?”
“On the phone. From that bar. Your man was even so kind as to use Hardesty’s name while threatening him.”
There was a narrowing of vision, a tightening of the skin. Finally Martin DeSantis said: “Are you there?”
Fearful of what he might say next, Leonardo Guerra hung up the receiver.
SIXTEEN
Wil waited until they’d finished breakfast to explain about the danger; afterward, in the silence, he took her hand. “I just think it would be a good idea for you to stay with your parents. A few days, Leese. Till Zavala’s finished.”
Lisa looked at him. “This is our house, Wil.”
“I know. But this is different, that must be obvious.”
“Nobody can find La Conchita,” she joked, “even our friends. I don’t want to leave. What I want to do is help.”
“You’ll be helping by leaving.”
“No, I’ll be running away. There must be something I can do.”
He was in no mood. “Zavala knows who I am, Lisa—for Christ’s sake, he called me by name as he was cutting Paul’s throat. How hard would it be for him to find me? Or you?” He got up and went out on the balcony.
She followed, brushed back hair the breeze had swept across her face as they stood looking at the ocean. “What about your friend Mo Epstein—police protection and all that?”
“My point exactly.”
“What did he say?” His hesitation was her entree: “Have you even discussed it with him?”
“I have my reasons, all right?”
“I know you,” she said finally. “You want Zavala to find you. You want to square this thing with Paul the hard way, kill or be killed. And what do I do, just smile while the bullets fly?” She turned to face him. “You’re scaring me, you know. We’ve already lost one member of this family.”
He gripped the railing. “Thanks to me, you mean.”
“Did I say that? If you still feel blame I’m sorry, but it changes nothing.”
He calmed down with deep breaths.
She said, “What happened with Devin is over, but I can’t go through it twice. If something happens to you, it happens to me. You think about that.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be the Lone Ranger. But I can’t just leave this thing to somebody else.” He gathered her in, kissed her. “I’ll be careful.”
“And you’ll think about how I can help in this?”
“Yes,” he lied. “Right now though, you can help most by doing me that favor.”
“All right.” She moved against him and they stood a minute at the rail. Then she led him into the bedroom and they made love very slowly, forgetting the distance between them, the danger, everything—cooling off afterward in a pool of winter sunlight that lay across the tangle.
Later, as he helped her pack a few things, he made up something about his schedule being iffy so she’d take Edward. Loading the cage, he promised again to be careful and to call every night. Then he kissed her, and she was gone.
From the window he watched the black coupe shoot north past the Rincon and disappear, thinking that she was right, of course. His hunger for blood was as real as the taste of copper pennies on the tongue.
Vella came on the line after a slight delay. Not much new: Epstein was home and expected back Monday, the stitches holding, his concussion effects receding. Wil would call him later; for now he had other business.
“Who should I talk to in Lancaster?” he asked. “I want to see the graves.”
“Whatever,” Vella said.
Wil took down the information, made the Antelope Valley sheriff’s station in just over two hours; from there they took Sergeant Montoya’s Blazer. Montoya was a big man: fortyish, two-twenty, Wil figured, tall for a Hispanic. Eyes deeply lined at the corners.
“Got the word you were in on this. How so?”
“Cost of doing business,” Wil told him. “Still, I appreciate the time. Thanks.”
Montoya nodded. They headed east toward Saddleback Butte, passing block after block of housing tracts in varying stages of development. “Take a good look,” Montoya said. “Pretty soon you won’t be able to see the damn desert. I grew up out here, watched this shit taking over. They build an airport like they’re talking about, you might as well put these Joshua trees in a museum.”
“Growing like crazy, all right.”
“And the crime rate right along with it,” Montoya said sourly.
They drove, finally escaping the sprawl. Off to the right the mountains showed a hemline of snow; where they were, the clouds roamed like tumbleweeds. Pools of sunshine darted among the shadows.
“Vella said you supervised the gravesite.”
Montoya nodded, easing around a cyclist. “Till Homicide took over. Man and his son found ’em, at least the first one. As light got better, we found the second. Then another one, and another, and pretty soon seven. Eerie, like they were growin’ there.”
They passed the butte; Montoya found a gravel turnoff and headed north. “A flash flood uncovered ’em,” he said, “once-in-a-blue-moon thing. Whoever did the burying was smart, dug where the developers wouldn’t be—at least not in this century.” Another turnoff and a couple of miles in, they bumped to a stop.
“Now we walk,” said Montoya.
Minutes later Wil spotted the yellow crime-scene tape. Far away a storm thundered; wind blew cold off the snow; a flicker hammered at a dead Joshua tree. Following Montoya, he dropped down a shallow embankment and approached the site.
“First one was here,” said Montoya, pointing, “the kid with the medal. The second was over there. I don’t recall how the rest went. Somethin’, huh?”
Wil nodded. The scene looked like a mining operation, gridded out with stakes, lines, and fluttering markers. The top layer of soil had been lifted off; graves, enlarged in the search for clues, were now just depressions. At the perimeter, among creosote and sage, debris lay piled on stony ground.
He kicked a rock, imagining the killer here: digging, a small form lowered, earth replaced, footsteps leaving. One by one he wandered the graves, wondering who the other children were and why. He asked Montoya and got a question back.
“You have kids, Mr. Hardesty?”
Simpler to say no, so he did.
“This must seem bad to you, but it’s worse with kids. I’ve got four—can’t imagine what I’d do if something like this happened.” Montoya picked up a piece of quartz and chucked it, following its flight with his eyes. “I bleed for the parents, whoever they are.”
He turned back to Wil. “As to your question, I don’t know. Sex maybe, pedophiles kill sometimes. Pretty clean, though, for sex murders.” He lifted and resettled his hat. “What worries me is what’s been goin’ on in the meantime.”
“Meaning?”
“Serial killers usually don’t stop—they keep at it, like an addiction. How many more, I wonder, since these?”
A dust devil formed, stinging them with sand. As they watched it whirl away, Montoya said, “
I’d like to get my hands on the sucker. What’s a kid ever done to anybody?”
Wil blew on his hands. “Could somebody with kids do this?”
“Yes and no. Sometimes a parent does his family and makes a run for it. More often it’s murder-suicide, breaking-point cases. Personally, I can’t see anybody who’s had a child killing one, let alone seven. Especially like this.” Montoya shook his head. “Fuckin’ thing’s scary, it’s so cold.”
They poked around awhile longer, then Montoya was out of time—the sun would be down in another hour, and he had reports waiting. Wil was reluctant without knowing why, but he followed, turning back once. Shadowed now, the graves looked grim and sad and overwhelmed by the vastness of desert.
“God,” he said to no one.
Mo Epstein was on the couch with his feet up, full of game shows and Ibuprophen. His head was shaved in back, exposing an ugly line of black stitches.
Wil opened the pint of Jack Daniels he’d picked up leaving Lancaster and poured Epstein a snort. “Nice place,” he said looking around the condo.
“Better living through pressboard,” Epstein said. He watched Wil pop open a 7UP. “Can’t tempt you, huh?”
“One’s too many, a hundred not enough. Thanks anyway.”
“How’s Raeann Rodriguez?”
“Thinking about visiting her son in Texas, who should be arriving today. Be good for her to get away for a while. The house is full of Paul.”
“Just retired, hadn’t he?”
“Couple of years ago.”
“Shit. I sent flowers—anything else I can do, you let me know.” Epstein raised his drink. “He was a good man. I’d like a piece of the guy who did him.”
They drank to that.
“Anything on Zavala from your end?”
Wil shook his head, told him about the threat, of packing off Lisa.
“Vella know about it?”
Wil tilted the soft-drink can.
“Jesus Christ,” Mo said. “You are not thinking what I think you are.”
The Innocents Page 12