Follow Her Home (11 page)

“Should we go over there?”

“Not yet. I'll have a cigarette. You go inside and look like we're here for an errand.”

We got out of the car and Diego went into the bank with his hands stuck into his pockets. I took note of the black cat's license plate while I fiddled with a match. I committed the numbers to memory as I pulled on a Lucky Strike. I leaned against the hood of my car and tried to look relaxed, approachable. If it were Humphrey Bogart, he might come right over and sling his arm around my neck, friendly and lethal.

A minute later, someone else came out instead. The driver was a stocky man in his mid- to late forties, wearing dark sunglasses and a threadbare blue polo shirt over khaki shorts. The legs spilling onto the ground from the frayed hems were thick and hairy, and they ended abruptly in a wrap of white socks stuffed into cheap white tennis shoes. He had his head shaved in a matter-of-fact way that admitted oncoming baldness, and the flesh at the back of his neck folded along two deep lines. He shuffled casually past me and headed into the bank. No eye contact. I counted to ten and snuffed out the rest of my cigarette before following him inside.

I found our shadow sitting in an armchair with his face buried in an outdated issue of
Time
magazine. Diego was standing in line, waiting for a teller. He saw me come in and I pointed at the man with my eyes before taking an empty armchair.

There were at least a dozen people in the bank, and I felt comfortable addressing the man in the white tennis shoes who eyed me nervously as I sat down. “Hi,” I said. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

He made a show of lowering his magazine. “Don't think so.” His voice was low and breathy, and his face uneasy. From up close I saw that he was a few years younger than I'd thought. He had a wide nose and thin lips and I couldn't see his eyes behind the black lenses of his cheap, gold-rimmed glasses.

I held out my hand. “I'm the driver of that handsome Volvo, and you drive the black Mazda that's been on its ass.”

“Don't think so,” he said again.

I recited the license plate. “Look, I have a cousin at the DMV who can give me your name in a second. You can't just follow a stranger around town like that. I'll go to the police.” I had no such cousin, but the bluff seemed to work. The man sat up and searched for words, with his mouth hanging open.

He cleared his throat. “Don't do that.”

“Why are you following me?”

He took a second to think, and when he was finished, I could feel his straight gaze through his glasses. He spoke with a snap. “Why are you following the girl?”

“The girl? Who do you mean by the girl?”

“Lori, from Stokel Levinson. Why were you following her?”

My pulse jumped at the name. “You know what? You go first. I'm not in the hot seat here.” I leaned forward and jabbed at the coffee table as I stressed each word. “Why are you following me?”

He leaned forward and extracted something from the back pocket of his shorts. With practiced indifference he tossed it onto the table, where it landed on a stack of magazines. It was a red nylon rectangle, thinner than a wallet, fastened with Velcro. As I stared, he reached for it and flipped it over. A photo identification card now peered out through smudged, clear plastic. It read “Private Investigator License” across the top and identified the man as Charles Oliver Lindley of Van Nuys, California.

I went over every letter of the license before giving Charles Lindley another thorough look. “Charles?”

“Chaz.”

“Chaz. You're a private eye.”

I'd suspected the modern shamus was no longer the tall, brooding Marlowe in a suit and fedora, but I had never seen one before and the difference amazed me.

“That's right.”

“But you still haven't answered my question. Why follow me?”

He folded his arms and leaned back. “I'm looking for a man named Hector Lopez. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“He's the asshole my sister decided to marry, and now he's gone missing.” I felt his eyes fix in on mine. “She thinks he ran off with some Korean girl.”

“Lori.”

“Yeah, that girl.”

“Mrs. Lopez—”

“Her name's Candy.”

“So Candy is having you look for him? She didn't report him missing?”

“What do you think a private eye is for? Some matters need a more subtle touch.” He scratched plaque from his bottom teeth with a thick fingernail.

“Again, then: why are you following me?”

“I said already. I was following her and then you started following her and I thought maybe you were in cahoots or something.”

“You mean we both ran away with your brother-in-law.”

“Well, you got that Mexican with you, too.”

I laughed out loud and called to Diego. “Come here for a second.” He sauntered over, with his face turning red. “This is Chaz. He's a private eye.”

“Hi. I heard.”

I stood up and put my arm around his shoulder. “This here is one of my best friends, and he's Puerto Rican, Chaz. I'm not part of a Mexican man-smuggling ring if that's what you're onto.”

He put his hands up like he meant to show they were empty. “Hey, I didn't mean nothing like that. I just thought, you know, people got their affinities and—look, I was just following my gut, okay? You sure as hell looked suspicious.” As his voice lost its tone of apology, I conceded, to myself, that he was right. “What's your angle on the girl?”

“I met her yesterday. I have my own case going.”

“You a private investigator too?”

“I don't have a license.”

“Who you working for?”

This was a question Marlowe never answered, no matter who asked. “That's not for you to know.”

“Hey, girlie, I'm just asking, because maybe we can swap info or something, you know?”

I smiled. “You can start by telling me why you think your brother-in-law ran off with Lori.”

“My sister—” He cleared his throat and I saw his eyes narrow despite the opacity of his shades. “If you can't even say who your client is, I don't have to tell you shit.”

“Hold on a second.” I pulled Diego a few feet away and whispered, “Do you think we should talk to him?”

“We have no reason to trust him.”

“I mean, I think he's telling the truth. He had enough wits and dumb luck to figure out we were involved. He might have something that could help us.”

“Do you want to tell this stranger about Luke and his dad? About Greg and the killer on your tail?”

I sucked air through my teeth. “I guess not.”

“Get his number.”

I sat back down and pulled out my new phone. “Let me have your number and maybe I'll get in touch later so we can help each other out.”

He stayed motionless for a second before reciting his number. 818 area code, like mine. “But I ain't saying nothing unless we go tit for tat.”

“Fine.” I stood back up. “Don't follow me out or I will call the police, Chazzie.”

*   *   *

We made it back to Luke's apartment in less than ten minutes.

I was back at the Marlowe for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. I parked again on Lillian and thought how much had happened since my car had left this street the night before. Again I passed through the iron gate, the warm patio, the opulent hallways, and again I was knocking on that black door.

He was in the same stupid T-shirt and athletic shorts I'd left him in and he hadn't combed his hair, but I could tell even from the snap with which he opened the door that he was feeling anything but lazy.

“Is everything okay?” He gave me a hug. “You guys look like hell.”

“Hey, Luke, thanks for having us.” Diego and Luke embraced.

I surveyed the entryway, and though the place was still a mess, there were no shoes but Luke's. Diego and I added our pairs to keep his company.

I slung my purse onto his couch and Diego and I sat down at the table. “Can I borrow your laptop?”

“Yeah, let me get it.” He disappeared into his bedroom and reemerged with a closed PowerBook in one hand, extending it to me like a piece of mail.

I handed it to Diego. “Can you pull up a picture of Greg?” He took it and had it open before it hit the tabletop. I turned to Luke. “Do you know someone named Greg Miller?”

He scratched at the light scruff sprouting on his jaw while Diego pulled up Greg's Facebook page.

“Oh, that guy? I think he works at Stokel. I've seen him a couple times. What about him?”

“He's dead, Luke. Someone found it funny to strangle him and put him in my trunk.”

He wheezed. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“She's serious,” Diego said.

Luke crumpled to the floor, falling first on his knees, then catching his weight on a hard wrist to one side. He sat there like a girl on a lawn and stared at me, inky pupils bleeding outward, threatening to tar out the green.

I recounted what had happened in the last few hours, up to when I went over to Diego's. I kept it short, and he stared at me with pupils moving, trying to make sense of my words.

He twisted a fist into his thigh, rotating the knuckles with a twitching slowness. “Wait, someone's threatening you? Who is this guy?”

“Around five foot eight, medium build, green eyes, blond hair. He dresses like a con man from another decade. Sound familiar?”

His knuckles stopped their turning and the muscles of his face tightened like he was courting long division and it was showing nothing but annoyance at his advances. “Don't think so. Do you have an idea why this dead guy ended up in your car?”

“I have an idea, yeah. I'm thinking Greg Miller had just been killed when he was stuffed in my trunk, and I think my untimely presence at the scene is the reason I was knocked out in the first place.”

“Why your car, though? What was the point?”

“Well, I think someone must've seen me as a witness, and I might've been if I hadn't had my lights put out before I could see anything. The body was probably an attempt to scare me quiet.” I huffed air from my nostrils in lieu of a chuckle. “Talk about irony. Now I know Greg Miller was killed and I can ID a suspect. Before the body showed up, I didn't know a thing.”

He took a deep breath and let it out with a slump of his shoulders. “So what now?”

“Here, do you want some cake?” I produced the cardboard box stickered shut by a cursive label. “There's a fork in there.”

He pulled the white flaps to undo the tape and placed the deconstructed box on the carpet by his knees. He took a few bites of the towering cake in silence. “It's good. Thanks.” He stared at the slice.

I watched him sink the side of the plastic fork deep into the sponge. I watched him watch his hand, motionless after the fork hit the cardboard.

“You're buttering me up.”

I looked at Diego and we both nodded. “You tell the rest,” I said.

Diego sighed and narrated, and when he got to Buttercream, Luke turned his eyes on Diego, then me, with a heartbreaking sparkle. “She was with my dad, wasn't she?”

I nodded like a turtle with a weak neck. “Sorry, Luke.”

He blinked his eyes wide and ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to forget we were there for a few seconds. “Right,” he said. His voice was weak with the sound of choked tears. “Well, at least I wasn't crazy.”

“We don't know that they're sleeping together,” Diego offered.

“My dad doesn't have hot jailbait friends.”

“But the cashier didn't peg them as a couple, if that helps any.” Diego was desperate to help, and I felt the same way.

“It doesn't really.”

We sat in grim silence for a few minutes before Luke voiced his fears. “Does this make my dad a murder suspect?”

I wanted to give him a happy answer, but I couldn't. “I don't know.”

He turned to Diego. “What do you think?”

“I hope not, for your sake, Luke.”

“So you think it's possible.”

The air was heavy with commiseration when Diego's phone rang a few moments later.

Luke and I stayed where we were and pretended not to listen as Jackie's voice came pouring out in a loud, rapid stream, straight into Diego's ear. He spoke to her in bewildered tones that turned slowly contrite and hung up a couple minutes later.

“That was Jackie,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. “I guess you heard.”

We nodded.

“Sleeping on the couch tonight?” Luke asked.

“I hope not, but maybe. I kind of ran out of the house this morning and didn't tell her why.”

“Well, she won't stay mad if you tell her about the extreme circumstances,” I said.

“Sure, but you asked me not to tell.”

“That's true. But can't you just tell her I was in big, big trouble?”

“Song,” Luke cut in. “How would that be helpful?”

I put my hand over my mouth. “Right.”

“No, it's not just that,” Diego said. “Her parents are in town and we're supposed to take them to lunch. I completely forgot, and it's already two o'clock. She says she's coming to pick me up.”

“I'm sorry, Diego,” I said.

“No, obviously, it's not your problem. Anyway, I don't have to go.”

“Of course you do. I'll be fine. We'll reconnect later.”

He nodded. “Thanks. I guess she is on her way.”

“How's she doing, by the way?” Luke asked. “Haven't seen her in a while.”

Diego shrugged. “She's fine. Great, really. I'm surprised she's so mad at me.”

Luke shook his head. “Oh, Diego, you have much to learn.”

“Right,” I said. “And you have much to teach the guy in the stable marriage.”

Diego smiled. “Actually, I have something to tell you guys, but I'll save it for a better time.”