Fugitive Nights (23 page)

“We shouldn't get too excited about this!” Nelson warned, spraying the older man's face with saliva. “We gotta stay cool till the reporter gets outta there! THIS IS OUR DEAL, LYNN, NOBODY ELSE'S!”

“Well, that's it,” Lynn said, in resignation. “I don't know how it's gonna end, but I'm being dragged to destruction. I'll be tits up on a slab, either a victim of Francisco V. Ibañez or Nelson Hareem.”

“Y'know somethin I noticed back at the motel?” Nelson said, as they waited in the Jeep.

“I don't wanna know.”

“There was
wire
outside the room where Francisco V. Ibañez stayed at. A few pieces a colored wire were in the maid's trash bin.”

“I'm afraid to ask for the significance.”

“Coulda been from his timing device. For a Semtex bomb!”

“I won't bother to point out it also coulda been from the electricians working on the air conditioning,” Lynn said, in his new monotone-of-the-doomed.

After the TV people drove off, Lynn and Nelson found Martha, with a bruised elbow, torn pantyhose and a big, big smile. She was going to be on the eleven o'clock news!

Martha didn't mind talking to two more cops. She hadn't had so much attention since she'd taken down the license number of a drunk delivery man who'd destroyed four parked cars and the entire corner of Duncan's Discount Golf before a cop blew out the drunk's tire during a freeway pursuit. She'd gotten thirty seconds on screen that time.

“Like I told the uniformed policemen and the reporters, he was a maniac!” Martha told them. “Wanted a grave plaque for his aunt. Mike is the one talked to him, but when Mike left him alone he helped himself to our files. A maniac!”

“What'd he look like?” Nelson asked.

“A Mexican, about forty, stocky build.”

“Bald?” Nelson asked.

“Can't say. Wore a straw hat, like a Panama hat.”

“Did he have a mustache?”

“No.”

“What kinda gravestone did he want?” Nelson asked.

“He wanted orchids. A custom job with orchids engraved on it. Said we did one like he wanted for somebody last September thirteenth.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, but I don't know who. He stole all the September invoices.”

Nelson said, “Whyn't ya jist pull it outta the computer?”

“Sorry, hon,” Martha said. “I'm just learning about computers. Taking a course over at College of the Desert, and soon as I learn how, we're gonna computerize our files.”

“Nothin's on the computer yet?”

“Nothing to do with our business.”

Lynn, who was coming out of the mental state in which all of this had placed him, said, “How about the guy he talked to? What can he tell us?”

“Mike? Nothing more than he told the other policeman. The guy wanted a plaque with two orchids, like the one Mike did last September. Didn't know the customer's name. Didn't know the name of the deceased woman. Orchids. That's about all he knew, orchids. A custom job.”

Lynn said, “Give Mike a call and ask him to come in here, will you?”

A few moments later, Mike entered the office, less dusty than when he'd talked to the fugitive.

Martha said, “These guys're policemen, Mike. They wanna hear again about the guy that wanted orchids.”

“I told the other cop everything I know,” Mike said. “If I can ever think a the woman's name I'll call and let ya know. But I can't right now.”

“If you ask me he was just some lunatic,” Martha said.

“But he was right about the stone,” Mike said. “I
did
a plaque with a woman's name on it, and two orchids beside the name. And it mighta been last September, like he said. I never done orchids before. It was a beautiful custom stone, I remember that much.”

Lynn said, “Mike, when you do a beautiful custom job you're proud of, don't you ever take a picture of it? You know, to show other customers?”

That caused both Mike and Martha to look at each other and smile. Then Martha said, “The
boss
does!”

Mike was interested enough to hang around while Martha went through the boss's desk, explaining that he'd gone skiing for a few days. She found a manila folder in a drawer and waved the cops inside his office.

Then she handed a batch of photos to each of them and said, “Look for orchids.”

They were only looking for a few minutes when Mike said, “I
thought
it began with an L. There it is: Lugo.”

Lynn, with Nelson draped over his shoulder, looked at a photo of a large flat grave plaque engraved with:

María Magdalena Lugo

Born 23 May 1901

Died 12 Sept 1990

“What information is on your invoice?” Lynn asked.

“It'll have the deceased's name and what the customer wanted on the plaque. It'll say how much we quoted and who ordered it. With a phone number,
maybe.
With an address,
maybe.
We had some temporary help working here last summer.” Then Martha said, “You can keep the picture if you want it.”

“Give it to whoever does a follow-up investigation,” Lynn told her.

“Isn't that what
you're
doing?”

“No, we're not from Cathedral City P.D.,” Lynn said. “We have another matter, possibly involving the same guy.”

“Yeah?” Mike said. “Is this guy Mafia or what?”

“Why do you say that?” Nelson asked.

“The Italian name there, Lugo. Could be Spanish, I guess.”

Lynn decided it was time to get out of there before they started asking too many questions. He pushed Nelson toward the door before Martha asked something he didn't want to answer, like, “What's
your
name, officer?”

As she was about to speak, Lynn quickly said, “Hey, Mike. On that subject, know what FBI stands for?”

“What?”

“Forever bothering Italians,” Lynn said. “Or, famous but incompetent.”

Mike let out a hoot and said, “That's good! Hear that, Martha?”

When Mike turned back toward the door, Lynn and Nelson were gone.

The fugitive was disappointed at what little information was on the invoice. He'd decided to telephone every funeral director in the Coachella Valley. On the sixth call he reached the correct one.

The fugitive said, “Please, can you help me? I am trying to be in touch with an old friend. I think perhaps you assisted him with the funeral of his mother. Her name was María Magdalena Lugo. She died in September of last year. It is
urgent.
”

The woman who'd answered the phone said to him, “That was our funeral, but Mister Lieberman isn't here at present. He'll be here for a service this evening at six. If you'd care to come by, he can help you.”

When he thanked her and hung up, he looked at his watch and resisted the temptation to have the beer he longed for. This was definitely duty time. He took a shower and shaved, the second shave that day, and he put on his eggshell-white cotton shirt. Since he had not worn the gaudy blazer into Serenity Markers and Memorials, he thought it was perfectly safe to wear that evening.

He put on the blazer and looked in the mirror. He wished he'd been able to have the sleeves shortened a bit, but of course there'd been no time. Now time had new meaning.

When they were once again rocketing down Perez Road in the Jeep Wrangler, Lynn grabbed the roll bar and said, “Nelson, where in the hell're you going?”

“I dunno!” Nelson said.

“Then why're we in such a hurry to get there, goddamnit? Anyway, the guy didn't have a mustache!”

Nelson slowed down and said, “He shaved, is all. Where we going, Lynn?”

“To a phone. Drive to a phone and get me a couple dimes.”

They parked at a gas station on Cathedral Canyon Drive, and Lynn looked up the phone number of the cemetery while Nelson went to get change.

When Lynn placed the call, he said, “Hello, my name's William Lugo. I'm trying to get in touch with a family member I haven't seen in several years. This relative arranged for our aunt to be interred at your cemetery last September. Her name was María Magdalena Lugo. Can you help me?”

Nelson paced, then Lynn said into the phone, “Yes? Yes, I do understand. Thanks.”

He hung up as Nelson said, “So tell me!”

“They won't say anything over the phone about their clients. All she'd tell me was that Mrs. Lugo's funeral was handled by Lieberman Brothers Mortuary in Palm Springs.”

“Let's go!” Nelson said.

“I think it's time to call the cops,” Lynn said, “even though I'm sure
you
think
we
qualify.”

T
he fugitive tried to look as different as he could, given his limited wardrobe. He would not wear the Panama again, not after the episode with Martha, so he wore the snap-brim hat. He'd considered buying a wig after he saw them advertised in the window of a shop in downtown Palm Springs, but he was certain that a bald man with a wig would look like a bald man with a wig. He might call
more
attention to himself if the police were intensifying their search for a bald man.

He realized that most of his fears were groundless. They'd probably given up on finding the drug smuggler from the airport. They must still think he was a drug smuggler, what else would they think? As far as the episode at the gravestone company, well, that would just seem like the behavior of a crazy man, that's what the fugitive believed.

He found the mortuary on a street near Gene Autry Trail. In the magazine at the hotel, the fugitive had read that Gene Autry was a famous old movie star, but he'd never heard of him.

It was only six
P.M.
but it was very dark. The desert always seemed dark even on nights when the moon and stars were especially brilliant. He thought it was the way the clouds scudded across the moon, hurling patches of shadow down onto the desert floor. He thought of all the predators hunting and being hunted amongst those desert shadows.

When his father used to take his family out to their own desert to visit his grandmother's village it always made for a great holiday. He'd always felt good in the desert, but frightened too, and that made him more alert.

The fugitive parked the Buick, as always, half a block from his destination. Better to run half a block during an emergency than to have his license number written down. While he was walking along the pavement toward the funeral home, still thinking about deserts and old times, a Jeep Wrangler without a top sped past him and squealed into the parking lot.

That's how young people drove in his country too, the fugitive thought. Soon his son would want to drive the family car. He dreaded that day, but what could he do? Suddenly, he couldn't wait to get his terrible assignment finished and return home to his wife and children.

There were several people getting out of cars to go inside the mortuary. He decided to wait until the parking lot was quiet before entering.

The argument had begun at the telephone stand, continued all the way up Cathedral Canyon Drive, intensified when they crossed the bone-dry wash of Whitewater River, subsided when Nelson turned south from Ramon Road onto Gene Autry Trail and parked in front of the mortuary.

Lynn Cutter said, “This … is … freaking … it, Nelson! I'm gonna go along and see what this Lugo thing might or might not have to do with Francisco V. Ibañez, who might or might not be the guy from the airport. But then, if any a this crap makes any sense whatsoever, I'm calling the Indio sheriffs and turning this garbage over to them! Whether you like it or not!”

“One more day, Lynn! Jeez!” Nelson's hair had been blown into tangles and he was glowing with frustration. “
One
more day! I'm close to this guy!”

“Tell you what,” Lynn said. “I won't call the sheriffs. I'll let
you
either call em or not call em. After we talk to this mortician,
I'm
outta this mess, hear me?”

Nelson stalked out of the Jeep, managing to keep his mouth shut, and followed Lynn to the door of the funeral home where they could hear an organ playing softly.

It was a sprawling T-shaped building with add-on construction. On the left was the embalming room and private offices. To the right was the foyer and a viewing room-chapel where about forty people sat while a priest said a few words about a deceased parishioner, prior to saying the rosary.

The priest said, “Many's the time we heard Denny O'Doul's lovely tenor leading the choir during the years he lived in happy retirement in our parish.”

A man in a shiny gray suit said to Lynn and Nelson, “Would you care to sign the guest book?”

“We're not here for the service,” Lynn said, showing the man his badge. “Are you Mister Lieberman?”

“No, he's in his office,” the man said. “Down the hall.”

Lynn and Nelson walked along the tiled corridor and heard a man in a small office beside the embalming room, talking on the phone. Holding his badge aloft, Lynn stood in the open doorway and knocked softly after the man hung up.