Blood Orange

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  This book is for Thor

  1973–2011

  brave heart,

  sweet soul

  Your absence has gone through me

  Like thread through a needle.

  Everything I do is stitched with its color.

  —W. S. Merwin

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Postscript

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Lili Molina was alone in the dressing room, the last to finish, taking her time. She slipped on the elbow-length gloves with their fingers of leaves and bent twigs. Daphne’s fingers, a sign of the Greek nymph’s transformation from girl into tree. A living death, horrible really. Yet only Lili seemed to see it that way.

  A drum out in the central workroom rapped a call to attention. She stepped from behind the screen and paused before the tall mirror, captivated by the beauty of the young woman gazing back at her. For the first time in many hours, Lili smiled.

  Streams of bright copper twined through her dark hair. Her brown skin shimmered with gold dust, and layers of silver diaphanous netting floated over her apparently naked body. Underneath the netting Lili wore an opaque body stocking, but you could hardly tell. Her figure—ordinary in real life, she thought—looked stunning in the costume, all its imperfections somehow transformed.

  More drums joined the summons. Lili’s spirits warmed, then flared like red roses. She flounced the netting, flicked her hair over her shoulders, and skipped out to the hall.

  Everyone gathered in the cavernous workroom—the dancers, tailors, makeup artists and float builders—burst into applause as she entered. She stepped up to join Jared, now dressed as Apollo, on the float platform. The mambo beat surged faster and louder. Lili kissed two fingertips and held them to her medallion, the image of La Virgen de Guadalupe, resting as always in the hollow of her throat.

  Then the big double doors burst open, and the magnificent Apollo Guild float trundled out under a fierce solstice sun. It was high noon.

  * * *

  The sun had scorched a path westward by the time Lili recrossed the pavement on foot, inserted her key in the lock, and tugged open one of the heavy doors. Now the Guild workshop was still and semi-dark, lit only by light sifting down from the high clerestory windows. Behind her, the door thudded shut.

  So many happy hours spent here. Six months working on the float and costumes, singing and dancing and ordering in pizza. And three weeks ago, right here in this room, the announcement was made: Lili was selected to be Daphne, exactly the way she’d dreamed. Smiling at the memory, she began to thread her way through the tables and sawhorses scattered about the dim open space, heading for the dressing room in the east wing. Then she heard something.

  A tapping sound was coming from one of the cell-like rooms in the back. Lili halted and held her breath, listening. Who would be working during Solstice, with the party in full swing up at Alameda Park?

  But then she understood. It was Danny, of course. It could only be Danny Armenta. Relieved, she turned and entered the narrow hall on her right.

  “Danny?” she called. “It’s me, Lili. Danny, are you here?” She reminded herself not to startle him—he was so easily frightened these days.

  When she arrived at Danny’s tiny work space, he was looking expectantly at the open doorway. But confusion clouded his expression when he saw her. It was her makeup, Lili realized, the gold skin paint, sequins, and glitter.

  “It’s me, Danny—Lili. Just me in my costume, OK?” She wagged a leafy hand at him playfully. “I came back to change.”

  Danny’s expression cleared. “Hi Lili.”

  “Guess you didn’t see me when I got on the float. Otherwise you’d’ve of known it was me.”

  “No, I…” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I stayed in here.”

  Danny was still cute. Still had that reddish-brown hair and those light hazel eyes. He was heavier now—probably from the meds he had to take—but it didn’t totally wreck his looks.

  “What are you doing?” She nodded at the hammer in his hand.

  Danny looked at a pastel chalk drawing tacked to the wall. “Hanging that up.”

  “Wow—is that … me?”

  He studied the portrait. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s you.”

  “It’s way too beautiful.”

  He squinted at her, obviously puzzled. “But that’s—that’s what you look like.”

  “I wish.” Lili laughed. “But thanks. Thanks for drawing me and making me look so pretty.”

  “I worked on it when nobody was around. For about two weeks.” Danny tugged at his old baseball cap. Santa Barbara High School Dons. Once maroon, it was nearly gray now. The brim was caked in grease where he’d lifted it, maybe a thousand times.

  Lili had never seen him without his cap. He’d played first base, and some guy told her once that Danny Armenta was the best hitter the Dons ever had. But that was two years ago.

  Danny had abruptly dropped out of school in his senior year. He’d seemed really confused for nearly six months, and then—at eighteen—he’d totally lost it. Mental, all the kids whispered.

  Mental. A scary word. A word that didn’t fit him, as far as Lili was concerned. And never would.

  “I gotta go change out of my costume. But then, do you want to go back up to the park with me? There’s music and food and tons of people.…” But she saw Danny’s face tighten. Noise and tons of people—not what he liked, she realized, not at all.

  “Um … I just want to stay here.” He picked up a stick of pumpkin-colored chalk and rubbed it fretfully on the back of his hand. “OK?”

  “Sure it’s OK. Listen, I’m going to the dressing room. When I’m finished I’ll come and say bye.” Then Lili did something she’d never done before: she planted a sisterly kiss on Danny’s cheek.

  He took a step back and averted his gaze. But she didn’t take it personally. She understood it bothered him a little to be touched, even just a hand on his arm.

  * * *

  The dressing room door cried its usual suffering sound when Lili opened it. The high-ceilinged space seemed ghostly this afternoon, the open alcoves bulging with costumes from past solstice celebrations. The lone window, frosted glass over wire netting, was shoved open, and a whisper of a breeze flowed into the room, stirring the air. A good idea, she thought: the dressing room always smelled so funky.

  Lili closed the door behind her, then stood before the mirror one last time. Daphne … She admired once more her silky gold skin, flashing eyes. For nearly a year she’d secretly longed to be Daphne. And then, the unbelievable miracle: she was chosen. From that moment on, everything was perfect … except for last night.

  She turned away from the mirror. Hurry up and change, the
n go back to the park and have fun, she ordered herself. This is your time, don’t let anything spoil it.

  Lili lifted her street clothes from her locker, carried them behind the folding screen, and set them on an old wooden chair. For the last time, she slipped out of the leafy gloves and draped them over the chair back. Then, carefully, Lili raised the layers of silver netting over her head. She folded the netting, placed it under the gloves, and began to peel the body stocking from her arms, first the left, then the right.

  The spandex was tight and she worked slowly, taking care not to snag the knit fabric on her sparkly gold fingernails. Lili rolled the stocking down to her waist, over her hips to her knees.

  She reached out a hand to the chair to steady herself—and halted at the sound of a sharp click.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” Her voice quavered.

  No one answered, and Lili felt foolish. The old building was heating up in the sun, that was all. She bent down again and reached to her calf.

  “Bitch!”

  Lili was seized from behind by strong arms. She screamed, and something rough was forced in her mouth. She bit down hard, closed on coarse filthy leather.

  “You dirty slut.”

  Lili grew limp with fright and in that instant she was smashed face-first to the concrete floor. Her nose crumpled, erupting in a gush of blood. She gasped to breathe, sucked in blood and choked on it. Then she gathered her strength and forced the leather from her mouth, screaming once more. But as she struggled to rise to her knees, the full weight of his body dropped down on her back.

  Now Lili fought with every ounce of her strength. But both her legs were trapped in the stocking and the smothering weight pressing down on her was much greater than her own. Something slithered around her neck and slowly tightened— No—no—she did not want to—did not want to— Please help me, dear God!

  “Feel that? Do what I say or I’ll kill you,” he hissed in her ear. “Now keep your filthy mouth shut.” His breath was hot on her cheek.

  So, it was him. It was him after all. Petrified, stunned, Lili grew still. She knew he would rape her. But she would live, she would live. She heard him breathe thickly as he fumbled with his pants—

  Dear God, did she hear someone knocking at the window?

  She tried to scream, but the cord bit into her neck. Only a gurgle came from her throat.

  Again she heard the soft knock. She listened hard and prayed … tried to call out … and the knocking grew faint.

  “Didn’t I tell you, shut up? Didn’t I say, do what I tell you or die?” He whispered in her ear, whispered like a lover from hell as the ligature tightened.

  Chapter Two

  I wove my bike in and out of the flotsam deposited the night before: smashed cascarones, confetti, splashes of candy-colored vomit. It was the morning after Solstice, and I’d managed to avoid the frivolities. At thirty-seven, I was apparently too old to hear the siren call.

  Rounding a corner, I cruised to a stop in front of 101 West Mission, lugged the faded blue Schwinn over the curb and up the cracked steps of the 1930s bungalow court. Two years before, when I’d opened for business, I’d screwed a shiny brass plaque to the board facing the street: JAYMIE ZARLIN, SANTA BARBARA INVESTIGATIONS—SUITE D. Thanks to the salt-infused air, the plaque was already tarnished.

  I wheeled my bike down the crushed shell path, heading for the back. Reborn in the sixties as a collection of tiny offices, 101 West Mission was moldy, its stucco walls crumbling. Shimmery clouds of termites filled the courtyard after every warm rain. But the rent was low, extra low if you signed the disclaimer.

  Not low enough, though. And today I’d promised myself I’d do the accounts—what there were of them—and face the music.

  “Ever heard of the early bird?”

  I halted in my tracks. Perched on the top step to suite D was a short plump Mexican woman wearing a nylon tracksuit, hot pink trimmed in silver and black. “Jaymie Zarlin?” she said. “Santa Barbaria Investigations?”

  Barbaria? Was this some kind of joke? “Santa Barbara Investigations,” I corrected.

  “You sure?” The woman, somewhere around fifty, put a hand to her lower back and grimaced as she got to her feet. She reached into her pants pocket, managed to extract a bent card with two fingers, and held it out to me. “Your eyes. They’re two different colors.”

  “Last time I looked, that was the case.” I rested the heavy old cruiser against my thigh and read my own business card, the card I’d been handing out for nearly two years now. Jaymie Zarlin, Santa Barbaria Investigations. “Where did you get this?” I spoke sternly, as if I were the victim of a misspelling conspiracy.

  “From a cop. Big guy, sexy? Dawson, I think. Pretty sure he likes you. I can see why—except for those eyes and maybe the way you are dressed, you’re a chica guapa.”

  A beautiful girl? She was flattering me: I knew damn well what I looked liked. Yep, my eyes were different, all right: one was an innocent blue and the other a sly and cynical green. My olive complexion was scattered with obstinate freckles left over from childhood, and I preferred to tether my horsey brown hair into a no-nonsense ponytail. Too serious to be pretty, I’d have said. Just good-looking enough to get by.

  But what the hell was wrong with my black jeans, tennies, and best vintage T-shirt? I coolly decided to not take the bait. “Mike Dawson? Sure, I know the guy.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet you do.” The woman held open the screen door and waited as I bolted my bike to the wrought-iron banister. “By the way, I’m Gabi Gutierrez. Let’s go inside, OK? And could I please have a glass of water? I’ve been here one hour and it’s so hot, the sweat’s rolling down the crack in my butt.” Relentless, she followed hard on my heels.

  Suite D’s signature perfume of damp plaster and dry-rot welcomed us as we stepped inside. I tossed my bag on the desk and began to ease up one of the brittle old window blinds. Then I jumped: a tiny wizened face peered at me through the glass.

  “Deadbeat! Crawk! Deadbeat!” The screech was loud enough to drown out a siren. The repo woman next door had parked her yellow and green parrot outside, tethering it by one scaly leg to a perch. As usual, the bird flapped itself into a frenzy at the sight of me.

  “Kinda musty in here. Want me to open the windows?” Ms. Gutierrez didn’t wait for an answer but proceeded to snap up the rest of the blinds and raise the sashes. “Whoa, look at that dust! And that bird—pft! Ugly as sin.”

  She leaned out the window and shook a warning finger at the parrot. I stared past her in disbelief: Deadbeat was studiously, silently polishing his beak on his perch.

  I headed for the kitchen, sneaking a backward glance as I went. The woman was running a speculative finger over my desk and smiling.

  “You should get a new bicycle, aluminum,” she called after me. “Something lighter than that old thing. How many rooms you got here?”

  “Rooms?” I returned with a glass of water and handed it to her. Then I dropped into my office chair, assuming what I trusted was an authoritative position behind the desk. “Three including the bathroom, I guess. By the way, what you called ‘that old thing’ is the bike I got in fifth grade. I earned it with my babysitting money.”

  “OK, I get it. It’s special to you.” Her eyes roved the walls, taking in the sum of my decor: a creased map of Santa Barbara, last year’s tide calendar, and a shadow box holding mounted butterflies. “This place needs the creative touch. Some nice velvet curtains maybe, I know a lady on San Andres who sews them really—”

  “Ms. Gutierrez?” I’d wrangled the papers scattered across the desktop into a stack. Now I anchored the stack with a chunk of sandstone. “How may I help you?”

  “Please, call me Gabi.” She sat down in the client’s chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, yesterday … my sister’s boy Danny … Danny, he … Dios mío.”

  Ms. Gutierrez dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her hot-pink top. I located a box of tissues and placed it in front of her on th
e desk. “Just take your time.”

  “Sorry.” She yanked out a tissue and trumpeted. “I guess I had to let everything go.”

  “When you’re ready.”

  “OK, I’m ready. I’m here for Alma, my little sister. And for her kid Danny, but mostly for Alma.” She drew in a deep breath, let it out. “See, I raised all my brothers and sisters. I got six, one is dead. Alma, she was the little one, the sweet one. And then she fell in love with a mean guy and I couldn’t stop her. She had some really bad years.…”

  The narrative was wandering. “Is this about him, Ms. Gutierrez? The mean guy?”

  “Call me Gabi. No, that one is long gone, gracias a Dios,” she glowered. “Alma had three kids with him before she got free. Chuy, Aricela, and Danny. Danny’s the oldest, he’s eighteen. My sister says he’s sick. To me he’s just crazy. Loco!” The word ricocheted around the small room like a bouncy ball.

  I cleared my throat. Crazy, loco—I detested those words. “So this is about your nephew, who is mentally disabled?”

  Gabi Gutierrez was quiet, staring off into space. When she met my eyes, I saw that her anger was gone and only sadness remained. “Don’t get me wrong. Danny was a great kid, my favorite nephew growing up. But I just don’t—don’t know if maybe he did it.”

  I pushed back my chair, got up, and walked over to the window. Devil bird caught sight of me and stuck out his pointy black tongue.

  “Look, Ms.… Gabi.” I turned back to the room. “I guess Deputy Dawson didn’t explain what I do. I’m an investigator, not a detective. I find missing people, that’s pretty much it. So unless your nephew’s missing, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong person.”

  “No!” Gabi jumped up, sending her handbag toppling. A jumble of objects fell to the floor: purple-handled scissors, a pink cell phone, a fat bundle of coupons in a money clip.

  “You are the right one, I already know it. Listen to me: Danny—they say he killed a girl! Two kids found him yesterday, sitting by her body, covered in blood. She was Lili Molina, a good girl, Danny’s friend. Maybe even his only friend. I don’t think Danny would hurt a bug, but what do I know? He’s—he’s mentally disabled now. And this is killing my sister, she can’t move. I mean it. Alma cannot get out of her bed.”