Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

  Chapter Ten

  Maybe I had a few questions for Jared Crowley, maybe I didn’t. What I actually wanted was to chat with him, to get a sense of the real person hiding behind the fresh face and curly Apollonian mop.

  I entered the four-hundred block of Cota and slowed the El Cam to a cruise. This was a century-old residential neighborhood, filled with small working-class houses set tight to the street. Maybe the address was bogus: a business of some sort occupied 441. I parked at the end of the block and walked back, disguised, I hoped, behind my sunglasses and nonchalant air.

  An older woman sat hunched over a commercial-sized sewing machine set up in the front window of 441, a small, dilapidated Victorian. The seamstress didn’t look up as I sauntered past. What could she possibly have to do with Crowley?

  A cracked asphalt drive ran alongside the house. I continued on to the corner, then turned back, retracing my steps. This time I slipped down the drive and walked to the back.

  Over 17 percent of Santa Barbara residents are illegally housed, and I’d seen hundreds of converted garages, sheds, and gazebos. But I’d never come on anything like this. Five plywood cubicles, not much bigger than coffins, sat behind the house. Each cubicle had a single door secured with a padlock on a hasp. There were no windows, no vents in the roofs.

  The tan BMW was parked in the asphalted space. Sitting in the Beemer and talking on his cell was Jared Crowley.

  He caught sight of me immediately. So much for subterfuge.

  As I approached, Jared said something hurriedly into the phone, then tossed it onto the passenger seat and switched on the engine.

  I leaned down to the open window. “Hi, Jared. I’m Jaymie Zarlin.” I spoke in a friendly, offhand tone.

  “That’s nobody as far as I’m concerned. What’re you doing here?”

  “You gave this address to the police. Supposedly it’s your residence.” I assumed an innocent expression. “But you don’t really live here, do you? These look more like storage sheds.”

  “Like it’s any of your business. What the fuck do you want?”

  Oh my, this one was sure of himself. “Just to talk. Got a second?”

  “Not for you I don’t.”

  “Maybe you should rethink that. My visit concerns the murder of Lili Molina.”

  He must have suspected as much, because his face betrayed no surprise. Jared Crowley was one cool customer. The only weakness about him was his chin: delicate and pointed, like a young girl’s.

  “What’s it to you?” Then he softened his tone. “You a cop?”

  “No. I’m working with the police, though.” Alas, an out-and-out lie.

  Jared hung his arm out the window and tapped impatiently on the metal chassis. “Lady, I’ll give you one minute.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed at his chutzpah.

  He swiveled his head and glared at me. Our boy was fuming.

  “Look. I’m sure you’re very busy, Jared, so I’ll be brief. We now have evidence that Danny Armenta didn’t kill Lili. That’s why we need to re-interview people, dig up more info.” I hoped I sounded official. I also hoped Jared would betray himself in some way. I didn’t think he was guilty, at least not of the murder. But something was there.

  “If Armenta didn’t do it, then…” Jared dropped his guard and met my gaze. I found myself looking through two blue windows into what should have been a soul. Instead, I saw an empty room.

  Rapidly, he shifted his eyes. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t kill her. Lili and me were friends.” He set a hand on the key in the ignition. “OK, lady, you’ve had your time. Now step back. I wouldn’t want to run over your toes.”

  * * *

  I tailed the BMW eastward along Cabrillo Boulevard, past the bevy of volleyballers, onto the 101 exit heading south. Brod’s El Camino stuck out like a sore thumb, but fortunately Jared had no idea what I was driving.

  He cruised along in the middle lane, seemingly in no hurry to get wherever he was going. I hoped he was heading for Carpinteria, not LA. Still, I had to admit it was a gorgeous day to tool down PCH, the ocean breezes teasing my hair, the solstice sun warm on my cheek. Imagine, I called this work.

  I couldn’t exactly say why I was following the great god Apollo, what I hoped to learn. But he was hiding something, and I wanted to find out what it was.

  To my disappointment, Jared didn’t turn in at Carp. Ventura was the next stop. Enjoy the ride, I reminded myself.

  Then, a few miles south of Carp, Jared pulled abruptly into the center divider and made a dangerous crossing across the northbound lanes of traffic into the tiny community of La Conchita. The hamlet was so small I’d forgotten it even existed.

  I had no chance to follow the Beemer. I continued south another two or three miles before I was able to make a relatively safe U-turn and head north. Then I right-turned into the collection of salt-faded little houses, and pulled up at a mom-and-pop store.

  If ever a community could be said to be tragic, La Conchita was it. In 2005 the cliff above the houses had sheared off, burying houses and taking nine human lives. All you had to do was look at a satellite image to understand that the landslide would continue, as layer after layer of sandstone sloughed off and rumbled down onto the narrow marine terrace below. La Conchita was a microcosm of coastal California, just compacted in space, concentrated in time.

  I opened the squealing aluminum screen door to the shop. An enormous man wearing a Hawaiian muumuu sat behind the counter on a sort of hand-fashioned double chair. “Help ya?” His tone was friendly, but his eyes, nearly buried in flesh, were sharp.

  “Just a soda,” I smiled. Best to buy something, I figured, in exchange for the information I hoped to receive.

  “Back there against the cool box, under the bologna sandwiches. We keep the sandwiches cold or they go off real quick. No preservatives, ya know. Sure you don’t want one to go with the sodie pop?”

  No way was I going to eat a nasty bologna sandwich. But maybe I’d buy one all the same. I pulled open the heavy old glass door and grabbed a can of soda and one of the cellophane-wrapped sandwiches.

  “So what’s a little lady like you doing here?” The man punched the register and rang up the tab. “We don’t get a whole lotta visitors. Right across from the beach, but the wrong side of the freeway, see?”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” I extracted a bill from my wallet, then dropped the change he gave me into a jar. The jar bore a faded inscription on a strip of paper taped to it: For the families of the victims of the La Conchita Disaster.

  “Thanks. Every little bit helps,” he recited in a drone.

  Probably his beer fund, I figured. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot,” the man said. As he smiled, his eyes narrowed and then disappeared.

  “I’m supposed to meet somebody here, but I’ve forgotten the address. My friend drives a tan BMW. You don’t happen to know what house that would be?”

  “Know the name of this fellow you’re supposed to meet?”

  A fair enough question. “Sure. Jared Crowley.”

  “Just checking. We get all sorts.” He reached across the counter and patted my hand. I resisted the urge to pull back.

  “Jared and Summer live over on Las Olas. One block up, turn right, four blocks along. I forget the number, but that don’t matter. It’s the little house with a whole bunch of plants out in front. Summer is sure into plants. Bag?”

  Summer. Bad news for Shawna: Jared had a girlfriend stashed away. “No need.” I picked up my soda and sandwich and turned for the door. “Thanks for the info.”

  “No problemo, little lady. Don’t think anybody’s ever asked me about that boy Jared before. But Summer, now, people come in here asking about her all the time. Especially the males of the species, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Maybe.” I halted and turned back to the shopkeeper. Might as well get to the point. “Are you saying she’s a prostitute?”

  “Hell no. Summer’s a masse
use, a real one.” He let one heavy eyelid droop in a wink. “For all I know, little lady, you could be some kinda cop.”

  * * *

  As soon as I turned into Las Olas, I spotted the Beemer. I pulled over when I was a block away, and lifted my binocs from the glove box. Jared sat in the driver’s seat, staring blankly ahead.

  Just as I was beginning to wonder how long I should wait, a shiny silver SUV backed out of a driveway farther along. It passed Jared, heading in my direction.

  The SUV was a Lexus, brand-spanking-new. The driver, a guy in his forties, was puffing away on a cigarillo, a smirk on his face. A satisfied customer if ever I’d seen one. So Jared Crowley’s girlfriend was a working girl? That I wouldn’t have guessed.

  I returned my attention to Jared. His car was moving forward now, turning into the drive the Lexus had just exited. I waited several minutes, then cruised slowly up the road.

  The Beemer was parked at the top end of the rutted dirt drive, and Jared was nowhere to be seen. This was the place, all right: the tiny front yard was choked with row upon row of struggling potted plants.

  I drove past the small stucco house and circled several blocks. Then I made another approach. Jared’s car hadn’t moved. But now, a thin woman wrapped in an old pink bathrobe drifted about in the tiny front yard. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. She was watering the pots, dragging a hose.

  The woman looked up and met my eye as I passed. She was probably not much older than me, but Summer was fading fast into autumn. Her fair skin was blotched, and her curly hair was more white than blond.

  Blond curly hair. Eyes a washed-out blue. And that telltale delicate chin. Jared Crowley looked a hell of a lot like his mom.

  * * *

  The next day was Friday. Siding with my heart instead of my head, I’d agreed to spend the weekend with Mike and his dad at the Dawsons’ ranch. But there was something I needed to look into before I left town, something I’d been putting off.

  I hadn’t driven the El Camino down Micheltorena Street since I’d scared away the little boy and his pup. Instead, I’d contented myself with pedaling by on my bike, on my way to and from the office. The boy and his spaniel were nearly always outside, but you had to look hard to spot them. Mostly they played behind a dense clump of Carolina cherry, remnants of an ancient hedge. But I was pretty sure I knew what would lure both dog and boy into the open.

  “You’re good for something, Dex,” I said as I slipped a collar around the ornery heeler.

  “Can I come?” This was what Chuy always asked now, every time I got ready to go out. When I could, I said yes. Today I was about to say no when I stopped myself. Dear Lord, forgive me: I looked at the cute little guy and saw lure number two.

  “OK, Chuy. Go ask your mom.”

  The three of us drove down to San Andres and parked outside a shop selling ice cream. “We’ll get ice cream after we go for a walk, Chuy. Dex needs practice on a leash.”

  OK, it was low, fibbing to a kid. Especially since I wasn’t at all sure it was for a good cause.

  “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?” Chuy pranced beside me, taking two or three steps to my one.

  “Coffee, maybe. Or chocolate.”

  “Yeah, I like chocolate. But my favorite is … bubble gum!” He looked up at me. “Did you ever have bubble gum ice cream? I did.”

  We were approaching the house. Dexter, who was supposed to be a heeler, was on point, straining at the leash.

  “Bubble gum? Maybe. What color is it?”

  “Blue! OK, did you ever have—”

  We’d reached the corner of the picket fence. Suddenly a flurry of brown and white fur hurled at Dexter, yapping wildly. Dexter’s hair rose up on end and he pretended to be a big dog, growling deep in his chest.

  “Dexter, stop!”

  The heeler was just pretending. He quit and wagged his tale at Minuet.

  “Hey, that dog’s really cute—” Chuy began. Then he fell silent. The little boy had stepped out in the open.

  For a moment, I stopped breathing. The first time I saw the child, the only time I’d had a good look at him, I assumed he’d been playing with face paint. But now I saw it clearly: a huge disfiguring birthmark covered more than half of his face. The little boy’s right eye was surrounded by the discoloration, and he appeared to be peeping out through a hole in a purplish scarf.

  “That boy, he—he—” Chuy began.

  I gave Chuy’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Just say hi, OK?”

  “Hi,” Chuy called out in a tiny voice.

  Even Dexter seemed to understand. He sat down and was quiet.

  “Hello,” I said softly. “What a nice little dog you have. What’s her name?”

  The boy took several more steps in our direction. He wasn’t much older than Chuy, I saw. Maybe a year.

  “Chica.” His expression revealed both friendliness and fear. “I’m not s’posed to talk to people.”

  “We won’t stay very long. Where did you get Chica?”

  “My tía got her for me.”

  Chuy stepped up to the picket fence. “Do you—do you—want us to bring you some bubble-gum ice cream?”

  My heart expanded with pride.

  * * *

  “So you’re going to tell Minuet’s owner where to find her pooch.” Mike stretched his arm across the back of the bench seat.

  “I should. It’s her dog, after all, and she loves it. And there’s the matter of the ten-thousand-dollar retainer. But you know what? That little guy needs the mutt a lot more than Mrs. Got Rocks does.”

  We were beginning the abrupt ascent up Cuesta Grade, and Mike set both hands on the wheel. “Want my two cents’ worth?”

  “You know I do, deputy.”

  “Have a little trust in human nature. Tell your client everything, and let her decide what to do.”

  “Darlene Richter’s self-centered and spoiled. But I guess you’re right.”

  The grade steepened and the pickup slowed. Mike stepped down on the gas. “You don’t trust other people much, do you.”

  “Not a lot.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Not after what happened to Brodie.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “You know, I still remember the first time I met your brother—if you could call it a meeting. Brodie was way off meds and squirrelly as hell. Did I ever tell you the story?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I responded to a call out in Noleta: a crazy guy had stolen a dog. Turned out it was Brodie. He’d felt sorry for a mutt tied up in the rain. Trouble was, the owner’d left the dog outside while she’d gone into the grocery store, and she freaked when she spotted a homeless dude strolling off with her pet.” Mike smiled. “I liked your brother straightaway, you know? Bought him a hamburger and drove him back into town.”

  “Brodie was hard not to like.” I fell silent and gazed out the truck window at the golden-furred hills. It was June, and the spring grasses had burned to the color of toast. Gradually, my mind relaxed and let go.

  “Still thinking about Brodie?” Mike asked after a time.

  “Not really. Just Zening, I guess.”

  “As long as you’re not thinking about that shyster lawyer.”

  “Zave Carbonel?” I laughed uncomfortably. “What made you think of him? I told you, he’s just a friend. I don’t spend time angsting about him.”

  “You better not spend time angsting with him, either.” Mike had tried to make a joke but his voice was gruff.

  “Zave doesn’t angst.”

  “You know what I mean.” An uncomfortable silence filled the cab.

  Yep, my conscience was pricking me, and it looked like I’d have to give up certain aspects of my relationship with Zave. I felt a tinge of carnal regret.

  “Listen, Mike.” I squeezed his strong-muscled arm through his blue denim work shirt. “Henceforth, Zave Carbonel is not a person you need to worry about.”

 
; “Henceforth.” He stared straight ahead. “So you were involved with the guy.”

  “Not exactly involved … Do you really want to know?”

  “Maybe … not.” Mike cleared his throat. “Not if you say it’s over.”

  I thought of teasing him, making light of it all. But I realized I didn’t want to do that. “You have my word.”

  After a few prickly minutes had passed, Mike spoke. “While we’re talking about heavy stuff, there’s something I need to say to you.”

  I mock groaned. “OK, what now.”

  “This murder investigation.” He tapped the steering wheel. “You need to be more careful, Jaymie. If the killer thinks you’re getting wise, he may try to force you to back off.”

  “Just let him.”

  “No, you don’t get it. We’re not talking about some dognapper here. The man who raped and killed Lili Molina is an extremely dangerous animal. And with all of law enforcement believing it’s Danny Armenta, you and your contrary suspicions will shine like a lighthouse. The killer’s going to take notice.”

  “Know what?” I shimmied my butt closer and pecked him on the cheek. “I always wanted a big brother to protect me.”

  “I’m telling you, don’t make light of it. I know what I’m talking about.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Little Panoche Ranch, sweetheart. You’re prettier ’n I remembered.” Bill Dawson’s right hand was gnarled as an old juniper root, and just as hard and dry.

  I grinned up at him. Bill was bent over, but still topped out at around six foot four. I had to tip back my head to meet his Nordic-blue eyes. “Ah, so flattery runs in the family, Mr. Dawson.”

  “Bill, for Chrissake.” He laughed. “Come on in the house, Jaymie. It’s hotter ’n a pistol out here today.”

  “Am I included?” Mike asked as his father took me by the arm.

  “Sure, we’ll put up with you, son.”

  Mike and I walked slowly, matching Bill’s pace. We crossed the neat gravel drive and climbed the steps to the wide porch encircling the redwood ranch house. A deep overhang provided immediate relief from the sun.