His grin disappeared again. Easy come, easy go. In some states, his glare would’ve been classified as police brutality. “You’re cute, Axbrewder,” he chewed out. “I didn’t know what to do about you. I thought I ought to give you the benefit of the doubt. But to hell with that. I’m going to take you in for obstructing an investigation, concealing information.”
Any con will tell you that a good lie is its own reward. I snorted a laugh. “Too bad it won’t stick. I haven’t concealed any information. I’ve already made a statement.”
His whole body seemed to swell inside his clothes. He looked like he’d invented apoplexy all by himself. “The hell you have, you sonofabitch. I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Why, Captain,” I said maliciously, “didn’t you get a copy of the report? I guess I’m not the only one in Puerta del Sol who doesn’t trust you.”
He started toward me. His fists looked hard enough to powder bricks. Then the implications of what I’d said got through to him, and he froze. Good lies are like that. His expression became as flat as his eyes. “That’s bullshit. Who took the report?”
I didn’t even blink. “Lieutenant Acton.” Acton didn’t like me much. Unlike Sergeant Encino, however, he really did owe me a favor. “I talked to him because he’s an honest cop.” With a smile of my own, I added, “Why do you suppose he didn’t pass it on?” Then I finished softly, “Talk to him, Cason. Check it out.” With any luck at all, he wouldn’t believe the truth when he heard it. “You’ll be surprised by what’s going on behind your back.”
To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know why he swallowed that one. I didn’t know why it struck such a spark when I tossed out Chavez’s name. I was just glad it worked.
“Axbrewder,” he snarled, jabbing a heavy forefinger in the direction of my face, “you’re on a tightrope this time. Any minute now, you’re going to lose your balance. When you do, I’m going to make damn sure there’s no net.”
Abruptly he turned and stomped back to the Dodge. After a moment the small detective with the scuffed shoes followed glumly.
When they were both in the car, the small man said something. Cason started yelling, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I felt like I’d turned blue in the cold, so I didn’t stand on ceremony. I climbed back into the Olds and fired up the engine to get the heater working.
The Dodge pulled out, spewing dust along the wind. Trying not to look mystified, the street cops sauntered back to their unit. They took their time, but after a couple of minutes they drove off, leaving me to do whatever I wanted.
At first, I didn’t do anything. I sat and shivered while the car tried to warm up. Cason hadn’t told me why he was interested in me. I thought I knew the answer to that.
But I still had no idea why I hadn’t been arrested.
13
For that matter, I had no idea why Haskell hadn’t been arrested. Cason had even more reason to chase around after him.
The combination of Novick and Harmon and Cason and no sleep had me more strung out than I realized. A few minutes passed, and I was driving out of the South Valley on Bosque, and the heater was finally starting to do some good, when I realized that I didn’t know whether Haskell had been arrested or not.
If Cason went to all that trouble to find out what I was doing, he must’ve already had men working on Haskell.
For a while I was so astonished by my own stupidity that I didn’t even swear about it. Then I leaned on the gas and made the Olds rattle for acceleration as if there were something to be gained by setting a record on my way back to the bank. As if I could do any good when I got there.
By the time I got off Bosque onto Trujillo, however, I was thinking a little better. With an effort of will, I made the car and my heart slow down. Respecting the speed limits—and the haphazard way people drive in the South Valley—I headed up Trujillo and started hunting for a phone booth.
At first I couldn’t find one. What with vandalism and other forms of human frustration, the phone company doesn’t consider leaving its equipment in the South Valley cost effective. But a mile or two past the abandoned warehouses, I spotted what I needed—a seedy Muchoburger joint with a pay phone.
I parked the Olds, went inside, and changed a dollar bill. Then I looked up the number for the First Puerta del Sol National ice cream parlor and dialed it. When the bank came on the line, I recognized Eunice Wint, so I pitched my voice up a couple of notches and asked her in Spanish if I could speak to Señor Haskell.
She didn’t speak Spanish, but she caught the name. “Mr. Haskell? Do you wish to speak to Mr. Haskell?”
“Sí, Señorita.”
“Just a moment, please.”
I heard the clicking while she connected me. Then Haskell’s phone rang.
He picked it up right away. Since I didn’t say anything, he asked if he could help me, who was I, what the hell was going on. When I was dead sure it was him, I hung up.
So he hadn’t been arrested either. Not yet, anyway. Probably for the same reason that Cason had left me running around loose—whatever that was.
Relief left me exhausted all of a sudden. And the smell of greasy hamburgers made me look at my watch. It was already a little after noon. You could lose your whole life just driving in and out of the South Valley. I still had things to do, but in my condition food was probably the better part of valor. I bought a couple of hamburgers and about a quart of strong coffee. Then I sat down and tried to pull myself together while I ate.
Why hadn’t Cason hauled Haskell, if not me, in to find out what the hell we thought we were doing? All that coffee and any amount of heartburn later, I still had no idea.
Since I wasn’t making any progress, I gave up on it. I didn’t have to pick up our client until four thirty—which meant that I had four entire hours, minus driving time, to get some sleep. Or to work on what had happened to Pablo Santiago.
After stuffing my trash in a can that hadn’t been emptied for a while, I went back to the phone.
For a second my brain refused to cooperate. Then I kicked it, and it coughed up Raul Encino’s home phone number.
It rang a dozen times or so with no answer. That didn’t cheer me up, but I hung on. After all, what do night-shift cops do during the day? They sleep, that’s what. And maybe his family—if he had one—was out. In school, grocery shopping, something. I let the phone ring.
Finally the line opened. A fatigue-numbed voice said, “Encino.”
“Axbrewder.” For some reason I wasn’t relieved. I was scared. Those hamburgers felt like buckshot in my stomach. “Sorry about this. Tell me about Pablo Santiago’s autopsy, and I’ll get out of your life.”
“Axbrewder.” I heard the distinct thunk of the receiver landing on a hard surface.
The phone didn’t pick up any breathing, or even any movement. When he came back, he didn’t sound asleep anymore. He sounded like he had a gun in one hand and a riot stick in the other.
“Axbrewder?”
“I’m still here.”
“Are you sure you wish to stick your nose in this?” The stiffness of his English contrasted ominously with his fluid Spanish. “For an Anglo, you have some decency. Consider what will happen if you hinder Captain Cason’s investigation. Anything you do will make enemies. To find the killer of a man like Roscoe Chavez—even a bad cop will jump for the chance. Consider what will happen if they find I leaked this autopsy to you.”
I understood him, and it made tiredness swim around in my head. Oh damn it all. His poor parents. They could probably stand it if he was just dead.
“In other words,” I said from some distance away, “he was killed. It wasn’t an accident. He was killed, and it has something to do with running numbers.”
“Listen to me,” Encino said sharply. “Cason is not a man to be laughed at or dismissed. Leave it for him.”
“No, you listen,” I retorted. Somehow I made myself sound like my mind wasn’t out there flapping in the wind
. “I know Pablo’s parents. They have a stake in this, and I seem to be the only one who cares. I’m just a crazy Anglo—what harm can I do? I’ll never tell where I got my information. And if I haven’t got enough sense to cover my own ass, that’s not your fault. What does the autopsy say?”
There was a long silence. Then Encino sighed. “Pablo Santiago died of a broken neck.”
I waited. When he didn’t go on, I said, “I already knew that. You told me.”
“I told you,” he replied with old-world asperity, “he died of a broken neck, bruises, and injuries consistent with an accidental fall from a moving vehicle. That remains true. However, the M.E. is now sure the neck was broken before the fall. Partially crushed windpipe and other internal damage to the throat indicate strangulation.”
Now it was my turn not to say anything. Encino spelled it out for me. “Someone killed the boy”—as if I needed it spelled out—“and then threw him from a car to make it appear accidental.”
“Shit,” I muttered profoundly. “Shit on everything.”
I could almost hear him shrug over the phone.
My head was going in eight directions at once. “Has anyone told the family yet?”
“Would I be informed?” In his own way, he was about as pleased as I was. “This case is not mine.”
“All right,” I said. “All right.” I needed to get off the phone. “Thanks. I owe you. Remember that.”
“Go away,” he replied. “I consider it even.”
I didn’t thank him again. I just hung up.
My reaction probably would’ve been pretty entertaining to watch. There’s this huge clown with raked eyes in a Muchoburger, of all places. First he puts the receiver back in its cradle like it was a snake that just bit him. Then he goes outside, flapping his arms wildly at the doors and the cold. He kicks one of the tires of his car as hard as he can, damn near breaks a bone in his foot, and almost falls down. Finally he fumbles the door open, stumbles into the seat, and tries to tear the steering wheel apart. What fun. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d fallen into a cement mixer.
I didn’t just want a drink, I wanted Everclear. The closest thing I could get to intravenous alcohol. What had happened to Pablo made me sick enough. But what really made me rage was that the cops had found his body more than two days ago—and still hadn’t bothered to tell the family.
Steaming like a beaker of acid, I pointed the Olds in the direction of the old part of town.
There was still a lot of lunchtime traffic—and no good roads between me and where I was headed. But after I did a few stupid things and nearly got hit once, I managed to recapture some of my grasp on reality. After all, I was in over my head—and I was used to taking orders—and I didn’t have Ginny with me. On top of which, I was slaphappy from lack of sleep. Being reminded of all that helped me realize I had to be more careful. By the time I reached the narrow streets of the old part of town, I was at least a loose approximation of a responsible citizen.
When I pulled the Olds to a stop in front of the Santiagos’ tiendita, I saw right away that it was closed.
Closed. On Tuesday. At one twenty in the afternoon. While I stared at the door, an old woman with a basket on one arm rattled the knob with a kind of forlorn desperation, then wandered away muttering toothlessly to herself.
By then, I’d felt sick for so long that it was becoming metaphysical. Trying not to hunch over, I got out of the Olds and walked into the alley that led to the back of the building.
A small flurry went past me, but the clouds still held on to most of the snow. The wind felt like it left my clothes in ribbons. Fortunately, I didn’t have far to go.
Behind the store, beside the small delivery dock, a weathered old stair led up to the apartment where the Santiagos lived. It didn’t look like it could carry my weight, but I trusted it anyway. I thumped my way up the treads and knocked on the door as soon as I reached the landing.
For a while, there was no answer. Then Rudolfo Santiago unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and peered out at me. When he saw who I was, he closed the door again.
Faintly through the wood, I heard him call to his wife, “Señor Axbrewder comes to speak to us concerning our Pablo.”
After that he pulled the door open all the way. “Señor Axbrewder.” His sad eyes flicked to my face, then settled on the middle of my chest, too polite to stare at or react to the way my mug had been redecorated. “Enter. Enter.”
“Gracias.” As I went in, I added in Spanish, “Such cold chills my heart.”
Señora Santiago was there to greet me. While her husband closed the door, she gave me a frank anxious scrutiny before she remembered her manners and lowered her gaze. “Señor Axbrewder,” she said, “be welcome. Come to the fire. Will you drink coffee with us?”
Even in her home, she wore an apron knotted around her waist. But that fit—she was a woman who worked. The small living room showed the effects of attention and love instead of money. It was spotlessly clean. There were no rugs on the floor, but the boards had been cleaned and waxed so often they’d acquired an antique glow. She’d even dusted the vigas holding up the latia-and-plaster ceiling.
A massive frame couch and a similar chair piled with old pillows instead of upholstery filled the space in front of the beehive fireplace in one corner. I could smell piñon from the fire. A few santos presided over the room from niches cut into the adobe walls. The ceiling was uncomfortably low for me, but still the whole place tugged at my heart. It felt like a home.
As cold as I was, I couldn’t resist the fire. But that was all the hospitality I could stomach. “My thanks, Señora,” I said. I didn’t like the way my voice sounded in that room. “Please pardon my rudeness. I have not come for courtesy.”
The weight of what they wanted to know oppressed the air. But they were too polite—and too reserved—to say it out loud. Instead Santiago seconded his wife. “A little coffee, surely? To ease the cold?” At the same time, with a gesture that betrayed his tension, he offered me a cigarette.
I shook my head. “Again my thanks. I have no claim upon your kindness.”
Señora Santiago knew what to say to that. “A man who has served us so well in the past, and who now wishes to aid us in our sorrow, he has no claim? What we have is yours. Some coffee at least you must have.”
She started out of the room, bustling in a way that suggested she’d already cooked six meals and cleaned the apartment twice today. Holding back grief by keeping herself busy.
Her husband stopped her. “My wife, Senor Axbrewder has another matter in his heart. He wishes only to speak of that.”
Ignoring the slight tremor in his hands, he inserted a cigarette under his mustache and struck a match. Then he moved closer to the fireplace so that he could flick his ash into the hearth.
“Señor Axbrewder,” he said quietly, “say what brings you to us.”
For a second there, in the warmth of the fire and the hominess of the room, I almost lost the handle. I wanted to say, I found someone who saw Pablo. Two days ago. Alive. On a bus. Heading south. For Mexico. He’ll be all right. I should never have come here—I didn’t have the right.
But lies weren’t an option here. Pablo’s parents had already closed the store. They weren’t going to believe any phony consolations.
“Señor,” I asked, “Señora, why do you not work in your store today?”
Her face twisted. Abruptly he threw his cigarette into the fire. At first I thought they weren’t going to answer. Then I saw that he was waiting to regain his self-control.
In a voice as flat as a board, he said, “That one who is named el Senor considers it unseemly that we labor in our store when our son has died. Has he not spoken to us of Pablo’s death? At his word, we must grieve. Tomorrow a funeral will be held, though we know nothing of our son’s end. For this”—traces of bitterness spilled past his restraint—“el Senor pays from his own pocket.”
I suppose I should’ve expected that. I alr
eady knew that el Senor knew why Pablo was killed. And he ruled the old part of town like a private fiefdom. When he told his people that their sons were dead, he expected them to by God grieve. He could even afford to be magnanimous about it. After all, he wouldn’t notice the cost of the vigil and the prayers, the funeral and the candles. I probably could’ve afforded them myself.
But it still hurt. The arrogance of that bastard made me want to go back to kicking tires. I couldn’t hold down my bitterness anywhere near as well as Santiago did.
“In this,” I said, hating myself and everything I had to say, “he speaks truth. Pardon me that I must bring such news to you. I have learned that the chotas have found the body of Pablo. A broken neck caused his death. They seek the one who did this evil, but they do not find him.”
Me they believed. I had that one advantage over el Senor. Until I spoke, some kind of hope had kept them going. I took it away.
For a moment Tatianna Santiago’s eyes went wide as if she were having a stroke. Then she cried out sharply, “Ayyy!” and snatched up her apron to cover her face. Her whole body clenched, and she didn’t seem to be breathing anymore.
Her husband closed his eyes. Slowly he sank down to sit on the hearth. Neither of them moved.
It felt like my doing. But I wasn’t done. I had something else to say.
“Your pardon.” How could I stop apologizing to them? The effort to contain what she felt left her rigid. He couldn’t seem to bear to open his eyes on the world. “I must speak of this. I beg of you that you do not go to the chotas and demand the return of your son’s body.”
At that, she whipped down her apron. Her face was livid—it seemed to hold about three hundred years of outrage. “Not? You say that we must not? He is my son. My son! His neck has been broken, and the chotas hold him from us, and they say nothing to us, having no decency and no heart and no honor, and you suggest that we must not demand his return? Have you become such as they are? Have you resumed drinking?”