El Gavilan (28 page)

What if she was pregnant? It seemed a crazy thought, but it wasn’t yet noon and might explain her repeated bouts of vomiting. Rattled as she was, the impetuous notion took hold in a funny way. Almost made happy by her sickness now—viewed in this new light—she sealed the bottle, and put it back under the sink. Patricia thought about Salome, who was also trying to become pregnant—despite Chris’s resistance—and called her. It would be good to hear Salome’s voice, to talk to her.

THEN

Sophia looked at the scraggly Christmas tree—the last on the lot and already drying out. She’d dragged the fir up four flights of steps, shedding needles all the way. They’d be finding those dried needles on the stairs well into the following summer; still tracking them into the apartment in July.

Even decorated with second-hand ornaments and handmade construction paper decorations—strings of popcorn—the tree looked … bare. Forlorn.

The hours dragged on; the other children fell asleep. Thalia lingered. Her little girl didn’t look so little now. She was already in a training bra, already becoming more womanly.

White people’s Christmas music on the radio: Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas.”

Thalia said, “Is there
really
a Santa? Really?”

Sophia, unable to fib it away this night, said, “Honey, of course there is no Santa. It’s a thing we say to give children hope.”

Sophia bit her lip, felt a pang as she saw the change in Thalia’s expression. She’d presumed Thalia had already dispensed with Santa Claus—saw through the myth and just wanted final confirmation. It was a catastrophic deduction on Sophia’s part.

Thalia twisted the knife. “Anything you want to tell me about God and Jesus, Mother?”

FORTY TWO

Able had stopped home for lunch. He’d run upstairs to make some calls away from the station. Using his home phone,
El Gavilan
had set the ball rolling against Tomás Calderone.

He’d given the name over to his new Italian cohorts. They said they didn’t run women themselves anymore, but they knew some others who did. When Davey James assured Able there’d be no county expense of burying Calderone in some county-funded potter’s grave, Able had said, “Huzzah.”

Able walked down the stairs to the smell of bacon and eggs. Sofia was at the stove. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Hawk,” she said. “But Luisa is so useless in the kitchen at the best of times, and much less so now.”

“It’s
Able
,” Able said. “And it smells wonderful. We should all do this every day.”

“I’m sorry it’s breakfast food, but it’s what I could find,” Sofia said.

“It smells delicious,” Able said. A notion seized him. “You and me and the little one, this evening, after work, let’s go to the store and do some shopping. Get these cabinets filled up proper.”

Sofia smiled and handed Able a cup of coffee. He sipped it and said, “Now I know where Thalia learned to make it so good. Thought I’d never taste its like again.” He looked around and said, “Where is that little girl?”

Able heard, “Boo!” and felt tiny arms squeeze his leg. He ran his hand over Evelia’s head and sat his coffee cup on the counter. He realized, suddenly, he could set something on the counter. There was surface area there again. Everything was shining and orderly.

Able pretended to pluck a new quarter from behind Evelia’s ear and then pressed it into her tiny hand. He said, “I’m thinking maybe Saturday we could take this little gal to the movies. Give the lovebirds some time alone before they have that little one of their own to contend with.”

“That could be very nice,” Sofia said.

A floorboard squeaked. Able looked over his shoulder at Amos. His grandson said, “Got the computer prepped. Just give me the word and we’ll get your blog updated, Grandpop.” It was a weekly routine.

Able sipped his coffee, savored it. His other hand was still combing through Evelia’s shiny black hair. “Think we’ll give it a rest this weekend,” Able said. “Just don’t have a hankering to say much right now.”

Sofia, sliding the spatula around the pan of eggs said, “Have you or Chief Lyon learned anything more about that red pickup truck? The one in the film?”

Able scowled and said, “Red pickup truck? Film? What film?”

* * *

Tell Lyon was quizzing the manager of the hotel where one of the murder victims, Esmeralda Marquez had worked. “I’m curious about something,” Tell told the manager—a smallish, bald, overweight man of perhaps sixty. He wore several rings on the fingers of his left hand including—
God
—a pinkie ring. Tell said, “The police reports indicate there was footage from your exterior security cameras that recorded Esmeralda leaving after her shift, getting in her car and driving away.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s right,” the manager, John Rook, said. “I remember that.”

“Thing is,” Tell continued, “someone tampered with Esmeralda’s car. They cut halfway through the timing belt. You know how those things work—they drive damn near everything in those engines. Messed with like it was, it was only going to carry her a short ways up the road, just as it did.”

“I remember that too. That her belt was screwed with.” Rook twisted his pinkie ring. “But I’m not seeing your point, Officer.”

“Haven’t made my point yet,” Tell said, watching him play with his rings. “Here we go. Because of the way the belt was cut through, the sabotage to Esmeralda’s car
had
to happen in your lot. The car had to be sitting just where it was when your security cameras filmed her leaving from her shift.”

“Makes sense …”

“So your cameras had to have recorded an image of whoever it was using a shimmy to open her locked car door and popping the hood to cut that belt. Or the camera had to have recorded an image of some son of a bitch sliding under her car to do that.”

John Rook chewed his lip. “Yeah. Fuck yeah! It should have.”

“So why isn’t that reported anywhere—what was filmed?”

Rook shrugged, looking perplexed. “That’s a question for the cops. I never watched the films. They took them.”

“Who took them? Which agency?”

“The Vale County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Pierce himself came by with one of his men—skinny, mean-looking bastard—and took that tape. When I didn’t hear about any arrest, I just figured there was nothing useful on the tape. You want to know more, you’re going to have to talk to Walt Pierce.”

“Yeah,” Tell said, seething. He slammed his open hand down on the counter. “Damn it,” he said, his hand stinging. He looked at the worried-looking manager. “It’s not you. Thanks for your help, pal. And please forget that I was ever here.”

Tell stepped out into the hot sun. His cell phone rang. He checked the number: Able Hawk was trying to reach him. Tell thought about it, then decided to ignore the call for the present time. If Able called right back, he’d answer. Otherwise Tell decided he’d get back to Able on his own timetable.

He swung into the cab of his SUV and rolled down the windows until the air kicked in.

Across the road, sitting between two big Ford pickup trucks, Vale County deputy Luke Strider sat in own pickup truck, smoking a cigarette and flicking ashes out the window, watching Tell.

* * *

The roadside dumpsites were easy to reach and uninteresting—nothing revelatory there. The only thing Tell gleaned sitting parked in his truck where he deduced the bodies had been dropped was how little traveled the roads running alongside the particular fields were. In that way, the sites made sense in terms of disposing of corpses. And they indicated that whoever did the deed knew cars passing by were damned rare. But that was hardly useful information.

The last site, the stream where Esmeralda was dropped, was harder to reach. Tell was bathed in sweat by the time he heard the gurgle of the stream. Mosquitoes had bitten his neck and arms. The way his luck was running, he figured that one of the little bloodsuckers would probably be carrying West Nile Virus.

He was startled by the ringing of his cell phone again. It was made more jarring by the solitude under the shade of the trees; by the sound of the stream and the birds and the trill of crickets in the weeds by the creek. He checked the number: Able Hawk calling again.

Tell took a deep breath and said, “Hey Able.”

“Hey, partner.”

Uh-oh
. Tell could already tell the tone was set for the call.

Able said, “What’s this about a fucking surveillance film and a red truck? I thought we were sharing information, cocksucker.”

“I wasn’t deliberately keeping it from you, Able. Things have just been moving so fast. Every time I was about to pick up the phone to call you or tell you, something else got in the way … Amos’s possible arrest, for instance.”

“So fucking talk to me now, buddy,” Able said. “Fill me in now, and all the way up.”

Tell did that. Able said, “Clever find on your part. Too damned bad we didn’t consult first before you saw that old guard at the industrial complex. I knew that bastard was ex-Vale County Sheriff’s. We might have found a way to get those security tapes without him tipping Pierce. So how long until we get a rundown on those possible plates?”

“Should have them in a couple of hours or so,” Tell said. “Meet me at my HQ in two hours and we’ll look them over together.”

“You just redeemed yourself, Tell. Where are you now?”

Tell told Able Hawk about his morning’s investigation. He shared with Hawk the taped evidence he deduced must have existed depicting the tampering that had been done with Esmeralda Marquez’s Hyundai.

Able said, “Walt does seem to be amassing himself a mess of film. We’re going to have to confront him on all that eventually, just to move this thing along. But we need more to hang our hats on than we have. At this point, he can just stonewall us too easily. Presuming we don’t catch some other breaks like that baseball film you found. That really was good work, Tell.”

The sheriff hesitated, then said, “In the interest of full disclosure, and to encourage you in the future to reciprocate with more, you know,
alacrity
, I should tell you I did your lady a favor this morning.” Able told Tell about Luz and about the pimp’s name given him by Patricia. “I’ll keep her out of it of course,” Able said. “Patricia stays invisible through this,” he said. “But old Tomás? ’Tween us, for him there’ll soon be consequences.”

“Don’t need to hear you say it, Able. But thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep it secret. And thanks very much for helping out Patricia.”

Able said, “Just repaying a favor. Now get your ass out of that godforsaken creek bed, Tell, and get back to my country. I don’t like you in that other cocksucker’s county alone.”

Tell was soaked in sweat again when he reached his cruiser … and covered in fresh mosquito bites.

Deputy Luke Strider, parked in his red pickup behind a billboard, watched Tell Lyon leave, headed back toward the county line. He called Sheriff Pierce to report all that he’d seen, then drove into New Austin himself.

FORTY THREE

Patricia hung up the phone, feeling better after thirty minutes of talking with Salome.

She had told the woman she already thought of as a sister-in-law
everything
.

Salome listened and said, “It’s only about two hours’ drive, Patricia. If Tell’s going to be long away, and you think this guy Shawn might really try something through others—because clearly in his present condition he’s going nowhere himself for a long, long time—Chris’ll be eager to come over and keep you company. He’s having a hard time not inviting himself over there as it is. Chomping at the bit to try and nose into this investigation of Tell’s.”

“Will do, but for now, I’m okay,” Patricia had said.

Salome had then quizzed Patricia further about her bouts of sickness. Salome asked, “Any sequels?”

“No, none,” Patricia had said.

“It’s after one o’clock,” Salome had pressed further. “Day’s gotten on into afternoon … morning’s far over. You hungry?”

“A bit.”

“What sounds good to you? What do you have a taste for?”

Patricia thought about that, then said, “Chinese. Chinese sounds real good.”

She could hear Salome’s resulting smile in her voice. “Tonight, when Tell finally gets home, whenever that is, you two go hit a Walgreens or CVS, yeah, Patricia? Go and get yourself a home pregnancy test.”

Patricia had been delighted. “You
think
?”

Salome had hesitated, then said, “I’m not saying. I’m just …
saying
. You know?”

Patricia looked for a few moments at the phone she had just hung up. She took off her jeans and panties and T-shirt and bra. Naked, she walked to her bedroom, dug out her black bikini and made herself a tall glass of iced tea. She stepped out onto her deck and folded down a chaise lounge. The increasingly seedy neighborhood was quiet for the afternoon so she felt safe doing it: those who had jobs were at work; the others were probably still sleeping off hangovers and highs. She settled in with her iced tea and a copy of Tell’s cousin’s first novel.

The deck was in the shade of the rooftop for the first hour, so Patricia read, resting on her back. When the sun reached the back of the building, she rolled onto her belly and undid her top so there wouldn’t be a tan line. She slipped on her sunglasses and sipped more tea from her sweating glass, its beaded surface slippery in her hand. She was reaching out to set her empty glass on the table, rising up a little so her breasts were exposed, when she suddenly had the sense she was being spied on. She settled back down, her breasts pressed to the lounge chair, and angled her book up and looked over its top at the parking lot.

A red Dodge Ram pickup truck was parked below, its hulking mass blocking Patricia’s view of her own car parked alongside.

Tell was right; the Ram was massive. It screamed of the compensatory purchase of an insecure, self-esteem-challenged asshole.

A thin man with a shaven head sat in the pickup, trying to look as though he was reading a newspaper in his car in the 95-degree heat and 65-percent humidity. The price of gas had impelled the man to shut down the engine and he had both windows down, his sweating arm dangling out the window. Very little hair on his arm. There was no jewelry, not even a wedding band, on his long-fingered left hand.