Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (17 page)

They took off their gloves, put them inside the helmets and laid them on the seat of their bikes, then walked toward the car. The two bikers were part of the Aryan Nation, couriers who carried messages.

The driver rolled down his window as the tall, slender one approached.

“The fuck’s goin’ on, man?” said the biker.

“Well, we’re still above ground,” said Zach. “And being as you’re here I have to figure another nigger’s dead, so it must be a good day.”

They laughed. The two of them touched skin as the bikers’ eyes cruised over the interior of the Chevelle before they came to rest on the dark cavern in the backseat leading to the trunk. “Have you got it yet?”

“Not yet. But we will.”

“Man’s gettin’ impatient,” said the biker. “Not gonna wait much longer. We mean to have it.”

“We will,” said Zack. “Only a matter of time.”

“How much time?”

“Few days.”

“You better not take too much longer. Belongs to us. Nobody else,” said the biker.

“I know it, man. Whadda you think we been doin’?”

The fat one wandered around to the other side of the car and glanced through the passenger-side window.

The Snake held his hand down in the dark crevice between the side of his seat and his locked door. The .45 auto he was holding was already chambered and cocked in case he needed it.

“Supposed to give you a message,” said the one on the driver’s side. “We just got word there’s some ragheads lookin’ for it, too,” said the biker.

“Where’d you hear that?” Zach looked at him.

“We got ears. ISIS, ISIL, whatever they’re callin’ themselves today. Somebody told ’em. They got people lookin’. Word is, they think if they can get it, they can use it to recruit. Turn us or some of the others into lone wolves to do their bidding. Must be crazy,” said the biker.

“That’s what they say,” said Zach. But he knew better. Aryan Nation had become a world of splinter groups. Some of the groups had been penetrated by FBI moles and riddled by informants. One of the factions had struck a deal years earlier to form an alliance with Osama bin Laden’s Al Qaeda. If they could do that, they could do anything. The thought made him mad. “Tell them not to worry,” said Zach. “Kill them if we have to, but we’ll get it.”

“Good. I’ll pass the word. Take care of yourself, bro.”

“Will do.” The driver gunned the car and popped the clutch. The Chevelle screeched out of the parking lot, across a dirt strip, and out onto the highway.

The two bikers stood there looking as the car with the California license plate 5QPU783 disappeared through the veil of dust.

“You think they’ll get it?” said the fat one.

“If they don’t, we will.”

TWENTY-TWO

S
aturday midmorning, and the mist has yet to burn off along the coast by the time Joselyn and I arrive in La Jolla. We drive the curving streets, following the directions from my cell phone until it tells us we’ve arrived at our destination. The address on Camino De La Costa is a large private home, right on the ocean, the location of Sofia’s memorial service. I am surprised. I had expected a park or a church or some other public venue. “Who owns it?”

“I don’t know,” says Joselyn. “I guess someone who knew Sofia.”

Joselyn has been communicating with Sofia’s parents, Frank and Ida Leon. Her mother remains in the family home, in shock, devastated, barely able to function. Her father flew in last night, stayed in a hotel. We asked him to join us at our house but he said no. He is headed back up north tonight. I have yet to meet him.

One of Sofia’s roommates, Tess Zavala, has taken the lead in putting together the small memorial service. She included the location, time, and other details in an invitation she posted on Facebook.

According to Tess, Sofia’s family wanted to keep it small. The larger funeral will take place up in Sutter Creek in a few days.

There is no parking on Camino, so I turn right, drive up a block, park, and we walk back. By the time Joselyn and I reach the house a small van is in the driveway, a local florist delivering flowers, three large arrangements. One of them, I know, is from the firm. We follow the florist up the steps and through the front door, which is already open. There is no one there to greet us, so we just keep going through the expansive living room, across a sea of cream-colored carpet and gleaming mahogany. Through windows I can see out into the yard. A few people are already gathered.

It’s a mixed crowd, some gray hair in dark suits and dresses, a few younger people in more casual attire, guys in jeans and white shirts wearing ties. They stand around in small clusters, like pilgrims on a barren prairie, desolate souls searching for comfort.

Herman is suited out in his best Sunday wear just outside the door. He is leaning against the side of the house like a mountain holding it up. Brenda, my secretary, is talking with him.

Selena, Harry’s secretary, and Sally, our receptionist, have put themselves to work handing out programs just inside the door leading out into the yard.

“Good morning.” Selena reaches over and gives Joselyn a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Can I take your coat?”

“I think I’ll keep it for a while,” says Joselyn.

“I know, we were hoping for better weather.” Selena hands each of us a program.

It is a single sheet, letter-folded in thirds. On the outside fold, in an arc across the top, are printed the words
A CELEBRATION OF LIFE
. Under this is a full head-and-shoulder shot, a color photo of Sofia. Her sunny smile seems caught by the camera’s lens, teetering on the crest of laughter. Her dark, sparkling eyes soar from the paper as the wave of her shimmering brown hair frames her shoulder. It is the image seared in my mind of that bright spirit whom I allowed to go from my office on a stupid errand of mercy and who, as a consequence, never returned.

“That’s her dad.”

“Excuse me?” I am wrenched from the nightmare by Sally, who whispers something in my ear.

“The man outside, that’s Sofia father.” She gestures toward a man who is standing in the yard off by himself. His hands are folded in front of him as he stares at the three floral arrangements as if looking right through them.

“He looks like someone who could use a friend,” she says.

“You’re right.”

I lean into Joselyn’s ear. “Be back in a minute.” I walk out the door and turn toward the man, who has his back to me. I’m only a few feet from him when I say: “I hope Sofia would have liked them. Do you know what her favorite flowers were?”

When he turns, I look into his face, stretched by sorrow. His eyes are two dark sockets, like bottomless pits of agony. “You must be Mr. Leon, Sofia’s dad,” I say.

“Yes.”

“I’m Paul Madriani. I worked with Sofia.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I think I talked to your wife on the phone.” He wipes his hand nervously on his pant leg, then shakes my hand. “I hate to say it but I don’t know what her favorite flower was. I’m sure her mother probably knows. But the ones your people sent, I saw the card, they’re beautiful,” he says. “Can I ask what they are? So I can tell her mother when I get home.”

Usually I wouldn’t know, but in this case, I ordered them. “Lilies and hydrangeas, mostly,” I tell him. “Lilies are the flowers of innocence. Hydrangeas for emotion, or so I’m told.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Leon, I don’t know how to say this. Words don’t mean much at a time like this. But I am sorry for your loss, so sorry. Both for you and your wife. And sorry for all of us as well. Because we miss her so,” I tell him. “She was an incredible young woman. But then, you know that.”

“Thank you,” he says. And he starts to tear up.

“Any parent would have been proud.”

He wipes the tear with the back of his hand. “She told me a lot about you,” he says. “She loved working with you. And she learned a lot in such a short time. She was looking forward so much to going on to law school.”

“I know. We talked about it, she and I. She would have been a fine lawyer.” I would love to tell him that Joselyn was getting ready to spring her surprise, but it would only serve to worsen the pain.

“Her mother wanted to be here today but she couldn’t,” he says.

“I understand. There’s no need to explain. I have a daughter. She and Sofia were just about the same age. I have no idea how I would cope, where I would go to get the strength. I know now why Sofia loved the two of you so much. The fact that you’re able to be here for her, so soon after what’s happened. You were her anchor.”

“No. No, I wasn’t,” he says. “If I were, she would have been away at law school already and none of this would have happened. But we couldn’t afford—”

“You can’t look at it that way,” I tell him. “If she had been at school she could have been hit by a bus crossing the street. You can’t account for the vagaries of life. None of us can.” And yet I know what he’s feeling.

“Maybe you’re right. But still, I should have done more.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Do you have any details about what happened?” he asks. “Do they have any idea yet who did it?”

“No. And now is not the time. There will be time for that later,” I tell him.

“Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll help find the man who did it.”

“That’s a job for the police,” I tell him.

“Yes, but sometimes, you know how that works. And she trusted you. Promise me you won’t let them drop it.”

“You can count on it,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says.

“Why don’t you come over and meet some people from our office.”

“I’d like that.”

I lead him over to Joselyn and the secretaries. They are standing just outside the door. Herman has now joined them. I introduce them to Frank Leon.

“So you’re Herman Diggs,” says Frank. “Sofia told me all about you.”

“God, I hope it was good,” says Herman.

“She said you were a big guy. But I had no idea. She said you were full of what she called PI war stories. She loved to talk about them.”

“That’s not all he’s full of.”

When I turn, Harry is standing behind me and he’s not alone. I step to one side to make room so they can join the circle. “Frank, let me introduce you to two more people. The homely one here is my partner, Harry Hinds. The attractive lady standing next to him is the Honorable Gwyneth Riggins, judge of the Superior Court. Your Honor, it’s good to see you.” I take her hand.

“On weekends, and for those who are outside of my courtroom, it’s Gwyn,” she says, and smiles.

Message received. As a result of Harry’s judicial incest, I’m now banished from her courtroom as well. Unless she and Harry own up, the county bar can conduct a pool and take bets as to which one of us is sleeping with her.

They shake Frank’s hand. He seems befuddled, surrounded by all this power. “Sofia’s father.” I mouth the words to Harry and Gwyn.

“Oh.” Riggins draws back a step and puts on a more sober expression.

Jolting music, blasting horns, and a bass drum makes us all jump. Somewhere there’s a sound system. Powerful speakers under the eaves of the house blast down on us. Aaron Copland, “Fanfare for the Common Man.” It’s a nice tune, but not at this volume, and certainly not something Sofia would have picked.

I look over and one of her roommates, Tess, I believe, is telling someone inside the house to turn it down. A few seconds later the ear-shattering noise quells to background music. We can hear ourselves again. Copland on the quiet. Tess must know the owner of the house. Maybe it’s her family.

The program begins. The pastor of a local church starts things off. A few homilies about the inevitability of death and the way station that is this brief life. You could set his words to music. He didn’t know Sofia but “she must have been a wonderful girl.”

It’s the kids who get the emotions flowing, several of her friends, one in particular, who came south with her and knew her since grade school, stories of kindergarten and how they met. I have a hard time grappling with the image of Sofia at five, a bundle of wiggling energy and gap-toothed laughter.

Next Frank Leon tries to say a few words, but he can’t. Two sentences in, he locks up, loses it, and breaks down. He is comforted by the pastor while I go up, take the mic, and introduce myself as Sofia’s boss and friend. I put my arm around her dad’s shoulder. “To feel that kind of pain you have to know what it is to be a loving father,” I tell them. “There are only two people in this world who have been with Sofia since that moment, that second when the nurse or the doctor held her by her feet, slapped her on the rump and she cried and took her first breath. They have been with her every step of the way since. That is the measure of love that only a parent knows. And the portion of pain that is felt when that child is lost. What is left, the difference between the two, are the memories, the happy times that only they know. The recollection of an infant taking its first step, uttering its first intelligible word, followed by the second—the universal ‘no.’ ”

This draws some smiles and a little laughter from some of those assembled.

“Her mom and dad hold memories of Sofia’s childhood frolics that none of us could ever imagine, the inimitable intimacies of a tightly woven and loving family. The wonder of life in their daughter’s eyes, a treasure beyond any wealth on earth. The rampaging adolescent with its quickening mind, the gangly teenager whose knowledge is infinite and whose poise evaporates like steam. A parent sees it all and at times struggles to keep up. But there is always the reward. It’s called love. And it pays huge dividends to parent and child alike. Savor the years. The Sofia that we all knew and loved may be gone, but we can cherish the memories and relive the moments in our hearts. The richest of them all are the memories held by her family. They are special, they endure, and it is where Sofia now lives.”

The pastor takes the mic while Herman and I walk the stricken father away from the crowd, across the yard and toward the house. Inside we find a spacious library off to the right of the living room, secluded and wrapped by shelves of leather-bound books, the kind people show but never read. We guide him to a large cushioned club chair near the desk, something gilded and French from the period before the tumbrels rolled and the guillotine blade fell.