Revision of Justice (8 page)

Daniel Romero lived on a badly potholed stretch of Fountain Avenue in a two-story apartment building the sickly color of gourmet mustard.

Out front, some Hispanic and black kids were splashing in a play pool while an older sister kept an eye on them, then more warily on me as I mounted the front steps.

Romero’s apartment was on the second floor, at the end of an exterior landing that needed sweeping. A note on his door directed visitors to the garage at the rear of the building.

I followed a cracked concrete driveway past sad-looking shrubbery and shriveled weeds struggling to survive in arid ground until I reached a row of small garages out back.

In one of them, Romero was kneeling, hand-sanding an unvarnished table, with sawdust and carpentry tools all around him. He’d shaved away his whiskers, leaving his face smooth and boyish, with a razor nick under his chin. Faded jeans and a cheap tank top hung loosely on his lanky frame. On his upper arms I counted three Indian-style tattoos, stitched in dyes of red and blue.

At his side was an old golden retriever who barked half-heartedly before getting up slowly to greet me with a busy tail.

“Hello, Daniel.”

He got to his feet with some effort, his eyes big and dark in his narrow face.

“Danny,” he said.

We shook hands.

“It was Daniel last night.”

“I was talking to a cop last night.”

The dog nuzzled my hand.

“Maggie!”

Maggie left my hand alone but stood her ground and kept her tail going, a wise old dog who knew the boundaries.

“On the phone, you said you wanted to ask some questions about Reza.”

I nodded. He glanced at my notebook and pen.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?”

I ran my fingers along the surface of the big rectangular table. The wood was dark and richly grained, with solid, square legs flawlessly joined at each corner and rising half an inch above the table’s horizontal plane. Atop the four corner squares were bas relief carvings that appeared to be Native American, like Romero’s tattoos; more carvings of similar design extended down the legs.

“Cherry?”

“Black walnut.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

I touched one of the corner carvings.

“Indian symbols?”

He pointed to each of the designs.

“Earth…Wind…Rain…Fire.”

“Any particular tribe?”

“Tokona. My father’s people. Out of Oklahoma.”

“This table has a lot of meaning for you, then.”

I was rewarded with a small, embarrassed grin.

“Don’t give me too much credit.” He touched the symbol for Earth. “I had to go to the library and look ’em up.”

He pulled down the warped garage door, locked it behind him, and we started back. He wasn’t moving any quicker than the old dog, and used the handrail when we reached the stairs.

“You look tired.”

“It was a long night.”

We entered a small, drab apartment that was beaten up with age and neglect. Rust-colored water stains were visible on the cottage cheese ceiling, and the grubby green carpet felt thin and tacky under my feet. What furniture there was looked cheap and factory made, like an odd assortment of garage sale specials.

“I’ve sold all my handmade pieces,” Romero explained. “Except the table. I’m keeping that, at least for a while.”

He asked if I was thirsty. I said I was and followed him into the tiny kitchen, where he pulled open the refrigerator door. The refrigerator didn’t have much in it. What it did have that caught my eye were several emerald green bottles, each with a hinged, reclosable cap.

“You drink Grolsch?”

“Reza,” Romero said. “It was the only beer he ever touched.”

I glanced around at the shabby surroundings.

“It doesn’t quite fit.”

“He didn’t have much money but he had expensive tastes. Designer clothes, fancy cologne—Grolsch beer.”

“Status symbols.”

“I guess.” He indicated the bottles. “Have one if you want. Reza won’t be drinking it.”

I opted for a soda; so did Romero.

“Maybe you’d like to see his room.”

“Thanks, I would.”

I followed Romero down a dim, narrow hallway, with the dog tagging along. I paused at the first door and Romero came back.

“That’s my room.” He reached down and scratched the dog around the ears. “Actually, me and Maggie sleep there. Don’t we, girl?”

“Had her long?”

“Ever since I came out from Oklahoma. Found her on the street, up in San Francisco. She was just a pup.”

“When was that?”

“Ten years ago, ’round in there.”

“You must have been a teenager.”

“Eighteen.”

“What brought you to the City?”

“Life on the reservation was feeling a little cramped.”

“You lived with your father then.”

“Off and on. I bounced around a lot.”

“Your mother?”

“Mestiza. Out of New Mexico. Small village called Milagro, up in the Sangre de Cristos.”

“Milagro. ‘Miracle.’”

“You speak Spanish.”

“A little. Beautiful country up there.”

“Yeah, real nice.”

I saw a backpack leaning against the wall, a vintage Kelty with a rolled sleeping bag and foam pad bound to the frame.

“You spend much time in the mountains?”

“Not like I used to. You?”

“My boyfriend and I used to do a lot of backpacking.”

Romero didn’t say anything, just nodded a little.

“Mostly the eastern Sierra,” I said. “Lone Pine up to Mammoth. All the trails.”

“That’s a great range—about as good as it gets.”

We were standing close; his eyes were direct, curious. I hadn’t talked to anyone about the mountains since Jacques died.

“When was the last time you were up?”

“Coupla years. You?”

“Not since Jacques got too sick to go. A long time.”

“How is he now?”

“Dead.”

“Sorry.”

“It happens.”

“I know.” His eyes pulled away. “Come on, I’ll show you Reza’s room.”

He shuffled down the hall to a door at the end. Inside, a narrow bed and sizable desk competed for space with teetering stacks of
Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
, wedged between piles of
Premiere
,
Buzz
,
Movieline
, and
Entertainment Weekly
.

On the desk was a computer, printer, combination telephone and fax machine, answering machine, and Rolodex. In a corner of the desk, standing upright between bookends, were a number of Hollywood resource books—the
Hollywood Creative Directory
, the
Hollywood Reporter Blu-Book
, the
Studio Directory
. Also between the bookends was a copy of
The Cantwell Method
, by Gordon Cantwell, along with several other manuals on scriptwriting bearing such author names as Field, Truby, Seger, and McKee.

“Reza talked a lot about making movies,” Romero said. “He was always coming up with a new idea for one.”

I glanced around.

“I don’t see any scripts.”

“I don’t think he actually did any writing. He was mostly a talker, I guess.”

“And what was it he talked about?”

“Some deal he had going, some new contact, a producer or director he was trying to meet. To be honest, I didn’t pay a lot of attention. I’m not really into that Hollywood stuff.”

“You lived together. The two of you must have had some things in common.”

“When we met, I needed a place to stay. He gave me the room and let me pay him when I could. It was an OK deal.”

“You liked him, then?”

“Like I said, he helped me out.” He looked around. “It’s weird, seeing all his stuff, talking about him like this. With him gone.”

“What do you remember most about him?”

“What do I remember most about him.” Romero took his time, looking thoughtful. “I guess the way he knew how to please people, to get what he wanted. Telling them what they wanted to hear. He could play different roles to suit different people, different situations.”

“A hustler?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“The way you describe him, I’m surprised he wasn’t more successful. From what I hear, selling yourself is half the game in Hollywood.”

“He was about to make it big. At least that’s what he claimed.”

“Tell me more.”

“He was never much on details.”

“I’d be interested in whatever you know.”

“There was something, a few weeks ago. He told me he was real close to nailing down some deal. Said he’d finally gotten the break he needed. With some studio big shot.”

“Involving a script?”

“Like I said, he never got into specifics. He talked plenty, but a lot of it was bullshit. He kept just as much to himself.”

The light was flashing on the answering machine. I asked if I could play back the messages. Romero shrugged.

“Sure, why not?”

There was only one, delivered in an angry female voice:
This message is for Raymond Farr. This is Anne-Judith Kemmerman. You know my number. Find the balls to call me, dammit.

“Who’s that?”

Romero shrugged again. “Don’t know.”

“There were a number of people at the party last night looking for your roommate. I’m surprised there’s only one message.”

“Reza listened to a bunch of messages just before we went out. I guess he erased ’em.”

I hit the rewind button, then the one marked “Messages/Fast Forward.” Going back to the beginning of the tape, there were a dozen messages from a Bernard Kemmerman, who sounded more and more anxious, and less and less healthy; several more messages from Anne-Judith Kemmerman, whom I presumed was his wife; and one or two each from Dylan Winchester, Roberta Brickman, and Leonardo Petrocelli, all sounding strained and anxious to varying degrees.

At one point or another, each caller left a phone number; I wrote them all down.

“I don’t suppose you know who Bernard Kemmerman is?”

Romero shook his head.

“A couple of them sounded awfully unhappy.”

“I guess they did.”

“You wouldn’t know why?”

He shook his head again, then reached over to raise a window, letting in some air against the heat.

“What about you, Danny? Did you have any reason to be pissed off at Reza JaFari?”

For the first time, his eyes faltered.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Last night, Lieutenant DeWinter pointed out that you weren’t all that upset to find your roommate dead.”

“Yeah, I heard him say that.”

“You don’t seem all that upset now, either.”

“People have different ways of looking at death, I guess.”

“Were you pleased when you learned he was dead?”

This time, his voice became as unsteady as his eyes.

“Of course not.”

I had no doubt that Danny Romero was lying. I also saw him scared for the first time.

“You sure there’s not something you want to tell me, Danny?”

We both heard the doorbell ring, then a fist pounding on wood. From the sound of it, it was a big fist with considerable weight behind it.

Romero found my eyes, but only for a moment.

“I’d better get that.”

I watched him shuffle off down the hall. He seemed to be working hard to conceal a limp. Then I heard the front door being opened, followed by the unpleasant voice of Lieutenant Claude DeWinter.

“I’m bringing Reza JaFari’s father up. Before he gets here, there’s a couple of things I want to get straight.”

The lieutenant stood in the doorway, filling it so completely that Danny Romero and I faced him from his shadow.

He’d already expressed his surprise upon seeing me, and chewed me out for hanging up on him that morning. In the process, he slipped in a dire warning about meddling reporters interfering with police investigations, which failed to leave me quaking with trepidation.

“Mr. JaFari is grieving badly,” DeWinter said. “He doesn’t know that his kid was sick with the AIDS virus. He doesn’t even know his kid was gay or bisexual or whatever the fuck he was.”

“And you’d like us to keep it to ourselves,” I said.

DeWinter’s hard manner lost some of its edge.

“He’ll find out soon enough, one way or another. All I’m asking is, give him a little time. Either of you got a problem with that?”

Neither of us did, and we said so.

“Remember, his kid lived in this place, too. Hosain JaFari has a right to come here, look around. It was his idea. I figure it might be better if I came with him. He’s pretty upset.”

DeWinter turned and lumbered out the door.

“Jesus.”

Danny slumped into a corner of the sofa like an aging boxer who’d just had a bad round.

“What’s the problem?”

“I didn’t tell DeWinter that the apartment’s in Reza’s name. I figure he’s gonna find out pretty damn soon, though.”

“Is that so bad?”

“It is if you got no place else to go.”

He sounded worn down, more exhausted than sorry for himself. Maggie ambled over and laid her head in his lap to be scratched. Danny obliged reflexively, but seemed far away from both of us.

“I don’t need this shit.” He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling with eyes that were quickly growing troubled. “Not now. Not with—”

We heard footsteps and turned to see Hosain JaFari coming through the door, with Claude DeWinter huffing and puffing behind him.

JaFari was a neatly dressed man of about fifty, well fed but handsome, with olive skin, a thick, neat mustache, and a balding pate that looked good on him. There were also shadows under his dark eyes the color of old bruises, and in the whites, the redness of grief.

DeWinter made the introductions.

“This is Benjamin Justice, freelance reporter. That’s Daniel Romero, the roommate.”

As JaFari moved past me, I could see anger tugging at the muscles of his neck and face.

He stood in the middle of the living room, surveying the apartment as if taking inventory. When he was done, he aimed his eyes straight at Danny.

“What did you do to my son?”

“What do you mean, Mr. JaFari?”

“You know what I mean! Last night—what did you do?”

“I drove him to the party. That’s all.”

Danny’s voice was flat, neither combative nor defensive.

“You were the last one who saw my Reza alive.”

“Maybe I was. I don’t know.”

Hosain JaFari threw his hands up and swiveled his eyes about the room.

“Where are his things? His stereo? His television? The nice things we gave him? Where is his car? The good car we gave him when he turned twenty-five, to help him be successful?”

“He sold it, Mr. JaFari.”

“Sold his car!”

“He sold all his stuff, everything but his clothes and office equipment.”

“Why? Why would he sell the fine things we gave him?”

“He needed the money, I guess.”

“You lie!”

Danny sagged deeper into the couch, closing his eyes.

“Have it your way, Mr. JaFari. If you want to think I’m lying, then I’m lying.”

JaFari clenched his hands into dangerous-looking fists.

“You stole his things! You stole them and then you killed him to cover it up!”

He was on Danny in a heartbeat, grabbing his throat and pummeling him with a fist while Danny curled up and tried to ward off the blows with his upraised arms. Maggie got hold of JaFari before DeWinter and me, snarling ferociously and tearing at his arms with her teeth.

I took hold of the dog, DeWinter grabbed JaFari, and we pulled them in opposite directions.

Slowly, Danny uncurled, then began to tremble. He called to Maggie, telling her it was OK. She flattened out on the carpet under my hands, growling low, with the hair on her back up, never letting JaFari out of her sight.

DeWinter had JaFari from behind, pinning his arms at his sides.

“Take it easy, Mr. JaFari. This isn’t helping anything.”

He settled JaFari into a chair, where the smaller man placed his face in his hands and began to weep.

I glanced across the room at Danny. “You all right?”

He nodded and swallowed hard, looking shell-shocked.

After a minute, Hosain JaFari raised his tearstained face. When he spoke, his voice was low, confused.

“Reza told us how well he was doing. He had a nice studio business arrangement, good salary, his own office. He wrote a wonderful script, made a very good deal for himself. He told this to his mother and me. We were so happy. Finally, our son was doing well for himself.”

He looked around.

“So where are all his nice things? Where is the success he was so proud of? I see nothing.” His eyes landed back on Danny, more questioning than angry now.

“Where is his money? All the money he made from the movie people?”

Danny huddled on the couch, saying nothing.

“We’re going to look into that, Mr. JaFari.” DeWinter laid a huge black hand gently on his shoulder. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea you coming here today. Maybe you should go home, be with your wife, your family.”

JaFari stood with a handkerchief, blotting away the tears. His voice had become little more than a whisper.

“Yes. That is where I should be. With my family.” His eyes moved to each of us in turn. “I was wrong to lose my temper as I did. Islam teaches that we must be better than that. Please accept my apology.”

“I’ll be in touch,” DeWinter said.

Maggie followed JaFari to the door with her eyes. When he was gone, I let go of her collar, and she was up on the couch beside Danny in a bound.

DeWinter stood over him, hands on hips.

“We got ourselves a few loose ends to tie up, Danny boy.”

“I answered all your questions last night.”

“Maybe I got more questions.”

“Is Danny a suspect, Lieutenant?”

“Are you his lawyer, big shot?”

DeWinter found a stick of sugarless gum, unwrapped it, and pushed it into his mouth. He moved slowly about the room, checking it out.

“Maybe if you treat Danny with a little respect,” I said, “he won’t press charges.”

DeWinter whirled, chomping furiously on the gum.

“You know what I’m talking about, Lieutenant. Assault. Filed against Hosain JaFari. With you as a witness. And a couple of Polaroids as evidence.”

Danny’s face was reddening below the cheekbone and around one eye, and there were likely to be bruises. DeWinter didn’t bother to look. He already knew.

The anger was still in his eyes as they stayed on me, but his silence suggested something closer to respect. He knew we could complicate Hosain JaFari’s life if we chose to, and his own as well, tying him up with paperwork and lawyer’s inquiries, and questions from his superiors he might not want to face.

“Stay put, both of you, while I look around.”

He glanced into the kitchen, then moved down the hall. Danny raised his head and called after him.

“Reza’s room is at the end.”

The detective disappeared into Danny’s room, anyway. He emerged a minute later and proceeded down the hall. A minute or two after that we heard a door being closed and he came back.

“Right now I got no solid angle on how Reza JaFari died. But that could change after the coroner takes a look at him.”

He turned back to Danny.

“I want everything in this apartment that belongs to JaFari left untouched. His room kept closed. Until I come back for a better look. You got it?”

Danny nodded.

“And if you plan on making any little trips, I want you to let me know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Be sure you don’t.”

DeWinter stalked out without another word.

“I hate that guy,” Danny said.

Early evening shadows slanted into the room; the air had cooled a little, but not much.

“I only have a couple more questions.”

“I’m really beat.”

“One or two, that’s all.”

He sighed.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Is there any possibility Reza died from AIDS complications?”

“Not unless he was lying to me about how sick he was.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That he was on protease inhibitors, and they were working great. His T-cell count was over six hundred. His viral load was way down at the low end, almost undetectable. He’d had a couple of minor stomach infections and some diarrhea last year, but he was asymptomatic for AIDS. Hadn’t lost any weight, no cough, no steady fever, no night sweats, no thrush. You don’t have blood counts like that and suddenly keel over and die from HIV.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I know a few things.”

“Do you know if anybody was angry enough with Reza to want him dead?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. His eyes shifted uneasily at first, followed by a second or two of pointless silence.

“No.”

I had him in another lie, but decided not to push him into a corner. Not just yet.

“It’s getting late. Maybe we can talk another time.”

“I don’t see why not.”

The shadows had deepened in the room, and a quietness settled over us as well. It felt like it was time to go, but I didn’t want to leave him.

“Would you like to get some chow? I’ve got a little cash.”

“Thanks, but I’m really fried. I’m not used to cops chewing on my ass and pissed-off fathers pounding on my face.”

“We could order in. You look like you need a good meal.”

“Actually, I got dinner taken care of.”

I hadn’t seen much food in the refrigerator, so I took it as a sign that he wanted me gone.

I stood over him, scratching Maggie’s golden head.

“You going to be all right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be OK.”

He offered me an unconvincing smile.

I moved my hand from Maggie’s head to Danny’s and ran my fingers through his shaggy hair. He didn’t seem to mind.

“I can come by again?”

“Sure. Give me a call. I could use the company.”

I was at the door when he spoke again.

“Hey, Ben. Thanks for helpin’ me out with DeWinter.”

His eyes held me for a moment. They were filled with more than curiosity this time.

I went out trying to put a name on the emotion I saw in them, without success.

*

A white van pulled into the driveway of the ugly yellow apartment house as I was climbing into the Mustang. The words “Project Angel Food” were stenciled on the side, along with the logo of an angel holding up a plate with a heart in the center.

The driver got out and pulled open the rear doors. He was a dark-featured Asian in his forties, probably Filipino, on the soft and effeminate side, and buoyant with energy.

I watched him remove a sealed tin container from a thermal hotbox, close the doors, and start for the stairs.

“Excuse me.”

He stopped at the first step, waiting.

“Is that for Reza JaFari?”

“Someone else, I’m afraid. Same apartment, though.”

His voice was light and musical. I recognized the cadences of Tagalog, the primary language of the Philippines. One heard it a lot in nearby Filipinotown.

“Someone else,” I echoed.

“Yes.”

Everything was coming together very quickly. Project Angel Food was a nonprofit organization that delivered free meals to shut-ins with AIDS and HIV. Jacques had been one of them, during the last year of his life.

“I guess it’s for Danny, then.”

He answered with a question.

“Are you a friend?”

I nodded. He glanced at the covered meal in his hands.

“We have a nice chicken marsala this evening, with broiled garlic potatoes and mixed sautéed vegetables on the side. A whole-grain roll and butter. And a delicious apple cobbler for dessert.”

He raised his eyes toward the upstairs apartment.

“How is Danny doing?”