“Right, but listen.” Whenever I heard his deep-water voice, something way down inside me relaxed. “The house is owned by Mrs. Diane Keever, age seventy-eight. Her late husband, Bruce Keever, bought the place about forty years ago. He died last year at the age of eighty-one. Right up until he died, he worked as an attorney in Bakersfield.”
“Yeah?”
“For decades he worked as an ordinary town lawyer. Seems the wife never worked outside the home. Doesn’t that sound like a dull existence?”
“Some people prefer a quiet life.”
“But OK, before they bought that farmhouse, Keever was a district court judge in Los Angeles, one of the youngest ever appointed. Barely thirty, I think. A federal judge! That’s a prestigious position, a lot of power. Three years after getting that appointment, he resigned his seat with no warning, no reason—at least no reason given publicly—and moved his wife up to Bakersfield.”
“Hm.”
“Why did he abruptly do that, and start doing wills and divorces for the carrot farmers?”
“Yeah. And what connection does this Diane Keever have with Amaryllis?”
“The fact that the Keevers used to live in L.A. might be the thing.”
“But that was forty years ago.”
“I know,” he said.
“Does she live there alone?”
“I don’t know. She might not live there at all, she could be renting it out.”
“Maybe to some gangster.”
“What gangster would want to hang out in that place?”
“Any children?”
“None were listed in Keever’s death notice.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“Oh, property records are mostly online for free, and if you do the legwork, the bureau of records in any county is a treasure trove. I mean, some stuff isn’t online, you’ve got to physically go there and look it up. Sometimes even if I can find things online, I go in person just to get that extra feel. I hate hauling out to do it, but once I get in there, with all that musty old paper and ink, I like it. I can sort of feel the, the—life in those documents, you know?”
I smiled.
“And the libraries,” he went on. “You can get a lot from old phone books, and of course, newspapers. Keever’s resignation from the bench made the papers back then, not big but it was in there.”
“Why don’t we just go up to the house and knock on the door?”
He laughed. “You really should join my firm.”
_____
“You look great,” I told Kip Cubitt when I dropped in to see him at the rehab facility, a friendly place in the dauntingly huge L.A. County General Hospital complex.
He smiled and took my hand.
Places like this, you always notice if they smell clean. This one did.
My young friend had gotten stronger, though he still looked too thin. Wearing a royal blue track suit and blinding white gym socks, he sat carefully on the edge of his bed. He gestured for me to sit next to him. His eyes were quick and clear. I gave him a careful hug and handed him a paperback copy of Richard Wright’s Black Boy.
“I thought this was an amazing book,” I said. “Maybe you’ve already—”
“No, I haven’t.” He studied the picture on the front—a painful abstract—and read the back cover.
I said, “A young man who doesn’t fit in. Different time, different place, but some things stay true, you know?”
“Yeah, I’ll read this one,” he said.
I asked, “Why do you think Vargas’s guys haven’t hunted you down here?”
He made a sound of rueful amusement and set the novel on his bedside table. “They saw I’m not ratting. I haven’t ratted on anyone and I never will, you know what I’m saying?”
“I’m glad you talked to me.”
“You’re different.” He ran his palm up and down his thigh. He squeezed his thigh muscle as Amaryllis might test a cantaloupe. “Plus, how would they know? I see it now that the Whale’s nothing but a bully, and he thinks he gave me a warning. They ought to kill me. But now he knows if they finish me off, my grandma will get more dangerous to them than the whole LAPD.”
I thought about that.
He eased himself to his feet, arms out for balance. He shuffled slowly to the window. We were on the sixth floor. He seemed to drag his left foot, and when he got to the window he cradled his left arm in his right and looked out at the world.
“You’re walking beautifully,” I said, remembering him lying in the street bleeding.
“Not bad,” he acknowledged. “They say I’ll be running before long. The bullets took a lucky path through me. You know my mama named me after Kip Keino?”
“He was a famous runner, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, he was one of the first to come from Africa and kick it in the Olympics.” He sighed. “I’m kinda tired now. Had me three hours of therapy already today. Mondays they hit you hard. You know, I never used to be tired. Grown-ups would say they’re tired, and I didn’t know what they were talking about. Now I know.”
“I guess you’re grown up.”
“Yeah.”
That was a somber thing.
I asked, “What connection might your grandma have with a house in Bakersfield?”
He turned in surprise. “How do you know about that?”
“I’m trying to help you and your grandma, and that seems to be where it’s going.”
He turned back to the window and gazed at the high-rise medical building across the way, its glittering windows shielding all the little boxes of lives and deaths, then he looked down at the scrum of street traffic. A faint honk came up.
“That was one of the things I was sorry about. I used to go to Bakersfield for her every month. My dad did it before me. She counted on me to do it.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s money, you know, right?”
“Yes. What’s it for?”
“Ma’am, I don’t know.”
“Ever see the people in the house?”
“No, I never did. They’re in there, all right.”
“How do you know?”
He turned from the window. “‘Cause every time I dropped that envelope through the mail slot—every single time—I heard it hit the floor and then somebody go Ruh! Like that. Like they just won something.”
“A man or a woman?”
“It’s a lady, I think. A mean one, judging by her voice.”
“Did the money belong to your grandma?”
“She always handed me the envelope.”
“What do you think was going on?”
He was silent, his soft deer eyes focused in the middle distance. At last he said, “You know my grandma.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that look of hers. There’s things you don’t ask questions, you don’t even wonder.”
_____
“It’s just about the nicest prison in California,” George told me as we cruised up the 101 to San Luis Obispo. “Low and medium security, education programs, rehab, team sports. Would you pass me my fries, please?”
It was now Tuesday, noonish. We’d driven through an In-N-Out next to the highway in Woodland Hills and thus were participating in that great American practice of eating hamburgers while driving. Plus we were doing it in California, on the Ventura Highway. In the sunshine.
“What a glorious day,” I remarked.
“Yes,” agreed George. “It’s always a glorious day with you.”
“You just can’t leave it alone, can you?”
He smiled apologetically.
To me there’s always a carefree, teen feel to sipping Coke from a waxed cup while the world flashes past your window. Yet for all the fabulousness, for all the privilege, our minds bore the burden of the faceless presence of Dale the Whale Vargas. It occurred to me that less than two weeks from now, Khani Emberton would sign over his five million dollars to Amaryllis.
George was a neat eater, no spill
s, which was nice, because he was wearing a beautiful pair of brown slacks with a first-rate weave. Little blue flecks in a chocolate-brown summer worsted, I thought. He told me he’d gotten them at a thrift shop and I was shocked.
“You can get great clothes at those places,” he said, embarrassed by my reaction. “Much better quality than some of the new stuff.”
“You just don’t seem the thrift shop type, that’s all.”
“Well, you know, I’m starting from scratch since the fire.”
“Yeah. That’s such a shame. Have you filed with your renter’s insurance?”
“No, I don’t have any.”
“George, really?”
“I like to—handle things myself. I have some savings.”
He didn’t really believe in insurance, he told me, in spite of having worked as an insurance investigator and knowing the ins and outs. He didn’t like to go crying to anybody about anything, and that’s what it was when you filed a claim.
“Your drum kit!”
“Oh, everything, my files, everything. Fortunately I upload all my important computer files, so they’re safe. You know, when I was growing up, the other kids took advantage of the free paper and pencils the school district provided, but I always brought my own. They made fun of me, but then the coolest teacher in the school said, ‘I respect a man brings his own paper.’ I carry car insurance because I have to. I pay my dentist in cash, and the last time I needed a doctor was when I was thirteen, for a wrestling team physical.”
He’d warned me not to wear anything blue to the prison today, no jeans either blue or black, no sweats. No forest green or tan (guard colors), no blue chambray. “And one other thing,” he said, awkwardly. “No, ah, underwire bra.”
“Really?”
“You can’t have any metal on you at all. They will find it. It’d be best for you to wear long slacks and a plain blouse. No jewelry, of course.”
“OK.”
Now, as the Ventura unspooled before us, I said, “I understand why Nathan would have been sent there after his drunk-driving bust, but it seems like they would have sent Vargas to someplace tougher.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Remember what he went in for: check fraud. The guy’s violent, but he’s never had a real rap. No assault, no robbery, no possession. He slipped up just one time with a stolen ID and a checkbook. Only ninety days in the Men’s Colony—that’s a sterling record for the likes of him. Are you cool enough?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” The air-conditioning worked well in his yellow Beetle. Everybody’s air-conditioning was on today, even this close to the coast. It was probably ninety-five in L.A. now, at noon.
George said, “You got word to Nathan who we are?”
“Yes, I got Kip to call him.”
“And he really insisted on meeting you?”
“He did, George. And dammit, I’m part of this thing, you know? I want to see Nathan myself, I want to see what kind of guy he is.”
“He might open up more to me alone.”
“Well, I can leave the room or something.” But I didn’t intend to. I found myself studying his pants too much. I kept glancing at them, admiring his strong legs beneath that fine fabric, his trim hips, his wonderful, sensitive stomach. My heart had skipped when he said the word bra, can you believe it? Do not, do not, do not think about it, I told myself.
Forcing my mind away from—well, sex, I said, “Did Vargas, like, invent himself, or did he come up from somewhere?”
“Rita. Good question. He’s from Tucson originally—started small there. Unlike most small-time dealers, however, I don’t think he ever used.
“Eventually he got big in Tucson dealing crystal meth first, then cocaine and heroin. He’s a comer, all right. Police heat got too much for him in Tucson, so he left and turned up in L.A. a couple of years ago, as far as my friends in the police can figure. L.A.’s still a big coke town, but the best customers aren’t to be found at street level.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re a dealer, the customers you want are the upscale ones, the lawyers and entertainment people—they like their deals quiet, and if they’re addicts, they’re regulars, and they pay. If he doesn’t want to move into bulk sales, they’re the customers that’ll do him the most good.”
“How did he get to the top in Tucson?”
“I think our exit’s coming up.”
_____
Nathan Cubitt had once, clearly, been a cheerful person. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did: remnants of a light manner were evident, but the man seemed to have been gnawed pretty hard around the edges.
The three of us met in a teacher’s-lounge-like room with vinyl furniture and a coffeemaker. Nathan, wearing his prison blues stamped CMC, had been brought in fairly casually by a guard.
“Laid-back place,” I’d remarked to George as we watched prisoners crisscrossing one of the peaceful courtyards, like college kids between classes. The grounds were very neat.
“It’s not,” he said. “That fence alone’ll kill you.”
“Why, it looks like an ordinary mesh fence with innocent-seeming razor wire on top!”
He’d smiled. “Plus eight thousand volts. And believe me, we’re being watched. My CO days don’t seem so far behind me right now. Corrections officer,” he preempted my question.
Now Nathan said, “Nice to have visitors in the middle of the week.”
“You mean this isn’t ordinary?” I asked.
“No,” said he and George together.
“Well,” I said, “your son sends his love.”
Nathan smiled eagerly, sadly. “How is he?” I saw where Kip got his slenderness and good face bones. Father and son’s lips were firm.
“Doing great. He and I have gotten to be friends. He’s walking, doing his therapy, being active. He’s reading. He’ll be home with his grandma soon.”
“We want to talk about Vargas,” George said.
Nathan said, “First, I want to speak to this lady. May I take your hand?”
I extended it without hesitation.
He engulfed my hand in his pink-brown mitt. His palm was rough. He looked into my eyes. “I know what you did.”
I said nothing, but made an open gesture with my other hand.
In a very soft voice, he said, “Thank you for my son.”
“Well…you’re welcome. Let’s hope he stays healthy. We’re here to try to ensure that, you know. Your mama too.”
“Yes.”
“About Vargas,” said George.
Nathan nodded, releasing my hand. “He was my cellmate for five weeks and two days.”
Seeing my puzzled smile, he said, “You keep exact track of time when you’re in prison. And with the Whale, I counted the days especially so.”
“As bad as all that?” George asked.
“And then some. He’s very smart, he puts himself up very high and people believe it. He left some books behind for me. They’re good books, but I can’t say I got into them.”
“Like what?” I prompted.
“About people telling each other stories, then they make a lot of money. They work together and they think outside the box and then—somehow—they make a lot of money. I haven’t figured out how the money comes. Stories about people agreeing. Making agreements. Sinajizing.”
“What?” I said.
Nathan tried to think of the right word. “Sinajizing,” he repeated.
George suggested, “Synergizing?”
“Yeah!”
“You mean like running a business?” I said.
“Yeah. Somehow.” Nathan Cubitt’s tilted head indicated the perplexity of an uncomplicated mind trying to grasp the hyped-up metaphors of business self-help.
“I understand,” said George.
Nathan said, “The Whale’s a smart brother. I didn’t like him one bit, not one bit. He had a lot of followers in here.”
“Yeah?” said George.
“Yeah, they all
can’t wait to get out and go to work for him.”
“The officers here tell me Vargas got a guy to knife you after he was out. And they say a guy named Masters was killed in the shower on Vargas’s orders.”
“Ooh, yeah, that was a bad lockdown.” Nathan wiped his face on his sleeve. “‘Course nobody told it was the Whale, but yeah, like I say. The motherfucker’s good at getting people to owe him, excuse me, ma’am.”
I said, “What did Masters do to him?”
“Oh, nothing!” Nathan glanced at George like, Innocent lady! “It was a control killing?” suggested George.
“Yeah, he called it, um, human resources management. He needed to show what he could do if he wanted to. I didn’t know there was so much blood in a body.”
“You saw it?”
“If you’re an old CO,” Nathan told George, “you know nobody sees anything in the joint.” He set his chin in his hand. “So much blood.”
George said, “The guy or guys who did it—did they owe Vargas some money or drugs, and he called in the debt by making them kill this guy?”
“That was it.” Nathan gazed at Rowe. “Seems like you know him too.”
“I heard about Tucson,” said George.
“The whole world knows about Tucson.”
I said, “What the hell happened in Tucson?”
Nathan gave George a look I wasn’t supposed to see, coupled with a microscopic head shake.
“Come on,” I said.
George sighed. “Vargas made his rep in Tucson by committing a very stylish murder.” Nathan looked away.
“A stylish murder? What does that mean?”
“I have to tell her,” said George. “Don’t worry, Nathan.” George looked at me for the first time as if I were another guy. No softness in his expression, no politeness.
He said, “Vargas picked four witnesses—gangbangers—to watch him kill his boss, the top drug lord in Tucson. Which he did by—uh.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his upper lip and neck. “It was a torture killing, Rita.”
“Go ahead and tell me.”
“Well, all you really need to know is the first step. After tying the guy to a chair, he sliced away his eyelids so he couldn’t miss anything that happened next.”
I said nothing.
“He sent out for pizza for the witnesses, since he took about six hours to kill the guy.” He stopped.
The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 46