The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “They are taking the baby to the morgue for an autopsy,” she said.

  “Foul play,” I said, rubbing the crick out of my neck. “Murder?”

  “Probably manslaughter. We have an APB out on Maupin.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just like the patrolman said. Maupin had been at the bar all night. When he got home he decided to play with the baby, who was sound asleep. Melinda protested and Maupin took the baby anyway.” There was a tiredness in her face that a night’s sleep wasn’t going to erase. “The baby started crying and wouldn’t stop. Maupin became enraged and shook him and broke his neck.”

  I looked out the automatic doors at the dimly lit parking lot. There was a white heat coursing through my middle and up into my throat.

  Finally, I asked, “Melinda?”

  “I’m not sure what to do with her. She doesn’t want to go back to her place.”

  “Father Correa,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’m going to bring her out, why don’t you be outside. She’s pretty upset.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “She’s blaming you.”

  I looked at her for a long time. Her eyes weren’t cop eyes now. They were the eyes of a woman that saw the pain in front of her. Finally, I nodded and turned and went out into the dawn.

  I was leaning against my car when they came out. At first Melinda didn’t look at me but once she was in Boyce’s passenger seat, her eyes found me and they stayed on me. They stayed on me until Boyce had to turn the car and Melinda would have had to turn to look over the back seat to see me. She didn’t turn.

  I stood, leaning against my car for a long time. Boyce’s car had long disappeared. I finally got into the Mustang and sat there for a long time. The white heat inside had turned icy cold.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and into the awakening city. I drove slowly home. On the Tiger Lily, I sat on the stern and sipped reheated coffee until the sun was well up. Finally I went inside and pulled the blackout curtains and lay down and tried to sleep.

  49

  I tossed and turned for about four hours, then finally gave it up and went fishing. I don’t know if it was because my heart wasn’t in it or it was just a lousy fishing day, but I didn’t get a bite. Late in the day I gave it up.

  I snugged Swoop back in her mooring and went back to the houseboat and took a shower. I toweled off and put on a soft chambray shirt and some khaki slacks and Teva sandals. I had spent the previous six months perfectly happy to spend my time alone on the boat, but for some reason, tonight I needed to be around people.

  I tucked the Ruger in my back pocket and drove toward town. I guess I was headed for El Patron by way of Safehouse, but halfway down the Black Canyon I decided to run by the Diablo Playboy warehouse.

  The police tape was gone and in the gathering dusk I could see a faint light coming from one of the upper windows. I pulled around the corner and parked. There was no one on the street. I opened the trunk and pulled out a jacket I kept there. Draping the jacket over my arm, I walked easily around the corner on the opposite side of the street. I walked with purpose, like I was heading someplace. I didn’t see a sentinel on top of the building. I walked down two blocks, then crossed over, put on the jacket, turned the collar up and came back toward it. The master of disguise.

  As I reached the building, I ducked into the deepening shadows and moved to the back. I pulled the Ruger and ratcheted a round into the chamber. The back door was ajar. I eased inside and let my eyes adjust. It was as if time had stood still. Nothing was different except the new dust.

  I went up the stairs silently, pistol extended, hugging the wall. When I reached the middle landing, it was as if there had never been a body there except for a dark smudge that could have been dried blood. I went on up. I stood listening outside the door for a very long time. I could hear something but couldn’t make it out. Finally, I realized it was the sound of someone humming.

  I went in low, quiet and quick.

  There was an old black man sitting on the couch with a Bunsen burner, heating up something in an old saucepan. This was generating the only light in the room. His back was to me. His hair was shot with gray and he wore a tattered Army surplus jacket. His bed roll and most everything else he owned was on the other end of the couch.

  I stepped out into the room and he shot straight up, almost up-ending his cook pot.

  “Oh, my my,” he cried, scuttling back away from me. He was looking at the gun. He put a palm out to me, “I’m sorry boss! I’m sorry! Didn’t know this belong to anybody!”

  I lowered the pistol. “It's okay. I’m not here to harm you.”

  “Don’t mean nothin’ boss.” He was terrified.

  “It’s okay,” I said again. I tucked the pistol in my back pocket. “I’m looking for someone else.”

  He slowly relaxed, “Ain’t no one here but me.”

  “How long you been here?”

  “Couple of days, boss. That’s all.”

  I walked around, looking at the place. There were still dark spots on the floor where the blood had been.

  I looked in the utility room, then came back out. The old man was watching me. I realized he wasn’t as old as I originally thought.

  I moved past him, then turned back. I took some of Rusty’s cash from my pocket and handed him a twenty.

  “Gangs use this place. Hang out, smoking crack. If they come back they’ll mess you up soon as look at you.”

  He took the twenty, bobbing his head.

  “Yessir, boss. I stay away from them bad people. Thank you kindly.”

  “Don’t be spending that on Thunderbird,” I said.

  “Oh, nossir,” he said. “I ain’t no wino,” telling me he knew what Thunderbird was. “This here will get me a weeks’ worth of beans.”

  “Those gangbangers come back, you get your stuff and go down that back stairs.”

  “Yes sir, I surely will.”

  I went back down the stairs and outside. The air was cooling so I left the jacket on. I walked back to the Mustang, dropped the magazine from the Ruger, ratcheted the round out of the chamber and put it back in the magazine, then put the magazine back in place. As I slid in, I saw a Lincoln town car drive by a block away. I couldn’t see the driver but I smiled anyway.

  I drove over to Safehouse.

  I found Father Correa in the community room. The place still smelled like cooking.

  Many of the mothers were rocking their babies. Some were feeding. All were gathered around the flat screen TV watching a rerun of NCIS. Father Correa, smile still firmly in place, was bouncing one of the toddlers on his knee. Not one baby was crying. Melinda wasn’t in the room.

  Upon seeing me, Father Correa handed the baby off and came over to me.

  “Mr. Jackson, it’s good to see you.”

  “I’m sorry for the reason. I came to see about Melinda.”

  “She’s resting,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder and gently moved me to the door.

  “Let’s go to my office where we can talk.”

  I followed him back down the corridor. Midway down, he indicated a closed door. “Melinda’s staying in here,” he said in a hushed voice.

  In his office he indicated the spare chair and I sat down. He indicated the ever present coffee pot. I shook my head.

  “Have they caught the father?” I asked.

  He looked surprised. “I would have thought that you would know that before me.”

  “Last I saw of Detective Boyce was at the hospital, early this morning.”

  “Yes,” the Father said, taking his glasses from his face and taking a tissue from a box on his desk he began cleaning them. “Fine young woman. She was here with Melinda for an hour and a half, till Melinda finally succumbed to the medication the hospital had given her and fell asleep.”

  “She still sleeping?”

  “Was a half hour ago when one of the volunteers checked her.”

  “I f
eel responsible for this.”

  He looked at me, surprised, “Why is that?”

  “I misjudged Maupin. I didn’t think the baby was in any danger, just Melinda.”

  He replaced his glasses and looked at me over the top of them, “I’m sensing there was something that transpired between you and Melinda and her baby.”

  “And the father,” I said.

  “Maybe you should tell me about it.”

  So I did. I softened the beating part, making it more just that I had threatened Maupin if he hurt Melinda. I left Blackhawk out of the narrative.

  He listened carefully. When I was finished, he studied me a moment.

  Finally he said, “I don’t see anything wrong with taking the young woman’s part. A man like Maupin is a slave to his own demons. I believe that whether you were in the picture or not, eventually he would have done something evil. Probably to both of them. Maybe you didn’t save young Hayden but maybe you did save Melinda.”

  I thought about that.

  Finally, I stood. “If she needs anything, you still have my number?”

  “I still have your number, Mr. Jackson. I’ll call if she needs something, but I think she will be safe here for a while.”

  “You are a good man, Father.”

  “So are you, Mr. Jackson,” he said. Been a long time since anyone had told me that.

  Outside I sat in the Mustang for a moment, thinking about what the Father had said, then I drove to El Patron.

  50

  I had too much to drink, so I spent the night in Blackhawk’s spare bedroom. When I awoke the radio clock on the bed stand said it was 5:30. I felt a little fuzzy from the drink, but knew I couldn’t sleep anymore.

  I was back at the boat an hour later. I put on my swimming foot and swam to the buoy and back, then did it again to punish myself. By the second time, the blood flowing through my body pushed all the fuzziness out and I felt refreshed. Suddenly I was famished. I put a pot of coffee on, then fixed a three egg omelet with scallions, cheese and tomatoes. I pulled a wrapped parmesan bagel from my freezer, microwaved it for 15 seconds to thaw it, then cut it in half and put it in the toaster.

  I took the breakfast out on the stern. Eddie went by with a fishing customer sitting in the bow of his skiff. He waved, and I waved back.

  I finished breakfast and cleaned up. Anything to avoid thinking about the girl, Gabriela, and why I couldn’t find her. It had been long enough that Roland should have surfaced somewhere.

  I was reading on the sofa and had fallen asleep when my phone in my pants pocket vibrated and woke me up. It was Boyce.

  I hit the connect button and before I could say anything she said, “Where are you?”

  “At the boat,” I answered. “You want to go swimming?”

  “Shut up,” she said with a laugh. “I’m at Seventh Avenue and the river bottom, how soon can you get here?”

  “What is it?”

  “Just get here,” she said and hung up.

  It took me just under thirty minutes to hit the Seventh Avenue exit off the Black Canyon, then another couple to get to the river bottom. I had been thinking that directions of just Seventh Avenue and the river bottom were pretty meager directions, but when I got there I had no trouble finding her. There were four squad cars, a firetruck, an ME’s wagon and couple of other official looking cars, including one that was Boyce’s, most of them with their lights flashing.

  I found a place to park and made my way down off the street. They were all gathered fifty yards away, down into the river. Of course, the Salt River bottom was completely dry and almost always was, unless Phoenix had a completely abnormal downpour.

  Boyce saw me and waved. The ground was broken and jumbled with chunks of concrete and piles of river rock. At this point it had to be one hundred fifty yards across. The river was rocks, weeds and scattered trash. Because of my foot I had to walk very carefully.

  They were all gathered around a blue plastic tarp that was spread on the ground. There were flies on the tarp. When I reached them, Boyce said, “Got something to show you,” and lifted the edge of the tarp. She was watching me as she did it, as were the other cops.

  I don’t know what she expected my reaction to be, but I had seen beheaded corpses like these before, so my reaction was slight. Rigor had set in on both bodies. One wore a long sleeve shirt over a ribbed undershirt. Both of these shirts had been torn open and there were burn marks on the torso. Strange as it was, the body seemed familiar. The other body had an undershirt only. It was not torn. Both wore expensive running shoes and jeans. The one without the shirt had a familiar eagle tattoo on his arm.

  I looked at Boyce, “Roland?”

  She nodded, watching me.

  “Most people start throwing up now,” she smiled.

  “I didn’t have a lot for breakfast; who is the other one?”

  She squatted down and pulled a shoe off. He didn’t wear socks and his little toe was missing.

  “I know you say different, but I do believe you have made his acquaintance. This is what is left of Mr. Cisneros.”

  “You know him?”

  “The toe kinda gives it away and the description of his tattoos is on file.”

  “Almost like having a bar code,” I said. “How long?”

  She stood, tossing the shoe aside. She indicated a short, balding man that had a real honest to God pocket protector. He was carrying a notebook and was making notes in it. “Smitty says a couple of days, anyway.”

  “At least two,” Smitty said, without looking at me.

  “Any other trauma besides losing their heads?” I asked.

  Now he looked at me. “Just the burn marks you see and the missing toe which appears to have happened earlier, but nothing deadly, at least nothing that is apparent now. We’ll know more when we get the bodies to the morgue.” He looked at Boyce, “Which I’m hoping can be now, if the Detective is through with show and tell.”

  “All yours, Smitty,” Boyce said. She nodded at the patrolmen and started back up the grade.

  Smitty and his people began to body-bag the bodies.

  I followed Boyce to her car. She leaned against the fender of the non-descript Impala and studied me.

  “This isn’t all,” she said.

  “What else?”

  “There was a shootout at a Circle K in Tolleson last night. Three dead, no witnesses.”

  “Related to this?”

  “Nothing physical to tie it, but my gut says yes.”

  “Do I know who died?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but they were all gang members. Two of them Dos Hermanos and one was Valdez.”

  “War?”

  She looked down, watching the men gather up the bodies. “I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.”

  “This is bad,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “Bad for Gabriela,” I said. “If Roland doesn’t have her, who does?”

  “Or she’s dead,” Boyce said. “But,” she added almost to herself, “we have no body.”

  “I’m not going to think about that until there is absolutely no reason not to.”

  She shrugged.

  “Thanks for calling me.”

  “Thank Mendoza. He told me to.” She cocked her head.“One of these days you are going to explain why he would do that.”

  “Did you ask Mendoza?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, right.”

  51

  Since it was the three of us, we took Nacho’s Jeep downtown to the parking garage. We walked the three blocks to Escalona’s building. As we moved up the front steps, Emil joined us. Of the four of us, only Nacho looked surprised. Blackhawk was smiling. As Emil came up the stairs, I held the door for him. He nodded as he moved past me.

  We rode the elevator up in silence. Nacho was looking at Emil, then stealing glances at Blackhawk and me.

  The same girl was behind the desk. She looked up and started to rise, then saw Emil and sat back down. Emil indicated t
he chairs for us, then moved around the desk and down the corridor.

  Nacho and I sat down. Blackhawk leaned against the wall. He never seemed to have any tension. He might as well been at the park watching the ducks. The girl stole a glance at him every once in a while.

  It was a scant minute later when Emil reappeared. He motioned to us and we followed him back. He wasn’t nearly as much fun to follow as the girl.

  Escalona was behind his desk, and he rose and moved around it to shake our hands. Now he indicated the chairs and again Nacho and I sat while Blackhawk leaned against the wall next to the office door.

  “Tell me you have found Gabriela?” he said moving back to his chair.

  I smiled at him, “No, I’m afraid not. If I had I’m sure Emil would have told you by now.”

  Now it was his turn to smile, “Then I have to ask, why the visit?”

  “I did find Roland.”

  “Roland? The Playboy Diablo you thought had her?”

  I nodded.

  “But he doesn’t have her?”

  “No. I’m afraid he’s lost his head over all this.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully, then smiled. “Ah, you joke.”

  “Not very well,” I admitted. “He and Henry Cisneros were found in the river bottom. At least their bodies were. The heads haven’t been found.”

  “Do I know this Mr. Cisneros?”

  “I don’t think so. He was the guy that we thought would lead us to Roland. The one that led us to Roland’s sister’s old place. Where our friend here,” I indicated Emil,” bailed us out of a situation. The next time I saw what was left of him was this morning in the river bottom.”

  Escalona leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and pressed his fingertips together, bringing them to his lips. He was silent.

  Finally he said, “What do your friends in the police department say?”

  “It’s a war,” I said. “Dos Hermanos and Valdez. Two Dos Hermanos and one Valdez were shot to death in a firefight in Tolleson late last night.”

  Escalona leaned back in his chair and looked at Emil. I could tell by the look that this was information they already knew.