“Jaime,” he whispered. “Is that you?”
There was no movement, no answer. He raised his voice.
“Jaime? Are you hurt? Jaime? Can you hear me? Jaime?”
The only answer he got was the whisper of willow leaves overhead, the murmur of water trickling through the riverbed. He closed his eyes, focused his listening, tuning his ears to any sound that would indicate the man was alive, a breath or a gurgle. There were none. He pushed his fingers against the cowboy’s pant leg, prodding for some sign of life. The pants slid a couple of inches along the man’s leg, but he didn’t respond. A faint whiff of excrement settled into Rolly’s nose, a singular note that stood out from the brackish chords laid down by the river. There was another smell too, like the one in the house, the smell of blood.
As he pulled his hand back, it brushed against something soft on the car seat, a pair of women’s satin panties. He jerked away from the cabin, slipped in the mud, grabbed the door handle to prop himself up. He leaned against the side of the Volvo and closed his eyes, waiting for his stomach to settle. His legs felt weak.
To steady himself, he ran through a set of minor pentatonic scales in his head, visualizing each note on the fret board until he’d played through each minor key, taking a deep breath between each fret position. It was a diversion he used to ward off the desire for alcohol, a way to keep his head above water, to take his mind off a bottle or bimbo. He worked his way through three sets of scales before feeling settled enough to try his legs again. Making his way to the back of the Volvo, he scrambled up the embankment, stumbled back to the house. He paused in the yard to collect himself, sat down on the back doorstep. He pulled out his cell phone, took a deep breath, punched 9-1-1. It was time to call the police, any police, not just Bonnie.
He would have done it too, except something hit him, in the back of the head. He fell, face first, to the ground. Tiny footsteps cantered away from him. Through the inky clouds filling his brain, he heard a sound. It was an engine starting, a car pulling away. He pushed himself up, fell back on his face. As consciousness faded, he noticed a smell. It was earthy, like dirt. Or maybe horse manure.
El Rescate
(The Rescue)
The voice split his head like a chainsaw.
“Rolly Waters!”
He opened his eyes, stared at the pockmarked surface above him, recognized it as acoustical tiles in the ceiling. Soft noises surrounded him, a hum of activity. He turned his head on the pillow, saw light creeping in from beneath drawn curtains. Shoes padded by on a linoleum floor.
“Welcome back,” the chainsaw voice said, spinning down.
He lifted his head. There was someone perched on a stool in the corner of the room.
“Bonnie,” he said, dropping his head back on the pillow. “Where am I?”
“Mercy. Chula Vista. Emergency.”
“What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Somebody hit me,” he said.
“Yeah. We managed to figure that part out. What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“At night?”
“Yeah. At night. Jaime Velasquez, you remember him?”
“The old cowboy, with the horses?”
“Yeah. We found him in your car.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. You kill him?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Have you had any alcohol?”
“No.”
“There was an empty tequila bottle on the front seat.”
Rolly closed his eyes. Bonnie knew his history, the drinking, the accident.
“I’ll take a test, if you want.”
“I already had ‘em give you one.”
He looked over at Bonnie.
“You’re clean,” she said. “I just wanted to hear it from you.”
A doctor burst in through the curtains.
“Well it looks like you’re doing better,” he said, stepping between Bonnie and Rolly. “Let’s take a look.”
The doctor pulled a flashlight from his shirt pocket. He reached over, lifted Rolly’s left eyelid, flicked on the flashlight and pointed it into Rolly’s left eye, then repeated the procedure on the right.
“Everything looks normal in there,” he said, placing the flashlight back in his pocket. “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. You’ve got a hairline fracture of your temporal bone, behind your right ear. We sewed up the skin there. Seven stitches.”
The doctor stepped back, turned on the flashlight again. He moved the light to different positions, asked Rolly to trace its path with his finger. Then he asked some questions to test Rolly’s memory – home address and mother’s name. Appearing satisfied, the doctor pulled out a small notepad, scribbled something on it, then tore off the top sheet and handed it to Rolly.
“I’m giving you a prescription for Perkushen. It’s a painkiller,” the doctor said. “I wouldn’t do any driving for a couple of days. Other than that, you should be okay.”
“I can go?”
“We can check you in overnight for observation, if you want, but that’s up to you.”
Rolly rubbed his head.
“I want to go home.”
The doctor went over the recommended dosage for the prescribed pills, advised Rolly to contact a physician if he experienced any blackouts or dizziness. Rolly nodded in acknowledgement. The doctor said goodnight, left them alone again. Bonnie put her notes away and stood up.
“You ready?” she said.
“Where’s my car?” Rolly asked.
“Impound lot,” Bonnie said. “It’s evidence. I’ll drive you home. You’re gonna need alternate transportation for a few days.”
Rolly sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, waited for equilibrium to return.
“You okay?” Bonnie asked.
“I think so,” Rolly said. He stood up.
“I got your phone,” Bonnie said, handing it to him. “And your jacket.”
Rolly put on the jacket, slipped the phone into his pocket. Bonnie ushered him out of the room and down the hall, through a door to the purser’s office. He signed his checkout papers, handed the clerk a credit card, hoped it was good. The clerk handed him back a receipt. Max would be spending a lot of money on this case. Almost none of it would go into Rolly’s bank account. Business completed, they walked out to Bonnie’s car. She popped the locks and climbed in. Rolly opened the passenger door, sat down in the front seat.
“Buckle up,” Bonnie said, starting the car. Rolly reached around, pulled the shoulder belt across his chest and inserted the buckle. They drove out of the parking lot, down three blocks to the freeway entrance, and merged into the late night traffic, headed north.
“You told Officer Belmont that your car was stolen?” said Bonnie.
“Who’s Officer Belmont?”
“The border patrolman who arrested you.”
“He gave me a ticket. He said you could fix it.”
“I don’t know where he got that idea. Tell me about this guy who stole your car.”
“It was that guy from yesterday, the one who bought my guitar.”
“The little stoner in scrubs?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d he steal your car?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ever seen him before yesterday?”
“Not that I remember. He tried to run me over. In the canyon.”
“What’d you do to this guy?”
“I didn’t do anything. He came after me.”
“You don’t know why he tried to kill you?”
“I think he killed Jaime.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He took my car. Jaime was in it, dead, the next time I saw it.”
> “What about yesterday morning?”
“Hmm?”
“At your house, before I came by? Did this guy act suspicious or threaten you in any way?”
“Well,” Rolly said, trying to think of a non-incriminating way to provide Bonnie with the pertinent facts. “He started talking about whores, like maybe he thought I could find one for him. He sang this song, ‘Rio’, talked about this hooker he knew. That was her name, I guess. Rio. He kept hinting around, like he thought I knew her, or how to contact her.”
“Rio?”
“He said that was her name. Seemed to think I’d know where she was.”
“You didn’t think that was weird?”
“Sure, it was weird. A guy lights up a spleef and starts asking me about hookers, sure, but, you know...”
“No, I don’t.”
“I mean, the guy’s a guitar player, after all.”
“What’s that mean?”
“We’re all weird.”
“You get his name?”
“I think he’s a doctor.”
“That’s not a lot of help.”
“Wait. I remember now. The hearse. The one at the impound lot. I forgot. I saw that Burdon kid driving it. He went to that house. Where the woman lives.”
“You’re sure you saw Mr. Burdon there?”
“Yes. He knows her. He knows Tangerine. The doctor was there too, the orderly.”
“The guy behind her? I thought he looked familiar.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked your phone. While you were out at the hospital.”
“I think that’s illegal.”
“When’d you take those pictures?”
“This afternoon. Just before the doctor guy stole my car.”
“Burdon was there too?”
“Yeah. Inside. He was playing a video game.”
“Hmm,” Bonnie said, furrowing her brow.
“What?”
“Maybe this doctor guy’s the friend Mr. Burdon told us about, the one who borrowed his car Friday night?”
“The border patrol calls it The Honey Trap.”
“What’s that?”
“The house. Where she lives. Tangerine. The border patrol guys call it The Honey Trap.”
“Sounds like you’re not the only one who’s seen a show.”
“She told me yesterday she had an exhibitionist streak.”
“This doctor guy said he was looking for whores?”
“Yeah.”
“You think she’s one of them?”
“He said her name was Rio.”
“He’s probably got more than one. Sounds to me like he might be running ‘em out of that house.”
“She was kind of a famous groupie, Tangerine I mean. Moogus told me about her.”
“Moogus keeps up on those kinds of things, I suppose.”
“Did you hear anything from the border patrol yet? He said there was a fake emergency call that came in.”
“You mean Officer Belmont?”
“Yeah, him. Friday night. He said someone broke into their radio frequencies, called in an officer down, over by the water plant. But it was a fake. There was nobody there. All of their guys headed inland. Away from the beach.”
“Away from the car. And our Jane Doe.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why they’re not calling me. They want to get their story straight first.”
“Maybe your Jane Doe is Rio.”
“Our Jane Doe wasn’t a prostitute.”
“How do you know?”
“The coroner. He always checks for signs of sexual entry. Standard procedure. There weren’t any.”
“How far back can they check on that kind of thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she hadn’t been working for a couple of days.”
“Our Jane Doe has something you don’t find in prostitutes.”
“What’s that?”
“A hymen.”
“She’s a virgin?”
“Yep. Still intact.”
“So much for my theory.”
“Yeah. You remember that mark on her butt that you asked about, in the coroner’s photographs?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s Virgo, the astrology sign. It’s the virgin. She’s the fourth one, in six months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m working with the Sheriff’s Department on this. The murder investigations are theirs. It’s their jurisdiction. Information only on an as-needed basis. I got involved because of the auto theft.”
“I thought you said she drowned.”
“She did, but the other three didn’t. They’ve been dumped all over the area. Roofies in their system. Otherwise they’re the same, similar anyway. Thirteen to fifteen years of age. Latinas. All with their hymens intact. All virgins. They all had that mark.”
“You think it’s some kind of serial killer?”
“I think you should stick to rousting deadbeat dads for a living and maybe step back from this one.”
“I’ll talk to my client.”
“Don’t tell him anything until I’ve spoken with him.”
“I’ll make sure he calls you tomorrow.”
“Tell me more about your friend Jimmy.”
“What do you want me to tell you? He’s not really my friend.”
“You know he’s one of those AFA guys?”
“He is?”
“I saw him down there.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. When I went down to get you. I saw him standing around with the other dopes.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Didn’t get a chance. Your 911 came in about two minutes after I got there.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“How about Velasquez’s truck?”
“What about it?”
“Officer Belmont saw someone driving out of Jaime’s place, in a truck.”
“When was this?”
“About three minutes earlier.”
“Did he see who was driving it?”
“He said it was a female. We got an APB out.”
They sat in silence for a minute before Bonnie flipped on her turn signal, crossed to the far right lane, took the Cesar E. Chavez Parkway exit off the freeway.
“I thought you were taking me home,” said Rolly.
“I want to talk to this guy first. Rico Chacon.”
“Who’s he?”
“You never heard of Ricardo Chacon?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s only the most famous ex-cop in this town.”
“He lives around here?”
“He runs a bar. Retired. You never heard of him?”
“No. What’d he do?”
“Chacon and his guys worked a special detail on the border. It was a while ago. Undercover. Tracking down bad guys that preyed on illegals.”
“Coyotes?”
“Some of them pretended to be coyotes. They’d offer to take people across, then rob ‘em. Most were just thugs, laying in wait. Assault, murder, rape. There was a lot of bad stuff going on in those canyons back then.”
“When was this?”
“Twenty, twenty-five years ago. They made a movie about it.”
“What’s the name of the movie?”
“I don’t remember. It’s not important.”
“So why are you talking to him?”
“I ran the address of that house, the one on Smuggler’s Canyon, where your lady friend lives. There’s a file. Cold case. Twenty years old. Chacon’s listed as one of the investigators.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody killed the owner.”
El Salón
(The Bar)
“Who was he? The guy that was killed?”
“Name was Lewis Spencer. Had a teenage daughter living in the house with him. She disappeared.”
“They never found her?”
“
If they did, it’s not in the report. That’s why I want to talk to Chacon.”
“They never arrested anyone?”
“There were three possible suspects listed. One of them was an unknown UDA.”
“A border crosser?”
“Yeah. A Jose Doe.”
“Who were the other ones?”
“The missing daughter. And Jaime Velasquez. He’s the only one they actually interviewed.”
“Why’d they suspect Jaime?”
“Apparently Mr. Velasquez had some kind of sexual relationship with the girl. The father found out. They had an argument.”
“Jaime was robbing the cradle, huh?”
“They dropped all the charges, including the statutory.”
“But they never found her?”
“Not that I could tell. There’s something you’ll find interesting, about the girl.”
“What’s that?”
“She had red hair.”
“You think…?”
“I think red hair is uncommon.”
“What was her name?”
“It’s not listed. Anyway, Chacon’s the only person who was around then, other then Mr. Velasquez.”
“And now Jaime’s dead.”
“Mr. Velasquez had a few drunk and disorderlies over the years. First one was about a year after the murder. Chacon was the arresting officer.”
“Hmmn.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Hmmn.”
Bonnie pulled into a parking lot next to a small Quonset hut. A fluorescent sign out front flashed ‘Rico’s Roundup’ in neon blue. They were about ten blocks from police headquarters, close enough to be handy, far enough out of the way that Chief Preston could avoid passing through and spotting San Diego’s Finest stumbling out of the place.
“Cop bars make me nervous,” said Rolly.
“You ever been to one?” Bonnie asked.
“No,” he responded, envisioning a new level of hell, one that combined cheap liquor and his local constabulary. “But I’m not fond of the general idea.”
“They’re not in uniform. You won’t know they’re cops.”
“I can always tell cops.”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“You been here before?”
Border Field Blues Page 13