South by Southeast (47 page)

“Did you see a white light?” Chela asked me from her chair beside my bed. She and Bernard had driven to the hospital as soon as they got the 2:00
A.M.
call, and he was in the commissary fetching her breakfast. Instead of South Beach Chela, she had her hair in pigtails that made her look fifteen again; Bernard brought out the kid in her. I knew Chela would be fine without me, but we were both glad she didn't have to hurry to grow up.

“No white light,” I said.

“There's this chemical your body produces at the time of death called dimethyltryptamine, right? They call it DMT, like a psychedelic. Did you feel a rush?” The girl had become a death scholar.

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

April was at my window, peeking down at the crowd. I didn't have to turn on the television to know that the media had descended upon Good Samaritan Hospital to capture the latest twist in the Gustavo Escobar story. I could hear the helicopters beating overhead. The story never died. “Dimethyl . . . what?” April said. “Where'd you hear that?”

“The internet.” Chela turned back to me. “Did you see the Captain? Your mother?”

I fought not to sigh. I understood Chela's new fascination with death—she'd lost a friend, her grandfather, a mother figure, and nearly me in what seemed like days—but I didn't have any happy endings to share with her. Except . . .

“I thought I heard my father's voice, maybe,” I said. “I just wanted you and April to be safe. That's all I remember.”

“His heart never stopped, Chela,” April reminded her. “Just his breathing.”

Chela looked disappointed. “Oh. Right.”

Across the room, April mouthed a word at me, gesturing toward Chela:
Ther-a-py
.

I smiled and nodded. Smiles came easily. My agent, Len, had a romance with painkillers after his divorce; I made a mental note to toss away my prescription bottles before I got too cozy.

A knock sounded at the door, and Chela and April leaped to stand between me and the next visitor. Anyone who thinks a hospital is a good place to rest hasn't tried to rest in one.

The door cracked open, and April practically slammed it shut.

“Who is it?” April said.

“Um . . . Detective Lydia Hernandez,” said a voice I had once known.

“Hell no,” Chela said. “No cops.”

Despite surgery, I'd spent ninety minutes giving RHD my statement at four in the morning, and April had finished her own interview separately. Every detective who heard our story knew our mysterious shooter was bullshit, that we were protecting someone, but they couldn't shake us. The dead body in the tar pit had been positively identified as Gustavo Escobar, which was the most important thing. At least they had a trophy.

But I recognized the voice at the door despite my narcotic haze. “Wait. Let her in.”

Lieutenant Hernandez was wearing office attire in the colors of Miami, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. Her smile reminded me of everything I had once loved about Miami. The woman was twice as gorgeous as the vase of lilies she'd brought me. The last time I'd seen her, my father had been safe in his South Beach hotel room with his new bride.

“
Hola,
Tennyson,” she said.

April had a jealous streak, and I glanced in her direction, ready to explain that I'd only met Detective Hernandez once during a dead end in my investigation. But April was the first one shaking her hand, guiding her inside, returning her smile, fawning over the
flowers. After all, I'd nearly died trying to save April—and no pretty face could touch that.

“Hello, Detective,” I said.

“Please,” she said. “Call me Lydia, both of you. I'm so sorry about your ordeal. But at least he's gone now.” She avoided mentioning Escobar by name, gazing at the cast on April's wrist. “I came to thank you. Again. I just wish I'd . . .” She sighed, shaking her head as she cast her head down. “
Nuestro Tío Fidel
meant so much to my parents. To so many people. I still don't understand how they were the same man.”

“Art isn't the artist,” April said quietly. “One day, maybe we'll all figure that out.”

Not likely,
I thought. When artists move us, we don't want to believe the worst about them, because we don't want to reject anything we love. How much longer would Escobar have stalked his victims if he hadn't made the mistake of hiring me for his film?

“When I came to you, I didn't give you much to go on,” I told Hernandez. My voice was still slightly hoarse from the harshness of the tar pit. “Let it go, Lydia. I think you told me something like that once. Get a hobby?”

Lydia Hernandez gave me a grateful smile. We both knew she would have hesitated to interview Escobar even if I had come with fingerprints and a confession. But the past is the past.

“I hope it's all right, but I brought a date,” Hernandez said. “The brass from LAPD who convinced me to talk to you wants to come pay his respects.”

Before any of us could object, the door peeked open again, and Lieutenant Rodrick Nelson came in. He was wearing the dress uniform he'd worn to Dad's funeral, including his gloves, his face grim. I should have realized that Dad had called Nelson from Miami to clear my way with South Beach police.

“Hate to disappoint you, but he didn't kill me,” I told Nelson.

Nelson didn't answer my joke. Instead, he reached over to
shake my hand. I admit I hesitated, but I gave him his handshake. He then turned to shake April's good hand and kissed her wrist like Prince Charming. One look at Chela told him not to bother trying with her, but he gave her a friendly nod.

“I won't stay long,” Nelson said. His eyes were so tired he might have been up all night. “I owe you an apology. And it's not the first time.” Nelson wasn't good at apologizing. His lips were so tight the words could barely squeeze out. It was painful to watch.

“Man, don't,” I said. “If the chief sent you in here to kiss my ass—”

Nelson couldn't deny it. I saw the glimmer in his eyes. He sighed and checked behind him to make sure the door was closed. Then he tossed his black hat to the foot of my bed and yanked off his white gloves one by one. “You're right,” he said. “This is bullshit. Excuse my language, ladies.”

“Bullshit?” Chela said, but I raised my hand to shush her. I didn't want a fight to break out in my room and mess with my peaceful vibe. Who knew when I would find another one?

Nelson stepped closer to stand directly over me. “Yeah, Tennyson. Bullshit,” he said. “Because I don't need the chief's office to tell me when to do what's right. I don't want to be here disturbing you and your family right now. But since I'm here, I'm gonna lay it out straight for you—not some damage control the chief's office cooked up so you won't talk shit to CNN.”

He held out his hand for a shake again. I only stared, confused.

“From me,” Nelson said. “I'm sorry.”

This time, when I took Nelson's hand, he didn't let me go. He held on as he gazed at me. “You know I haven't liked some of your choices, especially when it came to Preach,” he said, not blinking. “You're not always my kind of man, but you're definitely Preach's son. He was proud of you. And he was right; you'd make a hell of a cop, brother.”

“Thanks.” Until that moment, I hadn't realized he was the closest thing I'd ever have to a brother.

Nelson nodded and punched my shoulder, gently. “Get better, Tennyson,” he said. “Your family's safe now. You shot that sonofabitch right between the eyes.”

“Actually . . .” April began dutifully, remembering our script. “Ten didn't . . .”

Nelson grinned at me, winking. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

“Is this a signature from Sidney Poitier?” Gloria Forrest asked me, her mouth in a shocked O. “Bill, come look at this!”

April's parent hadn't made it beyond my foyer without gawking. I glanced at the space through their new eyes: lovely Mexican tiles on the floors and framed one-sheet and two-sheet movie posters from a bygone era.
A Raisin in the Sun. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. In the Heat of the Night.

I'd met April's parents briefly at the hospital, but I hadn't hosted them at my house until Marcela threw a dinner party the night I was released. I was in far from a party mood, but it seemed appropriate. They had flown to L.A. because of what had happened to April, so they might as well get to know their daughter's boyfriend. We were meeting her brothers for lunch the next day. April and I were in new territory.

“Oh, yeah, Mom, there's so much Hollywood history in here,” April said. “Ten has an amazing collection. This house is a museum.”

April gave me a coy smile while her parents marveled over the vintage movie posters. Of course, she hadn't mentioned that I had inherited much of the house's collection from a former client who had been old enough to be my grandmother. But the house had
been mine for years. Alice's collection wasn't on display for anyone but me.

“Now, see here?” her father said, gesturing toward the
Raisin
poster. “Sidney Poitier! What a hero. There was nobody, you hear? He carried it all by himself. Seems like we've gone backward sometimes. I almost can't make myself go see a black movie anymore.”

Dad and April's father could have had a long conversation about
that
.

“Yessir,” I said. “My dad and I must have watched every Poitier movie ever made.”

“It's good to meet a young man who cares about history, Tennyson,” he said.

April was so excited she bit her lip. She took her mother by the hand, leading her into the living room. “Wait until you see his screening room,” she said.

Marcela fixed
arroz con pollo
and fried plantains, so the house smelled too good to chat long before we sat to eat. Chela and Bernard sat beside the Forrests. When April's mother said it was time to say grace and said we should hold hands, we all bowed our heads. Dad had usually said grace, and a feeling of empty sadness so deep and wide came over me that I thought I would have to excuse myself from the table. But it rattled through me and moved on.

“Dear Lord,” she said. “Thank you for bringing us all together and for the bravery of the young man at this table, who nearly died to help my child.”

“Amen,” Gloria Forrest and April said together.

“We don't like everything you've put before us on this path, Lord. We don't understand it all. But we trust in you and your will, and we will remember the lesson that tomorrow is not promised. Thank you for this meal prepared with love. Amen.”

I wondered if her reference to not liking everything on her path meant our recent tragedies or just me. She avoided my eyes as she
reached for the pitcher of water, so I guessed the latter. I'd thought I would have a harder time getting April's father to warm up to me, but her mother might be the challenge.

That was fine, though. We had time.

“So . . . Shelly?” April's mother said, fumbling with Chela's name. Chela corrected her. Mrs. Forrest looked embarrassed. “I'm sorry, Chela. What are your plans for the future?”

That was Chela's least favorite question, but it didn't show in her face. Her eyes stayed overly bright. “Well, this is an industry town, so I'll probably get an internship for a production company like my boyfriend,” she said. “He's already making contacts for me.”

That was news to me. I glanced up at Bernard, who could barely contain a smug smile. He had fought against Chela's defenses for a long time, and she had finally let him in. Maybe it was a Hardwick family trait.

“I see,” April's father said. He looked troubled. “So you want to get straight into movies or television like Tennyson?”

“Oh, I don't think I want to act,” Chela said. “I'm thinking the management track.”

A crinkle at the edge of Mr. Forrest's mouth said that Chela had just jumped four notches on his esteem chart.

“But I haven't even chosen a major yet. I'm thinking law or economics.” Another notch. Chela glanced at me as if to say,
How's that?

“That reminds me,” I told Chela. “You need to work on that application. We can go online and find one tonight. Maybe you can get in for the spring term.”

Irritation flickered behind Chela's smile. “Sure . . . Dad. But don't forget, college is expensive. I won't have any scholarships or anything.”

“You let me worry about that,” I said.

I didn't know what the impact of Mother's legal issues would
be on her estate, but it was hard to prosecute the dead. Melanie, my lawyer, had called to give me the details of Mother's will, and I definitely would have more than enough to put Chela through college. The inheritance was in my name, but Chela would have a good portion waiting for her when she turned twenty-one. I hadn't mentioned it yet. I was waiting for the right moment. The right leverage. Maybe it was time. Mother didn't have enough money to pay Chela for what she'd taken from her, but it would be a good start in life.
Pozdrav, Mother
, I thought.