January Justice Part 17

"My apologies, Mr. Cutter."

I sighed. "Simon..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

22.

I called Valentin Vega, but the hotel operator said he wasn't answering his phone. I left a voice mail with my number. He returned the call about an hour after sunset. I told him what Castro had done, and he apologized. Again.

"A couple of things," I said. "Get Castro out of town. If he comes after me again, I'll kill him."

"That would be unfortunate."

"Mainly for him."

"You said there were a couple of things?"

"The other thing is you. It's becoming harder and harder to believe Castro is doing this because he's crazy. I don't think you'd bring a man like that on a mission."

"I a.s.sure you, Mr. Cutter, I knew nothing of the incident at the cemetery. When you told me about it, I was most severe with Fidel. I am shocked that he a.s.saulted you again. It is difficult not to view this as a personal betrayal, but I feel I must be patient because I truly believe my friend has lost control. Something has happened to Fidel these last few days. He has been unsettled for some time, but this... this is something new."

"You be patient with him if you want to, but I'm the one he's tried to kill. Being crazy doesn't change the way I'll react if he tries again. And I won't just put him down. I'll come after you.

"I understand, Mr. Cutter. Considering Fidel's behavior, I suppose I cannot blame you. In fact, I appreciate the fact that you are not quitting."

"Don't thank me yet, Vega. You might not like what I find out."

I didn't tell him that his hope of clearing the URNG of suspicion in the kidnapping and murder was the least of my concerns. I was much more interested in the bomb through my bedroom window and the distant possibility of some sort of connection between Haley's murder and her Guatemalan movie project.

I decided to start carrying my SIG Sauer P228. It was what the Marines call an M11. The barrel is about an inch shorter than the Beretta M9, which is the other primary sidearm in the Corps. The shorter length makes the range of accuracy slightly more limited, but the M11's smaller size also makes it easier to conceal, and it's a fine defensive weapon. I usually wore it in a clip-on holster at my belt in back.

I had noticed that Simon used an M9, which was standard issue in the Royal Marines. It didn't necessarily tell me anything about where he had learned to use it so capably, but I thought it was interesting. Sooner or later I would figure out his background. But whatever Simon was before he became a butler, it seemed clear he was on my side now, and for the time being, that was all I really needed to know.

Over the next few days, I got a couple of driving jobs. One was for a previous regular, an independent producer who had lost his license due to drinking and driving. It felt good when he called. I had begun to think none of my past clients would ask for me again, after what had happened to Haley on my watch.

The other job was a pair of j.a.panese guys who had flown in for meetings at Paramount. They spoke in j.a.panese most of the time. They seemed to a.s.sume I didn't understand them, because most of what they said was pretty sensitive stuff. Apparently, Sony and Paramount were talking about a merger. It was very hush-hush insider information stuff.

When I dropped them at the airport that night, one of them said, "Remember, we must not discuss this on the plane," and I said, "Don't worry, gentlemen. Your secret is safe with me." I said it in j.a.panese. It was fun to see the looks on their faces when I drove away.

Between the driving jobs, I decided to talk with a few of the people listed in the Alejandra Delarosa file Olivia Soto had delivered from the congressman. I started at the travel agency where Delarosa had worked before taking the job with Toledo. I had no doubt the police had thoroughly questioned everyone who knew the woman seven years before, but I had no other leads. Besides, people sometimes remembered new details long after the fact. And if Delarosa had accomplices who were still around, it might shake them up a little to know somebody was asking questions again after so much time had pa.s.sed.

The travel agency was in a two-story stucco building near the corner of West Third and Fairfax, not far from Beverly Hills. I was surprised to learn it was still in business, since most people seemed to use the Internet to book their travel. I said as much to the owner, a Latino guy about sixty years old with dyed hair and impossibly white teeth.

He laid both hands palms down on the desk between us. I noticed that his nails were polished. He said, "Most of our clientele are elderly. They've always trusted us to book their travel, and many of them can't be bothered to learn about computers."

"What kind of woman is Alejandra Delarosa?"

"She's very pretty."

"I mean, what kind of a person is she?"

"She's very nice."

I thought it was a strange thing to say about a kidnapper and murderer, but to each his own. I said, "Did she have any regular customers? People I could talk to?"

"Not too many. Two or three elderly couples. And Arturo Toledo, of course."

"Toledo was a customer?"

"Oh, certainly. Alejandra booked several trips for him and Dona Elena."

"Did he do business on the phone or in person?"

The agent drummed his fingers on the desk. His nervous energy gave me the feeling it made him uncomfortable to talk about Toledo. Or maybe it was Alejandra Delarosa who frightened him.

"Mr. Toledo came here once or twice."

"Did they seem to know each other well?"

He pursed his lips. "No... I don't think so. She always called him 'Senior Toledo', and she used formal verbs and p.r.o.nouns when they talked. He kept asking her to call him Arturo, but she never would."

"Did he ever seem afraid of her?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Was she afraid of him?"

"You mean because he was part of the junta? All the people he disappeared during the war?" The man was tapping on the desk as if it were a telegraph key.

I nodded. "That would be enough to scare most people."

"Yes, I don't mind admitting that he made me uneasy, but I don't think he frightened Alejandra. She did quit this job to go work for him, after all."

"What else do you remember?"

"That's all. But I will tell you this: a lot of us were proud of what she did. That man was a monster. He deserved to die."

After that, I visited a Catholic church at Pico and South Mariposa, where the congressman's file said Delarosa and her family had been members. It was a lovely old mission-revival building, with twin towers on the facade facing Pico. Both towers were topped by faded turquoise domes. I followed the arrow on a small sign to the church office, where a skinny Latino woman about fifty years of age looked up from a computer when I entered.

After I had introduced myself, I said, "Have you heard of Alejandra Delarosa?"

"Everyone has heard of La Alejandra."

"Do you know if she donated money to repair the sanctuary roof?"

The woman said, "I've heard that."

"It seems strange that a fugitive would attract attention to herself that way. Do you think it's true?"

"I'm just a secretary here. They don't tell me where the money comes from."

On the table was a stack of church bulletins, probably waiting to be distributed in ma.s.s on the coming Sunday. I picked one up and looked it over. "I see you have a fund drive going."

"For the after-school program, yes."

"That's a worthy cause. How do most people give money to the church?"

"They usually leave it in the offering box in the sanctuary."

"Really? With all the gangs around here, don't you worry about thieves?"

She stared at me a moment. "The people here would never steal from us. They fear G.o.d too much."

I smiled. "They'd better."

She offered a little smile in return.

Still examining the bulletin, I said, "If I wanted to leave money for something in particular, like the after-school program, how would the monsignor know it was for that?"

"We leave special envelopes beside the offering box. If you put your offering in the envelope, we'll know it's in addition to the usual t.i.thes, for a special purpose."

"Do people put their names on the envelopes?"

"Sometimes. That way they get a tax deduction."

I nodded. "That's good to know. Thank you."

I put the bulletin back on the stack on her desk, then walked to the door and opened it. Just as I was about to step outside, I looked back and said, "Excuse me. Do you remember when they repaired the sanctuary roof?"

"Several years ago, maybe four."

That would have been three years after Alejandra Delarosa murdered Toledo and disappeared with his money. It seemed like a long time for the woman to remain in the neighborhood after committing such a high-profile crime.

I said, "Do you mind telling me who's responsible for opening the box and reviewing the envelopes?"

"Well, back then that would have been Monsignor Malone."

"Could I talk to him?"

"He pa.s.sed away two years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"He was a good man."

"I'm sure he was. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I stepped outside and closed the door. I stood there a moment, then opened it again and leaned into the room. "I'm sorry. Could I ask one more thing?"

She looked up from her computer.

I said, "I don't suppose you keep the offering envelopes?"

"We throw them away after the donations are recorded."

I thanked her again and left. If Alejandra Delarosa had given some of the Toledo ransom to the church, it seemed there was no way to prove it.

I decided to visit Delarosa's former landlord next. He turned out to be a bald Latino about fifty years of age, who kept an office on Sepulveda Boulevard in Van Nuys.

I took a set of stairs from the parking lot in back up to the two-room office, which was located above a strip shopping center. The place smelled of cigars. The outer room contained a desk, a chair, and four filing cabinets. There was nothing but a phone on the desk. The landlord sat behind another desk in the inner room. Piles of paper lined the edges of the desk.

Sweat had stained the armpits of the man's guayabera shirt and stood in little droplets on his scalp. But the window beside him was closed.

I greeted him and asked if he remembered renting to the Delarosa family. He said he remembered them vaguely, but only because of the publicity after the kidnapping and murder. "I only met them once when they signed the lease, you understand."

"What happened to the husband and daughter afterward?"

"They broke the lease is all I know."

"I heard they were deported."

"I don't know anything about that."

"What kind of man was Mr. Delarosa?"

"I just told you I don't know."

"You must have formed some impression."

"Just an average kind of guy. Now, if you don't mind, I'm pretty busy here."

I moved on, doggedly tracking down every contact I could find in the file, hoping something I asked would stir up a new memory in someone, or else the mere fact that I had come asking might spook someone into doing something that might crack the case. After so much time gone by, I had no other choice. But it didn't seem to be working. A few of the people on the list were dead or gone, and the rest either didn't remember, or what they did remember wasn't useful.

I couldn't help noticing they were all Latinos. So they had those two things in common. They were all from the same Latino background as Alejandra Delarosa, and none of them had told me anything I might use to track her down. I wondered whether they had been more helpful to Delarosa herself after the kidnapping and murder. I wondered if she might have had a little network going, people who would watch her back in case of trouble. I wondered if that might explain how she'd managed to elude the law while remaining in her neighborhood, if that was what she'd done.

I decided I needed to think some more about that, so I went into a little Cuban cafe on Venice Boulevard. The coffee came in a tiny white demita.s.se. It was the color of used motor oil and about as thick. I felt the caffeine kick in before I had finished the third sip, but it didn't help my thought process. Somehow, Alejandra Delarosa had managed to vanish into the ma.s.s of Latino humanity in Pico-Union without a trace, while simultaneously maintaining a high profile in the community as a benefactor verging on sainthood. I knew the police had gang informants in the neighborhood. How was it possible they had never found her?

After finishing the coffee, I paid and went outside. Standing by the car were two heavily tattooed Latinos, one wearing a plaid shirt and the other a white undershirt, both in baggy shorts worn low, with bandanas rolled up like headbands over their foreheads.