Below the Line

by Howard Michael Gould

  They were peer to peer now. “Timing. Inductive reasoning. You were the link—why else would you be here?”

  “And you were only a cop three years?” Waldo marveled.

  Schmitty shrugged, what can you do? “Layoffs.”

  “What a waste,” said Waldo. “Can you keep a secret, Schmitty?”

  “Of course.”

  Which probably meant, I’ll give it an hour before calling talk radio and giving them a fake name. Waldo said, “You’re right. I’m sure you’re right. But nobody knows it yet—the connection between Pinch and Roy Wax.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Just us. But I’m one tire track short of the proof I need to take it public.” He closed the deal with more conspiratorial gibberish: “We can crack this. If I can pull that track from the Waxes’ driveway, we’ll have it. I’ve got my kit in my backpack. I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”

  “This tied in with the black kid, too?”

  “I think it is. I’ll explain it all later. Can you let me in?” He meant, without calling Brenda Wax and giving her the chance to freeze him out. Schmitty hit a button, lifting the gate, and gave Waldo a sly nod, a partner in crime fighting now. Waldo returned the salute and pedaled to the Waxes’.

  As he waited in front of their house his hand began to throb so badly that he broke down and reached for the Percocet bottle. He fumbled out a pill one-handed and forced it down without water before Brenda opened the door.

  She noticed the bandages right away. “What happened?”

  “Your husband didn’t want me in the neighborhood.”

  “He did that, too? I’m so, so sorry. Please, come in. Can I get you anything?” He asked for the water he could have used a minute ago.

  In the same living room he sat on the blue-and-white rattan sofa, his back to the French doors and the docks. Nothing in the house had been changed, but the excision of its overbearing, abusive master had given it a new lightness. Brenda said, “I’m just starting to learn how many bad things Roy was up to. We didn’t have the kind of marriage where he told me much about his business.” Still birdlike but now freed from her cage, she couldn’t sit still; she fluttered about the room making this adjustment and that, leveling a picture, resituating a knickknack. “I’m so, so sorry for all you’ve been through.” She corrected: “What Roy put you through.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Wax, but there are a couple of bits I can’t quite answer for Joel—”

  “Poor Joel,” she sighed.

  “—questions about choices Paula made. I was hoping you might be able to help me make sense of them.”

  “If I can.”

  “I’m wondering two things, really: why Paula called Roy at home in the middle of the day—there are phone records of that—and why she happened to tell him she’d bought the dog. He needed to know about that before he went up there.”

  “As a matter of fact, I can answer those. Paula wasn’t calling for Roy; she called me.”

  “Why?”

  “To scold me about Daron bringing Stevie down here. She started going on about all the drama their family had been through lately, and she mentioned the dog and what happened with you.”

  “And you told Roy?”

  “I was pretty shaken up when we got off the phone, so I called him. Believe me, I’ve been feeling guilty about it. She was still my sister.” She plucked a tissue from a discreetly hidden cozy and dabbed at her eyes. “Roy always had a violent side. I just never thought he’d act out, outside the immediate family.”

  Waldo said, “Actually, it’s the other murder that has me confused. The schoolteacher, Mr. Ouelette.”

  “The detective said Roy and the teacher were involved with some kind of drug business. I didn’t know that about Roy, either.”

  “I’m not sure I’m buying that. The teacher never had any kind of record. According to Stevie, he never even drank. And they didn’t find anything else in his apartment—only one tiny packet of an expensive designer drug. I’m thinking the person who killed him planted it there.”

  “Roy.”

  “I do believe it was someone from Orange County. This drug’s very expensive. It’s getting popular down here, but it hasn’t taken hold yet in L.A.”

  “Roy,” she said again, like that cinched it.

  “Maybe. Roy does have the connections for it. But he doesn’t need the drug business, and with so much to lose, he seems like someone who’d be smart enough to steer clear of it. To go to those people and ask them to give him some drug to plant on Ouelette, and such an unusual drug . . .” He was being open about his doubts, hoping to elicit from her some tidbit about their white-shoe world that would help him make sense of the jumble. But the morsel she offered was the last he would have expected.

  “I know where he got the drugs,” she told him. “They’re mine.”

  The stress and the Percocet and the aqueous shimmer through the French doors behind him suddenly conspired to give the room an unreal quality. He regretted surrendering to the pain earlier. He scrunched up his eyes.

  She took it as a cue to elaborate. “I have an abusive husband. I’ve been on antidepressants for years and I drink too much. At some point even all that wasn’t enough.”

  “And Roy knew about it?”

  “I didn’t think so. But he must have found them in the bathroom; he was probably rooting around to pilfer an Ambien from me. Anyhow, my . . . little stash? It went missing sometime last week. I’ve been afraid to confront him.” She picked up a photo of Roy and teenage Daron from the mantel, wiped some dust with her sleeve and put it back. “I’m sure it was Roy, Mr. Waldo. If you’d like, I’d be willing to share this information with the authorities, and I’m willing to accept my own consequences, possession charges or what have you.”

  Waldo threw her an easy curve. “The drug, seventy-eight—it’s so rare. How did you even get it?”

  “A girlfriend. Like you said, seventy-eight’s catching on down here. Our kind of people are the ones who can afford it.”

  Seventy-eight, seventy-nine—so it wasn’t hers. But why would she lie so desperately? She had no need for Roy to fall for both murders, when either one would put him away.

  Unless.

  Unless she needed Roy to fall instead of the real murderer, whom she was trying to protect.

  Of course.

  Daron wasn’t just “into” his underage cousin; he was hooked on her. That apartment, that overpriced pony stall—it didn’t look like a place that was seeing a cavalcade of girls coming through. And Stevie would have used Ouelette to taunt him, the same way she flirted with Amador. Only it worked too well, and Daron came up to the Valley and killed Ouelette, then picked Stevie up and brought her down to O.C. She didn’t even know the teacher was dead until she was back up at Clara Lambert’s; when she heard, she put together the timing, suspected Daron and worried about her own involvement, and went underground.

  The amount of seventy-nine sealed it. You don’t get to be Roy Wax–rich by leaving thirty thousand dollars lying around when you know five or ten will do. And a Marwin Amador sure wouldn’t leave that kind of package lying around, either; any hired gun would have siphoned off most of it. No, it had to be someone who had no idea what the drug was worth . . . or someone who had no idea what money was worth.

  Waldo was so muddled that he couldn’t tell when he’d started thinking aloud, but he heard himself muttering, “Someone who never had to pull himself up by his bootstraps.”

  He saw Brenda’s nostrils flare, then heard a whoosh behind him and turned to see what it was.

  * * *

  • • •

  A pair of Brendas were in the room with him now, one above the other. Looking stricken, they both spoke, albeit with a single voice. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You say that a lot,” Waldo managed to croak.r />
  His brain wouldn’t stop screaming. He was on the sofa, on his side, his hands pinned by what felt like duct tape. He could feel blood trickling past his eye. He focused on the leg of a coffee table and willed his vision back into singleness. There was a hooked fireplace poker nearby on the carpet and presumably a matching dent in his forehead. No doubt he was concussed.

  Daron entered the room from behind his mother and walked over to Waldo, a fluffy bedroom pillow in his hands.

  Brenda said to him, “Wait.”

  “Dad’s a piece of shit. We know he killed Aunt Paula. Why not let him take the hit for the other one too?”

  Brenda looked at Waldo, hesitating.

  “Come on,” said Daron. “You said we could.”

  “I know I did, but . . .”

  Waldo said, “But now you’d have another body to have to explain.”

  “Not a problem,” said Daron, turning to his mother to finish the sale. “Nobody has to find him. I’ll take him out in the boat tonight, dump him in the ocean.”

  Waldo said, “I’ll be missing. The gate guard knows I came to see your mother. You going to kill him, too?”

  Daron shook his head, dismissing the concern. “Come on—nobody’ll believe that my mother is a murderer.” He knelt beside Waldo, ready to suffocate him.

  Waldo said, “They should: she killed your aunt Paula.”

  Daron froze.

  Waldo said, “You know what Stevie said to me the last time I was with her?” Daron lowered the pillow at the mention of his cousin-lover and listened. “That everybody lies to her, that they tell her they won’t repeat things but they do, and end up getting killed. I couldn’t get her to explain what she was saying—she was in one of her Stevie moods—but I figured she meant she told Paula about something she knew Roy was into down here, and Paula repeated it to Roy.”

  Daron said, “So?”

  “But that wasn’t it. The thing Stevie told her mother was that you killed Victor Ouelette, and Paula called and told you that”—here he looked at Brenda—“and threatened to go to the police. So you borrowed the same gun from Roy’s closet, drove up to L.A., picked up some antifreeze for the dog on the way and shot your sister. To protect your son. Just like when you lied to me about the drugs now—to protect Daron. For that matter, just like when Roy had me maimed by a pimp to scare me out of O.C.—to protect Daron.

  “Of course, Stevie could still claim Daron did it. But you knew no one would believe her. Hell, even Stevie’s own father thought she killed Paula. She’d never have anyone take her side again.”

  Daron said, “My mother couldn’t murder anybody. Look at her.”

  Brenda sat stock-still.

  Waldo said to Daron, “Your aunt Paula was killed by two shots at close range, no struggle, with a third bullet in the wall. That was strange, too. How does that happen? Probably somebody who wasn’t used to firing a gun.”

  “My father didn’t have a lot of experience, either.”

  “If Roy was up in L.A. killing Paula at the same time I was kidnapped by the pimp, why didn’t he just have the pimp kill me too? Wouldn’t make sense.”

  Daron shifted toward his mother, looking for an explanation, then seemed to decide he didn’t want it. He said, “That’s enough,” and turned back to Waldo.

  Waldo tried to suck in all the air he could before the pillow came down and cut it off. He thrashed to make it harder for Daron but then felt Daron’s weight pressing on his midsection; the kid must have climbed atop him, crushing his arms, now squeezed underneath him, the bite wound suddenly more agonizing than his hand but it didn’t matter anymore, his entire body was rebelling at the lack of oxygen and he was helpless and he started to panic but there were no more moves left, his heart quickened and the pressure tore at his lungs and he tried to let go a little air to relieve it but he couldn’t even do that and then his head started feeling lighter and this was going to be the end and it was strange because it wasn’t all that bad, he could just go to sleep, that would make it all go away, even the agony of his hand and his arm, just let the sleep come, and he started to let go and as he did he heard, from miles and miles and miles away . . .

  A banging.

  Daron let up the pressure and like a miracle the bruising air was released and Daron must have climbed off and the pillow was still over Waldo’s face but loose enough that he could draw a new breath. It seared his lungs and drove a fresh spike through his head. He focused on shallowing his intake and staying motionless. He could see nothing. The drugs and the trauma had put a double whammy on him and he could feel himself drifting off again.

  Someone said, “Have you seen Charlie Waldo?”

  Brenda said, “No.”

  “He came down this way.” Schmitty. “He told me he’d only be a few minutes but he never came back.” He was probably at the French doors; on the sofa Waldo would be hidden from him.

  “Are you sure?” said Daron, his voice receding as his footsteps carried him to the door. He’d be counting on Waldo being dead, or close to it; all he and his mother had to do was keep Schmitty outside and shake him off.

  Waldo found just enough strength to roll off the sofa. At the thud, Schmitty stepped past Brenda and into the room; from his spot on the floor Waldo could see him now. Schmitty asked him, “What’s going on?”

  Waldo pulled a breath and it tore his chest so badly that he knew he only had three or four words in him. He said to Schmitty, “Daron killed Monica Pinch.”

  Schmitty said, “I knew it!” and pulled a revolver Waldo hadn’t even realized he carried.

  THIRTY

  When the teacher called on Dulci Apodaca to come up and take her turn introducing her friend, Waldo did not immediately recognize it as his moment, too. He had been thinking of her, foolishly, as Dulci Q. Together they ran through the questions and answers they’d rehearsed. The teacher led the class and parents in applause and Dulci hugged Waldo around the waist.

  At the little outdoor celebration that followed, Don Q’s graceful wife, Zuli, appeared to have already found a rhythm with the other second-grade moms, but Q himself stood off to the side looking uncomfortable. He seemed glad to have Waldo to talk to. “Nobody told me private school meant I gotta come here every damn week. We been at this bitch a month, and this the fourth time I been here. Track and Field Day, Arts and Crafts Day . . . and every time you gotta stand around after, eatin’ cupcakes with these people. Don’t these muthafuckers work?” He looked over at the dozens of his fellow parents, incredulous. Waldo wondered what kind of professional obligations Don Q himself was forgoing this morning. “Last week I had to sit two hours on a damn bleacher, all the second grade did was sing one goddamn song about pollution. Plus, truth be told, I definitely got a problem with these cupcakes.” He took a bite out of his second.

  Waldo said, “You got a good kid there.”

  “She likes you, for some damn reason.” Don Q wiped some icing from his mouth with a napkin. “I may hit you up again, she wants you for anything else. ’Cause you still owe me.”

  “For what?”

  “O.C., man.” Waldo could have answered that the information Q had provided was, in the end, only a small element of solving the case, but he let it go.

  Besides, he could see the pleasure the dealer was taking in the moment, watching his daughter on the playground, deep in a giggle-inducing handclap game with a redheaded classmate. It was hard to reconcile this loving daddy with the vicious criminal who’d only months ago introduced himself to Waldo by dumping a murder victim in front of his cabin and then having his goon beat Waldo senseless.

  But maybe it wasn’t all that complicated. Dulci was how Don Q made sense of his fucked-up life, in the same way Waldo found his rules and his Hundred Things to make sense of his own. So it didn’t matter that Q felt out of place here: his daughter belonged, and for all the complaining, he’d sho
w up for her every time he was asked.

  * * *

  • • •

  On his way out, Waldo followed the voices of older boys and girls and came upon the Stoddard high school and what looked like the beginning of lunch break. He scanned the outdoor tables and spotted Koy Lem and Dionne Shapiro but not Stevie. Then she slipped her arm through Waldo’s and squeezed his biceps. “Looking for me?”

  “I was—but I didn’t think I’d find you.”

  “I know. My dad wanted me to stay home at least a week, but it’s, like, so depressing there.”

  “How about here? Is it awkward?”

  “Why?”

  “Well . . . Mr. Ouelette . . . ?”

  “God. That was, like, so long ago.” It had been a week and a half.

  His last time with her, she’d said that the secret she’d asked him to keep about Conor was a test that he’d failed. But with Stevie, everything was a test: every declaration you could only pass by disbelieving, every seduction you could only pass by resisting. Hanging on his arm, the show of affection—what sort of test was this? But as they stood there together, watching life carry on, tragedy and chaos giving way to the everyday high school business of flirting and cruelty, awkwardness and heartbreak, it occurred to Waldo that he wasn’t even the one being tested right now, that he was only a prop in a new bit of Stevie stagecraft designed for some poor teenage boy trying to act like he wasn’t watching them, tearing himself apart while he tried to figure out how he was supposed to react to his new flame or almost-flame pressing her face into the shoulder of some older man.

  Stevie said, “Can I ask you something, Waldo? What’s it like when you get old?” He’d never thought about that word applying but maybe it was time to start. She said, “I hope I never have to be your age.”

  “No?”

  “All the adults I’ve ever met are, like, total psychos. Every single one.”

  Stevie Rose let go of his arm and headed toward a crowded table. Dionne Shapiro squeezed against the girl next to her to open up a space for her bestie. All sorts of things happened, like, so long ago.