The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set Page 11

  Raimundo supposed they hung out where he had hung out as a delinquent.

  “Take me there,” Rowe said.

  They walked to a grotto below town where, Raimundo said, plans were laid, rendezvous kept, and alcohol drunk. He would not expect drug dealers, in the main, to hang out there, because they were grown-ups and had their own apartments.

  Three hostile-looking boys about thirteen years old were sprawled on the cool rock of the grotto, smoking Marlboro cigarettes.

  Raimundo immediately began talking Portuguese and laughing. The boys looked irritated, but what few brain cells of respect they possessed began firing, and they listened to old Raimundo. He launched into a story, fast and loud, which clearly had to do with dirty sex.

  When it was over the boys smirked politely and looked at the two adult men questioningly.

  Rowe pulled the miniature chess set he had packed in his luggage from his paper sack and opened it on a rock. The boys’ eyes opened wider, but they tossed their heads back and the one who appeared to be the leader—the one who took up the most space and held his belly most relaxed—said something roughly to Raimundo.

  Raimundo said, “What do we want? And do you have any electric music pods?”

  Taking a deep blue Duncan yo-yo out of his pocket, Rowe said, “Who makes up fake IDs around here?”

  Raimundo translated as the boys watched the yo-yo.

  Rowe slipped the loop on his finger and began limbering the ancient toy. The two subordinate boys looked at the leader to see if yo-yos were beneath their dignity. The leader remained neutral, and Rowe began to forcefully snap the yo-yo out and back, out and back, and they watched him. He snapped it straight down and made it sleep. He did half a dozen Around the Worlds, then five or six Rock the Babys. He would have done Walk the Dog, but you need a smooth floor for that.

  He did Eiffel Tower and Split the Atom, and the boys, still trying to appear affronted, gleamed out smiles, and, finally, laughter. Their fingers twitched.

  _____

  Rowe and Raimundo returned to the grotto the next day to meet the principal teenage forger in Ouro Prêto. Rowe brought wads of ten-real notes.

  He was surprised to see a girl of about fifteen hanging out with the boys, all of whom were working on their yo-yo tricks.

  Raimundo said, “This girl, she makes identifications card for the kids.”

  “Do the police,” asked Rowe, “really enforce the drinking age? What is it, eighteen?”

  “They don’t care very much,” Raimundo conceded.

  “But kids like having fake IDs,” Rowe said.

  “Yes. Her name is Maria Helena.”

  Rowe handed Maria Helena a wad of reals. She put the money down the front of her blouse and stared at Rowe. She wore a tight red skirt and red sandals, and her blouse was pale green with red trim. She looked like the other curvaceous girls who walked with their mothers or boyfriends in town, except she wore an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses pushed up on her head, which, along with the bright stylish clothes, gave her a distinct look—an L.A. look, Rowe thought. Her clothes were clean and her black hair lay in a thick coil over her shoulder. No matter how much eye shadow she applied, Rowe thought, she could not ruin those searching deep eyes.

  Rowe said, “Ask her who makes IDs for the grown-ups.” Before Raimundo could speak, she said sharply, “I do!”

  Rowe pretended to laugh at that. “You have a camera?”

  Her English came slowly. “I have three cameras and darkroom and computer and printer.” Her pronunciation wasn’t bad, though. “I have more of thing. Things. I have friends of mine also.”

  Rowe said, “Look at this, please.”

  Maria Helena sidled to him as he removed the mortuary photo of Richard Tenaway from his bag.

  He watched her face carefully as she looked at the photo. In an instant chaos broke out in the grotto.

  Maria Helena made a sound in her throat and fled, and the boys dropped their yo-yos and jumped George Rowe and Raimundo.

  Rowe fought quickly and carefully, using enough force to throw off the two boys who attacked him but not enough to hurt them badly. He cursed when one of them picked up a rock. He ducked, but the rock caught him on the shoulder.

  Raimundo held his own with the smallest boy, flurrying his fists in his face, until Rowe pulled the boy off and flung him down the hillside.

  Chapter 13 – Wistful for Pastrami

  LOS ANGELES

  Relying heavily on Daniel and my friend Yvonne, I was able to juggle Petey’s schedule and mine through the course of the murder trial. Yvonne was a makeup artist I’d met at a shoot for the Bank of America ads I’d modeled for. Her workdays usually started ungodly early but ended midafternoon, so on days when I couldn’t take a long enough lunch to transfer Petey from his preschool on Beverly Boulevard to afternoon daycare on Highland, she managed to.

  After the first week, I started working evenings with Team Eileen at Gary’s offices, and Daniel stepped in to pick up Petey from daycare (the fabulous Bear Care, in case you’re looking for a really good place with only analog toys like blocks and modeling clay and pogo sticks, no electronic diversions at all), run him in the park, then hang out with him at my place.

  I gave their incoming cell numbers distinctive tunes, which I listened for hyper-alertly when my phone was not on vibe, which it had to be in the courtroom. Yvonne’s was “The Trolley Song” in honor of her addiction to romantic happenstance, and Daniel’s was “Dancing Queen,” a fun and totally gay song I’d loved since I’d first heard it on a seventies retrospective on public radio.

  This tag-team setup barely worked, but it worked. Daniel and Yvonne were very good about not asking questions, and they both knew I’d make it up to them big time.

  I’d expected this intense schedule to exhaust me, but surprisingly it didn’t. I felt enlivened by the all the excitement and, I must again add, the money. Before the second week was out, my rent and bills were current, I had scored a new frying pan, and Petey had a new Spider-Man jacket for cool days.

  Now that the trial was under way, the sheriff’s department brought Eileen to the courthouse by bus every morning, along with whichever other female prisoners had court dates. They got them going early, around six, so now we met in her holding cell at the courthouse. It was a grim little chamber, with the obligatory deputy keeping an eye on us. I kept trying emotional-access techniques with Eileen and they kept not working. I started wondering about pure facial muscle control. We’d worked a little on body language, but in an organic, holistic way, not specifically. To think about abandoning the acting techniques I held in such reverence went against my grain, so more time passed than should have before I figured out a new way.

  During the late-night prep sessions at Gary’s offices, everyone talked over strategy, listened to the jury consultants who gave Gary a lot of commonsense insights, revised lists of questions for witnesses, drew what-if diagrams, speculated on the reactions of the judge and jury. Both Gary and Tracy Beck-Rubin respected Judge Davenport, whose job was legal referee, talk-show host, and papa figure all in one. He was like this little dark cloud up there on the bench, but when he said anything, it was like a cleansing rain. “No, Counsel, you’re trying to oversimplify. I’m going to let him frame it another way and if he does it right, I’ll allow it.” He was solicitous of the jury, who were like a school of guppies, all heads pointing this way, then that.

  I studied the snub-nosed Lisa Feltenberger and imitated her up to a point, but mostly I pretended to be a bit of a putz. “Oh, did we need that today? Yeah, I could go find it, probably, yeah. Hey, Lisa?” Vagueness worked.

  Rapidly I became Gary’s preferred sounding board. We found ourselves alone in the office after everyone else had gone home, talking, talking.

  _____

  “OK, well, call me if you need me,” said Mark Sharma as he backed toward Gary’s office door Friday night at the end of the second week.

  “Just take care of that pinche
d nerve,” said Gary. Mark had been telling us all about his lumbar trouble.

  “See you Monday,” I said cheerfully.

  Mark shot us a sweet look and left.

  “Go do some yoga,” Gary muttered as the door closed behind him.

  I snickered, then felt bad. “He’s such a little bonbon,” I said. “Like he wants to be your puppy.”

  “He gets on my nerves,” said Gary. “But he sure is good with chemistry—the toxicology and DNA.”

  “I keep thinking he should date Lisa.”

  “Oh, spare me an office romance. Can’t you fix him up with one of your friends?” Gary looked at his watch. “Hey, it’s nine o’clock and we haven’t eaten. How about you call in something from Jerry’s?”

  “Mm,” I said, picking up the phone. “I feel so wistful about their pastrami. But I’ll have the chopped salad again.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Gary. “I’m getting Greek.”

  We had discovered a common thread in our lives: dietary discipline.

  After I phoned in our order, I said, “I can allow myself a pastrami sandwich or an order of fries like once every six months. Plus I love chocolate, but.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m exactly the same way. If I have whatever I want I get so fat!”

  I laughed, he sounded so much like one of my girlfriends.

  I said, “But you’re so trim.”

  “Oh, no!” He laughed. “You’re the skinny one!”

  Music to my ears. “Oh, my BMI is eighteen-point-five,” I shared casually, “which is more than Kym LaFevre’s but less than Electra Stenhall’s.” (Kym being the supermodel and you’ve seen Electra in fifty percent of the decade’s noir films.) “I’d like it to be lower, but I go insane if I give up my microwave popcorn.”

  “My BMI is twenty-five,” Gary confided.

  I was semi-amazed that he even knew what BMI was, let alone cared about his. “For a guy, that’s quite low,” I told him. “You’re lower than Dirk Westaway, Chet Muldoon, and Hanson Krüg. They’re all in the high twenties. Even Vince Devereaux, I think.” I knew these statistics from Daniel, whose BMI was twenty-eight. Gary was pleased.

  We just clicked, that’s all.

  His phone buzzed and he glanced at the display, a smile lighting his face. “Hello, sweetheart.” Pause. “She is? Oh, now, listen”—Pause. “Now, Jade, I have to disagree with you on this. Mommy is not the meanest person in the whole world. There are millions of mommies who are much”—Pause. “Oh, my goodness. That does sound bad. Put her on, OK? Love you, sweetheart.”

  He went to the window and stood against its glossy blackness, facing out, his arm up on the glass.

  “And how’s your evening going?” he said. “Sounds like a bit of a power struggle.” Pause. “Well, you know enough not to let her win. Just tell her if she doesn’t settle down with one book or one doll, the bunny doll for example, you’re going to have to put the whole toy box away for a while. Then do it. She’ll settle down.” Pause. “Well, you have to follow through.” Pause. “I know. I know. It’s past her bedtime anyway.” Pause. “Yes, I can hear her. Tooth-brushing is not negotiable, of course not.”

  I smiled at his tone and cadence, so similar to the way he talked in court: measured, unhurried, clear.

  His back tensed. “I’m working.” His back relaxed. “Oh, really? I did two interviews today, which one was that? Oh? You’re being kind, I couldn’t have looked that good, I need a haircut! OK.” Pause. “Now, listen. Stop. Jacqueline. I—I can’t talk now. On the cell phone, you know.” His back tensed again. “I’ll be home as soon as I—”

  I saw my own face in the night-black window, looking strained. My cheekbones are alertly high, my chin small—though thank God not receding—and this really helps me look youthful. But strain looks bad on me. I composed my expression.

  Finally he said, “OK. You too.”

  Goddamn. He’s a loving, caring, smart dad, and his wife thinks he’s a good lay.

  My heart, instead of feeling squelched by this, only flamed higher with insane infatuation.

  Our salads came.

  As we ate we talked about how Tracy Beck-Rubin was going hard after Eileen’s socializing. She was calling all these witnesses who testified to seeing Eileen drunk in public (signifying Bad Mom) and how distraught she was when Richard died (to show how man-clingy she was). Then she was contrasting that with witnesses who told how calm Eileen was when Gabriella died (French for Uncaring Bitch, variant of Bad Mom).

  Looking at the prosecution’s witness list, Gary said, “She’s gonna call Samantha Jacobi next.” Wife of studio head Jake Jacobi, famous for his fleet of seven Gulfstream jets, one for every day of the week.

  “And Samantha Jacobi will say what good friends she used to be with Eileen.”

  “Right.”

  “And then she’ll shovel out the same crap, and—”

  “Exactly!” Gary said. “And I’m going to come back on cross with, uh, How many times have you fed information to the celebrity columns? And she’ll say, Why, what do you mean? And I’ll press her, and finally I’ll let her know I’ve got that phone list from LA BackChat, and then we’ll see what she says. I’ll make her look like the queen of backstabbers, you know?”

  “Excellent strategy, Gary.”

  “I think so.” He munched the rye toast that came with his salad and rolled his desk chair in his habitual back-and-forth pattern on the rug.

  “Want me to do any more research on that over the weekend? I have time.” Jeff was being better about doing weekends with Petey, which I didn’t know whether to be relieved or anxious about.

  “No, we’re set on that.” He paused. “But actually, I would like to have another graphic. You know, like a thermometer graph showing the number of times Mimi Pappas quoted her, you know, and the number of times that guy from BackChat said she called him.”

  I pictured that. “I think some of the jurors might take that as overkill,” I ventured. “Especially three and eleven.” I’d learned to refer to the jurors by their numbers. It was fun. “I mean, it’s—”

  “It’s a good idea, and we’re going to do it. I’ll get Lisa to put something together.”

  “But I was reading about California v. Trask, and the defense did something similar with the numbers of complaints against his subordinates, and it actually backfired.”

  Gary looked surprised, then irritated. He said, “Rita. Listen to me.” There was that rough tone of his again. He said, “I am dismissing your suggestion. I want a graphic on Samantha Jacobi’s big mouth. That’s it.”

  We ate in silence for a while. I didn’t mind that he didn’t care for my opinion; after all, I’d had about as much experience in the legal scene as he’d had breast-feeding.

  I started thinking about Jeff, because I was feeling for Gary the same feelings that used to course through me for Jeff when things were good. How long ago that seemed. If only the alcohol hadn’t gotten hold of him.

  He’d always blamed his drinking problem on his ‘upbeat personality’, which was bullshit, because in the first place his personality was not upbeat, but I could see how he rationalized that.

  He’d come home all happy about something—anything—getting a word of praise from his boss, or having avoided running over a chipmunk. Then he’d get blasted on tequila in celebration, and then he’d remember he was angry about something. His mood would turn in a second, and then he’d take it out on me.

  After we got to California I never felt safe when he was drinking. It was as if leaving our families in Wisconsin gave him license to forget himself. As if he knew my dad or brothers couldn’t just pop over in fifteen minutes and break his nose if I called for them. Not that I ever had. But still.

  Upbeat personality my ass.

  And yet, the good parts of the whole goddamn thing would creep, unbidden, into my mind at any time. The way Jeff looked when he came dripping out of the shower, so ripply and relaxed. How he used to let me massage his head wit
h rosemary oil and then his hair would be all Valentino-like. How we used to go down to the beach and find a cove just big enough for making love—until the tide crept up, then it was time to go get fried clams and cold beer at the shack off the Pacific Coast Highway and drive home so happy.

  How bitterly and finally that was all gone.

  But now, whenever I was with Gary, I felt that same security and happiness. Yes, it was insane. I was happy spending time with a solidly married guy who talked to me in a rough tone. I loved fantasizing about him, and I loved fantasizing about the possibility of Jacqueline getting a painless yet fast-acting tumor. Yes! Or what if he caught her cheating on him? Oh, he’d probably be understanding and give her another chance. I wondered how I might plant evidence of infidelity, like in her car or their bathroom. Can you believe how unprincipled I was? I didn’t even know where they lived. I’d never met the woman. Love can make you evil.

  Gary said, “Tracy thinks Detective Lahane”—the main cop in the case—“is all she needs, she thinks we’re going to be terribly damaged by him. She thinks the jury’s going to find him charismatic. A charismatic cop. Boy, she really hates me. She wants to break my—” He stopped, not wanting to finish the vulgarism.

  “She couldn’t,” I said quickly. “They’re too big!”

  He looked at me, his lips open, eyes darting. What a wench I was! Flirting with a married man, a married man who was also my boss, and who had a perfect alibi to be unfaithful? A man who’d said nothing to indicate he was unhappy with his wife?

  Except there was something.

  I swear there was something there. In his posture when he stood at the window talking to Jacqueline. He held that arm up as if to ward off a blow, to protect himself, or perhaps to hide himself. Did they have some kind of reverse-domination thing going on, perchance?

  The office building was very quiet at this hour. My words about his balls hung in the air, unaddressed.

  After a few eons-long seconds, he cleared his throat and said, “So I think I’ll focus in cross on Detective Lahane’s outstanding skill at convincing the DA to bring capital charges on circumstantial evidence.”