Light Before Day (39 page)

"Yes," I answered. "And can we can start calling him Reynaldo Reyez, please?"

I could tell she was skeptical. "Look, you believe Reynaldo Reyez is behind the four abductions you told me about," I began. "I know that one of those boys is being held captive by Joseph Spinotta. Considering that Corey was desperate to find out where Spinotta was, I'm willing to bet that his brother is being held by Joseph Spinotta as well."

She kept her eye on the forlorn horizon. "I think Reynaldo has no idea what Spinotta is actually doing to these boys," I went on. "I bet Spinotta gave him a bullshit cover story about rescuing the kids from methamphetamine hell and giving them a fresh start. Maybe Reynaldo abducted Corey's brother on purpose. Maybe Reynaldo thought he was saving Caden, and he told Corey about it like it was good news. But Corey figured out what Spinotta was really going to do to his brother, so he tried to find out where Spinotta was."

"That's a lot of maybes," she said. "Why didn't Corey tell Reynaldo what Spinotta was really up to?"

"Hi," I said sharply. "Sorry, Reynaldo. Four years earlier I hooked you up with a kiddie-porn ring. I know you're a cold-blooded vigilante, but please go easy on me. It was an honest mistake." She rolled her eyes. I got the sense that she could hear my sarcasm for what it was: defensiveness.

"Okay, fine," she said. "But the one thing you're sure of is that Corey was trying to find out where Joseph Spinotta was. Why didn't he ask his pal Reynaldo?"

"Because Reynaldo Reyez probably doesn't know either," I replied. "Spinotta didn't even tell his kept boy Billy where they were located. If he's lying to Reynaldo Reyez about what he's really up to, you think he's going to invite the guy to his hideout for tea? I'm willing to bet the two of them have never met face-to-face the whole time Reyez worked for Spinotta. Considering that Reynaldo's abducted only four boys over the past three years, there's not much reason for them to. I bet the kids are exchanged at a drop-off point somewhere. Reynaldo Reyez is an elusive assassin who isn't supposed to exist. I bet that deal works for him just fine."

Now that I had given voice to my new conjecture, I was less sure of it. It took too much explaining and too much defending. There were too many threads, and I had tied them up in too many places. "Look," I said. "If we get to Joseph Spinotta, you're one step closer to the man who killed your mother. I'm sure of that, Caroline."

She made a left turn into the town of Avenal. "Any chance we can run some of this by your friend Corey?"

"No. He's dead."

"You didn't tell me that on the phone this morning."

"I wasn't sure it was any of your business."

She kept driving faster than the town's speed limit. "Fine. Joseph Spinotta. Considering that no one seems to know where he is, where the hell do we start?"

"They're sending out these broadcasts wirelessly," I said. "Maybe Spinotta's got the technology to beam this shit across entire continents. But I seriously doubt it. He's not a corporation. He's one man who stole a big chunk of change. If he's somewhere out here, maybe he's got the reach to hit LA on one side and San Francisco on the other. The abductions were all out here in the Central Valley. Reynaldo Reyez is from here and does most of his work here as well. Spinotta lived in California all of his life."

"California's a big state."

"How long did it take you to find Eddie Cairns?" I asked.

"Good point," she said.

She pursed her lips in thought. "Do we get to have sex?"

"I've got a switchblade in my pocket. Try anything fruit and I'll get serious with it."

When she realized I was quoting her friend Eddie Cairns, the threat of a smile disrupted the hard lines of her face.

* * *

She drove us to a rest stop situated between Interstate 5 and the Kettle-man Hills. There were no trees, just a stone building that housed bathrooms I wouldn't blow my nose in. The empty parking lot had a view across the valley that was so clear I thought I could make out individual pine trees on the peaks of the Sierra Nevada. "What are we doing here?" I asked her.

"Meeting a friend of mine," she said.

"You have friends?"

She scowled and dialed a number on her cell phone. I remembered that I had agreed to check in with Brenda every few hours. I stepped out of the Tahoe and walked a good distance away to give myself some privacy.

Brenda's cell phone went right to voice mail, which disappointed me more than I expected it to. I left a message telling her that I was fine and that interesting things were happening. Then I hung up. When I tried to shove my cell phone back into my pocket, it caught on something. I pulled out Corey's golden scorpion chain. I saw Billy Hatfill's sprawled body beneath a spider web of cracked glass. The flesh on my palm went hot underneath the medallion, and my vision blurred without warning.

For the first time in days, I doubted my abilities and resolve with a force that was crippling.

The dull roar of the passing traffic intensified until it was a ringing in my ears. Without meaning to, I sank on the stone curb in front of me and stared out at the sterile golden expanse before me.

I told myself my grief for the man I had known as Corey Howard was inappropriate and absurd. Even if he had been desperate to find his little brother, he had done terrible things in the process. He had used his deal with Billy Hatfill to visit a retribution upon Melissa Brady that required the violation of a boy in the same situation as his younger brother.

I stared down at the chain in my palm. I had forgotten about one of the most important questions I had left LA to answer. The identity of Corey's killer. Billy had told me the killer was a third party—not Spinotta, not one of his Vanished Three. An obvious candidate was staring me in the face.

Reynaldo Reyez. Surely Spinotta would not have sent Reynaldo after his boyhood lover. Not if Spinotta had been aware of the history between the two men. Not if Corey had been the one to make the connection between Spinotta and Reynaldo four years earlier.

That meant there was another player involved. I didn't like the thought. I knew the

conventional wisdom among homicide detectives was that they almost always came into contact with the killer within the first twenty-four hours of their investigation. But I was not a homicide detective.

I spent a few minutes counting the cars that glinted past me on Interstate 5. I reminded myself what day of the week it was. Sunday. A week since Billy Hatfill had tracked me down on a West Hollywood street corner and told me Corey had paid a strange visit to his house. But I had overlooked another anniversary the day before. It had been over a week since I had taken a drink of alcohol. I had not gone that long without an intoxicant in my system since I was fifteen.

I was doing something right.

Caroline's shadow fell over me. "You all right?"

"Yes. Why haven't you gone to the authorities?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You're right. But I asked you first."

She took a seat on the curb beside me and together we watched the traffic thunder by. "My mother asked me not to visit her after she moved here," she said. "She wouldn't tell me why. She left San Francisco without a word to anyone after Dad died. A few months ago, she sent me a letter. She told me that her grief for my father was like a virus, and she didn't want to infect me with it. That's why she left. She said that I was stronger than she had ever meant for me to be.

Does that sound like a good thing or a bad thing to you?"

I didn't think it was my place to answer, but it wasn't lost on me that she had described methamphetamine's hold on the surrounding area in the same terms her mother had used to describe her own grief. She turned and rested her butt against the window ledge. "My grief for her feels like everything else, all the time. Nonstop. Everything besides grief."

"My mother died last month," I said.

"How?"

"She was hit by a cab."

She cocked her head at me, and I got the sense that she resented my attempt to make a connection between us, but she didn't want to say anything. Maybe she thought she needed my wild theories as much as I needed her aggressive anger.

"A cab, huh?" she finally said. "Did you try to kill the driver?"

She got to her feet and walked back toward the Tahoe. I didn't tell her that I had never thought about killing anyone. In an alcoholic blackout, I had once confessed understanding for anyone who might hurl my mother in front of a taxicab. Even though I didn't remember saying the words, I knew I had experienced moments of the combined blindness and frenzied motion that people called rage. I was still waiting for some sign that Caroline Hughes was in such a state, but she seemed to see with perfect clarity and moved with graceful determination. She sought murder with a full knowledge of what the end result would be. This I could not understand at all and had no interest in trying.

A red Ford Escape pulled into the rest stop and parked several empty spaces away from the Tahoe. The woman behind the wheel had skin edging from tan to leathery, and her small brown eyes were stamped with crow's-feet. I followed Caroline to the driver's-side window. "Who is she?" I asked.

"Her name's Amy. You have those pictures?"

She had asked me earlier for my photos of the Vanished Three and Joseph Spinotta. I slipped them from my jacket pocket and handed them to her. The woman named Amy rolled down her window instead of getting out of the car. Caroline handed her the photographs without greeting her.

"Truck stops. Gas stations. That land of thing," Caroline said. Amy studied each picture in turn. "We think they might be staying in an isolated location, but if they're taking any long trips they have to use the 5 or the 101, right?"

"You want to add Nevada to that search area?" Amy asked. "The last time I checked, the 101

doesn't go through my county."

"You have friends in other counties, right?" Caroline asked.

Amy glowered at me. "Who are you?"

"He's the wacko who called the station this morning," Caroline said.

So that was how my call had been intercepted. "Thanks for the fix-up," I told her.

Amy twitched one eyebrow in response, and then went back to inspecting the pictures of the Vanished Three as if they were an apology letter from a boss who had fired her. "If you get anything, call us and we'll follow up on it," Caroline said. Amy gave her a dubious look. "In the most legal and ethical manner possible."

Amy rolled the window up, started her engine, and pulled out of her parking spot.

"She's a cop," I said.

"She had a thing for my mother."

"And you're playing it."

"You're damn right I am."

We watched the red Escape disappear down the slope that led to the interstate.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Visalia," I answered. "We need to find someone who knew Corey and Reynaldo in their younger days. Corey's grandmother is dead. Reynaldo's parents are both dead. But I'm sure there's someone who remembers them."

She kept looking at the interstate. "I take it you're not excited by this." "Your approach is a little journalistic for my taste." "We need to establish the details of their relationship." "See. You establish things. That's journalistic. Besides, you really think the man who killed my mother still goes by the name Reynaldo Reyez?"

"He sure as hell doesn't go around calling himself the
Homosexual,"
I said. "I promise to let you beat the shit out of someone very soon. Let's go."

C H A P T E R 19

We went east on Highway 198, across desolate golden fields and past the Lemoore Naval Air Station, which looked like a small regional airport abandoned after a nuclear fallout. She let me drive. Our route took us clear across the Central Valley to the base of the Sierra Nevada. The town of Visalia looked like a suburb without an adjacent city, unless you considered the Sierras a suitable downtown skyline. A canopy of majestic oaks heralded its borders, and the four-lane highway that cut through the center of town was lined with strip malls.

With Corey's grandmother long gone, along with any family Reynaldo had ever known, I was left with one option. After half an hour of searching, we found the place I was looking for.

It was a small single-story building sandwiched between two strip malls, just a few blocks from the spot where Highway 198 left the town behind and started its climb into the foothills. The hardscrabble windowless structure had aluminum siding and a neon sign above the front door that spelled out the word
Budweiser
in all the colors of the rainbow.

Caroline pulled to the curb out front and the two of us listened as Whitney Houston explained to the people inside that she had learned from the best. "You're sure this is a gay bar?" Caroline asked.

Inside was a small empty stage with a dead karaoke machine shoved to one side, black walls with cheap black curtains hung over them in places, and a bar that ran almost the length of the building. The portly bartender was enduring a shrill lecture from a thirtyish guy with seventies-style aviator eyeglasses and carefully sprayed hair. I heard something about his talent and ability not being properly valued.

I gave Caroline a few singles and asked her to go make a selection on

the jukebox. To my astonishment, she complied. I took one of the stools. The bartender's eyes brightened when he saw me. Even as he slapped a napkin down in front of me and asked for my order, the guy in the aviator glasses didn't let up.

"I'm talking about the whole thing, Jim. Typing the programs. Making most of the scenery. I do it all. Now wouldn't you think that would earn me some appreciation over there? Even if they are friggin' Methodists, for Christ's sake."

I ordered a Coke from Jim and gave the aviator-glasses guy the kind of look he wasn't used to receiving. He wore a white dress shirt that was too big for him, black slacks, and a name tag that told me he had spent the day waiting tables. "You an actor?" I asked him.

He smiled. "I was supposed to have an audition tonight."