"H" Is for Homicide (11 page)

"I don't get it. What are you looking for?"

Lieutenant Santos paused to clear his throat. "Files, records. You follow the paper and it leads right to Raymond. We can pick him up, but by then the evidence has either been moved or destroyed and the DA throws the case out."

"So it was all for nothing, this raid you talked about?"

"Not quite. We took out the guy at the top, plus half a dozen other players – couple of attorneys and some MD's, two chiropractors. Raymond just turned around and expanded his piece of the operation. He used the bust to move himself up into the slot we cleared for him. We're going after him again, of course, but we have to track down this snitch first or it's the same story all over. In the meantime, we're trying another angle we think might work. The problem is, since we don't know where the leak is, it's hard to know who we can trust."

Dolan stirred restlessly, speaking up for the first time since Santos had started filling me in. "As much as I hate to say this, the breach might originate in one of the departments up here. We think that's how Raymond found out Bibianna was in Santa Teresa. She got arrested here a month ago and somebody dimed her out."

I could feel a quick spark of recollection. "Oh, yeah. I remember now she mentioned that. She's worried sick about Raymond finding her."

"She's got reason to worry. The man's got serious problems," Santos remarked. "I've seen the results of some of his handiwork."

"I still don't quite understand why you're telling me this stuff."

There was a brief silence and then Dolan spoke up. "If we can move you into position with these people, we might have another shot at them."

I stared at him blankly. "Oh, come on. You're not serious."

I looked from one to the other, but neither of them said a word. "How do you propose to do that?"

Dolan smiled with no particular mirth. "You've already done the hard part. You've established a relationship with Bibianna, which is something we can't do."

"What good is that? I thought you said she was finished with Raymond."

Dolan shrugged. "But he's not done with her. If Dawna managed to get word through to him, he's probably on his way up. Just stick with Bibianna, especially if he wants to take her back to L.A. with him. We want you on the inside."

"Wait a minute. I ran into Dawna over at the CF offices. What if she remembers me?"

"Don't worry about Dawna. We'll keep her out of circulation."

I ran a hand through my hair, which was so tricked out with hairspray, it felt like a wig. "Oh, man, you guys are really nuts," I said. "I don't know beans about undercover work."

"We're not asking you to go in there cold…"

"Oh, that really sets my mind at rest."

He ignored that. "You'd be thoroughly briefed. We'd have backup in place, somebody who'd know where you were at all times."

I found myself looking from one to the other. I didn't trust them. I kept thinking there was a missing piece in here somewhere, something they were holding back. "Somehow I'm assuming you've tried it before."

"Without much luck," Santos said. "In this situation, we think a female could be effective. These guys don't credit women with much intelligence. You'd have some protective coloring despite the fact that you're not Hispanic yourself. Are you interested?"

"No."

Dolan put a hand behind his ear as if he hadn't heard right.

"I'm not going to do it, Lieutenant Dolan. It's been ten years since I was a police officer, and even then, I never did undercover work. Forget it. I'm not trained for that stuff and it's too damn dangerous."

"Sometimes it's the only option," Santos said.

"It might be your only option, but it's not mine."

Santos broke off eye contact. "You're looking at a year of county jail time on this battery. Assaulting a police officer is a felony. We can have your license pulled."

I stared at him. "So now you're going to threaten me? Oh, great. I love that. Well, guess what? I'm not going to do your dirty work. I don't give a shit about Raymond Maldonado." I could feel the heat flash through my frame. "I hate to be bullied and I don't relish being beaten with a stick as the motivation for my behavior. You want a performance out of me, you better start someplace else."

Santos apparently intended to pursue the point, but Dolan made an impatient gesture, silencing him. "Let's just discuss it before you say anything."

"The answer's no."

Again, the two men exchanged a look I couldn't quite read. It seemed clear they were working every angle in the book, which was laughable in my view because I wasn't going to yield.

Dolan sat forward in his chair and his voice dropped a notch. "One more thing you should know and then you can do anything you want. Your friend Parnell Perkins was one of Raymond's employees. We think Raymond killed him, but we don't have any proof."

"I don't believe it."

"Perkins's real name was Darryl Weaver. He was working for an insurance company down in Compton. Raymond was running all his claims through Weaver until the two had a falling-out. Weaver left Los Angeles and moved up here, changed his name, and went to work for California Fidelity."

Suddenly I understood why he'd passed Bibianna's file on to Mary Bellflower. He probably assumed that Raymond and Bibianna were back together, that Raymond would be on his trail if he didn't do something quick. The sight of Bibianna's name must have made his heart stop…

Santos came to life again, taking up the thread. "He came to us about a month ago and offered to cooperate. After he was killed, Santa Teresa Police Department ran the prints and notified us, which is why I'm here."

"That's why you buried the homicide investigation," I said, "to protect the larger one."

"That's right," Dolan replied. "We can't afford to have Raymond find out what we're up to. We haven't dropped the investigation, we're just pursuing it quietly."

The room was suddenly still. They let the silence accumulate. I took my time, stalling long enough to consider the implications. A little voice inside sang, Don't do it. Don't do it. "What's the timetable?" I said cautiously. I was hooked and they knew it.

Dolan looked at Santos. "Tight. Half a day at best."

"What are you really asking me to do?"

"Three things. Find the leak. Find out where the files are, and find us proof that Raymond killed your buddy."

Santos chimed in again, the two of them working me like sheepdogs. "You just tell us what you need. We'll give you anything you want."

Dolan said, "The object is to get yourself recruited. You can take it from there, with or without Bibianna's cooperation."

I thought it over briefly, all the time wondering at the wisdom of my consenting. I could feel my mental processes kick in despite the lingering misgivings. "If you're talking about staged accidents… it seems like it'd be smart to have a dummy policy in the name of Hannah Moore."

"Could you arrange that through CF?" Dolan asked.

"I could, but it'd be better if it came from you. You'd have to clear it with Mac Voorhies and it'd probably still have to go through channels."

"The fewer people who know the better, and we have to work fast," Dolan said.

"Is that going to present a problem?" Santos asked me.

I said, "I think CF would be willing to cooperate."

"We'll ask you to wear a wire," Santos said. "We can get a tech here by nine this morning and get a unit on you then."

"Won't Raymond and his cronies search me?"

Santos said, "I doubt it, but if they do, we'll be in earshot, don't forget."

Dolan seemed to sense I wasn't comforted. "If you're wired, we can have a car full of plainclothes parked half a block away. We want you to have all the protection you can get. This may be the best opportunity we have to get at these folks and we don't want to blow it. Any questions?"

"I'm sure I'll think of some."

Santos said, "We'll have another chance to brief you. Right now, we're going to put you back in with Bibianna. Morning comes, we'll get the two of you bailed out. Take the credit yourself. It's good to have the woman in your debt. We'll delay your release until the wire tech comes in."

"Won't she be suspicious if she's out and I'm not?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way to cover," Dolan said dryly. "In the meantime, make arrangements to connect with her later in the day."

"What if Raymond shows up before then?"

"We'll think of something else. Oh, and while we're on the subject…" Dolan jotted down a special telephone number where he could be reached at any hour. I tucked the slip of paper in my sock. He glanced at his watch and then got up as a signal to end the meeting.

I got to my feet. Santos and I shook hands. "What time is it?" I asked.

"Two minutes after four."

"I'm too old to be up at this hour," I said, and then glanced at Dolan. "Can you do me a favor? I left my black leather jacket in the restaurant and my VW's still parked in the Meat Locker side lot. I probably can't get over there until this afternoon. Could you ask about the jacket and warn the meter maid? I don't want to get towed or ticketed."

"Will do. You don't want to screw around with those meter gals," Dolan said. He flashed a smile and then held out his hand to me. "Thanks."

"I haven't done anything yet."

The female corrections officer took me back to the drunk tank and locked me in. I felt nearly sick with fatigue, my brain buzzing from the coffee, body dragging from the lack of sleep. I moved over to my mattress and sank down gratefully, curling up on my side with my face turned toward the others. Bibianna was awake, her eyes pinned on me suspiciously. "Where have you been?"

"The homicide detective had some questions about the shooting."

"Has Dawna been picked up?"

"She's in the hospital at the moment with superficial injuries. Tale's here on the men's side. They're talking about charging him with murder, but I don't see how they can. Manslaughter's more like it."

"Bastards."

"He'll survive."

"Yeah, I suppose." Bibianna seemed on the verge of drifting back to sleep.

I hesitated briefly, then held my nose and plunged right in. "By the way, while I was out there I put a call through to my bail bondsman, who's posting bail for both of us. He'll be over here at eight."

Her eyes flew open. "You're bailing me out, too? Why would you do that? I don't have no kind of money like that. You're talkin' five hundred bucks!"

"So you can owe me. Don't sweat it."

Her look was puzzled. "But why now? How come you didn't do that in the first place?"

"I just remembered I had money in a savings account. My car's in the shop. I was saving to get the tranny fixed. What the hell. Let it sit. It's not doing me any good here."

She hadn't bought my story yet. "I can't believe you'd do that."

The skinny woman piped up from the mattress in an aggravated tone of voice. "What's the matter with you, crazy? Take the money and shut your mouth."

Bibianna flicked a look at the woman and smiled in spite of herself. She studied me for a moment and then murmured a "Thank you." Her eyes closed again. She turned over on her stomach and tucked her arms under her for warmth. Within minutes, she'd dozed off.

The air in the cell was permeated with the scent of sleeping bodies: damp socks, stale breath, unwashed hair. I had thought my cellmates might waken with my return, but no one else stirred. The light in the corridor shone dimly. The quiet became absolute. On the floor, I could still see the numerology grid Bibianna'd drawn for me with spit. Movement and change. Well, now wasn't that the truth?

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was the result of a bureaucratic error for which responsibility was never assigned. The paperwork came down at six and Bibianna and I were mustered out. Just like that. There was no word from Dolan and Santos, no sign of the tech who was supposed to fit me with a wire. I kept waiting for the jail officer to call me back, take me aside under some pretext or other for the promised briefing. What was the deal here? Had there been a change of plans? For the life of me, I couldn't think of a reason to delay my release. I'd just have to play the situation as it came to me. I was carrying my personal property, still sealed in the clear plastic pouch. They'd returned our shoes, belts, and other potentially death dealing items, like tampons. I was feeling vile, but the first breath of fresh air restored my good spirits to some extent. After a mere four hours in the slammer, the freedom had a giddiness attached to it.

The morning was cold and foggy, the ground still saturated from the rain the night before. The scruffy hills around the jail looked serene. Little birdies sang. The passing traffic out on the freeway seemed to ebb and surge, rhythmic white noise, very restful, like the ocean at high tide. I longed for a shower, for breakfast, for privacy. I'd have to conjure up an excuse to separate from Bibianna, contact Dolan, and find out what the hell was going on. In the meantime, I was going to have to stick to her like glue.

The first order of business, of course, was to find a ride home. I checked my plastic pouch, feeling like a mental patient just released from the institution. I had ten bucks in cash, which I decided to blow on a taxi. I'm too cheap for cabs as a rule, but I really felt I deserved this one. Bibianna and I clopped down the long drive that led away from the jail. I was a sight to behold, tank top and wrinkled black pants, my little white socks turning black where the dye on my wet pumps had rubbed off. Bibianna wasn't looking all that hot herself. The red of her dress was unflattering by day, a mismatch for the spike heels, which the rain had pulled out of shape. She was applying a fresh coat of lipstick, open compact held in front of her face as she walked. She'd stripped off her panty hose, which had been riddled with runs after our adventures of the night before. Her legs looked pale and scrawny in the harsh light of day, and her dress was as pleated across the lap as the bellows of an accordion. Oh, well. I suppose there are times when you rejoice just to find yourself on the move again. Behind us were the chain-link fences, incessant lights, the locks, the barred windows. In spite of our liberation, I couldn't think of a thing to say to her. "Thanks… it's been fun… we'll have to do this again sometime soon." The simple rules of etiquette didn't seem to apply.

Bibianna tucked her compact in her purse, her manner anxious.

"Did they ask you about the shooting?" I asked.

"Not yet. Some homicide cop is supposed to come around to my place later today."

"What are you going to tell them?"

"Who cares about that? I gotta find a way to get outta here before Raymond shows up…"

I felt an anxiety of my own. What the hell was going on here? Where was Dolan? What was I supposed to do?

Suddenly, Bibianna clutched my arm, digging her nails into my flesh. "Sweet Jesus," she whispered, staring dead ahead.

I followed her gaze, realizing belatedly that her attention was riveted on a dark green Ford that was parked down the road, its rear end lowered until the pan nearly scraped the ground. Her fear was so palpable that the hair rose up on the back of my neck.

"Who's that?"

"It's Raymond. Oh, God." Her voice broke. Tears leapt to her eyes and she made a peculiar squeaking sound in her throat. I assessed the situation rapidly, without knowing quite what to do. Of all the bad luck. Apparently, Dawna had managed to put a call through to him.

He'd been leaning on the front fender, watching cars pass on the frontage road. When he caught sight of us, he began to amble in our direction.

"Bibianna, cool it. Just calm down. Let's head back to the jail…"

She shook her head. "Even if the cops took us home, he'd catch up eventually. Don't leave me. Swear you won't. Whatever happens, just go along with it. Don't set him off or he'll tear the place apart and you along with it."

"All right, all right. Come on now. Just be cool. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise you won't leave me."

"I promise," I said.

At first, I didn't get it. At that distance, the guy looked like anybody else. He was tall and very slender, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. From what I could see of him, he was dressed like a fashion plate: leather sport coat, pleated trousers, pointy black patent-leather shoes capped with silver at the toes, mirrored sunglasses. He could have been Latino or Italian, dark hair and olive skin. I placed him in his early thirties. He had his hands in his pockets and his manner seemed relaxed.

Bibianna's fingers were ice cold. She clung to my hand the way a friend might in the middle of a horror movie just before the guy with the butcher knife leaps out. I couldn't see anything in his appearance that would warrant her response.

When he reached us, he took his sunglasses off. He had dark thick lashes, a full mouth, a dimple in his chin. Once he was in close range, I realized there was something wrong. His eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving narrow slits of white along the lower rims. His face and body underwent a series of convulsive movements; he blinked his eyes, the comer of his mouth jumped involuntarily, his lips opened wide, then his head jerked back twice. The effect was weird – a sequence of behaviors that set his whole body in motion, culminating in a sound that was half shout, half cough. He moved his right arm, rolling it in its socket as if to loosen tension. In memory, a buzzer sounded dimly, and I recalled the existence of some medical condition that produced just this effect – tics and shouts. He made no reference to it, nor did Bibianna, who seemed more concerned about his reaction to Chago's death.

"I didn't do it. I swear to God. I didn't kill him. I'm sorry. It was an accident. Oh, please. Raymond, I didn't have anything to do with it…"

His expression had softened, becoming nearly wistful as he took her by the shoulders and pulled her in close to him, rubbing his hands up and down her bare arms. "You don't know how happy I am to see you…"

I could see her tense up, holding herself away from him slightly, though she couldn't do much without perhaps risking some kind of outburst. He began to nuzzle her hair. "Oh, baby. Angel. Sweet thing, I'm glad to see you," he murmured, his voice soft. "This is beautiful. I really missed you, you know that?" He drew back from her then, clamping his fingers around her jaw so that she was forced to look at him. "Hey, it's all right. Everything's okay. Don't worry." His gaze moved across to me. "Who is this?" His head jerked twice.

"Hannah Moore," I said.

She flicked a look at him. "This is Raymond Maldonado."

He held his hand out. "Nice to meet you. Sorry about all this. My brother was killed last night."

We shook hands. His were warm and soft, his grip firm.

"I'm sorry about your brother. That's terrible," The pleasantries created an air of unreality.

Raymond glanced at Bibianna. "You ready?"

"I'm not going. Raymond, I mean it. I'm done with all that. I don't want to go back to Los Angeles. I told you. I didn't have anything to do with…" He took her arm and began to walk her toward the car. I could see her mouth twist and his fingers dug into her elbow painfully. She babbled on. He raised a hand as if to silence her, warding off the spill of words. She pressed a hand to her lips. He turned his head to one side. He hunched a shoulder, did a neck roll, and took a deep breath, eyes sliding up in his head. His face jerked to the right, once, twice. His eyes came open, the irises sliding into view – large, dark brown, and clear. He continued toward the car.

I followed without invitation, calculating rapidly. Here was my quarry, Raymond Maldonado in the flesh. I knew I was being offered the perfect opportunity, but I'd had no prep time. If I went in without a briefing, I could blow the whole operation. I couldn't afford to start playing undercover cop, but what choice did I have? He was walking so rapidly, I had to do a quickstep to keep up.

Bibianna was getting into passive resistance, slowing down, hanging back. "Listen, Raymond. Maybe I could go another time, okay? Hannah's been talking about going home with me," she said. "And we do have plans…"

He turned and smiled at me. "We're getting married."

"Today?"

He shook his head. "Soon, though. It was all set up, but she said she wasn't ready. Next thing I know she takes off. Just like that, she's gone. Doesn't even leave me a note. I wake up one morning and she's disappeared…"

Bibianna's face was drawn and pale. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, Raymond, but what could I do? What was I going to say to you? I tried to tell you…"

He raised a finger to his lips and then he pointed it at her reprovingly. "You don't leave a guy, Bibianna." He turned to me, one hand out, palm up, arguing his case. "I've been in love with this woman for how many years now? Six? Eight? What am I going to do with her, huh?"

Bibianna was silent, her eyes full of dread. I couldn't believe the change that had come over her. All the confidence was gone, the high energy, the sexiness. My own mouth was getting dry, and a whisper of fear tickled me in the small of the back.

We reached the car. Another fellow stepped out, a Latino with a dark knit watch cap pulled down to his ears. His eyes were black, as flat and dull as spots of old paint. He had acne scars on his cheeks and a mustache made up of about fourteen hairs, some of which looked like they were drawn on by hand. He was my size. He wore sharply pressed khaki pants with numerous pleats across the front and an immaculate white undershirt. Tufts of underarm hair were visible, straight and dark. His bare arms were muscular, tattoos extending from his shoulders to his wrists – a graphic rendition of Donald Duck on his right and Daffy Duck on his left.

"That's a copyright violation," I remarked, nearly giddy with anxiety.

"That's Luis," Raymond said.

He had a gun. He held the rear car door open, like a well-mannered chauffeur.

Bibianna balked, one arm braced against the car. "I'm not going without Hannah."

Raymond seemed taken aback. "Why not?"

"She's my friend and I want her with me," she said.

"I don't even know this girl," he said.

Bibianna's eyes flashed. "Goddamn it! This is just like you, Raymond. You say you love me. You say you'll do anything. First thing I ask for, all I get is an argument. Well, I'm sick of it!"

"Okay, okay. She can go if she wants. Anything you say."

Bibianna turned to me with a look filled with mute pleading. "Please. Just for a few days."

I felt myself shrug. "I got nothing else to do," I said.

Bibianna got in first, sliding across the backseat. Raymond slid in beside her. I hesitated briefly, wondering at the wisdom of it.

Luis turned the gun so that it was pointing at my chest. It clarified my thinking most emphatically.

I got into the backseat. The dashboard was covered in white terrycloth with "Raymond and Bibianna" machine-stitched in glossy green script across the face of it. A rosary hung from the rearview mirror along with a Sacred Heart of Jesus, bleeding. The interior of the car, including front and back seats, was upholstered in white acrylic teddy bear fur. There was a Radio Shack car phone on the front seat. All the car lacked was a collection of bobbleheads on the rear… or a four-inch Virgin Mary with little magnetized feet. The minute I got in, I knew I'd made a mistake.

Luis started the engine without a word. The mufflers sounded like distant jackhammers as he pulled out onto the road. He kept both hands on the steering wheel with his arms fully extended, his trunk and head inclined back. He made a U-turn and sped toward the freeway. Raymond's ticcing recurred at perhaps three-minute intervals, sometimes less. I found myself unnerved at first, especially in the absence of any explanation. The others seemed to take it for granted. At first, I would jump every time he did it, but I found myself adjusting, marveling that anybody had to live like that. Was there no help for him?

Bibianna now seemed to be in the mood for an argument, maybe to forestall any amorous intentions. "How'd you find out about last night?"

"Dawna called and told me some of it before the cops picked her up. Who's the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy last night shot Chago."

"How do I know who he was? Just somebody in the restaurant with a gun."

"Dawna said you were with him."

"I was there by myself."

"Not what she says."

"She said that? It's bullshit. What'd he look like? She tell you that?"

"She didn't have a chance. Squad car pulled up and she hung up. Said some chick was there, too."

"She's blowin' smoke up your skirt. What a bitch! I was there by myself when Chago showed up with a gun. Maybe the guy was an off-duty cop or just your average citizen with a gun."

Raymond's face darkened. "That would really piss me off. What's the matter with people? Too many fuckin' handguns around." He turned and looked at me. "Every day in the paper, somebody gets blown away. L.A. Times. You read Metro? Scares the shit out of me." He held a hand up, blocking words in. "You know that slogan says, 'Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'? What a crock that is."

"Luis has a gun," I remarked helpfully.

"That's different. He's a lieutenant. He's like a bodyguard to me. I can't believe some joker in a restaurant shoots my brother for no fuckin' reason."

All the little birdies had flown out of this man's tree. I sat with my eyes straight ahead and my mouth shut, remembering what Bibianna had told me about his temper.

Raymond turned to Bibianna and started kissing her, his hands moving across her breasts with an intimacy I found embarrassing. She was compliant, but she rolled an eye at me frantically across his shoulder. I looked out the window.