02_Coyote in Provence (25 page)

A few minutes later she walked out of the gallery, the remembrance of her time with Jordan in her hand.  When she got to the cottage, she hung the painting on the wall behind the couch. Elena spent the rest of the evening looking at it. The painting was beautiful, but it was no substitute for Jordan. She knew she’d wonder for the rest of her life if she’d made the right decision in not telling him about her past.

I can’t go back to the United States. I just hope I haven’t destroyed another man who loved me. What’s wrong with me?

Elena tossed and turned all night in bed, trying to answer her own questions. She woke up the next morning determined to put the past behind her. She hoped cooking would help her forget what might have been.

Suddenly she thought of what she’d discovered on the laptop: the formula for the anti-aging drug; the formula for Freedom; and the formula for the combination pill. Between the discovery of the little girls and Jordan leaving, she’d almost forgotten about it. She decided she’d think what to do about it later.

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA  SEPTEMBER, 2010

CHAPTER 39

Jordan landed at Los Angeles International Airport about 3:00 in the afternoon. After easily clearing U.S. Immigration and Customs, he got on the 405 Freeway south, exiting at Seal Beach Boulevard.

His oceanfront home in Sunset Beach was a much larger house than he needed. Jordan knew he couldn’t really justify having a house this big, but it had been a good investment.

One of his pleasures at the end of the day was to sit down with a glass of good wine and watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. On clear evenings he could easily make out Catalina Island, just twenty-six miles away. The sunsets were particularly spectacular in the fall, and he never tired of looking at them. It was as if a blazing red fireball was sinking over the horizon.

Jordan was exhausted when he got home and went directly to bed. He didn’t even bother to look at the mail his cleaning lady had left for him on the kitchen counter.

Wide awake at 4:00 a.m., he got up, made some coffee, wished he had a French croissant, and began to read his mail. His thoughts kept going back to Elena. He wondered if her parents would be able to meet with him later in the day.

Jordan was at his desk, going through files and papers when his phone rang at 7:30. It was Chief Lewis. “Good morning, Jordan. I hope you had a chance to rest up.  I wanted to talk to you before everyone else tries to get your ear and tell you how important their case is and asks for your help.”

“Actually, Chief, I slept well last night, but it always takes a couple of days to catch up and there’s a lot going on here at the office.”

“Is there ever a time when there’s not a lot going on at a police station? Anyway, like I explained in my voicemail message, I’ve decided not to do any more on the Yount case. I think you should call your friends in Laguna Beach and thank them for the tip about the stolen Mitchell painting. Tell them our department can’t justify the expense of launching a further investigation into the theft and trying to find the person or persons who stole the paintings.  Even if we located Pierre Yount, we still couldn’t arrest him for committing the burglary.

“I also want to talk to you about the woman you called Elena. I did a background search on her and learned that her given name is Maria Rodriguez Brooks. Her husband was Jeffrey Brooks.”

“Wait,” said Jordan, interrupting him. “I know that name. There was something in the papers about him.”

“Well, he would have been famous if he’d won the Nobel Prize like everyone said he was going to,” the chief said. “Supposedly he gave his beautiful Latina wife, Maria, an anti-aging hormone which was strictly against the policy of his employer, Moore Labs. He was fired. She worked there as well, and was also fired.

“Using his termination pay, they bought a motel in a remote desert area off of Interstate 10 outside of Blythe and fixed it up. No one knows what happened, but Jeffrey was shot and killed at close range with a gun which was never found.  Nearby was a knife with Jeffrey’s fingerprints all over it.”

“Are you sure Elena and Maria are the same woman?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Jeffrey’s body was discovered by a trucker who routinely stopped at the motel for a cup of coffee. When he got there, Maria was gone. She cleaned out their bank account and left for Marseille. The police tracked her there, but the trail went cold.  I believe you’ve located her. There’s a police bulletin on her put out by the detective investigating the death of Jeffrey Brooks. This Elena person is described as a person of interest. I’m not going to do anything with this knowledge, Jordan. If you want to tell the detective who was working the case that you’ve found her, that’s up to you.”

Jordan was quite for a long time.
Well, that sure explains a lot.
“Chief, I’d like everything you have on the case.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved in this, Jordan?”

“Knowing what I know of Elena/Maria, I can’t believe she killed her husband, unless it was in self-defense. She gave me the name of her parents and their phone number. Maybe they know something. I’m going to see this through.”

After hanging up the phone, Jordan reached for a new file that had been placed on his desk while he was gone. It was the file for the Pre-Columbian theft that Chief Lewis had mentioned in his voicemail message. It made Jordan wonder if Pierre had made a recent trip to South America.
Will I think about him every time a file comes across my desk? Yeah, I probably will.

CHAPTER 40

Jordan’s day was filled with paperwork regarding his trip to Provence, talking to the hysterical Pre-Columbian gallery owner, interviewing the police officer who was the first one to respond to the silent alarm, and checking to see what was happening with the other cases he’d been working on before he left.

At 4:00 p.m., he picked up the phone and dialed the number Elena had given him. It was answered by a young man with a thick Mexican accent. “May I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Rodriguez?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ll get her. She just got home,” the young man said.

A moment later a woman with a soft Mexican accent spoke, “This is Mrs. Rodriguez. Who is this?”

Jordan began to speak, “Mrs. Rodriguez, my name is Jordan Kramer. You don’t know me. I’ve just returned from Provence, France, and I met a woman who told me she’s your daughter. She said to tell you she’s fine. I have her picture, too. Would it be possible for me to come and speak to you in person?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. He had a sick feeling she wouldn’t see him and he’d never know the truth about Elena. Finally, Mrs. Rodriguez spoke, choking back tears. “Mr. Kramer, if what you say is true; this is the happiest day of my life. When can you come? My husband will be home about 6:00. We live in Santa Ana. Let me give you the address.”

“Yes, I can be there at 6:00. I’ll see you then.” The chief had printed and blown up the photo from Jordan’s cellphone. Jordan stared at it for a few minutes before putting it into his bag.

He had two sling bags. One had the LAPD logo on it and the other one was the one he had taken to France with no logo. He chose the one with no logo, knowing that people who lived in certain areas of Santa Ana often had a deep-seated fear of the police, particularly when they lived in the barrio. He didn’t want the conversation with the Rodriguezes to stop before it even started.

Jordan left police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles and drove south towards Santa Ana. Traffic was heavy as usual. He found the address Elena’s mother had given him. It was a small, tired looking house, badly in need of repairs. Paint was peeling off the siding and there were bars on the windows. It reminded him of the Younts’ cottage, and he understood why Elena had felt the need to leave money.

As he made his way up the cracked weed-filled walkway to the house, the front door flew open and two young men hurried out. They wore low black shorts, tennis shoes, sunglasses, and had gang tattoos prominently displayed on their arms. Whoever they were, Jordan was glad they weren’t going to be present when he talked to Elena’s parents.

He pushed the doorbell, but there was no sound.
Must be broken. Better
knock
in case it is
. The door was immediately opened by a slender, middle-aged, Mexican man.  Behind him was a stooped woman with grey hair surrounding her creased face. One look at her was all you needed to know that her life had been one of hard work and disappointment.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Jordan Kramer. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. May I come in?”  He had the manila folder with the photograph of Elena/Maria in his hand.

“Yes, please come in,” the man said in a tone as soft as his wife’s had been on the phone. “I am Fabian Rodriguez and this is my wife, Elena Rodriguez.”

My God, she took her mother’s name when she left.  Her mother has been with her the entire time and her mother never knew it.

He walked into the tiny living room. Babies were playing on the floor and there was clutter everywhere. Silver duct tape covered the holes in the worn upholstery on the couch and chairs. Jordan took the photograph of Elena/Maria out of the envelope and handed it to Elena.

“This is a picture of the woman I know as Elena. I’m certain it’s your daughter, Maria. She looks like you,” he said to Elena’s mother.

As she held the photograph of her daughter in her hand, her eyes filled with tears of happiness. Elena gave it to her husband. “
Madre de Dios
, she is alive. Every morning since she’s been gone I have gone to Mass and prayed to the Virgin Mary for her safety,” Elena said, asking Jordan to sit down. “Please, tell us everything.”

“Mr. Kramer, what has Maria told you?” Fabian asked, carefully putting the photo down on the table, as he sat down on a badly worn grey plaid chair.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. I wanted her to come back to the United States with me, but she refused. Please, can you tell me what this horrible secret is that she carries? She must have wanted you to tell me or she never would have given me your telephone number.”

“I will tell you what we know,” Maria’s mother began. “Maria married a scientist whose name was Jeffrey Brooks. They seemed happy for several years, but they left Moore Scientific Labs, where they both worked, very suddenly, and bought a motel out in the desert near Blythe. Maria told me Jeffrey had been working too hard and was suffering from burnout. We never went to the motel. Maria would call and tell us what they were doing to fix it up. She said Jeffrey had built a scientific laboratory in the basement where he was conducting experiments.

“For over a year they seemed to be doing fine at the motel, then Maria stopped calling. We tried calling her, but there was no answer. Soon afterwards a police detective came to our house. He told us that Jeffrey had been murdered and that Maria was a person of interest in the investigation of his death. He told us she’d taken their money and run away to France. The police followed her to Marseille, but they couldn’t find her.”

Fabian interrupted her, “We think that must be where the money comes from.”  He looked at Jordan.  “Maria was very generous with us. She knew we didn’t have enough money to feed our growing family. You see, we have many grandchildren who also live with us. Since Maria’s been gone a mysterious deposit is made into our bank account every month. I asked the bank where it was from. They could only tell me it was from some account in a place called the Cayman Islands, wherever that is. We always hoped it came from Maria, because that would mean she was alive. Who else would send us money?” He shrugged his thin stooped shoulders.

Jordan spoke, raising his voice to be heard over the television. “She’s still very beautiful and lives in a cottage near a little village in an area of France called Provence. She’s become the luncheon chef at a well-respected restaurant in the village. I wanted her to come back to California with me, but she said there were too many memories. She refused to tell me more.”

He took a deep breath. “She wanted me to tell you that she’s fine and doing well. That’s really all. I’ll tell her that I’ve met you, and I’ll let you know what she says.” As he began to leave, Fabian shook his hand and Elena stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

When he got home he went to his computer and composed an email to Maria.

I miss you, my little coyote. You’ll be happy to know that Chief Lewis is closing the case against Pierre. I told him that the leads led nowhere and that I couldn’t locate the rest of the paintings or find his parents’ home. I don’t like lying, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d done otherwise. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the French authorities. Even if we found Pierre, we couldn’t actually put him at the scene of the theft. So that part is over. I wish there was something I could do about the children we saw, particularly the little one, Noor, that I held in my arms. I guess the only thing I can do to insure their safety is to do nothing that might cause them to be discovered.

Elena, remember when I took a photo of you? Well, I sent it to Chief Lewis to see if there was something I should know about you, since you wouldn’t tell me why you didn’t want to come back to the United States. Although I’ve fallen in love with you, I know you are keeping secrets from me. He ran your photo through the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement photo comparison machine and found out you were a person of interest in your husband’s murder. He contacted the detective who worked on the case and he doesn’t think you’d even be arrested for Jeffrey’s death, but if you were, your lawyer could plead self-defense and you would get off.

I met your parents tonight and they send their love.  They miss you. I want to live happily ever after with you, and I intend to make that happen. I will do everything in my power to help clear your name. I know you could never do anything like that. I love you. Please, little coyote of mine, come home.