Yolanda said, “He slap her mebbe one or two time. I tell her to leave him, but she say no ’cause of the girls.”
“Do you think José could kill Martina?”
Yolanda said, “He slap her when he drink. But I don’ think he would kill her to kill her.”
“He wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
“Essackly.”
“Yolanda, would José kill Martina for money?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s Evangélico. A bad Evangélico, but not el diablo.”
“He wouldn’t do it for lots of money?”
“No, he don’ kill her for money.”
I said, “What about Pasqual?”
“I don’ think so.”
“Martina have any enemigos?”
“Nunca personal!” Yolanda said. “No one want to hurt her. She like sugar. Es so terrible!”
She began to cry. I didn’t want to question her further over the phone. A face-to-face meeting would be better. I asked her when was the funeral service.
“Tonight. En la iglesia a las ocho. After the culto funeral, we go to cementerio. You wan’ come?”
“Yes, I think that might be best.” I told her I knew the address of the church and would meet her at eight o’clock sharp.
I was unnerved by what I had to do next: break the bad news to Deirdre Pollack. The old woman took it relatively well, never even asked about the ring. When I told her I’d volunteered to look into Martina’s death, she offered to pay me. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but when she insisted, I didn’t refuse.
I got to the church by eight, then realized I didn’t know Yolanda from Adam. But she picked me out in a snap. Not a plethora of five-foot-eight, blond, blue-eyed Salvadoran women.
Yolanda was petite, barely five feet and maybe ninety pounds tops. She had yards of brown hair—Evangelical women don’t cut their tresses—and big brown eyes moistened with tears. She took my hand, squeezed it tightly, and thanked me for coming.
The church was filled to capacity, the masses adding warmth to the unheated chapel. In front of the stage was a table laden with broth, hot chocolate, and plates of bread. Yolanda asked me if I wanted anything to eat, and I declined.
We sat in the first row of the married women’s section. I glanced at the men’s area and noticed Pasqual with his cronies. I asked Yolanda to point out José: the man who had come to the door with Pasqual. The other two men were also brothers. José’s eyes were swollen and bright red. Crying or post-alcohol intoxication?
I studied him further. He’d been stuffed into an ill-fitting black suit, his dark hair slicked back with grease. All the brothers wore dark suits. José looked nervous, but the others seemed almost jocular.
Pasqual caught me staring, and his expression immediately darkened, his eyes bearing down on me. I felt needles down my spine as he began to rise, but luckily, the service started and he sank back into his seat.
Pastor Gomez came to the dais and spoke about what a wonderful wife and mother Martina had been. As he talked, the women around me began to let out soft, muted sobs. I did manage to sneak a couple of sidelong glances at the brothers. I met up with Pasqual’s dark stare once again.
When the pastor had finished speaking, he gave the audience directions to the cemetery. Pasqual hadn’t forgotten about my presence, but I was too quick for him, making a beeline for the pastor. I managed to snare Gomez before Pasqual could get to me. The fat slob backed off when the pastor pulled me into a corner.
“What happened?” I asked.
Gomez looked down. “I wish I knew.”
“Do the police—”
“Police!” the pastor spat. “They don’t care about a dead Hispanic girl. One less flea in their country. I was wearing my work clothes when I got the call this morning. I’d been doing some plumbing, and I guess they thought I was a wetback who didn’t understand English.” His eyes held pain. “They joked about her. They said it was a shame to let such a wonderful body go to waste!”
“That stinks.”
“Yes, it stinks.” Gomez shook his head. “So you see, I don’t expect much from the police.”
“I’m looking into her death.”
Gomez stared at me. “Who’s paying you to do it?”
“Not Yolanda,” I said.
“Martina’s patrona. She wants her ring.”
“I think she wants justice for Martina.”
The pastor blushed from embarrassment.
I said, “I would have done it gratis. I’ve got some suspicions.” I filled him in on my encounter with Pasqual.
Gomez thought a moment. “Pasqual drinks, even though the church forbids alcohol. Pasqual’s not a bad person. Maybe you made him feel threatened.”
“Maybe I did.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gomez said. “Calm him down. But I don’t think you should come to the cementerio with us. Now’s not the time for accusations.”
I agreed. He excused himself as another parishioner approached, and suddenly, I was alone. Luckily, Pasqual had gone somewhere else. I met up with Yolanda, explaining my reason for not going to the cemetery. She understood.
We walked out to the school yard into a cold misty night. José and his brothers had already taken off their ties and replaced their suit jackets with warmer windbreakers. Pasqual took a deep swig from a bottle inside a paper bag, then passed the bag to one of his brothers.
“Look at them!” Yolanda said with disgust. “They no even wait till after the funeral. They nothing but cholos. Es terrible!”
I glanced at José and his brothers. Something was bothering me, and it took a minute or two before it came to me. As on the night before, three of them—including José—were wearing old baseball caps. Pasqual was the only one wearing a painter’s cap.
I didn’t know why, but I found that odd. Then something familiar began to come up from my subconscious, and I knew I’d better start phoning up bus drivers. From behind me came a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
Pastor Gomez said, “Thank you for coming, Ms. Darling.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I never met Martina. From what I’ve heard, she seemed to be a good person.”
“She was.” Gomez bowed his head. “I appreciate your help, and I wish you peace.”
Then he turned and walked away. I’d probably never see him again, and I felt a little bad about that.
I tailed José the next morning. He and his brothers were part of a crew framing a house in the Hollywood Hills. I kept watch from a quarter block away, my truck partly hidden by the overhanging boughs of a eucalyptus. I was trying to figure out how to get José alone, and then I got a big break. The roach wagon pulled in, and José was elected by his brothers to pick up lunch.
I got out of my truck, intercepted him as he carried an armful of burritos, and stuck my .38 in his side, telling him if he said a word, I’d pull the trigger. My Spanish must have been very clear, because he was as mute as Dopey.
After I got him into the cab of my truck, I took the gun out of his ribs and held it in my lap.
I said, “What happened to Martina?”
“I don’ know.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You killed her.”
“I don’ kill her!” José was shaking hard. “Yo juro! I don’ kill her!”
“Who did?”
“I don’ know!”
“You killed her for the ring, didn’t you, José?” As I spoke, I saw him shrink. “Martina would never tell you she had the ring: She knew you would take it from her. But you must have found out. You asked her about the ring, and she said she didn’t have any ring, right?”
José didn’t answer.
I repeated the accusation in español, but he still didn’t respond. I went on.
“You didn’t know what to do, did you, José? So you waited and waited, and finally, Monday morning, you told your brothers about the ring. But by that time, Martina and the ring had already taken the bus to work.”
&nbs
p; “All we wan’ do is talk to her!” José insisted. “Nothin’ was esuppose to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I asked.
José opened his mouth, then shut it again.
I continued, “Pasqual has a truck—a Ford pickup.” I read him the license number. “You and your brothers decided to meet up with her. A truck can go a lot faster than a bus. When the bus made a stop, two of you got on it and made Martina get off.”
José shook his head.
“I called the bus company,” I said. “The driver remembered you and your brother—two men making this woman carrying a big bag get off at the stop behind the big garbage bin. The driver even asked if she was okay. But Martina didn’t want to get you in trouble and said todo está bien—everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine, was it?”
Tears welled up in José’s eyes.
“You tried to force her into the truck, but she fought, didn’t she?”
José remained mute.
“But you did get her in Pasqual’s truck,” I said. “Only you forgot something. When she fought, she must have knocked off Pasqual’s Dodgers cap. He didn’t know it was gone until later, did he?”
José jerked his head up. “How you know?”
“How do I know? I have that cap, José.” Not exactly true, but close enough. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
José thought a long time. Then he said, “It was assident. Pasqual no mean to hurt her bad. Just get her to talk. She no have ring when we take her off the bus.”
“Not in her bag—su bolsa?”
“Ella no tiene ninguna bolsa. She no have bags. She tell us she left ring at home. So we took her home, but she don’ fin’ the ring. That make me mad. I saw her with ring. No good for a wife to lie to husband.” His eyes filled with rage, his nostrils flared. “No good! A wife must always tell husband the truth!”
“So you killed her,” I said.
José said, “Pasqual . . . he did it. It was assident!”
I shook my head in disgust. I sat there in my truck, off guard and full of indignation. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late. The driver’s door jerked open, and the gun flew out of my lap. I felt as if I’d been wrenched from my mother’s bosom. Pasqual dragged me to the ground, his face looming over me, his complexion florid and furious. He drew back his fist and aimed it at my jaw.
I rolled my head to one side, and his hand hit the ground. Pasqual yelled, but not as loud as José did, shouting at his brother to stop. Then I heard the click of the hammer. Pasqual heard it, too, and released me immediately. By now a crowd had gathered. Gun in hand, José looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.
“You kill Martina!” José screamed out to Pasqual. “I’m going to kill you!”
Pasqual looked genuinely confused. He spoke in Spanish. “You killed her, you little shit! You beat her to death when we couldn’t find the ring!”
José looked at me, his expression saying: Do you understand this? Something in my eye must have told him I did. I told him to put the gun down. Instead, he turned his back on me and focused his eyes on Pasqual. “You lie. You get drunk, you kill Martina!”
In Spanish, Pasqual said, “I tried to stop you, you asshole!”
“You lie!” José said. And then he pulled the trigger.
I charged him before he could squeeze another bullet out of the chamber, but the damage had been done. Pasqual was already dead when the sirens pulled up.
The two other brothers backed José’s story. They’d come to confront Martina about the ring. She told them she had left it at home. But when they returned to the house and the ring wasn’t there, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, had beaten Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.
José will be charged with second-degree murder for Pasqual, and maybe a good lawyer’ll be able to bargain it down to manslaughter. But I remembered a murderous look in José’s eyes after he’d stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I’d be going after José with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that’s not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict—right or wrong—wouldn’t bring Martina back to life.
I called Mrs. Pollack after it was all over. Through her tears, she wished she’d never remembered the ring. It wasn’t her fault, but she still felt responsible. There was a small consolation. I was pretty sure I knew where the ring was.
I’m not too bad at guesses—like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church—three with beat-up Dodgers caps, the fourth wearing a new painter’s cap. Something off-kilter.
So my hunch had been correct. Pasqual had once owned a Dodgers cap. Where had it gone? Same place as Mr. Pollack’s robe. Martina had packed the robe in her bag Monday morning. When she was forced off the bus by José and his brothers, I pictured her quickly dumping the bag in a garbage bin at the bus stop, hoping to retrieve it later. She never got that chance.
As for the ring, it was right where I thought it would be: among the discards that had shrouded Malibu Mike the night he died. The Dodgers cap on Malibu’s head got me thinking in the right direction. If Malibu had found Pasqual’s cap, maybe he’d found the other bag left behind by Martina. After all, that bin had been his spot.
Good old Malibu. One of his layers had been a grimy old robe. Wedged into the corner of its pocket, a diamond ring. Had Malibu not died that Monday, José might have been a free man today.
Mrs. Pollack didn’t feel right about keeping the ring, so she offered it to Yolanda Flores. Yolanda was appreciative of such generosity, but she refused the gift, saying the ring was cursed. Mrs. Pollack didn’t take offense; Yolanda was a woman with pride. Finally, after a lot of consideration, Mrs. Pollack gave the ring to the burial committee for Malibu Mike. Malibu never lived wealthy, but he sure went out in high style.
TENDRILS
of LOVE
“Tendrils of Love” falls under the
category of “be careful what you wish
for,” especially in this modern-day age
of instantaneous communication via
the wireless highway. It is not a smart
practice to believe everything you read.
In some cases, it can be deadly.
THERE IS AN ARM—LONG AND SINUOUS—stretching across gigabytes of electronic cables, fingers emitting charged impulses that touch, then seize, unsuspecting hearts. And so it was with Ophelia. What started out as a lark to alleviate boredom became a hobby, which gave way to an obsession. Private hours spent on the Net, trapping human discourse. In the end, it was the Net that trapped her. Because when she met Justice, she broke every cardinal rule of proper cyberbehavior—giving him the state where she lived, then the city, and ultimately, her real name.
There were things to consider: her life as it stood. But she made the decision with ease. Not a hard one, but an important one. It ended her ten-year stale marriage, her dead-end job, and her nowhere life. She prayed it was the right decision, if not the moral one.
The morning she decided to leave her husband held no special markers. Brian got up as usual, showered and shaved, lumbered down to the breakfast table, tossed her a usual “Mornin’.” He slipped two slices of sourdough in the toaster, poured himself a cup of coffee. Ophelia poured her own, remembering a time when Brian not only served her java but ground it fresh. A millennium ago.
She regarded her mate, trying to imagine life without him. Brian had held up nicely. At thirty-five, he retained a head of black hair and wrinkle-free skin with regular features. Good living had rounded his waistline, hiding a once-flat stomach. But at 210 pounds, he still had a muscular and fit appearance. Physicality wasn’t the problem. Ophelia found him desirable. It was the slow disintegration of his love and affection until all that remained were pecks on the cheek and pats on the hand.
She hadn’t meant to fall for Justice, but they had so much in common. Included w
as a longing for something more, something bigger. He told her he was in his forties, also unhappily married, in the throes of a crisis. He, like her, had felt that life was passing him by. They both wanted more; both hoped they would find the elusive piece of the pie in each other’s arms.
Brian left for work at the usual time, his smile and goodbye as personal as autopilot. Ophelia smiled back. And then she heard the door close.
What would Brian think when he read her note? She supposed he would be shocked, stunned by the betrayal that would pierce like a lance of emotional hurt. A serious wound, not a mortal one. Eventually, he would turn to self-righteous anger and indignation. Take it out on her. Messy times ahead, but who said life was easy.
Alone in the house, she felt her heart pounding with adolescent excitement.
She was really going to do it.
Up to the bedroom, packing her suitcase, throwing it into the trunk of her Camry. The transfer of funds had been completed yesterday—ten thousand dollars squirreled away in a secret bank account. It represented freedom as heady as an aged cabernet.
She drove to work in record time.
Her boss waiting at her desk, foot tapping, scowl on his face. Shoving a pile of work in her face before she had a chance to take off her coat.
Charles Lawrence Taft. A pig and a petty bureaucrat, thickheaded and small-minded. She waited until he left, then took out the dense manila envelope from her briefcase. It contained a five-page, single-spaced document of every inappropriate move the man had ever made. Also included in the package were secret tapes of his lewd comments, of his racial slurs, and of his callous disregard of his coworkers. It was not only enough to get him fired but enough to ensure an out-of-court settlement with the company. She had decided that a quarter of a million would do the trick.
Extortion?
Hardly.
Just combat pay.
A nice surprise for Justice after it had all worked out.
She slaved until noon, typing in a windowless cubicle on her word processor, sending Justice piles of e-mail love letters. His excitement was palpable and leaped off the monitor. He wrote her that he couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms, caress her body, smother her in kisses.
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 16