“I feel so silly about this,” Deirdre said. “One of the robes I gave her . . . it was Mr. Pollack’s old robe, actually. I threw out most of his things after he died. It was hard for me to look at them. I couldn’t imagine why I had kept his shredded old robe.”
She looked down at her lap.
“Not more than fifteen minutes after Martina left, I realized why I hadn’t given the robe away. I kept my diamond ring in one of the pockets. I have three different diamond rings, two of which I keep in a vault. But it’s ridiculous to have rings and always keep them in a vault. So this one—the smallest of the three—I kept at home, wrapped in an old sock and placed in the left pocket of Mr. Pollack’s robe. I hadn’t worn any of my rings in ages, and being old, I guess it simply slipped my mind.
“I waited until Martina arrived home and phoned her just as she walked through her door. I told her what I had done, and she looked in the pockets of the robe and announced she had the ring. I was thrilled—delighted that nothing had happened to it. But I was also extremely pleased by Martina’s honesty. She said she would return the ring to me on Monday. I realize now that I should have called my son and asked him to pick it up right at that moment, but I didn’t want to insult her.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Deirdre said, grabbing my hand. “Do you think I’m foolish for trusting someone who has worked for me for twelve years?”
Wonderfully foolish. “You didn’t want to insult her,” I said, using her words.
“Exactly,” Deirdre answered. “By now you must have figured out the problem. It is now Tuesday. I still don’t have my diamond, and I can’t get hold of Martina.”
“Is her phone disconnected?” I asked.
“No. It just rings and rings and no one answers it.”
“Why don’t you just send your son down now?”
“Because . . .” She sighed. “Because I don’t want him to think of his mother as an old fool. Can you go down for me? I’ll pay you for your time. I can afford it.”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Wonderful!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Oh, thank you so much.”
I gave her my rates, and they were fine with her. She handed me a piece of paper inked with Martina’s name, address, and phone number. I didn’t know the exact location of the house, but I knew the area. I thanked her for the information, then said, “Deirdre, if it looks like Martina took off with the ring, would you like me to inform the police for you?”
“No!” she said adamantly.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Even if Martina took the ring, I wouldn’t want to see her in jail. We’ve had too many years together for me to do that.”
“You can be my boss anytime,” I said.
“Why?” Deirdre asked. “Do you do housekeeping, too?”
I informed her that I was a terrible housekeeper. As I left, she looked both grateful and confused.
Martina Cruz lived on Highland Avenue south of Washington—a street lined by small houses tattooed with graffiti. The address on the paper was a wood-sided white bungalow with a tar-paper roof. The front lawn—mowed but devoid of shrubs—was bisected by a cracked red plaster walkway. There was a two-step hop onto a porch whose decking was wet and rotted. The screen door was locked, but a head-size hole bad been cut through the mesh. I knocked through the hole, but no one answered. I turned the knob, and to my surprise, the door yielded, screen and all.
I called out a “hello,” and when no one answered, I walked into the living room—an eight-by-ten rectangle filled with hand-me-down furnishings. The sofa fabric, once gold, had faded to dull mustard. Two mismatched chairs were positioned opposite it. There was a scarred dining table off the living room, its centerpiece a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. Encircling the table were six folding chairs. The kitchen was tiny, but the counters were clean, the food in the refrigerator still fresh. The trash hadn’t been taken out in a while. It was brimming over with Corona beer bottles.
I went into the sole bedroom. A full-size mattress lay on the floor. No closets. Clothing was neatly arranged in boxes—some filled with little-girl garments, others stuffed with adult apparel. I quickly sifted through the piles, trying to find Mr. Pollack’s robe.
I didn’t find it—no surprise. Picking up a corner of the mattress, I peered underneath but didn’t see anything. I poked around a little longer, then checked out the backyard—a dirt lot holding a rusted swing set and some deflated rubber balls.
I went around to the front and decided to question the neighbors. The house on the immediate left was occupied by a diminutive, thickset Latina matron. She was dressed in a floral-print muumuu, and her hair was tied in a bun. I asked her if she’d seen Martina lately, and she pretended not to understand me. My Spanish, though far from perfect, was understandable, so it seemed as if we had a little communication gap. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome by a ten-dollar bill.
After I gave her the money, the woman informed me her name was Alicia and she hadn’t seen Martina, Martina’s husband, or their two little girls for a few days. But the lights had been on last night, loud music booming out of the windows.
“Does Martina have any relatives?” I asked Alicia in Spanish.
“Ella tiene una hermana, pero no sé dónde ella vive.”
Martina had a sister, but Alicia didn’t know where she lived. Probing further, I found out the sister’s name—Yolanda Flores. And I also learned that the little girls went to a small parochial school run by the Iglesia Evangélica near Western Avenue. I knew the church she was talking about.
Most people think of Hispanics as always being Catholic. But I knew from past work that Evangelical Christianity had taken a strong foothold in Central and South America. Maybe I could locate Martina or the sister, Yolanda, through the church directory. I thanked Alicia and went on my way.
The Pentecostal Church of Christ sat on a quiet avenue—an aqua-blue stucco building that looked more like an apartment complex than a house of worship. About twenty-five primary-grade children were playing in an outdoor parking lot, the perimeters defined by a Cyclone fence. The kids wore green-and-red uniforms and looked like moving Christmas-tree ornaments.
I went through the gate, dodging racing children, and walked into the main sanctuary. The chapel wasn’t large—around twenty by thirty—but the high ceiling made it feel spacious. There were three distinct seating areas—the Pentecostal triad: married women on the right, married men on the left, and mixed young singles in the middle. The pews faced a stage that held a thronelike chair upholstered in red velvet. In front of the throne was a lectern sandwiched between two giant urns sprouting plastic flowers. Off to the side were several electric guitars and a drum set, the name Revelación taped on the bass drum. I heard footsteps from behind and turned around.
The man looked to be in his early thirties, with thick dark straight hair and bright green eyes. His face held a hint of Aztec warrior—broad nose, strong cheekbones and chin. Dressed in casual clothing, he was tall and muscular, and I was acutely aware of his male presence. I asked him where I might find the pastor and was surprised when he announced that he was the very person.
I’d expected someone older.
I stated my business, his eyes never leaving mine as I spoke. When I finished, he stared at me for a long time before telling me his name—Pastor Alfredo Gomez. His English was unaccented.
“Martina’s a good girl,” Gomez said. “She would never take anything that didn’t belong to her. Some problem probably came up. I’m sure everything will work out and your patrona will get her ring back.”
“What kind of problem?”
The pastor shrugged.
“Immigration problems?” I probed.
Another shrug.
“You don’t seem concerned by her disappearance.”
He gave me a cryptic smile.
“Can you tell me one thing?” I asked. “Are her children safe?”
“I believe they’re
in school,” Gomez said.
“Oh.” I brightened. “Did Martina bring them in?”
“No.” Gomez frowned. “No, she didn’t. Her sister brought them in today. But that’s not unusual.”
“You haven’t seen Martina today?”
Gomez shook his head. I thought he was telling me the truth, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the woman was hiding from the INS. Still, after twelve years, you’d think she’d have applied for amnesty. And then there was the obvious alternative. Martina had taken the ring and was hiding out somewhere.
“Do you have Martina’s husband’s work number? I’d like to talk with him.”
“José works construction,” Gomez said. “I have no idea what crew he’s on or where he is.”
“What about Martina’s sister, Yolanda Flores?” I said. “Do you have her phone number?”
The pastor paused.
“I’m not from the INS.” I fished around inside my wallet and came up with my private investigator’s license.
He glanced at it. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” I put my ID back in my purse. “Just trying to gain some trust. Look, Pastor, my client is really worried about Martina. She doesn’t give a hoot about the ring. She specifically told me not to call the police, even if Martina took the ring—”
Gomez stiffened and said, “Martina wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay. Then help us both out, Pastor. Martina might be in some real trouble. Maybe her sister knows something.”
Silently, Gomez weighed the pros and cons of trusting me. I must have looked sincere, because he told me to wait a moment, then came back with Yolanda’s work number.
“You won’t regret this,” I assured him.
“I hope I don’t,” Gomez said.
I thanked him again, taking a final gander at those beautiful green eyes before I slipped out the door.
I found a phone booth around the corner, slipped a quarter in the slot, and waited. An accented voice whispered hello.
Using my workable Spanish, I asked for Yolanda Flores. Speaking English, the woman informed me that she was Yolanda. In the background I heard the wail of a baby.
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” I apologized. “I’m looking for your sister.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
Quickly, I said, “I’m not from inmigración. I was hired by Mrs. Deirdre Pollack to find Martina and was given your work number by Pastor Gomez. Martina hasn’t shown up for work in two days, and Mrs. Pollack is worried about her.”
More silence. If I hadn’t heard the baby crying, I would have thought Yolanda had hung up the phone.
“You work for Missy Deirdre?” Yolanda asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s very worried about your sister. Martina hasn’t shown up for work. Is your sister okay?”
Yolanda’s voice cracked. “Es no good. Monday, en la tarde, Martina husband call me. He tell me she don’ work for Missy Deirdre and she have new job. He tell me to pick up her girls ’cause Martina work late. So I pick up the girls from the school and take them with me.
“Later, I try to call her, she’s not home. I call and call, but no one answers. I don’ talk to José, I don’ talk to no one. I take the girls to school this morning. Then José, he call me again.”
“When?”
“About two hour. He ask me to take girls. I say jes, but where is Martina? He tell me she has to sleep in the house where she work. I don’ believe him.”
It was my turn not to answer right away. Yolanda must have been bouncing the baby or something, because the squalling had stopped.
“You took the children yesterday?” I asked.
“I take her children, jes. I no mind takin’ the kids, but I want to talk to Martina. And José . . . he don’ give me the new work number. I call Martina’s house, no one answer. I goin’ to call Missy Deirdre and ask if Martina don’ work there no more. Ahorita, you tell me Missy Deirdre call you. I . . . scared.”
“Yolanda, where can I find José?”
“He works construcción. I don’ know where. Mebbe he goes home after work and don’ answer the phone. You can go to Martina’s house tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” I said. “I’ll give you my phone number, you give me yours. If you find out anything, call me. If I find out something, I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We exchanged numbers, then said goodbye. My next call was to Deirdre Pollack. I told her about my conversation with Yolanda. Deirdre was sure that Martina hadn’t taken a new job. First of all, Martina would never just leave her flat. Second, Martina would never leave her children to work as a sleep-in housekeeper.
I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Martina had fled with the ring and was lying low in some private home. But I kept my thoughts private and told Deirdre my intention to check out Martina’s house tonight. She told me to be careful. I thanked her and said I’d watch my step.
At night Martina’s neighborhood was the mean streets, the sidewalks supporting pimps and prostitutes, pushers and buyers. Every half hour or so, the homeboys cruised by in souped-up lowriders, their ghetto blasters pumping out body-rattling bass vibrations. I was glad I had my Colt .38 with me, but at the same time I wished it were a Browning Pump.
I sat in my truck, waiting for some sign of life at Martina’s place, and my patience was rewarded two hours later. A Ford pickup parked in front of the frame house, and out came four dark-complexioned males dressed nearly identically: jeans, dark windbreakers zipped up to the neck, and hats. Three of them wore ratty baseball caps; the biggest and fattest wore a bright white painter’s cap. Big-and-Fat was shouting and singing. I couldn’t understand his Spanish—his speech was too rapid for my ear—but the words I could pick up seemed slurred. The other three men were holding six-packs of beer. From the way all of them acted, the six-packs were not their first of the evening.
They went inside. I slipped my gun into my purse and got out of my truck, walking up to the door. I knocked. My luck: Big-and-Fat answered. Up close he was nutmeg-brown, with fleshy cheeks and thick lips. His teeth were rotten, and he smelled of sweat and beer.
“I’m looking for Martina Cruz,” I said in Spanish.
Big-and-Fat stared at me—at my Anglo face. He told me in English that she wasn’t home.
“Can I speak to José?”
“He’s no home, too.”
“I saw him come in.” It wasn’t really a lie, more of an educated guess. Maybe one of the four men was José.
Big-and-Fat stared at me, then broke into a contemptuous grin. “I say he no home.”
I heard Spanish in the background, a male voice calling out the name José. I peered around Big-and-Fat’s shoulders, trying to peek inside, but he stepped forward, making me back up. His expression was becoming increasingly hostile, and I always make it a point not to provoke drunk men who outweigh me.
“I’m going,” I announced with a smile.
“Pasqual,” someone said. A thinner version of Big-and-Fat stepped onto the porch. “Pasqual, qué pasa?”
Opportunity knocked. I took advantage.
“I’m looking for José Cruz,” I said as I kept walking backward. “I’ve been hired to look for Martin—”
The thinner man blanched.
“Go away!” Pasqual thundered out. “Go or I kill you!”
I didn’t stick around to see if he’d make good on his threat.
The morning paper stated that Malibu Mike, having expired from natural causes, was still in deep freeze, waiting for a relative to claim his body. He’d died buried under tiers of clothing, his feet wrapped in three pairs of socks stuffed into size-twelve mismatched shoes. Two pairs of gloves had covered his hands, and three scarves had been wrapped around his neck. A Dodgers cap was perched atop a ski hat that encased Malibu’s head. In all those layers, there was not one single piece of ID to let us know who he really was. After all these years, I thought he deserv
ed a decent burial, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The locals were taking up a collection to have him cremated. Maybe a small service, too—a few words of remembrance, then his ashes would be mixed with the tides.
I thought Malibu might have liked that. I took a twenty from my wallet and began to search the trailer for a clean envelope and a stamp. I found what I was looking for and was addressing the envelope when Yolanda Flores called me.
“Dey find her,” she said, choking back sobs. “She dead. The police find her in a trash can. She beat to death. Es horrible!”
“Yolanda, I’m so sorry.” I really was. “I wish I could do something for you.”
“You wan’ do somethin’ for me?” Yolanda said. “You find out what happen to my sister.”
Generally, I like to be paid for my services, but my mind flashed to little dresses in cardboard boxes. I knew what it was like to live without a mother. Besides, I was still fuming over last night’s encounter with Pasqual.
“I’ll look into it for you,” I said.
There was a silence across the line.
“Yolanda?”
“I still here,” she said. “I . . . surprise you help me.”
“No problem.”
“Thank you.” She started to cry. “Thank you very much. I pay you—”
“Forget it.”
“No, I work for you on weekends—”
“Yolanda, I live in a trailer and couldn’t find anything if you cleaned up my place. Forget about paying me. Let’s get back to your sister. Tell me about José. Martina and he got along?”
There was a very long pause. Yolanda finally said, “José no good. He and his brothers.”
“Is Pasqual one of José’s brothers?”
“How you know?”
I told her about my visit with Pasqual the night before, about Big-and-Fat’s threat. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”
“I don’ know. He drink and fight. I don’ know if he kill anyone when he’s drunk.”
“Did you ever see Pasqual beating Martina?”
“No,” Yolanda said. “I never see that.”
“What about José?”
Another moment of silence.
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 15