Seventeen

WE SAT IN HIS APARTMENT AND we drank Budweiser from the can, the way real men drink it. The apartment was cluttered with secondhand furniture, all of it draped with dirty clothes—shirts, pants, socks, underwear. I practiced an ancient Oriental breathing technique in which you only exhale.

The manager’s name was Bill Arnstead. He was a philosopher.

“These chiquitas,” he opined, “they’re cute as a button when they’re young. Nice headlights, nice tight butts. Good in the sack, too, once you get ’em away from their mamas. But they’re over the hill at thirty. They turn into cows.” He grinned. His teeth needed work. “All them tacos they eat, prob’ly.”

This I found curious, coming as it did from someone who looked as though he were on the critical list at Weight Watchers.

“How old was juanita Carrera?” I asked him.

“I dunno. Twenties somewhere. A good-looking piece. Wouldna kicked her outta bed for eatin’ crackers, that’s for damn sure. Nice setta jugs on her. And nice long stems. You don’t see that too much on your chiquitas, they tend to run stubby. But she was snooty. Wouldn’t give ya the time o’day. They’re like that sometimes. They got some kinda burr up their ass and they don’t like white people.”

He reminded me—although she would’ve been horrified to learn it—of Rebecca Carlson. They possessed the same sort of small, cramped, bitter minds, trapped behind the same cramped walls of cliché and ignorance. Occasionally we like to believe that these people, no matter how offensive, are basically harmless, because their hatreds are so obvious and so transparent. But unfortunately, and unlikely as it seems, some of them can actually breed. Down through generations they can produce and multiply their poisons and their poverty of spirit.

He said, “How come she’s so popular all of sudden, anyway?”

“Who else has been asking about her, Bill?” I was sitting back in a yellow padded chair. Arnstead was slouched at the end of a brown Naugahyde sofa, his feet propped upon a matching ottoman. Between his feet and the ottoman lay a denim work shirt, artfully folded into a lump.

He smiled slyly. “Dint you say somethin’ about a mutual benefit? Like if you’re askin’ questions, and I’m givin’ you answers, don’t you think we got a situation here calls for some renumeration? I mean, hey, no offense, but this beer don’t exactly grow on trees.”

I tugged my wallet from my back pocket, opened it, slipped out a twenty. I put back the wallet and laid the bill on the end table, beside an empty beer can.

“A twenty is all?” he said. “You got an expense account, right?”

“Think of it as a down payment, Bill. Who else was asking about her?”

“Couple guys. One of ’em was FBI. Showed me his card. A real slick operator.” He swallowed some beer.

“What was his name?”

“Stamford, somethin’ like that. I got a card he left, somewhere around.”

“Did he say why he wanted to talk to her?”

“Routine, he says. Those FBI guys are like cops. They won’t tell ya shit.”

“When was he here?”

“Thursday. Day after she left.”

“What time Thursday?”

“Afternoon.”

“Who was the other guy?”

“Some greaser. Mean-lookin’ motherfucker. Said he was her cousin. I figured that was bullshit, ’cause of the FBI guy, day before, but I wasn’t gonna argue with him. Sonofabitch was mean. Little slitty eyes, looked like they could see right through ya. And your greasers, lotta them carry blades. I can take care of myself, but who wants to fuck with a blade.”

“And when was he here?”

“Friday. Afternoon again.”

“And what did you tell them, Bill?”

He smiled another sly smile. “What I knew. Same thing I could tell you if I wanted.”

I slipped out my wallet, removed another twenty, put it beside the first, put the wallet back in my pocket, sat back against the chair, waited.

He grinned. “That didn’t hurt so bad, right?”

I said, “Why don’t we start with how long she lived here.”

“‘Bout two years. Be two years in January. Didn’t have a thing to her name when she showed up, just one of them cheap plastic suitcases. No furniture, nothing. The apartments are all furnished, see.”

And regally, if they were all furnished like this one. “Did she have many visitors?”

“None. She was snooty, like I said. Kept to herself.” He finished off the beer, crumpled the can in his fist. “Want another brewski?”

“I’m fine.”

“Be right back.” He swung his legs off the ottoman, lumbered out of the sofa, thumped his way into the kitchenette. Over the Formica counter I watched him open the refrigerator door and reach in. He slammed the door shut, then came thumping back, carrying two beers in his big right hand. He eased down into the sofa, grunted, put one beer on the table to his left, swung his feet back up onto the ottoman. “Case you change your mind.” He popped the other beer open. “What was it you wanted to know?”

“You said she didn’t have visitors. Did she go out often?”

He shrugged. “She went to work.” He drank some beer.

“Besides that.”

“Once in a while, yeah. Sundays, she went to church. I know it was church ‘cause I asked her one Sunday where she was comin’ from. She told me it was none of my business, but just for my information she went to church every Sunday.” He shrugged. “Snooty. Like I said.”

“Did she go out any other times?”

“Sometimes. Like on the weekend. At night. For a couple hours, maybe. I got to watch out for the place, see, so I check out the cars come into the lot. She goes out sometimes on a Saturday night, maybe at seven, and usually she comes back ten, ten thirty. Went to a movie, I figure. I don’t think she was gettin’ any. Dint have that look they get when they’re gettin’ pumped steady.”

“So no men friends.”

“Nah. She dint have that look. And I never saw none.”

“Woman friends?”

“Uh-uh.”

“She came back from work at the same time every day?’

“Uh-uh. Other guys asked the same question. She came back late on Tuesdays and Thursday. Around ten, ten thirty. Had to work late, prob’ly.”

“What kind of car did she drive?” I could’ve learned that from Motor Vehicles, but Bill was available now.

“A Honda. One of them Civics. With the hatchback.”

“Color?”

“Yellow. Real beat-up. A junker.”

“You know what year it was?”

“Nah. All them Jap cars, you can’t tell years. It was old.”

“You said she left on Wednesday. What time?”

He drank from the can. “Wednesday night. Ten o’clock, maybe.”

“Anyone with her?”

“Uh-uh.”

“She have a suitcase?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Couldn’t tell.”

“You have a passkey to her apartment, Bill?”

He drank some more beer. “Well now,” he said, and the sly smile reappeared. “Me lettin’ you in there, that’d be against the law, right? And what happens you break somethin’? I’m the one responsible.”

“You’ve already made forty dollars, Bill. In less than half an hour. Pretty good wages.”

He grinned. “Yeah. But you’re sittin’ there wonderin’ what’s inside her apartment, and I’m the boy can get you in.”

“That’s not what I’m wondering.”

“Yeah?” He grinned again. “Whatta ya wonderin’?”

“I’m wondering how much damage I’ll do to my boot when I kick your fat ass out the window.”

He sat up. “Hey.” His grin was gone. His mouth was open.

“I’m wondering what your nose would look like coming out the back of your head. I’m wondering what the cops’ll think when they find out you haven’t reported Juanita Carrera missing.”

“Hey, I got no obligation—”

“She’s been gone for over a week. Two people have come looking for her. No one knows where she is. Missing Persons would be interested. And I’m wondering what kind of code violations the cops will find when they come out to this dump. That’s what I’m wondering, Bill.”

“Listen, you got no call to talk to me like that. I been answerin’ all your questions. I been cooperatin’.”

“Bill?”

He swallowed a quick gulp of beer. “What?”

“Get the passkey.”

His eyes dipped downward, then looked back up at me. “I got to come along. It’s the rules.”

He was breaking the rules even by letting me enter the apartment, but I’d already drawn enough blood. “Fine,” I said.

The layout of Juanita Carrera’s apartment was identical to Arnstead’s. A small living room, a smaller dining alcove, a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, a bedroom in the back. But Arnstead’s apartment looked like it had been lived in by the three little pigs, and Carrera’s was spotless. The cheap furniture was clean and polished, and nothing seemed out of place, except for a few books lying on the dining room table. There was a faint smell in the air of dust, and of some sweet floral scent.

Arnstead stood at the door, leaning against the jamb, his arms folded above his belly. I asked him, “Did the FBI agent check this place out?”

“Yeah,” he said. Still sulky.

“What about the other guy?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

“Were you here while they did it?”

His glance shifted slightly, came back to mine. “Sure.”

“Bill. Code violations?”

He looked blank for a moment, and then, frowning, he shrugged. “I was here with the FBI guy.”

“The other guy slipped you some cash, did he?”

He frowned again, and then said defensively, “Guy’s gotta make a living.”

“Did the FBI man find anything?”

“Uh-uh. So what’s the deal here, anyway? If I may be so bold to ask.” This was accompanied by a weak, tentative smile.

“You don’t want to know, Bill.”

He nodded, frowning sourly. “Yeah, right. That’s how come I asked.”

I started searching. Stamworth had slipped up before, by not checking the tape on Melissa’s answering machine, and it was possible that he had slipped up here, while he searched the place. It was possible that the other man had, as well. But I didn’t really expect to find anything in Juanita Carrera’s apartment that would help me locate her, and I didn’t.

I came back from the bedroom into the living room, walked over to the dining room table. The three books on its top were textbooks, two of them psychology texts, and one was opened. The third was a study of American literature. On the flyleaf of each was written, in neat cursive script, Property of Juanita Carrera. Below that, in the same script, was her apartment number and the Cerrillos Road address. Beside the books, standing upright on its base, was a yellow Magic Marker. I flipped through the books and saw that, here and there, paragraphs had been highlighted in yellow.

So Juanita had been taking classes somewhere. That would explain why she returned to her apartment later in the evening on Tuesday and Thursdays.

I looked around. She was tidy, Juanita Carrera. The inexpensive clothes hanging in the bedroom closet were conservative and subdued, the dresses and skirts and sweaters of a person who wanted to be presentable but not necessarily memorable. She had a subscription to Cosmo, which suggested she was at least curious about the Modern American Single Woman, and that perhaps she might aspire to that pinnacle herself. She was apparently taking college-level courses, which suggested she was trying for a degree. I didn’t know the woman, but I was inclined, on the evidence, to like her. I would feel sympathetic, anyway, toward anyone who had to put up with both Rebecca Carlson and Bill Arnstead in the same lifetime.

And now, like Melissa Alonzo, she had vanished.

She had vanished last Wednesday, October the second. Cathryn Bigelow had been killed last Wednesday, October the second.

Coincidence?

I didn’t think so. Cathryn Bigelow and Juanita Carrera did have one thing in common. Melissa Alonzo.

“Hello.” The male voice had a faint Spanish lilt to it.

“Hello. Could I speak to Norman Montoya, please.”

“Who’s this calling?”

“Joshua Croft.”

“Hold on a sec.”

I waited. I was in the lobby of the public library, using one of the two pay phones.

Montoya’s voice came on the line: “Yes, Mr. Croft. How may I help you?”

“Is your phone line clear?” I asked him.

After a brief pause, he answered, “I am assured that it is. This is a serious consideration?”

“Maybe. Things are getting complicated.”

“That, of course, is in the nature of things, Mr. Croft.”

Wonderful. A Zen telephone conversation. “Mr. Montoya, do you know anyone with connections to people who might be aiding illegal aliens?”

Another brief pause. “May I inquire as to why you ask?”

“There’s a woman missing. She worked for a group called Sanctuary. You know them?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She knew Melissa Alonzo. Melissa was her sponsor. She disappeared last week, the same day that Melissa’s sister, Cathryn, was murdered in Los Angeles. I think she’s running scared. I need to find her and find out why.”

Another pause. “You have become convinced that the sister’s death is related to Melissa’s flight?”

“I’m becoming more and more convinced that it’s likely.”

“This woman. The one who disappeared last week. You are aware, of course, that she could have left the area entirely.”

“She could have, yeah. But she worked for Sanctuary. Maybe she knew people who provided safe houses. Her boss says otherwise, but I have a feeling that her boss may not know everything that’s going on. And the woman had at least some kind of attachments to Santa Fe. She was probably going to college here. I think there’s at least a chance she’s still around.”

“You do realize, Mr. Croft, that from everything you have told me, it will now be possible for me to identify this woman without any further assistance from you.” I thought, but couldn’t be certain, that I detected a smile in the voice. “And you realize that having identified her, and assuming that she is still in the area, I could proceed to locate and question her on my own. Without you being any the wiser.”

“Yeah. I realize. But as I recall, you gave me your word you wouldn’t interfere.”

A soft chuckle came over the line. “Ah, Mr. Croft. If you truly had no doubts about the value of my word, you would hardly remind me of my having given it.”

“The other thing,” I said, “is I can’t afford to screw around right now. Melissa and her daughter might be in serious trouble. There’s some clown from the federal government looking for this woman. And another man, too, a Hispanic. I don’t like the sound of him. I don’t want to go to the cops with any of this because the cops would probably scare the woman. She’s Salvadoran, a refugee, and I doubt that she has any real fondness for people in uniform.”

“Who is this other man you mention?”

“I don’t know. But the consensus seems to be that he’s not a nice guy.”

Another pause. “Very well, Mr. Croft. Give me the woman’s particulars. If she is still in the area, my people may be able to uncover her. If they do so, they will approach her, discreetly, and make arrangements with her to contact you. Without themselves questioning the woman. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t see that I had much choice. I gave him Juanita Carrera’s name, and everything I’d just learned from a call to Motor Vehicles. Age, twenty-seven; height, five feet eight; weight, 120 pounds. No eyeglasses. And a description of her car, including the license plate number.

“She’s probably very skittish,” I told Montoya.

“I understand. My people will exercise caution. The federal agent you mentioned. What is the nature of his involvement?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“With which agency might he be associated?”

“I don’t know. He says FBI, but I have my doubts.”

“I see. Is there anything else in which I might help you? Money, perhaps? Perhaps an assistant?”

“Muscle?”

The chuckle floated down the line again. “Such a colorful vocabulary. Yes, muscle, Mr. Croft, if you like.”

“No thanks. But I’ll bear the offer in mind.”

“Please do so. You asked about the phone lines. Have you reason to believe that your own might be unsafe?”

“It’s a possibility. I’ll find out later.” Rita’s cousin, Leroy, had a key to the office and by now Rita had given him a key to my house. He had probably already installed tap indicators on both lines.

“An excellent idea. But in the meantime, perhaps we should make arrangements now for your meeting the woman, in the event that my people succeed in finding her.” Norman Montoya was a man who thought ahead.

“Okay. If you find her, have her meet me in the parking lot opposite the state capitol building. You give me the time.”

“Very well. And please do not hesitate to contact me again if I may be of further help.”

“Thanks.”

“Good day, Mr. Croft.”

After hanging up on Montoya, I looked at my watch. Quarter to four. About half an hour free before I had to head up to Hartley to see Deirdre Polk. I went into the Library and looked through the catalogues for the three colleges located here in town: St. John’s, the Santa Fe Community College, and the College of Santa Fe. Juanita might have been taking courses in Albuquerque, at UNM or at one of the other schools down there; but Albuquerque, down and back, was a three-hour drive. That didn’t leave her much time to attend classes and get back to her apartment by ten.

The College of Santa Fe was the only school that offered the right courses at the right time. The Intermediate American Literature class met on Tuesday night, from seven until nine thirty. Abnormal Psychology met on Thursday at the same hours. Assuming that it had been Juanita Carrera who left the psychology book open on the table last Wednesday night, and not any of the people who’d been tramping through her apartment since then, that fit. I wrote down the phone number for the college, and the names of the professors who taught the courses, then went out into the parking lot and climbed into the Subaru.

I stopped at the fax service on my way out of town. The fax from Chuck Arthur had arrived.

In the car, I glanced down the list of long-distance calls that Melissa had made in July and August. There weren’t that many, and there were no calls dated after August 2, the day she’d left for El Salvador. She might’ve cleared the messages from her machine when she returned to the house on the seventeenth, the day she got back to L.A., but she hadn’t used her home telephone to make any out-of-state calls.

There were two numbers I recognized on the list. On three separate occasions in July, and again on August 1, the day before she left, she had called Juanita Carrera.