“Bring it along. We’ll start there.”
The minute I touch the door handle of the Dollar Store, Chispa, the miniature menace, is on her feet barking. Not the same for the proprietor who is nodding off over a magazine and appears none too pleased to be awakened. How he makes a living in this dump is beyond me.
“Now what?” he says using his best customer service manners.
“Is this the woman who bought the first blanket?” I lay the newspaper on the counter. The proprietor looks at Manny, then at me, and turns on an overhead light. Bends over the photo as if he were studying the Lost Sea Scrolls. I start to put a twenty on the counter. Manny stops me and pulls out his badge.
“Respuesta a la pregunta de la señora.”
The proprietor backs up. “Policia,” he says and picks up his dog.
“Answer the question,” Manny says. “Is that the same woman who bought a pink and green baby’s blanket decorated with butterflies?”
The proprietor bends over the newspaper and whispers into the dog’s ear. “What do you think, Chispa? Is this the same lady?” He puts his ear to the dog’s mouth and then kisses it on the nose. “Maybe yes, maybe no. My eyes not so good.”
Manny lays a six-person photo array on the counter. The proprietor takes off his glasses, pulls a rag out of his pocket, and wipes his lenses. Apparently never getting them clean enough because he does this three times before Manny hits the counter with his fist and yells at him in Spanish, causing Chispa to run into the back.
“This one,” the proprietor says, putting his finger on one of the photos. “Most definitely.”
Even upside down, I can tell it is Kathryn Blazek.
“Was she alone?” Manny has snapped into enhanced command presence mode. His voice drops half an octave and he appears to have grown two inches.
“Yeah. Nobody in the store with her.”
“What about outside? In the parking lot?”
The proprietor raises his eyebrows, shapes his mouth into an upside-down “U.”
“No sé. It was a while ago.”
I pull the twenty out of my pocket, slam it on the counter, and give Manny my version of command presence, a searing look that tells him I have my ways and not to stop me.
“Now that you ask”—the little man smiles as he pockets the money—“I was curious to see what kind of car she drove. I was expecting Mercedes or Lexus. Qué sorpresa. She was in a white pickup truck. Old and banged up. Ladders, shovels, lawn mower in the back bed.”
“Anything painted on the truck, like a sign or the owner’s name?”
“Let me think.” He curls up in a poor imitation of Rodin’s The Thinker. I pull out another twenty and dangle it between my fingers.
“Now that you mention it, it did have a sign. Maldonado and Sons. Maldonado, ugly like the guy driving it.”
“There was somebody with her?” I say.
“You don’t think that rich lady knows how to drive an old truck, do you? She couldn’t get it out of first gear.”
“So Maldonado or one of his sons was driving?”
“What do you think, lady, because I’m Mexican I know every landscaper in Kenilworth?” He looks affronted. His alter ego growls from behind the rear curtain.
Manny leans on the counter. “Did she get into the truck willingly or was she forced?”
“Let me think,” he says again and rubs his head. I feel like I’m playing twenty questions with a developmentally disabled extortionist.
“No. Not forced. Not happy either.”
“Do you know the man who was driving?”
“Wasn’t Maldonado. He retired and moved away. I don’t know where. Everybody knows that old gas guzzler truck of his. Maldonado loved that truck better than his wife. That’s why she left him.” He laughs, his face animated by gossip.
Manny isn’t amused. “Was one of his sons driving?”
“Maldonado don’t have sons. Only daughters. They too fat and ugly. Never married, so no sons-in-law. Made him feel more manly to call his business Maldonado and Sons.” He taps his head to indicate that Maldonado wasn’t all that mentally stable.
“Did you get a license number?”
The little man shakes his head and looks at Manny with a “what for” expression.
“The guy who was driving was maybe thirty. Very skinny. Muy flaco. Kind of hippie type. And, he was guero.”
“Guero? What’s guero?”
“You know. Gringo. A white guy.”
I pocket the twenty and we leave.
I roll down the windows of my car and look at Manny. It’s unseasonably warm and the car is stuffy. “So, what do you think?”
He laughs. “I think you may have just been flim-flammed out of a twenty by a creep who would sell his mother for a dime. He told us what we wanted to hear. Bad witness. His testimony wouldn’t stand up in court—that is if he hasn’t split for Mexico by the time we need him. He’s probably on the phone right now buying plane tickets.”
“Then who is the skinny white guy? And what does he have to do with Kathryn? A woman like her doesn’t ride around in a filthy truck on her own volition.”
Manny’s cell phone rings. He looks at the screen, presses a button, and says, “Yeah, Chief.” His face skids through a parcourse of emotions starting at neutral and winding up in a mix of anger and despair. “I understand and I appreciate . . .” He gives me the stink eye. “I know she thinks so, but . . . I’m with her now. We may have a lead on the blanket. You don’t? You sure? Okay, you’re the chief.” He clicks off and stares out the front window.
“Apparently, the chief thinks—thanks to you and some conversation the two of you have had behind my back—that I am a bona fide stress case. He was uncertain at first, but after that fiasco this morning when, again thanks to you, he discovered I had overlooked this blanket business, he is ordering me to take two weeks paid R & R. Says it’s a good time since the ME’s report won’t be available for at least two more weeks and we don’t have any new leads.”
“The skinny white guy is a new lead. The blanket is a new lead.”
“This is a wild goose chase. I know it and the chief knows it. We could have stood there all day throwing twenties at that guy, and he would still be stringing us along. Let’s go. What are you waiting for?”
If Manny’s face were any longer, his chin would be on the floor of my car.
“Look, Manny. Maybe time off isn’t such a bad idea. You could use the rest and you and Lupe could use some time together.”
“Thanks a lot, Doc. You’re a ton of help.”
“If you’re finished having your way with me, I need to get to sleep.” Frank rolls over, facing me. “It’s nearly midnight. I’m a working man, you know. I get up early.” He looks handsome, his hair and beard silver in the low light. “I love you. Now turn out the light. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
I lay in the dark, listening to his breathing start to settle.
“Frank? Have you ever run across a man, a landscaper or gardener, named Maldonado? Drives an old beat-up white truck.”
“Sure. Sergio Maldonado. He landscaped a couple of houses I worked on. Drove a 1965 Jimmy with two gas tanks. A clunker of a truck. Never wanted to part with it.”
“Seen him recently?”
“He retired. Why are you looking for a landscaper? Your condo association takes care of the landscaping.” He sits up and flicks on the table lamp. “Does Maldonado have something to do with Chrissy? I know you, Dot. You wouldn’t be asking unless he did.”
“Not so much Maldonado as his truck. Somebody who may or may not be related to the case was seen in his truck. Do you think you could call him? Find out who he sold the business to?”
Frank flicks off the light and scoots back down under the covers. A moment later he sits up again and twists around to face me.
“I don’t ask you to help me remodel houses, please don’t ask me to help you solve crimes.”
He slides down on his back. We lay the
re, both of us stiff as boards, listening to each other breathing. Whatever balm our love-making produced now evaporates.
“Forget I asked,” I say. “Let’s just go to sleep.”
That old saying about never going to bed mad is true. Frank and I barely say a word to each other in the morning. I go to my office. I have a slew of appointments with hardly a break until midafternoon when my office mate, Gary, knocks on the door.
“Just ran into Frank downstairs. He dropped this off for you.” He hands me an envelope.
“Why didn’t he bring it up himself?”
“Said he was in a hurry. Looked a little stressed. How you guys doing?” Gary takes an avuncular interest in how our relationship is progressing. “Set a date yet?”
“Not yet,” I say and kiss him on the cheek. “Not to worry. You and Janice will be the first to know.”
“Better get on it. Neither one of you is getting any younger.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious. You haven’t been talking to my mother, have you? She keeps asking me the same question. So do all my friends.”
“Well then.” Gary pulls his ever-present pipe out of his pocket, getting ready for his ritual smoke on the patio. “What does that tell you?”
As soon as he leaves, I open Frank’s note. Maldonado sold his truck for cash to a skinny white guy with long hair by the name of Buzz. There’s a license plate number, a phone number, and a warning not to call before nine or after eight.
A woman picks up the phone.
“Digame.”
I ask to speak to Maldonado. I can hear her yelling at someone in Spanish. A younger-sounding woman gets on the phone.
“Who is this?” I give her my name. Tell her I’m a friend of Frank Hollis and I’m looking for a landscaper. “Sorry,” she says. “My father is retired. He doesn’t do landscaping anymore.”
“Did someone take over his business?”
She asks me to wait a minute and puts down the phone. A minute later Maldonado picks up.
“You are Frank’s friend, yes? He told me you might call. I sold my truck and my tools to a man named Buzz. But I can’t recommend him.”
“Why is that?”
“He doesn’t know anything about landscaping. Said he wanted to learn. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I know a meth addict when I see one.”
“You loved your truck. Why did you sell it?”
“Who wants an old truck that’s not worth anything and eats gas? I can’t fix it up, I got a bad back. Nobody wants it but Buzz. And he pays me way more than it’s worth.”
“How would I get in touch with him?”
“Big mistake. I gave him the pink slip to the truck, and he didn’t transfer the title. He never pays his parking tickets, so now DMV thinks I still own the truck and I should pay hundreds of dollars in fines.”
“Do you know his last name?”
“He only has one name. Like a musician.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“The address he gave me doesn’t work. Nobody there heard of him.”
“What about the parking tickets? There’s always a location on the front of the ticket. Can you look for me?”
He fumbles with the phone and his daughter picks it up.
“You want the location where he got the tickets? It’s going to take me a little time to find them. Give me your number. I’ll call you back.”
“Maldonado said he talked to you.” Frank is cooking tilapia for dinner and I’m chopping vegetables.
“He called you?”
“Yep. Told me not to let you go looking for this Buzz guy by yourself. Are you planning to look for him?” I shrug. He moves away from the stove, fish turner in one hand, pot holder in the other. “You are, aren’t you? Will you at least take Manny along?”
“Manny’s on vacation, a little R & R.”
“In the middle of a murder investigation?”
“Well, they’re stalled. And they’re waiting for the ME’s report, so it’s just as good a time as any.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do you mean, you don’t believe me?”
“What don’t you understand about what not believing you means? It means I think you’re not telling me the truth.”
“About what?”
Frank bangs the fish turner on the counter. “I don’t know. About everything. About Manny. About Maldonado.” He takes a step in my direction. “You’re going to look for this guy, aren’t you?”
“I’m just gathering information. Trying to be helpful. Don’t worry. I won’t put myself in harm’s way.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT IS BARELY still light out when Frank and I get to the commune for the celebration of Chrissy’s birthday. The doors to the main gallery are open. The sound of a soulful string quartet floats out to greet us.
The minute we step inside it is as though the air is being sucked from my lungs. I put my hand on Frank’s arm to steady myself. Chrissy’s sweet face dominates the room, looming over us, bigger than life. Is this what JJ is trying to tell everyone? That Chrissy and her memory live beyond time? I move closer. JJ is standing in front of the tapestry. Her hair falling over her shoulders. She’s wearing a flowing top over wide-legged pants and a striking necklace made of chunky sea-washed glass.
She walks across the front of the room, moving like water itself, and picks up a huge bamboo fan. She waves it in the air. Once. Twice. Three times. A soft breeze ruffles the tapestry. Chrissy’s face, once frozen by her mother’s camera, begins to pulse. Her head sways. Her lips move in silent speech. Her eyes float over the room, left to right, right to left. Looking for something. Or someone.
There’s a commotion at the back of the room and shouts for a doctor. A woman is lying on the floor. Someone is saying, “Stay back, give her room, she needs air.” People always say that when somebody faints. Never mind that we’re in a huge open space with high ceilings.
Kathryn Blazek sits up, covers her mouth with one hand as if she’s going to throw up, and with the other tugs at her twisted skirt to cover her exposed legs. Someone helps her to her feet and hands her her purse. Someone else brushes off the back of her jacket. Her face is pale under the layers of makeup. An older man offers to get her a chair. She refuses, pauses long enough to thank several people for their concern, and then heads for the door. I follow her out into the cold night air.
She threads her way through the incoming crowd. I wait until she reaches her car before I call out.
“Are you okay, Kathryn?”
She turns. Her eyes wide.
“Are you okay? Shall I find Mr. Stewart?”
She shakes her head.
“It may not be safe for you to drive.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is barely stronger than a whisper. “Just a little dehydrated.” She backs up against the rear of her car and leans on the trunk. It’s cold and she’s sweating.
“What was she thinking? I can’t look at it.” Her face crumples, all the perfectly made up parts twisted in pain.
“Let me find your husband.”
“He’s not here. He told me not to come. I should have listened. She’s going to release balloons, like a party.” Tears are carving little roadways through her powder. “I loved that child. I didn’t have to give birth to her to love her.” She closes her eyes. Bites her lip. “I try to be a good friend to JJ. Chrissy deserved to be surrounded by a loving, calm family. But JJ sees only what she wants to see. She could never see how she was endangering Chrissy with those photos. I want to be clear. She would never hurt Chrissy on purpose, but if she was living in a proper home, not a commune, none of this would have happened. If she had told the police about her secret stalker, none of this would have happened.”
“Secret stalker?”
“I told her to go to the police. She refused. Thought I was making too much of nothing. But she was the one who told me about it. I begged Bucky to go the pol
ice, but JJ talked him out of it. Said the man was only an overzealous fan and the publicity would be bad for her.”
“And you?”
“Bucky forbade me. Believe me, I’ll regret it the rest of my life.”
“So Bucky listened to JJ and not to you.” A small twitch beats under her left eye. She puts her finger on it and presses down.
“Everybody wonders about our unusual friendship. This is modern-day California. Traditional families seem to be a thing of the past. Maybe that’s progress. JJ’s not the first, nor will she be the last, of Bucky’s affairs. There are some things that women in my position”—she hesitates as though she’s about to reveal a state secret known only to followers of the Kardashians—“take as a matter of course. After a certain age, it hurts less than you might imagine. JJ is different. She gave us the child we couldn’t have. And she wanted nothing in return. Some women would have come after Bucky or his money, not JJ, because she believes in taking only that which is freely offered. We offered her plenty and she didn’t want it.” She looks at her watch. “I need to go. Thank you for your concern.” She pulls out her car keys.
“Thank you for your candor.” I touch her on the shoulder. “At the risk of being intrusive, may I ask you another question? By chance, do you ever shop at the Dollar Store in East Kenilworth?”
“The Dollar Store? Why would I shop at a Dollar Store?” Her voice pitches high and tinny. She takes a few steps and turns back. “You know”—she spools her words out slowly—“now that I think of it, I could have been at that store.” She moves back until there’s barely two inches between us and lowers her voice. “This is embarrassing. Bucky doesn’t know that I still smoke. Especially when I’m under stress. I may very well have stopped at the Dollar Store for a pack of cigarettes. How mortifying. You must think I’m terrible, sneaking around like a teenager.”
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