CHIMERAS (Track Presius) (31 page)

He pressed hard the knuckles of one hand against his lips and spoke no more.

His wife sighed. “Where do we sign, Detective?”

CHAPTER 37

____________

Friday, October 24

Lucia Hortega hears the sudden rumble and gasps.
Dios mio, el terremoto
! she thinks. By her feet, a bucket of water jerks and sloshes all over the floor. Angry thumps follow, as of objects hurdled against the wall. From upstairs, she realizes. Another crisis.
Mira que disastro
, Lucia groans, looking at the puddle sprawled on the floor she has just cleaned. Should she say something? Or should she just pretend she didn’t hear?
Ni modo, she’s going to yell either way
.

Lucia tiptoes upstairs and pokes her head into the master bedroom. The dresser lies on its side. The bottom drawers have been yanked away and upturned on the bed. The top ones hang open like jaws dropped in astonishment. Humps of crumpled clothes are scattered across the room. A nightstand lamp has crushed on the floor. The bed sheets have been pulled off and the mattress exposed. 

“Madam—” Lucia whimpers.

“GET OUT!”

Puta
, Lucia mutters, running away.
Puta sucia
.
Guess who’ll have to clean up all the mess
.

Crouched by the bed the woman is finally exultant. Her pulse quickens as she brushes the barrel with the tip of her fingers, a shiver of anticipation sweeping down her spine
. I found you, my darling. He thought he could fool me. Keep you away from me
. She smiles, brings the weapon to her cheek, and savors its scent: metal, gunpowder, oil.
I’m ready, now
, she thinks.
I’m ready
.

CHAPTER 38

____________

Friday, October 24

“Kids shouldn’t be allowed to get sick,” Satish said over a plate of
moussaka
.

I sunk my teeth into the gyro sandwich I had ravenously ordered, and then wiped my mouth. “And how do you plan on going about fixing the problem?”

“People like Julia Cox are doing their part.”

I refrained from uttering a nasty comment just because my mouth was full. Satish put down his fork. “Track. One needs money to do things, and money doesn’t always come from the cleanest sources. What are you going to do? Either you stall, or you keep going and make the best out of it.” He squeezed the fork and shrugged. “Call it cynical. Not all patriotic people love their country. In fact, most of them don’t.”

“Another metaphor I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand my metaphors to appreciate
them.”

“And you don’t need to break the law to be a dishonest person. Look. Maybe Cox didn’t do anything wrong in the eyes of the law, but she knew what she was doing when she hampered Huxley’s efforts. She selfishly put her career first. Assuming she had nothing to do with the gene therapy thing, which I haven’t completely excluded.”

“I don’t know, Track. Had she gone along with Huxley and tried to implicate Chromo, she probably would’ve ended up dead, resulting in one more homicide and one fewer doctor to fight for these children.”

“Man, Satish. What’s wrong with you today? She accepted money from Chromo—that alone tells you she was involved, whether or not she knew about the Proteus therapy.” I shook my head. “Sometimes I don’t know where you stand, Sat. Do we even have a reason to do our job, or should we all go home and accept the world for the fucking bitch it is?”

Satish sank his fork in the last bit of
moussaka
left in his plate, and then brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully. He swallowed, then wiped his mouth. And while he did that, I chomped down and gulped the rest of my sandwich in three bites.

“Christopher Hopf does,” he finally said.

“Does what?”

“Accept the world for the fucking bitch it is.”

“He’s a dying kid, he doesn’t have a choice.”

“Maybe this is our problem, Track.”

I didn’t know what he meant and didn’t have time to mull it over, either. “It’s getting late. We’ve got to get back to work.” I waved for the check. Satish propped his elbows on the table and let his eyes wander off, a peaceful, daydreaming stare painted on his face.

I signed the check, grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, and adjusted the holster hooked on my belt. Even though with time you get used to having this constant ballast embracing the small of
your back, there’s always a time of the day—after lunch, or after sitting for too long—when it uncomfortably reminds you of its presence. We walked out of the café—Satish by my side still wearing his airy smile—and by the time we got back to the vehicle I gave up.

“Fine, Sat. What the hell does this whole story remind you of?”

Satish inserted the key into the ignition and beamed. “Why, Track. I thought you’d never ask.” I groaned. “It reminds me of my sister Rhani’s new bicycle.”

“A bicycle.”

“A brand new bicycle,” Satish repeated, pulling out of the parking lot. “Rhani was seven when Santa Claus finally got her one, after pleading and pouting for two years. She was so thrilled she hopped on and rode in the backyard for hours.
Watch me go with one hand
, she’d yell.
Watch me go with no hands
. And in all the excitement, she forgot to look ahead, slammed against the porch railing, and hit her head. My brother and I guffawed, while my mother came running out of the house yelling,
What was that
? And then everything went silent.

“Rhani lies still on the ground, the handle of the bike jammed against her chest, and the front wheel spinning.

“Ma screeches.
Rhan
i! Eyes wide open, Rhani stares at the sky and weeps. My brother and I sneer and go back to play. My old man picks up his daughter, dusts her off, and then puts her back to her feet.
Walk
, he says, and she walks.
Raise your arms
, he says, and she raises both arms.
Jump
, and she jumps.
Talk
, and nothing comes out of her mouth.
Talk, Rhani
. Nothing.
Say papa
. Nyet.
Say mama
. Nada. Ma wails, pulls her hair, and squeals
, It’s a concussion! We need to take her in
. And at those words, Rhani’s eyes bulge. Pa takes her inside and sets her on the couch with an ice bag on her head. Then they scuttle off, Ma to call the hospital, my old man to get the insurance papers.

“What if they keep her
? Ma shouts.
Let me get some extra clothes, just in case
.

“Rhani starts sobbing. She goes to her bedroom, gets her canvas
tote, throws in her colored pencils, her journal, a pen, and her favorite doll. She takes her piggy bank and an old car I once gave her. While Ma frets around the house—now she prepares snacks, just in case the waiting at the ER gets to be long—Rhani comes to the backyard and hands me the old toy car and the piggy bank.

“The piggy bank is empty
, she says.
But from now on you can use it for your savings
.”

“Wait a minute… I thought she couldn’t talk!” I interjected.

“Of course she could talk. She was just fine.”

“Then why didn’t she say so?”

“I don’t know, and she didn’t know either. She was seven. I bet she was too afraid to say anything because she thought they were going to yell at her.”

“Instead they took her to the ER?”

“Yeah, though she didn’t know that’s where they were taking her.”

“Where did she think they were taking her?”

Satish chuckled. “She gave me her most valuable things, and to my younger brother she left a rock—but it was her favorite rock—and then hugged us both.

“Let’s go, Rhani
, Ma calls while Pa pulls the car out of the driveway.

“What’s wrong with her?
I ask my brother as I watch her shuffle away and get in the car with her head down and her shoulders drooping. My brother lifts his head from the dirt hole he’s been digging in the backyard.
Dunno
, he drawls and resumes digging.”

“We’re almost there, Satish, and I’m still missing the point,” I pressed, as our vehicle merged into the right lane and took the next exit.

“The point, my very impatient Track, is: my sister confused the word concussion with adoption, which was confirmed by Ma’s erratic behavior, taking her clothes, preparing her food, and shoving her into the car. She thought they were taking her some place where they’d give her up to strangers who would then become her new parents.”

“Concussion for adoption?”

“She was seven. And she’d never heard either word before. She had a friend in school who’d been adopted and who told her parents give up their daughters when they no longer have money to feed them. And Rhani thought Ma and Pa were so mad at her for ruining the brand new bike they were going to give her up.”

Satish parked the vehicle and smiled. “You had to see Rhani’s eyes when she came back home. She’d left thinking she was never going to come back.”

That was the story for the day. No moral, although I could see it for myself this time, a lesson of wisdom learned from the most unexpected of teachers—a seven-year-old. Some things you have no control over. They make you feel powerless. The only way is to go along with it. Accept and endure. Satish was right, I’d read it in Chris Hopf’s eyes. And what was I going to do with my life? Was I going to let the currents carry me along or was I going to oppose it? And if I did, to what use?

*  *  *

“Nelson got five consent forms, Gregov another six. Looks like we’re almost there.” I closed the phone. We were two forms short before we could look at all the embryos we had seized from the Chromo labs.

“Good,” Satish said, staring at the mansion in front of us. “Because this is where it’s going to hit hard.”

Surrounded by impeccable lawns and lush palm trees, we were standing in the driveway of a Mission style home gone overboard, with red Italian shingles, white adobe, and two circular sections flanking the main entrance. Creeping bougainvillea decorated the three-bay garage with clusters of purple flowers. Arching glass doors carved the ground floor and showcased spiral staircases and crystal chandeliers. A sundeck sprawled over what looked like a ballroom and continued towards the back of the house, where the smell of chlorine gave away the presence of a swimming pool.

Satish walked under a two-story high gable and pressed the doorbell. It chimed with the opening notes of Amazing Grace—nice touch, given the setting. The mahogany door boasted stained glass panes laced with wrought iron swirls. A housekeeper with small, mousy eyes and pink, mousy hands opened it. She squeaked a few apologetic words before surrendering to our LAPD tins and letting us in. As soon as we stepped inside, Dan Horowitz came darting down the stairs. He stopped halfway down to point an index finger that wanted badly to be a middle finger. “Just so we’re clear. I know what you guys are after and I’m
not
cooperating.”

I looked up at him and squinted. “What exactly do you presume we’re after, Mr. Horowitz?”

He clutched the banister, his face as colorful as red grapes.
Sour
red grapes. “You have slandered my friend and colleague Jerry White. And now you’re trying to throw dirt on Chromo and its scientific accomplishments. This is a private home, Detectives. I’m under no obligation to welcome you inside.”

Satish bobbed his head. “Oh, we never expect to be welcomed when we talk to people—”

“Out.”

“Calm down, Dan. I answered the gate and let them through.” Mrs. Horowitz emerged from the loft in a black jogging outfit, which clung to her skin in a constrictive way, as if her naked body wanted to burst out of it. Her teats held taut and high, yielding the slightest nod as she walked down the stairs, her unflinching nipples staring down on us through her shirt. “Nice to meet you, Detectives,” she said in a mellow, flirtatious voice. She spoke like a Japanese cartoon character, with no other muscle on her face moving but her lips. Her cleavage was glistening with a film of perspiration, and her hand—as I shook it—felt warm and slippery, as if she had just stepped down from a treadmill. Her sweat smelled just as expensive as her clothes.

Horowitz watched his wife greet us with fuming eyes, then hobbled down the second half of the stairs. “Don’t get too friendly, Jenna.” His pursed lips promised belligerence at us, at the maid who’d let us in, and at the spouse who’d opened the forbidden gate. 

“Mr. Horowitz, we have information about your daughter’s health,” Satish explained. “Her life may be in danger.”

Six-year-old Vanessa Horowitz was one of the few Proteus kids who was still in good health. The news we brought did not upset either one of the parents. Horowitz stuck to his part as the tough, resilient guy who wanted nothing to do with law enforcement, and his wife played along as the weak link willing to put in a good word, a few batting of fake eyelashes, and nothing more. The conversation moved over to one of the numerous living rooms in the mansion, and at times assumed louder and more colorful tones. Even when presented with the number of kids who’d fallen sick and died, the Horowitzes didn’t budge. Somehow, paying one and a half million for a few embryos was easier than jotting down their signature on a piece of paper.

The greed with which they clung to their frozen gene pool baffled me. “We haven’t decided what to do with the embryos,” Horowitz said. “And until we do, those embryos are ours and we want to keep them.”

Ours
. What a peculiar concept.
My
genes,
my
DNA. What’s
ours
when it comes to what we are?

Pulsing lights reflected off the surface of the swimming pool outside and blinked through the arching glass doors. A Picasso-like lady with a giraffe neck and abnormally large eyes gaped from above the stone fireplace. A bronze cupid played in a corner, and an alabaster dancer on the side table defied gravity in the most graceful way. I almost wanted to jump and catch her in midair. Above us, the ceilings soared; below us, the Italian tiles floored us. It was all part of the Horowitzes’
ours
: imported rugs, granites, marbles, and natural stones. The pale face of a child, her head leaning against the doorframe at the back, her naked feet propped one over the other, and clear blue eyes lost in a world too big for her. Yes, sometimes money can buy that, too.

Jenna Horowitz followed my eyes and whirled her head to find
her daughter peeking at us from the open door. “What are you doing here, Vanessa?”