“But of course, I didn’t do anything. After years of my husband getting drunk and violent, hurting me, telling me that I could never get away from him, that he’d kill me if I left, I’d stopped believing I could escape. I went to a psychiatrist for several months after his death because I couldn’t sleep. I still thought he’d be coming after me.” Chantal Brolie spread her hands and smiled lightly. “Well, it’s over now, isn’t it? Does that help you?”
Elena nodded.
“You think his death had something to do with the way he treated me? Margaret was the only one who knew, except for the police, and they didn’t do anything. Neither did Margaret; she was with me at the center when he died.”
“Would she have told anyone?”
“I hope not.”
But Elena wondered. Women gossiped. Rumors might have reached T. Bob. Mrs. Brolie thought of him as a character in a Western. Maybe he saw himself that way—the gallant sheriff, protecting womanhood from the bad guys. “You don’t by any chance know a woman named Marcia Cox, do you?” asked Elena. It was a long shot, but she hadn’t been able to find Porfirio Cox’s widow.
“Of course I do. Or I should say, I did. I met her when I moved in here. It’s strange, you know. Someone shot her husband too. Porfirio Cox. He was a builder. Very wealthy.”
“She lived here?”
“We were neighbors.”
“You keep saying were.”
“Marcia died last year. She had a stroke.” Mrs. Brolie sighed. “I still miss her. Marcia moved in from a big place up on Rim Road. Her husband was killed while she was at the center too. We often commented on how strange that was. Such a coincidence.”
“Was she a battered woman?”
Chantal Brolie looked surprised. “If she was, she didn’t mention it, but then he was dead by the time we became friends.”
“Did she seem to—well—mourn his death?” Elena knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Mercedes Castro mourned her husband.
“No, I can’t say that Marcia seemed to miss him. In fact, she was a very happy woman. She relished every day as if it were a new source of delight. I thought the world of her. It’s such a tragedy when someone like that dies, someone so happy.”
“Do you know how she happened to move into Casitas Coronado? If she was wealthy and had a place on Rim Road, one would have thought she’d want to stay.”
“Yes, but a big house is a lot of work, even if you have maids, which I’m sure she did. Portia found a condo for Marcia too and sold the house on Rim Road. If I remember correctly, Marcia said she got close to a million for it. Imagine that! I got a hundred and ten thousand for mine, and I considered myself lucky. Portia is a wonderful realtor. Everyone comes out of her deals feeling that they’ve had the best of it.”
Elena nodded. More and more connections. “What was Mrs. Cox doing at the center the afternoon her husband was killed?”
“I’ve no idea.”
And the real estate connection. Were husbands being killed off so Portia Lemay could get the fees for selling their houses and finding their wives new places? The commission on a million dollars would be a hell of a lot. Were Portia and T. Bob in league?
Elena thanked Mrs. Brolie and, having said goodbye, took one last look at the beautiful condominium purchased with the insurance money of a man who liked to play Russian roulette. Then she looked at the happy, tranquil widow. Maybe Harmony was right. Maybe God did have a hand in setting these women free, giving them a decent end to lives that had been painful and frightening.
36
Friday, October 8, 8:00 A.M.
Elena reread photocopies of the Porfirio Cox and Herbert Stoltz files. In the robbery/murder of Herbert Stoltz five years ago, one of the items stolen had been a Tokarev, a Russian sidearm, which had never been recovered. Stoltz had been killed with a Beretta Modello. All those World War II weapons, she thought. Porfirio Cox, according to Ballistics, had been killed with a Tokarev. The one stolen from Stoltz?
Elena shook her head and glanced across the aisle. Because Leo wasn’t in, she went to Manny Escobedo’s office to ask if her usual partner was out on another case. “He’s taking a day of vacation,” Manny told her.
“Tap Night?” she asked, laughing.
“What do you mean?”
“Leo’s organizing a big meeting of tap dancers at the Main Library downtown. They’re going to tap their way to San Jacinto Plaza, waving flashlights.” There’d been another story in the paper this morning, mentioning the flashlights and banners that various dancing clubs and schools planned to carry as part of the festivities. Local restaurants would be selling their specialties at the plaza. The food sounded great; Elena wasn’t so sure about the event itself. Maybe Colin and Lance would want to snack at the various booths. Elena had loved doing that at the yearly Los Santos Festival before they stopped serving beer and then canceled the whole thing.
“You think Maggie would be interested in going?” asked Elena’s sergeant.
“Beats me.” Elena sat down across from Manny and gave him the information she’d accumulated: the possible connection between the weapon stolen from Herbert Stoltz and that used to kill Porfirio Cox, all of the men killed with World War II handguns; the fact that Chantal Brolie, Mercedes Castro, and Dimitra Potemkin had all been substituting in bridge games at the senior citizens’ center when their husbands were killed; that the late Marcia Cox had been a member there; that three of the women had been battered.
“Dimitra broke her hip a month or so before the murder. Rumor has it that her husband pushed her downstairs. Mercedes Castro has a terrible scar on her face where her husband backhanded her wearing a big ring, then refused to pay for plastic surgery. A year before Hank Brolie’s murder, he started playing Russian roulette, with his wife as an unwilling participant. Not only that, but she told one of the bridge players at the center about it. Frances Stoltz’s autopsy showed enough fractures to indicate battering, and her husband killed her. Two of the women’s houses were sold and condos found for them by Portia Lemay, another of the players. That’s too many coincidences, don’t you think? And all the women knew T. Bob Tyler, the guy with the history of assault.”
Manny Escobedo mulled over the information. “Too many coincidences,” he agreed, “but a senior citizen serial killer? That’s crazy.”
Elena nodded. “And there are a lot fewer men at that center than women. I took their male membership list and ran it through the computer. T. Bob’s the only one I could find with a record of violence.”
“Are you saying you’ve ruled out a female as your killer?”
“How many female serial killers have you read about?” she asked. “Do you know of any in our files?”
“Not many to the first question, none to the second. Well, keep after it.”
“I will. I’m going to check Porfirio and Marcia Cox today. With both of them dead, I’ll have to locate relatives or neighbors. The Castro woman and her son denied that she’d been abused. Two neighbors told me about that scar.”
“Good work,” said Manny. “Think I’ll call Daguerre, see if she wants to go to the tap dancing thing. She’s got a heel on her cast now, so she’s off crutches.”
“Maggie’ll love the food, all sorts of booths with ethnic stuff. You gonna take your kids?”
“What time does it start?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Sure, why not? Can’t last more than an hour. I can get ‘em home in time for bed. And they like Maggie now, don’t you think?”
“In spades. She let them paint all over her cast. They may get her fired, but they like her.”
“Her captain’s not gonna fire her. We’d have the O.E.O. all over us.”
“I guess I’ll go out on my own today. I really don’t need a partner on this.”
She went back to her desk, jotted down names and addresses,
and headed for the parking lot. She had a lot of people to see, but this case was more interesting than the drive-by shootings or spouses nailing each other with whatever weapon came to hand.
She thought as she pulled out on Montana that it would look great on her record if she solved this one and closed four or five homicides at once. Maybe she’d take the sergeant’s exam next time around. Being a sergeant meant more responsibility and more money. Wouldn’t Frank hate that? She grinned, thinking she didn’t owe him any favors—except for the guitar. Its disappearance meant she wouldn’t have to perform with her mother in the talent show.
Not that she didn’t miss the guitar sometimes, she admitted as she took Cotton to Murchison, passing the hospital. It was nice, when you’d had a hard day, to sit out on the back patio and play a little, sing a little. Her neighbors liked it too. They’d come out to listen. Elena smiled. It was a neat neighborhood, especially now that Boris was gone. She hoped Dimitra wouldn’t sell the house to scumbags.
Had Portia Lemay come around and suggested that Dimitra move into a condo? Elena didn’t see Dimitra in a condo. Of course, with the hip, trying to take care of a house and yard would be difficult, but Lance would pitch in now that he was welcome at home again. He seemed like too nice a guy to let his mother struggle on her own.
A lot of kids, once they had their own places and lives, tended to forget their parents existed. Elena admonished herself to do better about writing and calling home. Not that her parents lacked for company. Maria was the only other Portillo to leave Chimayo, and she was just down in Albuquerque at med school. Elena wondered if Maria would return to practice medicine in the Sangre de Cristos. Johnny, Josie, and Two still lived in Chimayo, along with the grandchildren, but they probably got more help from Elena’s mother and father than they gave.
She put the Taurus into the steep uphill climb toward Rim Road. Of course, even her seemingly ageless parents would get old someday. The prospect made Elena feel blue. Not that she’d mind having her mother live with her. It had been great having her in the house this last week, even if she was a little weird. But Harmony, when she got old, wouldn’t want to move to Los Santos. She’d want to stay where she was, with family and neighbors.
Elena chuckled. Grandma and Grandpa Waite couldn’t understand it—their bright daughter dropping out of school, marrying a small-town lawman, a minority person (that’s how they referred to Ruben), living with a bunch of Hispanics in a tiny village. Grandpa Waite had complained about it with his dying breath, and Harmony just laughed, tears in her eyes, and kissed him. Elena remembered that day.
Grandma Waite didn’t come to Chimayo, saying it was too hard to get to for an old lady. Instead she paid Harmony’s way to Marin County with any children and grandchildren she might care to bring along. Grandma Waite was kind of a pill, but it had been fun to visit. The bookshelves had been full of sexy novels, which Elena could never have bought or read at home, but she read them under the covers with a flashlight when she was a kid at her grandmother’s house.
She didn’t understand how her grandparents could complain about Chimayo. Marin County—yuck—yuppie heaven even before anyone knew what a yuppie was, and they were always having disasters: water shortages, fires, floods, earthquakes. Elena wouldn’t live in California if they paid her.
She swung left onto Rim Road and parked in front of the house where the Coxes had lived four years ago. Man, they must have been rich! The house looked like it had about twenty rooms. She turned to look out over the city. What a view! Imagine seeing that every day. She savored it for a moment, then turned back to a neighbor’s house.
37
Friday, October 8, 10:05 A.M.
A maid answered the door, looking like an Aztec maiden incongruously clad in a black uniform with a white apron. Elena introduced herself, showed her badge, and asked to see the lady of the house. She spoke first in English, then in Spanish to be sure she got her message across, making clear that she was not la migra, the Border Patrol.
“La mujer policia?” asked the maid, dubious. “La señora eez having breakfast an’ don’ like to be eenterrupted.”
Elena insisted. Looking resigned, the maid left Elena at the door and disappeared down a hall paved in gray-green flagstones. Elena wondered how much they cost. Her living-room floor would look great with this kind of flagstone, and maybe some Navaho rugs. Not that she could afford a Navaho rug. She wondered if Harmony could make one. The maid appeared at the end of the hall and beckoned to Elena. She was taken to a sunny breakfast room with windows on three sides, looking out on a beautifully landscaped yard. Good grief! These people must pay hundreds a month in water bills to keep enough moisture on that kind of shrubbery.
The owner, angularly thin, deeply tanned, wearing a peach kimono with exotic, hand-painted Japanese designs, nodded Elena to a chair. Her hair was blond, a nice color but probably not natural, waved back from the face. The hairdresser who cut and set it undoubtedly charged more than Elena’s monthly water bill. She sat down on a bamboo chair with peach- and green-flowered cushions, across a bamboo and glass table from the lady of the house.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” the woman asked.
Because the coffee smelled so exotic, Elena nodded and introduced herself.
“Conchita, café au lait for la mujer policia, por favor.” Conchita went off to get a cup and saucer while the woman introduced herself as Lucia Barbieri.
The name Barbieri rang a bell with Elena. She thought he’d been the mayor of Los Santos ten years ago. There had been some big fuss about his having thrown city contracts to a friend in construction. Could the late Porfirio Cox have been the beneficiary? The scandal was before Elena’s time, but Frank had pointed out Barbieri was an example of local skulduggery among the well-to-do.
“Mrs. Barbieri, nice to meet you,” said Elena.
Conchita returned with a china cup and saucer so translucent, Elena could see the maid’s fingers through it. The coffee was poured from a matching pot, and Elena took an appreciative sip. “I’m investigating the murder of your neighbor, Porfirio Cox.”
“That’s years ago, and I assure you my husband had nothing to do with it, no matter what problems Porfirio may have caused us in the past.” Mrs. Barbieri cut a small piece from her serving of French toast, chewed it, and said, “I’m surprised to find the police following up on a case that old.” She sipped from her own cup. “I myself wasn’t home the day Cox died. Neither was Anthony, my husband. He wasn’t even in Los Santos. But I can assure you, it caused a lot of anxiety here on Rim Road. Our first murder, at least since I’ve lived here.
“Let’s see. What else? Porfirio was a dreadful man. I never understood why Anthony liked him. Of course, we were all pleased for Marcia.”
“Pleased?”
“That he was dead,” said Mrs. Barbieri.
“Mrs. Cox didn’t care for her husband?”
“Who knows?” said Lucia Barbieri with a delicate shrug. “She stayed with him. I guess she must have felt something for him. Or maybe she was just afraid to leave.”
“I see. Could you explain that?”
“Well, I don’t like to tell tales, but Marcia spent her life covered with bruises. She never said anything, never complained about him. Lovely woman. Dead now, unfortunately.”
“You’re saying she was a battered wife?”
“She had the classic signs. Sunglasses at night. Long sleeves when the weather was hellishly hot, dark hose in summer. Sometimes she wouldn’t answer her door when you knew she was at home. Goodness, woman, didn’t you see The Burning Bed or any of those specials?”
“I know a fair amount about it without watching TV.”
“I suppose you do. Crimes Against Persons, you said? I myself saw a burn on her hand once. Ugly. I asked how she got it. I suppose that wasn’t very tactful. She said it was a grease burn; she’d got it frying chicken. We
ll, I ask you! Marcia never fried chicken. She had a cook to do that. I doubt if they even ate fried chicken. He was part Hispanic—his mother. Hispanic women don’t fry chicken. And Marcia was a Yankee. From Providence, Rhode Island. Yankees don’t eat fried chicken.”
Mrs. Barbieri dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin that matched the upholstery on the bamboo chairs. “That was a cigarette burn, perfectly round, just the right size. And Marcia didn’t smoke, but Porfirio did. Not to mention the fact that he was a mean person. I’m a bit of a detective myself, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Elena, finishing her coffee.
“So there you are. Battered woman. Of course, in a neighborhood like this you don’t hear screams or people slamming against walls, so there’s no excuse to call the police. And the neighbors wouldn’t like it if you did. Nobody wants police cars and flashing lights right on the street.”
Mrs. Barbieri poured herself another cup of coffee. “Porfirio had a terrible temper. If someone set him off at the country club, he’d shout and curse, act like he was going to get physical. He was accused of assault by two of his workers. He bought them off, of course. I will say he never hit anyone at a party, but I’ll bet he hit Marcia as soon as they got home.”
Elena had taken out a pen and notebook to jot down Lucia Barbieri’s remarks.
“The two of them met in architecture school at Rice University in Houston,” she continued. “I’ll bet she wished she’d never gone there to study. They both got degrees, and he became an architect and contractor here in Los Santos—this was his home town—but he never let her practice. Always bragging about how talented she was, but he didn’t want any wife of his working. Wives were supposed to stay home. Dreadful man. Well, I am going on. And I don’t suppose that’s even what you wanted to know.”
“Actually, that is what I wanted to know, Mrs. Barbieri. Were you questioned by the police at the time of the murder?”
“Of course.”
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