A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

“Yes. Are you?”

  Alex grabbed her around the waist. “Leave him alone, amada.”

  “He’s shy. It’s cute.”

  “I am not cute, Benson,” I said, calling her by her maiden name. “Don’t ever call me cute.” I took a rather long pull on my beer just as Gonzo arrived. Saved by the bell, literally.

  He walked in the door and immediately said, “Oh, fuck, Ortiz.” He waved his hand through the air, much like Lisa had done. “That’s your stench. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “May I remind you I have kids in the house?” Lisa reprimanded.

  “Sorry, babe,” he said, and bent to kiss her.

  She got a beer for him, then said, “Mark, did you know John’s seeing someone?”

  “Yeah. He and I talked about it yesterday while we were getting our nails done.” He took drink of his beer. “You can tell he’s getting laid. He’s glowing.” Gonz could be a real stitch, without even trying.

  “I wondered what that rosy tint in his cheeks was,” she quipped.

  I looked at them both. “I’ve had enough. Let’s go before I take the kids out instead.” I finished my beer.

  Lisa walked us all to the door, and Alex kissed her tenderly as Mark and I walked out on to the porch. Stevie managed to get back outside again, and he ran over to me and wrapped himself around my right leg and I goose-stepped all the way to my car with him attached.

  “Come on, you. Inside. In the tub,” Lisa called to him.

  “Don’t turn your back on her, kid,” I commented before getting in the car. “She’s got a mean right hand.”

  We ended up at the Stone Cantina. The Stone was a cop hangout, and it was within walking distance of my house, in case things got ugly. It was a great place to go, unwind, and be with like-minded souls. The police groupies were out in force this night as well: young, nubile girls looking for a tough authority figure to hold on to.

  We were on our second round of beers, and our second round of pool when Gonz turned to me.

  “So, you pretty committed to this lady doctor, T?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking a swig of my beer. “I’m pretty committed.” I could see he had his eye on a table of women across the bar, and he was interested in one in particular. I knew Gonzo’s type well: young, blond, and stacked—in that order.

  “So, I’m going solo here? You sure?”

  “Yeah. You’re on your own, brother. Have at it.” Gonz always depended on me to prowl around with him. Nothing ever came of it for me, and seldom for him either. But it was fun. It was better, I was finding, when you got the opportunity to grow the hell up. A good woman helped.

  Alex and I finished our game of pool, and I glanced over to watch Gonz in action. He had a gift, and I could see that he may go home alone tonight (probably not), but the people around him wouldn’t forget him quickly. He had the group laughing, and I saw him inch closer to the young-blond-stacked girl as he got closer to the punch line. Soon he would have his hand at the small of her back, then he’d take her hand while he spoke only to her, then it would be all over but the shoutin’.

  A couple of cops from the beach bike patrol strolled in, and one of them went over to the table and kissed one of the girls. They seemed to be an item.

  A voice rose above the laughter and general background noise of the bar. I couldn’t place it, and didn’t care, until I started to pick out details of the conversation.

  “Bitch gets wise, I pop her. Kids get wise, I pop them, too. Gotta run the house right, or all fuckin’ hell breaks loose.”

  Laborteaux.

  “Same on the streets. Can’t let these fuckin’ bangers and farm-help run the streets . . . homeless people all over the fuckin’ place. Where’s the fuckin’ pride. Knock the shit outta those people. Get ‘em up, get ‘em a job . . .”

  “You’re an asshole, Mason. Shut the fuck up,” came a voice from across the room. Mason Laborteaux just laughed.

  “Had this pussy partner,” he went on. “Tried to tell him . . . show him, you know . . . the reality of the streets . . . Fuckin’ little wimp, raised the sweet way. Jee-zuz!”

  I shook my head and went back to the game. Gonz still had them all going a few tables over.

  “One more, then I’m outta here, amico. Gotta go over to Karen’s.” I remembered the UPS delivery I promised to call about. I decided I’d arrange for delivery and have the security guy, Rocky, sign for the wine.

  “She isn’t home, remember? You gonna sleep in her bed and dream of sugarplums and whispers of sweet nothings?”

  “Boy, you’re eloquent when you’re drinking.”

  “Lisa disagrees. She thinks I’m an ass when I’m drinking.”

  “Well, she’s wrong, padna.”

  “It’s why we’re partners. You see me for what I am. Same?” he asked, pointing to my empty bottle. I nodded and he went up to the bar.

  A brunette with short hair got up from Gonz’s table and headed for the bathroom. Laborteaux got up. A moment later, an ear-piercing scream came from the back of the bar. The bartender, a bouncer, Gonz and I ran to the back. The two from bike patrol followed.

  Laborteaux had the brunette up against the bathroom door with his hand up her shirt.

  “Get off her, asshole.” Gonz was the first there.

  “She’s been flirting with me all night. NOW she says no?” Laborteaux spit. The chances of the girl even noticing Mason Laborteaux until this moment were nil.

  It took both Gonz and me to get him off her, and we’re big guys. Laborteaux was a big guy as well, but in no shape to take us on. The girl weighed about 100 lbs. The bouncer got us off him and took over, tossing him out the back door. I glanced at Gonz, and we followed out the door and into the alley.

  Gonz grabbed Laborteaux and threw him against the wall, shoving his forearm under his chin. I glanced up and down the alley to make sure no one was looking. Gonz gave him a few uppercuts to the ribs.

  “You ever touch someone like that again, and I’ll put you on permanent disability, you asshole. You’re a disgrace to the badge.” And he ended the conversation with a knee to the groin. Laborteaux fell to his knees. Then he turned his head to the side, and vomited. We went back inside, leaving him moaning in the dirty alley behind the bar.

  “You guys get all the fun, and I get nothin’,” Alex whined, meeting us each with a beer.

  “Your partner’s taking a little nap out back if you want to get him home,” Gonz said to a guy I did not know, but assumed was Laborteaux’s new partner.

  “Fuck him.”

  “Great,” I said, walking away. Even his partners hated him.

  TWENTY THREE

  The ceremony was never big, not a lot of fanfare. But it was a big deal, at least to the new officers. And to their families. As each uniformed officer stepped forward to receive his or her badge, police-issue weapon and their New York Police Department identification, he searched their faces for any signs of fear, of regret. And he saw none. What he saw was pride. The same pride he felt when he first became a New York City police officer. Now he was going to another city, in another state, and he hoped he would find pride there, too. He would leave his city to the younger ones. Maybe they could do it better. He hoped so.

  Officer Richard Joseph Callahan. The tall, broad shouldered officer stepped forward to accept his post. Officer Callahan’s brother smiled, then walked out of the room and headed for Los Angeles.

  I got to Karen’s at about nine. I checked with Rocky about signing for the wine if I could arrange for delivery. Maybe I’d just go pick it up myself.

  I walked into her condo and saw the notice right where she said it would be. I was just about to call the 800 number to arrange for redelivery tomorrow when her phone rang. I let the machine get it.

  “Yes, hello, Doctor Gennaro . . . this is Hector over at Strauss Audi. I got an estimate on the damage to your car, and I’d like to go over it with you. It almost doesn’t seem worth it. Maybe your insurance will say the same. I’m here all week un
til ten, so give me a call.”

  Damage? Insurance? What the hell was going on? I decided that UPS could wait. I wanted to know what was going on with Karen’s car. This didn’t sound ‘routine’ to me.

  I headed to Strauss Audi, located in Brentwood, a wealthy section of Los Angeles. I pulled in, drove around to the service garage, and asked for Hector. They closed at 10, and Hector was still there. I asked about Karen’s car and I told him I’d like to see it.

  “Sure,” he said. “Follow me.” I did, and it didn’t take me long to locate her car. It was mangled in front, the hood bent like an accordion.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “And you are . . .?”

  “I’m her boyfriend,” I said, introducing myself via my badge. “Now, what happened?”

  “Well, she says she got into an accident, and I called her today because it doesn’t look like it’s worth fixing. It will cost her almost what insurance will give her. That’s my advice, at least.”

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “Hit and run, I think she said. I told her she was lucky.”

  I nodded. “That’s about to change,” I said. “She’s out of town. I’ll have her call you tomorrow.”

  “Great. She can get money for the parts in addition to the insurance money. I can help her with that.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said as I walked back to my car. I sat for a good ten minutes willing my breathing to calm down and my blood pressure to lower. She lied to me.

  Question is, why?

  I went home, changed, and pulled a beer out of the fridge. I would go to something stronger later. It was 12:45 a.m. in New York now. I picked up the phone.

  “Ciao, bella. How was your day?” I asked when she answered.

  “Good. Going very well, actually. Did you forget the three hour time difference?” She sounded chipper.

  “No, and you sound awake anyway.”

  “I am, lucky for you.”

  “And for you, sweetheart. Say, Hector from Strauss Audi called. Car’s a total loss, he thinks. I agree, now that I’ve seen it.”

  She paused, then, “Fuck.” A whisper, certain I wouldn’t hear.

  “Dolcezza?” Sweetness.

  “Yeah,” she sighed.

  I paused and lowered my voice an octave or three. “You lied to me.”

  “Yeah.” The ‘yeah’—in that resigned tone—was usually followed by an aggressive pinching of the bridge of her nose, or the laying of the forehead in the hand. I was seeing it all as if she were right in front of me.

  “Karen?”

  “Yes?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I know I did. I’m sorry.”

  “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Can I get it now, please?”

  “I’d much rather talk about it when I get home.”

  “I bet you would, sweetheart, but that’s not acceptable to me.”

  “I suppose hanging up right now would be unacceptable to you as well?” Mia bellezza, trying for humor.

  “Hanging up on me now would be the mistake of your life, lady.”

  “You’re really angry, aren’t you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Yeah, well . . . can’t blame you there.”

  “Karen?”

  “Yes, John?”

  “You’re stalling, miele.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Mi aspett.” I’ll wait.

  “Ummmm . . .”

  “Babe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t make me wait too long.”

  “Alright.”

  She sighed. I waited. Too long. Finally, “Gennaro, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I am—unfortunately.”

  “Alright.” I said, my tone taking a dive quickly. I sat up and leaned my elbows on my knees. “You’re going to tell me what happened to your car, Karen. Now.”

  “Okay, you know what? I’m not a child, John, and furthermore . . .”

  “Gennaro!”

  She sighed. “I got into an accident. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I bellowed.

  “John, really . . . it was no big deal . . .”

  “I’ll decide that for myself, babe. What happened?”

  “I was . . . I was run off the road.”

  “Run off the road?”

  She sighed, again. “The man, the man that I lived with . . . before? Adam? Adam Shapiro.” She sighed. “He’s been calling, coming by the office.” When all she heard was silence, she cleared her throat and continued.

  “I was driving home Monday night and I saw him behind me.” I wracked my brain. Monday night I didn’t see her until late—in fact, I crawled into bed, and she was already asleep. Was her car there? I didn’t recall seeing it parked. It hadn’t been there night before last either—the night before she left for New York.

  “He signaled for me to pull over,” she continued. “I ignored him and he cut me off. He ran me into a ditch and I hit a parked backhoe.”

  “Where?”

  “Near Playa Vista.”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was an accident, John. And I didn’t want you to get upset.”

  “Someone is harassing you, almost kills you and I’m not supposed to be upset? Be very glad you are not here right now, lady blue.”

  “Ooooh, would I get a spanking, John?” she purred.

  “It would be on the list.” That shut her up. “This happened Monday night, and you never said a word. Then you lie to me? Tell me your car is in the shop?”

  “It is in the shop.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Silence.

  “Johnny, I’m sorry.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, first, you are going to file a police report . . .”

  “I’m not. It’s over now.”

  “Karen . . .”

  “John, he’s harmless. It was an accident. He felt terrible.”

  “He did? That helps, Karen . . . that he felt terrible.”

  “It was my fault, really. I should have just pulled over . . .”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “See, this is why I didn’t say anything. You’re really making more of this than you need to.”

  “Basta, Karen. No more, because I will absolutely lose it.”

  “You need to stop being angry. Please.”

  “No chance in hell of that happening anytime soon, lady. I gotta go.”

  “John . . .?”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Karen.”

  “John . . . ? Call me tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call me, Johnny, please?”

  “I’ll call.”

  “When? When will you call?”

  “When I don’t feel like killing you.” And I hung up. Then I threw the phone across the room. After retrieving it and putting it back together again, I dumped the beer and poured a scotch. I stood at the window, looking outside. She was being followed, for how long I never got around to finding out. She could have been killed. This was the same dink she’d been with for seven years—the one who gave her jewelry and shit to keep her happy . . . or not. He’s harmless. Good to know. I was so enraged I didn’t know what to do. I decided to think about it again in the morning, when I was calmer. I stared out at the canals, the lights from the homes shimmering now off the still water.

  I see you. I see you, you son-of-a-bitch. You just made the biggest mistake of your life.

  TWENTY FOUR

  He entered the church and quietly walked up the aisle. The coffin was open and he knelt next to it and folded his hands. The man inside was at peace, but the man outside was not. To hold on to honor was not an easy thing. He looked down at the man who shared his hair color and his sense of humor. Taken from him too soon. He wanted to be done wi
th all this before the old man went. But there wasn’t time. There just wasn’t time.

  I’m trying, Pop, he said. I’m trying.

  I sat at my desk with my third cup of coffee. I was doing too much of that, and not enough sleeping. Between worrying about Karen and what she’d surprise me with next, and finding Kevin Meyers, I was all out of time for things like sleep. She’d been gone almost a week. It felt like months.

  “We have nothing that says Kevin Meyers held—or shot—a gun.” Alex, one step ahead, and reading my mind. And he’d only had two cups of coffee this morning. “So,” he continued. “Chambliss is at the top of the creek, near the street. Meyers is below, in a shell with David Crane . . .”

  “Who’s got to be in some pain with the arm . . .”

  “And what . . . Meyers and Crane row on up, Crane runs up toward Chambliss—who has a gun—gets shot, then crawls up under the overpass to sleep?”

  “Meyers had the pipe, remember. The piece that was found in the creek matches what was found in his garage. Look, Alex. We’re not gonna know exactly what happened until we get hold of Meyers. In the meantime, I want to look into the death of Jackson Bennett. Crane knew something about Bennett’s death, right?”

  “Yeah, enough to get him back to L.A. early.”

  “And Matt Chambliss said he thought the same—that David knew something about Bennett’s death.” I thought a moment. “Let’s get everything we can find on Bennett—police reports, forensics reports, if any. Getting Meyers on two murders would be a fucking grand slam.”

  “Yeah, especially when I’m not completely convinced Meyers actually killed David Crane.”

  “COD on Crane was the gunshot to the head, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh huh.” He came over and sat on the edge of my desk. “Jackson Bennett had a girlfriend, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. Didn’t he knock her around the day before he killed himself?”

  “I recall that, yes . . .”

  “Was she questioned, I wonder?”

  “Let’s get those records, Johnny.”

  ††††

  We assigned a clerk the job of digging up the records on Jackson Bennett’s death, which was ruled a suicide, and I spoke again to the person in Records at Campbell College. We were becoming old pals. He told us that Jackson Bennett was a History major, in good standing, when he died. His parents lived in Flagstaff.