January Justice Part 11

I learned that Delarosa had been in the United States illegally and had worked for Arturo Toledo for some time prior to the crime. She had a daughter and a husband who was deported soon thereafter. Almost every article called her a "URNG terrorist," or "a member of the URNG terrorist organization." The police were quoted making statements along those lines. In one interview, the Guatemalan amba.s.sador to the United States denounced the kidnapping and murder as the act of Communists. A single grainy black-and-white photograph of the Delarosa woman had been picked up and repeated countless times across the web. I printed out a copy.

I also watched the videos Russo had mentioned during our lunch conversation. They were pretty bleak. Dona Elena stared at the camera with terror clearly written on her face. The Delarosa woman stood behind her wearing a black-knit ski mask with holes for her eyes and mouth and holding a .38 special to Dona Elena's temple. To see such a glamorous person looking sweaty and filthy and reduced to pitiful begging made me feel vaguely embarra.s.sed. The videos felt personal, as if I was watching a friend in trouble, someone I actually knew.

In one sense it was true. Dona Elena had already been well on her way to fame back then. In the seven years since, she had become one of Hollywood's major stars. I would have known her anywhere, but as a glamorous celebrity, not as the pitiful woman begging on the screen.

All of the videos were easy to find on the Internet. I made a point of watching them in chronological order. I looked for connections and differences between them. I watched the edges of the frame, hoping to spot a hint of something the kidnapper hadn't intended to reveal, some kind of clue that might lead in a direction other than the URNG. But of course I saw nothing the police had missed, nothing to refute Delarosa's claim that she was working for Vega's organization. I watched them all three times. When I was done, I had a feeling I had missed something, but it was probably wishful thinking.

Harper returned my call after a couple of hours. He said, "Listen, I know you didn't want to tell Russo why you're interested in this case, but this isn't the kind of thing you usually handle. You got a client connected to this Delarosa woman somehow?"

"Got to keep busy."

"Seriously, what's the deal?"

"Seriously, I need something to do to keep from going back to the nuthouse. A guy asked me to look into this thing, so I thought I would."

"None of your usual clients need a driver anymore? A protection detail?"

"I've only had one call since I got out of the hospital. Apparently my regulars prefer bodyguards who don't lose clients." I didn't blame them either. n.o.body cared that I had nearly lost my mind forever. In my business, there was no room for excuses. All that mattered was success or failure.

"You're gonna make a comeback, buddy."

"Sure. You got that file from Russo?"

"It's still an open case, Malcolm. He's not going to let you see the file."

"He answered my questions when we had lunch."

"And you kind of insulted the guy, if you remember. Besides, you made it seem like idle curiosity. Now you're coming off like a guy with a case."

I sighed. "Did you at least get Delarosa's last known address?"

"Listen. Sal's not a bad guy. What was with your att.i.tude the other day?"

"Guess I'm looking for someone to blame."

"Don't blame Sal."

"I apologized at lunch."

"He's still mad."

"I'll apologize again the next time I talk to him. Did you get that address or not?"

"Sal wasn't happy about it, but yeah."

Harper read the address to me and I wrote it down. I said, "That's Pico-Union, right?"

"Yeah. You want to watch yourself up there, Malcolm."

Pico-Union was the most densely populated urban area west of the Mississippi, almost exclusively populated by Latinos. Most were originally refugees from Mexico's economy and from the b.l.o.o.d.y civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala. The neighborhood was in a nearly constant state of dispute between about a dozen gangs and had one of the highest murder rates in LA. But I figured it would be a walk in the park compared to Kunar Province in Afghanistan.

"I can handle it," I said.

Harper said, "Oorah," then hung up.

It would have been dark by the time I got to Pico-Union if I left right then, so I decided to wait. I walked over to the garage and backed the stretch Mercedes stretch out onto the asphalt pavement. I gathered a bucket, chamois, some microfiber towels, soap, and wax. Also a little brush for the hard-to-reach spots on the wheels. I unwound the water hose and went to work. For some reason, washing and waxing cars helped me relax. I did some of my best thinking with a soapy rag in my hand.

A little over an hour later, as the sun was going down, I finished with the car. It stood there, a black and shiny reminder that I would never drive Haley anywhere again.

I sighed. I needed a different kind of distraction. A different kind of work.

I went over to the guesthouse. In the kitchen I opened a fresh bottle of Glenlivet single malt. I poured two fingers in a water gla.s.s, took the bottle and the gla.s.s into the living room, and sat at the desk. I fired up the computer. I still had the nagging feeling I had missed something in those videos of Dona Elena and Alejandra Delarosa.

Sipping the Glenlivet, I watched them all again, Dona Elena's famous features filling the screen, as she cried and begged for her life while a masked and uniformed Alejandra Delarosa held a semiautomatic to her head. There were four videos, each about three minutes long. I paused between each of them to think, pacing myself with the Scotch. When the last video was over, I finished off the gla.s.s, poured myself another, and started again with the first video. When the last video was over the second time, I poured another drink and replayed just that one. It was different.

In the other three videos, Alejandra stood unmoving and silent as Dona Elena spoke to the camera. But the last one seemed different somehow. I couldn't put my finger on the difference. It was something in the body language or the way the Delarosa woman held the gun. I turned the sound as high as it would go. I played those final seconds over and over and made myself forget all preconceptions in order to just watch and listen.

Finally I realized what was bothering me. It was subtle. I couldn't be certain that it mattered. But in the second or two before the last video went blank, right after Dona Elena said, "Arturo, they want two hundred thousand dollars, and they want you to bring it yourself," I thought I saw Alejandra Delarosa's lips move just a little, framed by the hole in her black mask, as if she were practicing to be a ventriloquist.

I got up and went to the armoire where the stereo equipment was kept. From a drawer in the armoire, I removed a pair of headphones, the kind with a built-in amplifier. I went back to the computer, plugged the headphones into the jack, slipped them over my ears, and turned the sound all the way up. I played the last video again, closing my eyes to listen.

And there it was, right at the very end, a woman's voice whispering, "You weren't supposed-"

I removed the headphones and turned off the computer. Carrying the gla.s.s of Scotch into the bedroom, I stripped to my underwear, sat on the edge of the bed, and drained the gla.s.s before crawling underneath the sheets to try and figure out why Alejandra Delarosa would say those words. Then I realized I hadn't thought about Haley for at least an hour. It was the effect I had hoped to achieve by taking on the job, but still I felt guilty for some reason.

16.

The next morning I rose early and slipped into a pair of boxing shorts, a plain-white muscle shirt, and a pair of New Balance training shoes. I crossed the estate grounds, dodging the irrigation sprinklers, and entered Haley's mansion by the rear receiving door. I took the back stairs to the second floor, the stairs I had used so many times before, then strolled down the hall and slipped into her bedroom. I did my best to ignore the bed as I crossed to another door on the far side of the room and entered the little gym she had built for me.

I spent the next hour communing with the free weights, stationary bicycle, and rowing machine. I checked my form in the mirrors that lined all four walls. I was a remarkably limber and well-muscled specimen, square-jawed and straight-nosed, the picture of a red-blooded, all-American male in prime condition.

Then I looked into my eyes and remembered not to put much stock in appearances.

After returning to the guesthouse to shower, shave, and change into a black-silk T-shirt, faded Levi's, and a pair of brown leather deck shoes, I decided to take Haley's Escalade to Pico-Union. The Cadillac SUV was black, with darkly tinted windows and an impressive chrome package including flashy wheels. It was possible the residents of Alejandra Delarosa's old neighborhood might a.s.sume I was a drug dealer or a pimp and leave my ride alone. Showing up before eight in the morning would also be a plus, since most of the bad guys would be sleeping it off. Plus, I might catch some of Delarosa's former neighbors before they left for work.

I rolled down Haley's long, winding driveway. My cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Haley's attorney in New York, Howard Williams. I paused a few yards away from the monumental pair of gates and answered the phone.

"Mr. Cutter," said the lawyer, "I wanted to get back in touch with an, ah, an update."

"Good. How's it going?"

"Well, as you might imagine, with an estate the size of yours the divest.i.ture process will take time."

"Are we talking weeks or months?"

"That's part of what I thought we should discuss. Your more liquid a.s.sets can be distributed almost immediately of course, but with the current economic climate it could take a year or more to secure a good return on some of your property. High end real estate in Italy isn't selling well, for example, and the market for yachts is soft in the seven figure range."

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"To be frank, I must confess your request caught me off guard. We're not often asked to liquidate an estate of this size. In fact, I've never done anything remotely like this, and I don't know anyone who has. So after you mentioned what you want me to do, I wasn't thinking as clearly as I would have hoped. I mean, you were clear enough when we last spoke, but ever since then I've been thinking maybe I misunderstood your wishes."

Sitting there in Haley's Escalade, looking out through her monumental gates, I said, "You probably understood all right. Sell it all. Everything. Don't worry about getting the best price. Just sell it as fast as you can, and split the proceeds among Haley's charities. I'll want to keep fifty thousand for myself. And don't let anybody know I'm the one doing the selling."

"I see. Yes. Well, that's exactly what I thought you said before. And of course it's none of my business, but would you mind explaining why you want to do this?"

"I'm a generous guy."

"Generous? Yes. I see."

"Can it be done or not? Can you keep my name out of it?"

"Undoubtedly, Mr. Cutter. If that is what you really wish."

"It is."

"All right, then. Ah, I do hope you won't take offense at what I am about to say. It is meant to protect your interests, I a.s.sure you, but under the circ.u.mstances I'm afraid we'll need to meet in person. Your instructions are, ah, extremely unusual, and of course the a.s.sets involved are so extensive, I just really feel I have a fiduciary responsibility to meet with you and verify your wishes personally. I'm sure you'll understand."

I understood, all right. I said, "Don't hem and haw so much, Mr. Williams. I know you're only doing your job. Would you also like to meet with a couple of my doctors too, so you can be sure I'm not crazy?"

I heard him clear his throat. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Cutter."

"So that's a yes?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"How soon can you get out here?"

"Unfortunately I'm in the middle of some litigation on my end. It looks like the trial may go on for another week or two. Maybe even three. It's not possible for me to leave New York until it's over, and of course, given your request to remain anonymous I didn't think you'd want me to send a partner or a.s.sociate..."

"No, you're right. How about if my doctor and I come out there?"

"Ah, well, this is indelicate, but you see, we've never met, and I, ah, I just think it would be best if I verified your wishes there, on your own property."

I said, "Harder for a con man to fake it here, where I've got friends, and I've been living most of the time."

"Exactly so."

"We could meet at Haley's penthouse there in the city. Except you know Haley and I haven't spent much time in New York, so the only people who could vouch for me would be people I brought along. And there would be no evidence of me being in residence at the penthouse. No photos on the mantle, letters in the desk, that kind of thing. Anyone could meet you there and claim to be me."

"I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Cutter. And I'm so glad you understand."

"You're a smart guy, Mr. Williams. Don't worry about it. Just get out here as soon as you can."

I hung up and rolled forward far enough to activate the gates. After they swung open, I drove out onto the street. There, I paused to wait for the gates to swing shut behind me before I headed for the highway.

The address Harper had provided turned out to be a brown-shingle-style building at the northeast corner of Fourteenth and Constance, about a block from Pico. It had been a large, attractive single-family residence at one time, probably the home of a wealthy Jewish family, since the Pico-Union neighborhood had first been inhabited by a predominantly Jewish population. But that was before the Los Angeles City Council had seen fit to designate LA as a sanctuary city. Now about fifty percent of the neighborhood was occupied by people who had come to America illegally, and with them had come street gangs that preyed upon the poor.

The chain-link fence along the sidewalk made the proud old house look more like a prison. I opened the gate and crossed the front yard, which was mostly light-brown dirt and dark-brown weeds. Beside the front door was a row of mailboxes. It seemed the house had long ago been subdivided into apartments. The box that matched the apartment number Harper had given me had no name attached. The other boxes were marked with names like Lopez, Soto, and Ramirez.

There was a good chance none of these people had lived there seven years before, when Delarosa was a resident, and an even better chance they wouldn't talk to me. Of course, the police had already covered this territory years before. But I had no other ideas. Sometimes, especially when you have no other options, the only thing to do is to make your presence known and hope the enemy will take a shot and reveal his own position.

I entered the building. What had once been a generously sized foyer was now a lobby, with worn sheet vinyl on the floor and a battered set of stairs with a wooden handrail rising on the left. A tricycle stood in one corner. Every vertical surface, the original plaster walls and wainscoting, more recent Sheetrock, and the doors, had been covered with spray painted graffiti. The number 18 figured prominently in the graffiti, the 18th Street Gang's tag.

I could still see signs of ornate moldings, which had trimmed cased openings on the left and right. The openings had probably once led to a parlor on one side and perhaps a dining room on the other. Both openings had been filled in with Sheetrock, which surrounded plain wooden doors. On the door to my right was the number 101, and on the left was 102. I wanted 202, so I took the stairs.

The woman who opened the door was under five feet tall and very wide. I put her at about a hundred and fifty pounds. She had hair so black it looked almost midnight blue, and sleepy eyes with the color and sheen of french roast coffee beans.

She looked up at me, brow creased and lips turned down. "Jes?"

"Do not worry," I said in Spanish. "I am not La Migra." It was what most Latino illegal immigrants called the Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. I handed her my business card, which said simply "Malcolm Cutter, Personal Transportation and Security," with my cell phone number. I told her I was looking for a woman who used to occupy that apartment, named Alejandra Delarosa.

Her frown didn't change, but now she was also shaking her head. "She does not live here."

"Yes, I know. She lived here about seven years ago. I was hoping you knew her then? Or possibly someone in her family? A friend?"

She was still shaking her head.

After a few more words, I thanked her and she closed the door. I moved on to try the next apartment. There were three more on the second floor and four below. Out of those, four people answered when I knocked. None of them knew anything about Alejandra Delarosa, or none of them would admit to knowing anything. I left the building.

As I walked across the front yard toward the Escalade, a woman about forty years of age approached the chain-link gate holding two nearly overflowing paper grocery sacks. She wore a rolled blue bandana as a hair band and a billowing white blouse with colorful embroidery around the collar like those I'd seen on Mayans in Mexico and Central America. She also wore a pair of faded blue jeans, which she filled out very nicely. She tried to open the gate without setting down the groceries, but it was clearly a challenge.

Still speaking Spanish, I hurried toward the gate. "Let me help."

"Thank you, senor," she replied.

I lifted the latch and pulled the gate in toward myself. As she stepped into the yard, one of the two bags burst open, spilling oranges, bananas, and a half-gallon plastic milk bottle onto the ground. The woman uttered a mild curse.

I knelt at her feet and began to pick up the fruit. There were too many pieces, so I stretched out the bottom hem of my T-shirt and started dropping them onto the fabric, using the shirtfront as a kind of bag.

"You do not need to do that," she said, standing over me with the other grocery sack still in her hands.

I stood up, one hand holding the hem of my shirt and the other holding the milk bottle. My shirtfront bulged with fruit. I said, "It is my pleasure."

She smiled. "In that case, my apartment is just here, if you do not mind."

I followed her back into the building and through the lobby to the last apartment in back on the left. She pulled a single key out of a pocket, opened the door, and then turned to me. "I do not wish to be rude, but if you do not mind waiting here?"

"No problem," I said.

With a nod she disappeared inside and closed the door. Soon she was back with an empty sack in her hand. As I stood in the hall holding out my T-shirt's hem, she transferred the fruit into the bag.

I said, "Your accent... You are Guatemalan?"