“Former detective,” I corrected her. “This is Andrea Darling. Who am I talking to?”
A throat cleared, She sounded in the range of middle-aged to elderly. “Well, you don’t know me personally. I am a friend of Greta Berstat.”
A pause allowing me to acknowledge recognition. She was going to wait a long time.
“Greta Berstat,” she repeated. “You were the detective on her burglary? You found the men who had taken her sterling flatware and the candlesticks and the tea set?”
The bell went off and I remembered Greta Berstat. When I’d been with LAPD, my primary detail was grand theft auto. Greta’s case had come my way during a brief rotation through burglary.
“Greta gave you my phone number?” I inquired.
“Not exactly,” the woman explained. “You see, I’m a local resident and I found your name in the Malibu Directory-the one put out by the Chamber of Commerce? You were listed under Investigation right between Interior Design and Jewelers.”
I laughed to myself. “What can I do for you Ms….”
“Mrs. Pollack,” the woman answered. “Deirdre Pollack. Greta was over at my house when I was looking through the phone book. When she saw your name, her eyes grew wide and my-oh-my did she sing your praises, Detective Darling.”
I didn’t correct her this time. “Glad to have made a fan. How can I help you, Mrs. Pollack?”
“Deirdre, please.”
“Deirdre it is. What’s up?”
Deirdre hemmed and hawed. Finally, she said, “Well, I have a little bit of a problem.”
I said, “Does this problem have a story behind it?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we met in person?”
“Yes, perhaps it would be best.”
“Give me your address,” I said. “If you’re local, I can probably make it down within the hour.”
“An hour?” Deirdre said. “Well, that would be simply lovely!”
From Deirdre’s living room I had a one-eighty-degree view of the coastline. The tides ripped relentlessly away at the rocks ninety feet below. You could hear the surf even this far up, the steady whoosh of water advancing and retreating. Deirdre’s estate took up three landscaped acres, but the house, instead of being centered oil the property, was perched on the edge of the bluff. She’d furnished the place warmly-plants and overstuffed chairs and lots of maritime knick-knacks.
I settled into a chintz wing chair; Deirdre was positioned opposite me on a loveseat. She insisted on making me a cup of coffee, and while she did I took a moment to observe her.
She must have been in her late seventies, her face scored with hundreds of wrinkles. She was short with a loose turkey wattle under her chin, her cheeks were heavily rouged, her thin lips painted bright red. She had flaming red hair and false eyelashes that hooded blue eyes turned milky from cataracts. She had a tentative manner, yet her voice was firm and pleasant. Her smile seemed genuine even if her teeth weren’t. She wore a pink suit, a white blouse, and orthopedic shoes.
“You’re a lot younger than I expected,” Deirdre said, handing me a china cup.
I smiled and sipped. I’m thirty-eight and have been told I look a lot younger. But to a woman Deirdre’s age, thirty-eight still could be younger than expected.
“Are you married, Detective?” Deirdre asked.
“Not at the moment.” I smiled.
“I was married for forty-seven years.” Deirdre sighed. “Mr. Pollack passed away six years ago. I miss him.”
“I’m sure you do.” I put my cup down. “Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Both are doing well. They visit quite often.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “So … you live by yourself.”
“Well, yes and no,” she answered. “I sleep alone but I have daily help. One woman for weekdays, another for weekends.”
I looked around the house. We seemed to be alone and it was ten o’clock Tuesday morning. “Your helper didn’t show up today?”
“That’s the little problem I wanted to tell you about.”
I took out my notebook and pen. “We can start now if you’re ready.”
“Well, the story involves my helper,” Deirdre said. “My housekeeper. Martina Cruz … that’s her name.”
I wrote down the name.
“Martina’s worked for me for twelve years,” Deirdre said. “I’ve become quite dependent on her. Not just to give me pills and clean up the house. But we’ve become good friends. Twelve years is a long time to work for someone.”
I agreed, thinking: twelve years was a long time to do anything.
Deirdre went on. “Martina lives far away from Malibu, far away from me. But she has never missed a day in all those years without calling me first Martina is very responsible. I respect her and trust her. That’s why I’m puzzled even though Greta thinks I’m being naive. Maybe I am being naive, but I’d rather think better of people than to be so cynical.”
“Do you think something happened to her?” I said.
“I’m not sure.” Deirdre bit her lip. “I’ll relate the story and maybe you can offer a suggestion.”
I told her to take her time.
Deirdre said. “Well, like many old women, I’ve acquired things over the years. I tell my children to take whatever they want but there always seem to be leftover items. Discards. Old flower pots, used cookware, out-of-date clothing and shoes and hats. My children don’t want those kinds of things. So if I find something I no longer need, I usually give it to Martina.
“Last week, I was cleaning out my closets. Martina was helping me.” She sighed. “I gave her a pile of old clothes to take home. I remember it well because I asked her how in the world she’d be able to carry all those items on the bus. She just laughed. And oh, how she thanked me. Such a sweet girl twelve years she worked for me.”
I nodded, pen poised at my pad.
“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 have 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 had 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 a donde 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 Evangilica 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 Revelacidn 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.”
“Jose 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 pay 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 wom
an 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 same baby crying, I would have thought she’d 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 Jose … 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?”
A Woman’s Eye Page 15