long enough, Malibu Mike wasn’t considered a bum but a fixture. All of us locals had known him, had accustomed ourselves to his stale smell, his impromptu orations and wild hand gesticulations. Malibu preaching from his spot—a bus bench next to a garbage bin, perfect for foraging. With a man that weatherbeaten, it had been hard to assign him an age, but the police had estimated he’d been between seventy and ninety when he died—a decent stay on the planet.
Originally they’d thought Malibu had died from exposure. The winter has been a chilly one, a new arctic front eating through the god-awful myth that Southern California is bathed in continual sunshine. Winds churned the tides gray-green, charcoal clouds blanketed the shoreline. The night before last had been cruel. But Malibu had been protected under layers and layers of clothing—a barrier that kept his body insulated from the low of forty degrees.
Malibu had always dressed in layers even when the mercury grazed the hundred-degree mark. That fact was driven home when the obituary in the Malibu Crier announced his weight as 126. I’d always thought of him as chunky, but now I realized it had been the clothes.
I put down the newspaper and turned up the knob on my kerosene heater. Rubbing my hands together, I looked out the window of my trailer. Although it was gray, rain wasn’t part of the forecast and that was good. My roof was still pocked with leaks that I was planning to fix today. But then the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on the other end, but she must have heard about me from someone I knew a long time ago. She asked for Detective Darling.
“Former detective,” I corrected her. “This is Andrea Darling. Who am I talking to?”
A throat cleared. She sounded in the range of middle-aged to elderly. “Well, you don’t know me personally. I am a friend of Greta Berstat.”
A pause allowing me to acknowledge recognition. She was going to wait a long time.
“Greta Berstat,” she repeated. “You were the detective on her burglary? You found the men who had taken her sterling flatware and the candlesticks and the tea set?”
The bell went off and I remembered Greta Berstat. When I’d been with LAPD, my primary detail was grand theft auto. Greta’s case had come my way during a brief rotation through burglary.
“Greta gave you my phone number?” I inquired.
“Not exactly,” the woman explained. “You see, I’m a local resident and I found your name in the Malibu Directory—the one put out by the Chamber of Commerce? You were listed under Investigation right between Interior Design and Jewelers.”
I laughed to myself. “What can I do for you, Ms….”
“Mrs. Pollack,” the woman answered. “Deirdre Pollack. Greta was over at my house when I was looking through the phone book. When she saw your name, her eyes grew wide and my-oh-my did she sing your praises, Detective Darling.”
I didn’t correct her this time. “Glad to have made a fan. How can I help you, Mrs. Pollack?”
“Deirdre, please.”
“Deirdre it is. What’s up?”
Deirdre hemmed and hawed. Finally, she said, “Well, I have a little bit of a problem.”
I said, “Does this problem have a story behind it?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we met in person?”
“Yes, perhaps it would be best.”
“Give me your address,” I said. “If you’re local, I can probably make it down within the hour.”
“An hour?” Deirdre said. “Well, that would be simply lovely!”
From Deirdre’s living room I had a one-eighty-degree view of the coastline. The tides ripped relentlessly away at the rocks ninety feet below. You could hear the surf even this far up, the steady whoosh of water advancing and retreating. Deirdre’s estate took up three landscaped acres, but the house, instead of being centered on the property, was perched on the edge of the bluff. She’d furnished the place warmly—plants and overstuffed chairs and lots of maritime knickknacks.
I settled into a chintz wing chair; Deirdre was positioned opposite me on a loveseat. She insisted on making me a cup of coffee, and while she did I took a moment to observe her.
She must have been in her late seventies, her face scored with hundreds of wrinkles. She was short with a loose turkey wattle under her chin, her cheeks were heavily rouged, her thin lips painted bright red. She had flaming red hair and false eyelashes that hooded blue eyes turned milky from cataracts. She had a tentative manner, yet her voice was firm and pleasant. Her smile seemed genuine even if her teeth weren’t. She wore a pink suit, a white blouse, and orthopedic shoes.
“You’re a lot younger than I expected,” Deirdre said, handing me a china cup.
I smiled and sipped. I’m thirty-eight and have been told I look a lot younger. But to a woman Deirdre’s age, thirty-eight still could be younger than expected.
“Are you married, Detective?” Deirdre asked.
“Not at the moment.” I smiled.
“I was married for forty-seven years.” Deirdre sighed. “Mr. Pollack passed away six years ago. I miss him.”
“I’m sure you do.” I put my cup down. “Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Both are doing well. They visit quite often.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “So…you live by yourself.”
“Well, yes and no,” she answered. “I sleep alone but I have daily help. One woman for weekdays, another for weekends.”
I looked around the house. We seemed to be alone and it was ten o’clock Tuesday morning. “Your helper didn’t show up today?”
“That’s the little problem I wanted to tell you about.”
I took out my notebook and pen. “We can start now if you’re ready.”
“Well, the story involves my helper,” Deirdre said. “My housekeeper. Martina Cruz…that’s her name.”
I wrote down the name.
“Martina’s worked for me for twelve years,” Deirdre said. “I’ve become quite dependent on her. Not just to give me pills and clean up the house. But we’ve become good friends. Twelve years is a long time to work for someone.”
I agreed, thinking: twelve years was a long time to do anything.
Deirdre went on. “Martina lives far away from Malibu, far away from me. But she has never missed a day in all those years without calling me first. Martina is very responsible. I respect her and trust her. That’s why I’m puzzled even though Greta thinks I’m being naïve. Maybe I am being naïve, but I’d rather think better of people than to be so cynical.”
“Do you think something happened to her?” I said.
“I’m not sure.” Deirdre bit her lip. “I’ll relate the story and maybe you can offer a suggestion.”
I told her to take her time.
Deirdre said. “Well, like many old women, I’ve acquired things over the years. I tell my children to take whatever they want but there always seem to be leftover items. Discards. Old flower pots, used cookware, out-of-date clothing and shoes and hats. My children don’t want those kinds of things. So if I find something I no longer need, I usually give it to Martina.
“Last week, I was cleaning out my closets. Martina was helping me.” She sighed. “I gave her a pile of old clothes to take home. I remember it well because I asked her how in the world she’d be able to carry all those items on the bus. She just laughed. And oh, how she thanked me. Such a sweet girl…twelve years she worked for me.”
I nodded, pen poised at my pad.
“I feel so silly about this,” Deirdre said. “One of the robes I gave her…it was Mr. Pollack’s old robe, actually. I threw out most of his things after he died. It was hard for me to look at them. I couldn’t imagine why I had kept his shredded old robe.”
She looked down at her lap.
“Not more than fifteen minutes after Martina left, I realized why I hadn’t given the robe away. I kept my diamond ring in one of the pockets. I have three different diamond rings—two of which I keep in a vault. But it’s ridiculous to have rings and always keep them in a vault. So this one—the smallest of the three—I kept at home, wrapped in an old sock and placed in the left pocket of Mr. Pollack’s robe. I hadn’t worn any of my rings in ages, and being old, I guess it simply slipped my mind.
“I waited until Martina arrived home and phoned her just as she walked through her door. I told her what I had done and she looked in the pockets of the robe and announced she had the ring. I was thrilled—delighted that nothing had happened to it. But I was also extremely pleased by Martina’s honesty. She said she would return the ring to me on Monday. I realize now that I should have called my son and asked him to pick it up right at that moment, but I didn’t want to insult her.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Deirdre said, grabbing my hand. “Do you think I’m foolish for trusting someone who has worked for me for twelve years?”
Wonderfully foolish. “You didn’t want to insult her,” I said, using her words.
“Exactly,” Deirdre answered. “By now you must have figured out the problem. It is now Tuesday. I still don’t have my diamond and I can’t get hold of Martina.”
“Is her phone disconnected?” I asked.
“No. It just rings and rings and no one answers it.”
“Why don’t you just send your son down now?”
“Because…” She sighed. “Because I don’t want him to think of his mother as an old fool. Can you go down for me? I’ll pay you for your time. I can afford it.”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Wonderful!” Deirdre exclaimed. “Oh, thank you so much.”
I gave her my rates and they were fine with her. She handed me a piece of paper inked with Martina’s name, address, and phone number. I didn’t know the exact location of the house, but I knew the area. I thanked her for the information, then said, “Deirdre, if it looks like Martina took off with the ring, would you like me to inform the police for you?”
“No!” she said adamantly.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Even if Martina took the ring, I wouldn’t want to see her in jail. We have too many years together for me to do that.”
“You can be my boss anytime,” I said.
“Why?” Deirdre asked. “Do you do housekeeping too?”
I informed her that I was a terrible housekeeper. As I left, she looked both grateful and confused.
Martina Cruz lived on Highland Avenue south of Washington—a street lined by small houses tattooed with graffiti. The address on the paper was a wood-sided white bungalow with a tar paper roof. The front lawn—mowed but devoid of shrubs—was bisected by a cracked red plaster walkway. There was a two-step hop onto a porch whose decking was wet and rotted. The screen door was locked, but a head-size hole had been cut through the mesh. I knocked through the hole but no one answered. I turned the knob and, to my surprise, the door yielded, screen and all.
I called out a “hello,” and when no one answered, I walked into the living room—an eight-by-ten rectangle filled with hand-me-down furnishings. The sofa fabric, once gold, had faded to dull mustard. Two mismatched chairs were positioned opposite it. There was a scarred dining table off the living room, its centerpiece a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. Encircling the table were six folding chairs. The kitchen was tiny, but the counters were clean, the food in the refrigerator still fresh. The trash hadn’t been taken out in a while. It was brimming over with Corona beer bottles.
I went into the sole bedroom. A full-size mattress lay on the floor. No closets. Clothing was neatly arranged in boxes—some filled with little-girl garments, others stuffed with adult apparel. I quickly sifted through the piles, trying to find Mr. Pollack’s robe.
I didn’t find it—no surprise. Picking up a corner of the mattress, I peered underneath but didn’t see anything. I poked around a little longer, then checked out the backyard—a dirt lot holding a rusted swing set and some deflated rubber balls.
I went around to the front and decided to question the neighbors. The house on the immediate left was occupied by a diminutive, thickset Latina matron. She was dressed in a floral print muumuu and her hair was tied in a bun. I asked her if she’d seen Martina lately, and she pretended not to understand me. My Spanish, though far from perfect, was understandable, so it seemed as if we had a little communication gap. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome by a ten-dollar bill.
After I gave her the money, the woman informed me her name was Alicia and she hadn’t seen Martina, Martina’s husband, or their two little girls for a few days. But the lights had been on last night, loud music booming out of the windows.
“Does Martina have any relatives?” I asked Alicia in Spanish.
“Ella tiene una hermana pero no sé a donde vive.”
Martina had a sister but Alicia didn’t know where she lived. Probing further, I found out the sister’s name—Yolanda Flores. And I also learned that the little girls went to a small parochial school run by the Iglesia Evangélica near Western Avenue. I knew the church she was talking about.
Most people think of Hispanics as always being Catholic. But I knew from past work that Evangelical Christianity had taken a strong foothold in Central and South America. Maybe I could locate Martina or the sister, Yolanda, through the church directory. I thanked Alicia and went on my way.
The Pentecostal Church of Christ sat on a quiet avenue—an aqua-blue stucco building that looked more like an apartment complex than a house of worship. About twenty-five primary-grade children were playing in an outdoor parking lot, the perimeters defined by a cyclone fence. The kids wore green-and-red uniforms and looked like moving Christmas tree ornaments.
I went through the gate, dodging racing children, and walked into the main sanctuary. The chapel wasn’t large—around twenty by thirty—but the high ceiling made it feel spacious. There were three distinct seating areas—the Pentecostal triad: married women on the right, married men on the left, and mixed young singles in the middle. The pews faced a stage that held a thronelike chair upholstered in red velvet. In front of the throne was a lectern sandwiched between two giant urns sprouting plastic flowers. Off to the side were several electric guitars and a drum set, the name Revelación taped on the bass drum. I heard footsteps from behind and turned around.
The man looked to be in his early thirties with thick dark straight hair and bright green eyes. His face held a hint of Aztec warrior—broad nose, strong cheekbones and chin. Dressed in casual clothing, he was tall and muscular, and I was acutely aware of his male presence. I asked him where I might find the pastor and was surprised when he announced that he was the very person.
I’d expected someone older.
I stated my business, his eyes never leaving mine as I spoke. When I finished, he stared at me for a long time before telling me his name—Pastor Alfredo Gomez. His English was unaccented.
“Martina’s a good girl,” Gomez said. “She would never take anything that didn’t belong to her. Some problem probably came up. I’m sure everything will work out and your patrona will get her ring back.”
“What kind of problem?”
The pastor shrugged.
“Immigration problems?” I probed.
Another shrug.
“You don’t seem concerned by her disappearance.”
He gave me a cryptic smile.
“Can you tell me one thing?” I asked. “Are her children safe?”
“I believe they’re in school,” Gomez said.
“Oh.” I brightened. “Did Martina bring them in?”
“No.” Gomez frowned. “No, she didn’t. Her sister brought them in today. But that’s not unusual.”
“You haven’t seen Martina today?”
Gomez shook his head. I thought he was telling me the truth, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the woman was hiding from the INS. Still, after twelve years, you’d think she’d have applied for amnesty. And then there was the obvious alternative. Martina had taken the ring and was hiding out somewhere.
“Do you have Martina’s husband’s work number? I’d like to talk with him.”
“José works construction,” Gomez said. “I have no idea what crew he’s on or where he is.”
“What about Martina’s sister, Yolanda Flores?” I said. “Do you have her phone number?”
The pastor paused.
“I’m not from the INS.” I fished around inside my wallet and came up with my private investigator’s license.
He glanced at it. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I put my ID back in my purse. “Just trying to gain some trust. Look, Pastor, my client is really worried about Martina. She doesn’t give a hoot about the ring. She specifically told me not to call the police even if Martina took the ring—”
Gomez stiffened and said, “Martina wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay. Then help us both out, Pastor. Martina might be in some real trouble. Maybe her sister knows something.”
Silently, Gomez weighed the pros and cons of trusting me. I must have looked sincere because he told me to wait a moment, then came back with Yolanda’s work number.
“You won’t regret this,” I assured him.
“I hope I don’t,” Gomez said.
I thanked him again, taking a final gander at those beautiful green eyes before I slipped out the door.
I found a pay booth around the corner, slipped a quarter in the slot, and waited. An accented voice whispered hello.
Using my workable Spanish, I asked for Yolanda Flores. Speaking English, the woman informed me that she was Yolanda. In the background I heard the wail of a baby.
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” I apologized. “I’m looking for your sister.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
Quickly, I said, “I’m not from inmigración. I was hired by Mrs. Deirdre Pollack to find Martina and was given your work number by Pastor Gomez. Martina hasn’t shown up for work in two days and Mrs. Pollack is worried about her.”
More silence. If I hadn’t heard the same baby crying, I would have thought she’d hung up the phone.
“You work for Missy Deirdre?” Yolanda asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s very worried about your sister. Martina hasn’t shown up for work. Is your sister okay?”
Yolanda’s voice cracked. “Es no good. Monday en la tarde, Martina husband call me. He tell me she don’ work for Missy Deirdre and she have new job. He tell me to pick up her girls cause Martina work late. So I pick up the girls from the school and take them with me.
“Later, I try to call her, she’s not home. I call and call but no one answers. I don’ talk to José, I don’ talk to no one. I take the girls to school this morning. Then José, he call me again.”
“When?”
“About two hour. He ask me to take girls. I say jes, but where is Martina? He tell me she has to sleep in the house where she work. I don’ believe him.”
It was my turn not to answer right away. Yolanda must have been bouncing the baby or something because the squalling had stopped.
“You took the children yesterday?” I asked.
“I take her children, jes. I no mind takin’ the kids but I want to talk to Martina. And José…he don’ give me the new work number. I call Martina’s house, no one answer. I goin’ to call Missy Deirdre and ask if Martina don’ work there no more. Ahorita, you tell me Missy Deirdre call you. I…scared.”
“Yolanda, where can I find José?”
“He works construcción. I don’ know where. Mebbe he goes home after work and don’ answer the phone. You can go to Martina’s house tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” I said. “I’ll give you my phone number, you give me yours. If you find out anything, call me. If I find out something, I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We exchanged numbers, then said good-bye. My next call was to Deirdre Pollack. I told her about my conversation with Yolanda. Deirdre was sure that Martina hadn’t taken a new job. First of all, Martina would never just leave her flat. Secondly, Martina would never leave her children to work as a sleep-in housekeeper.
I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Martina had fled with the ring and was lying low in some private home. But I kept my thoughts private and told Deirdre my intention to check out Martina’s house tonight. She told me to be careful. I thanked her and said I’d watch my step.
At night, Martina’s neighborhood was the mean streets, the sidewalks supporting pimps and prostitutes, pushers and buyers. Every half hour or so, the homeboys cruised by in souped-up low riders, their ghetto blasters pumping out body-rattling bass vibrations. I was glad I had my Colt .38 with me, but at the same time I wished it were a Browning Pump.
I sat in my truck, waiting for some sign of life at Martina’s place, and my patience was rewarded two hours later. A Ford pickup parked in front of the framed house, and out came four dark-complexioned males dressed nearly identically: jeans, dark windbreakers zipped up to the neck, and hats. Three of them wore ratty baseball caps; the biggest and fattest wore a bright white painter’s cap. Big-and-Fat was shouting and singing. I couldn’t understand his Spanish—his speech was too rapid for my ear—but the words I could pick up seemed slurred. The other three men were holding six-packs of beer. From the way all of them acted, the six-packs were not their first of the evening.
They went inside. I slipped my gun into my purse and got out of my truck, walking up to the door. I knocked. My luck: Big-and-Fat answered. Up close he was nutmeg-brown with fleshy cheeks and thick lips. His teeth were rotten and he smelled of sweat and beer.
“I’m looking for Martina Cruz,” I said in Spanish.
Big-and-Fat stared at me—at my Anglo face. He told me in English that she wasn’t home.
“Can I speak to José?”
“He’s no home, too.”
“I saw him come in.” It wasn’t really a lie, more of an educated guess. Maybe one of the four men was José.
Big-and-Fat stared at me, then broke into a contemptuous grin. “I say he no home.”
I heard Spanish in the background, a male voice calling out the name José. I peered around Big-and-Fat’s shoulders, trying to peek inside, but he stepped forward, making me back up. His expression was becoming increasingly hostile, and I always make it a point not to provoke drunk men who outweigh me.
“I’m going,” I announced with a smile.
“Pasqual,” someone said. A thinner version of Big-and-Fat stepped onto the porch. “Pasqual, qué pasó?”
Opportunity knocked. I took advantage.
“I’m looking for José Cruz,” I said as I kept walking backward. “I’ve been hired to look for Martin—”
The thinner man blanched.
“Go away!” Pasqual thundered out. “Go or I kill you!”
I didn’t stick around to see if he’d make good on his threat.
The morning paper stated that Malibu Mike, having expired from natural causes, was still in deep freeze, waiting for a relative to claim his body. He’d died buried under tiers of clothing, his feet wrapped in three pairs of socks stuffed into size twelve mismatched shoes. Two pairs of gloves had covered his hands, and three scarves had been wrapped around his neck. A Dodgers’ cap was perched atop a ski hat that cradled Malibu’s head. In all those layers, there was not one single piece of ID to let us know who he really was. After all these years, I thought he deserved a decent burial, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The locals were taking up a collection to have him cremated. Maybe a small service, too—a few words of remembrance, then his ashes would be mixed with the tides.
I thought Malibu might have liked that. I took a twenty from my wallet and began to search the trailer for a clean envelope and a stamp. I found what I was looking for and was addressing the envelope when Yolanda Flores called me.
“Dey find her,” she said, choking back sobs. “She dead. The police find her in a trash can. She beat to death. Es horrible!”
“Yolanda, I’m so sorry.” I really was. “I wish I could do something for you.”
“You wan’ do somethin’ for me?” Yolanda said. “You find out what happen to my sister.”
Generally I like to be paid for my services, but my mind flashed to little dresses in cardboard boxes. I knew what it was like to live without a mother. Besides, I was still fuming over last night’s encounter with Pasqual.
“I’ll look into it for you,” I said.
There was a silence across the line.
“Yolanda?”
“I still here,” she said. “I…surprise you help me.”
“No problem.”
“Thank you.” She started to cry. “Thank you very much. I pay you—”
“Forget it.”
“No, I work for you on weekends—”
“Yolanda, I live in a trailer and couldn’t find anything if you cleaned up my place. Forget about paying me. Let’s get back to your sister. Tell me about José. Martina and him get along?”
There was a very long pause. Yolanda finally said, “José no good. He and his brothers.”
“Is Pasqual one of José’s brothers?”
“How you know?”
I told her about my visit with Pasqual the night before, about Big-and-Fat’s threat. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”
“I don’ know. He drink and fight. I don’ know if he kill anyone when he’s drunk.”
“Did you ever see Pasqual beating Martina?”
“No,” Yolanda said. “I never see that.”
“What about José?”
Another moment of silence.
Yolanda said, “He slap her mebbe one or two time. I tell her to leave him but she say no ’cause of the girls.”
“Do you think José could kill Martina?”
Yolanda said, “He slap her when he drink. But I don’ think he would kill her to kill her.”
“He wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
“Essackly.”
“Yolanda, would José kill Martina for money?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s Evangélico. A bad Evangélico, but not el diablo.”
“He wouldn’t do it for lots of money?”
“No, he don’ kill her for money.”
I said, “What about Pasqual?”
“I don’ think so.”
“Martina have any enemigos?”
“Nunca persona!” Yolanda said. “No one want to hurt her. She like sugar. Es so terrible!”
She began to cry. I didn’t want to question her over the phone. A face-to-face meeting would be better. I asked her when was the funeral service.
“Tonight. En la iglesia a las ocho. After the culto funeral, we go to cementerio. You wan’ come?”
“Yes, I think that might be best.” I told her I knew the address of the church and would meet her eight o’clock sharp.
I was unnerved by what I had to do next: break the bad news to Deirdre Pollack. The old woman took it relatively well, never even asked about the ring. When I told her I’d volunteered to look into Martina’s death, she offered to pay me. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but when she insisted, I didn’t refuse.
I got to the church by eight, then realized I didn’t know Yolanda from Adam. But she picked me out in a snap. Not a plethora of five-foot-eight, blond, blue-eyed Salvadoran women.
Yolanda was petite, barely five feet and maybe ninety pounds tops. She had yards of long brown hair—Evangelical women don’t cut their tresses—and big brown eyes moistened with tears. She took my hand, squeezed it tightly, and thanked me for coming.
The church was filled to capacity, the masses adding warmth to the unheated chapel. In front of the stage was a table laden with broth, hot chocolate, and plates of bread. Yolanda asked me if I wanted anything to eat and I declined.
We sat in the first row of the married women’s section. I glanced at the men’s area and noticed Pasqual with his cronies. I asked Yolanda to point out José: the man who had come to the door with Pasqual. The other two men were also brothers. José’s eyes were swollen and bright red. Crying or post-alcohol intoxication?
I studied him further. He’d been stuffed into an ill-fitting black suit, his dark hair slicked back with grease. All the brothers wore dark suits. José looked nervous, but the others seemed almost jocular.
Pasqual caught me staring, and his expression immediately darkened, his eyes bearing down on me. I felt needles down my spine as he began to rise, but luckily the service started and he sank back into his seat.
Pastor Gomez came to the dais and spoke about what a wonderful wife and mother Martina had been. As he talked, the women around me began to let out soft, muted sobs. I did manage to sneak a couple of sidelong glances at the brothers. I met up with Pasqual’s dark stare once again.
When the pastor had finished speaking, he gave the audience directions to the cemetery. Pasqual hadn’t forgotten about my presence, but I was too quick for him, making a beeline for the pastor. I managed to snare Gomez before Pasqual could get to me. The fat slob backed off when the pastor pulled me into a corner.
“What happened?” I asked.
Gomez looked down. “I wish I knew.”
“Do the police—”
“Police!” The pastor spat. “They don’t care about a dead Hispanic girl. One less flea in their country. I was wearing my work clothes when I got the call this morning. I’d been doing some plumbing and I guess they thought I was a wetback who didn’t understand English.” His eyes held pain. “They joked about her. They said it was a shame to let such a wonderful body go to waste!”
“That stinks.”
“Yes, it stinks.” Gomez shook his head. “So you see I don’t expect much from the police.”
“I’m looking into her death.”
Gomez stared at me. “Who’s paying you to do it?”
“Not Yolanda,” I said.
“Martina’s patrona. She wants her ring.”
“I think she wants justice for Martina.”
The pastor blushed from embarrassment.
I said, “I would have done it gratis. I’ve got some suspicions.” I filled him in on my encounter with Pasqual.
Gomez thought a moment. “Pasqual drinks even though the church forbids alcohol. Pasqual’s not a bad person. Maybe you made him feel threatened.”
“Maybe I did.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gomez said. “Calm him down. But I don’t think you should come to the cementerio with us. Now’s not the time for accusations.”
I agreed. He excused himself as another parishioner approached and suddenly I was alone. Luckily, Pasqual had gone somewhere else. I met up with Yolanda, explaining my reason for not going to the cemetery. She understood.
We walked out to the school yard, into a cold misty night. José and his brothers had already taken off their ties and replaced their suit jackets with warmer windbreakers. Pasqual took a deep swig from a bottle inside a paper bag, then passed the bag to one of his brothers.
“Look at them!” Yolanda said with disgust. “They no even wait till after the funeral. They nothing but cholos. Es terrible!”
I glanced at José and his brothers. Something was bothering me and it took a minute or two before it came to me. Three of them—including José—were wearing old baseball caps. Pasqual was the only one wearing a painter’s cap.
I don’t know why, but I found that odd. Then something familiar began to come up from the subconscious, and I knew I’d better start phoning up bus drivers. From behind me came a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
Pastor Gomez said, “Thank you for coming, Ms. Darling.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I never met Martina. From what I’ve heard, she seemed to be a good person.”
“She was.” Gomez bowed his head. “I appreciate your help and I wish you peace.”
Then he turned and walked away. I’d probably never see him again and I felt a little bad about that.
I tailed José the next morning. He and his brothers were part of a crew framing a house in the Hollywood Hills. I kept watch from a quarter block away, my truck partly hidden by the overhanging boughs of a eucalyptus. I was trying to figure out how to get José alone, and then I got a big break. The roach wagon pulled in and José was elected by his brothers to pick up lunch.
I got out of my truck, intercepted him as he carried an armful of burritos, and stuck my .38 in his side, telling him if he said a word, I’d pull the trigger. My Spanish must have been very clear, because he was as mute as Dopey.
After I got him into the cabin of my truck, I took the gun out of his ribs and held it in my lap.
I said, “What happened to Martina?”
“I don’ know.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You killed her.”
“I don’ kill her!” José was shaking hard. “Yo juro! I don’ kill her!”
“Who did?”
“I don’ know!”
“You killed her for the ring, didn’t you, José?” As I spoke, I saw him shrink. “Martina would never tell you she had the ring: she knew you would take it from her. But you must have found out. You asked her about the ring and she said she didn’t have any ring, right?”
José didn’t answer.
I repeated the accusation in español, but he still didn’t respond. I went on.
“You didn’t know what to do, did you, José? So you waited and waited and finally, Monday morning, you told your brothers about the ring. But by that time, Martina and the ring had already taken the bus to work.”
“All we wan’ do is talk to her!” José insisted. “Nothin’ was esuppose to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I asked.
José opened his mouth, then shut it again.
I continued. “Pasqual has a truck—a Ford pickup.” I read him the license number. “You and your brothers decided to meet up with her. A truck can go a lot faster than a bus. When the bus made a stop, two of you got on it and made Martina get off.”
José shook his head.
“I called the bus company,” I said. “The driver remembered you and your brother—two men making this woman carrying a big bag get off at the stop behind the big garbage bin. The driver even asked if she was okay. But Martina didn’t want to get you in trouble and said todo está bien—everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine, was it?”
Tears welled up in José’s eyes.
“You tried to force her in the truck, but she fought, didn’t she?”
José remained mute.
“But you did get her in Pasqual’s truck,” I said. “Only you forgot something. When she fought, she must have knocked off Pasqual’s Dodgers’ cap. He didn’t know it was gone until later, did he?”
José jerked his head up. “How you know?”
“How do I know? I have that cap, José.” Not exactly true, but close enough. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
José thought a long time. Then he said, “It was assident. Pasqual no mean to hurt her bad. Just get her to talk. She no have ring when we take her off the bus.”
“Not in her bag—su bolsa?”
“Ella no tiena niuna bolsa. She no have bags. She tell us she left ring at home. So we took her home, but she don’ fin’ the ring. That make me mad. I saw her with ring. No good for a wife to lie to husband.” His eyes filled with rage, his nostrils flared. “No good! A wife must always tell husband the truth!”
“So you killed her,” I said.
José said, “Pasqual…he did it. It was assident!”
I shook my head in disgust. I sat there in my truck, off guard and full of indignation. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late. The driver’s door jerked open and the gun flew out of my lap. I felt as if I’d been wrenched from my mother’s bosom. Pasqual dragged me to the ground, his face looming over me, his complexion florid and furious. He drew back his fist and aimed it at my jaw.
I rolled my head to one side and his hand hit the ground. Pasqual yelled but not as loud as José did, shouting at his brother to stop. Then I heard the click of the hammer. Pasqual heard it too and released me immediately. By now, a crowd had gathered. Gun in hand, José looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.
“You kill Martina!” José screamed out to Pasqual. “I’m going to kill you!”
Pasqual looked genuinely confused. He spoke in Spanish. “You killed her, you little shit! You beat her to death when we couldn’t find the ring!”
José looked at me, his expression saying: do you understand this? Something in my eye must have told him I did. I told him to put the gun down. Instead, he turned his back on me and focused his eyes on Pasqual. “You lie. You get drunk, you kill Martina!”
In Spanish, Pasqual said, “I tried to stop you, you asshole!”
“You lie!” José said. And then he pulled the trigger.
I charged him before he could squeeze another bullet out of the chamber, but the damage had been done. Pasqual was already dead when the sirens pulled up.
The two other brothers backed José’s story. They’d come to confront Martina about the ring. She told them she had left it at home. But when they returned to the house and the ring wasn’t around, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, beat Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.
José will be charged with second degree murder for Pasqual, and maybe a good lawyer’ll be able to bargain it down to manslaughter. But I remembered a murderous look in José’s eyes after he’d stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I’d be going after José with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that’s not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict—rightly or wrongly—wouldn’t bring Martina back to life.
I called Mrs. Pollack after it was all over. Through her tears, she wished she’d never remembered the ring. It wasn’t her fault but she still felt responsible. There was a small consolation. I was pretty sure I knew where the ring was.
I’m not too bad at guesses—like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church—three with beat-up Dodgers’ caps, the fourth wearing a new painter’s cap. Something off kilter.
So my hunch had been correct. Pasqual had once owned a Dodgers’ cap. Where had it gone? Same place as Mr. Pollack’s robe. Martina had packed the robe in her bag Monday morning. When she was forced off the bus by José and his brothers, I pictured her quickly dumping the bag in a garbage bin at the bus stop, hoping to retrieve it later. She never got that chance.
As for the ring, it was right where I thought it would be: among the discards that had shrouded Malibu Mike the night he died. The Dodgers’ cap on Malibu’s head got me thinking in the right direction. If Malibu had found Pasqual’s cap, maybe he found the other bag left behind by Martina. After all, that bin had been his spot.
Good old Malibu. One of his layers had been a grimy old robe. Wedged into the corner of its pocket, a diamond ring. Had Malibu not died that Monday, José might have been a free man today.
Mrs. Pollack didn’t feel right about keeping the ring, so she offered it to Yolanda Flores. Yolanda was appreciative of such generosity, but she refused the gift, saying the ring was cursed. Mrs. Pollack didn’t take offense; Yolanda was a woman with pride. Finally, after a lot of consideration, Mrs. Pollack gave the ring to the burial committee for Malibu Mike. Malibu never lived wealthy, but he sure went out in high style.