A Woman’s Eye

by Sara Paretsky

  “Okay.”

  We exchanged numbers, then said good-bye. 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. Secondly, 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 low riders, 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 framed 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 Jose. 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 pasó?”

  Opportunity knocked. I took advantage.

  “I’m looking for Jose 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 cradled 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 deserved 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 Jose. Martina and him get along?”

  There was a very long pause. Yolanda finally said, “Jose no good. He and his brothers.”

  “Is Pasqual one of Jose’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.

  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 Jose 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 Jose kill Martina for money?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “He’s Evangélico, A bad Bvangélico, 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 enemigosl”

  “Nunca persona!” 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 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 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 long 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 Jose: 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. Jose 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. Three of them-including José-were wearing old baseball caps. Pasqual was the only one wearing a painter’s cap.

  I don’t know why, but I found that odd. Then something familiar began to come up from the 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 Jose alone, and then I got a big break. The roach wagon pulled in and Jose 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 cabin 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!” Jose was shaking hard, “Yo juro! I don’ kill her!”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’ know!”

  “You killed her for the ring, didn’t you, Jose?” 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?”

  Jose didn’t answer,

  I repeated the accusation in españoll but he still didn’t respond. I went on.

  “You didn’t know what to do, did you, Jose? 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.”

  “All we wan’ do is talk to her!” Jose insisted. “Nothin’ was esuppose to happen.”

  “What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I asked.

  Jose 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.”

  Jose 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 in 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?”

  Jose 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 tiena niuna 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.

  Jose 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 mot
her’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 Jose 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, Jose looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.

  “You kill Martina!” Jose 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!”

  Jose 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!” Jose 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 around, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, heat Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.

  Jose 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 Jose’s eyes after he’d stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I’d be going after Jose with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that’s not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict-rightly or wrongly-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.