Dragon Fruit Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Karen Keskinen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Postscript

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Karen Keskinen

  The Jaymie Zarlin Mysteries

  BLOOD ORANGE

  BLACK CURRENT

  DRAGON FRUIT *

  * available from Severn House

  DRAGON FRUIT

  Karen Keskinen

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Karen Keskinen.

  The right of Karen Keskinen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8624-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-728-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-789-9 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A raised glass of Santa Barbara County Noir and a resounding Cheers! to my talented and skilled editor at Severn House, Faith Black Ross. Faith, how fortunate I am to find myself seated at your table! Thanks also to my agent, Becca Stumpf, for sticking by me through thin and thick. Becca, you are still whip-smart, warm-hearted, and wise! Also, I want to express my appreciation to Leonard Tourney, for his keen-eyed assessment of the manuscript at an early stage; and to Sasha Gray, for generously sharing her thoughtful insights regarding a life-path I needed to better understand.

  This time around, my gratitude and a tip of my hat to various members of the Reich clan: Ted and Wendy, true leaders in their wide circle of family, community, and friends; Adrian & Danielle, who somehow manage to solve the mysteries of science while sunning on Florida’s white sands; Matthieu & Gerly, forging all our futures through solar engineering in Silicon Valley; Brigitte, translating computerese to rest of the world with one hand while navigating the icy waters of San Francisco Bay withthe other; Dr Ellen, helping some of those who need help the most; Chris, rowing his way all the way to the top; and Kyle, hell-bent on quests few of us can match. Thanks also to my old pal Mary Susan Richardson, for her steadfast friendship and forgiving nature. I am grateful to each and every one of you for your support, inspiration, and love.

  I wish also to express my gratitude to Rev. Suzanne Dunn and Rev. Jeannette Bertalan Love, pastors of the Catholic Church of the Beatitudes, Santa Barbara. Thank you for being the good sports that you are, and allowing me to portray a Woman Priest in this book! It has been an honor to witness you both as you journey towards equality for all, through faith and inclusive love.

  PROLOGUE

  February

  The Beach at More Mesa, Santa Barbara

  He curled into his sleeping bag to hide from the voices. So, they were back. They’d followed him from downtown and now they were harassing him again, here on the steep hillside overlooking the Pacific.

  Darren opened his eyes. The voices had never spoken in Spanish before.

  He pulled the sleeping bag flap from his head and lifted up on an elbow. Then he rose to his feet and looked over the dense thicket of coyote brush to the path.

  They were out there all right. Not in his head. A three-quarter moon glared down on the men as they struggled up the cliff face, each bent forward under an over-sized load. They slogged up the path step by labored step, sighing as they climbed.

  When the three men had passed, Darren turned to look down at the beach directly below. An open boat, around twenty feet long, was drawn up on the sand. A pair of big outboard motors were tipped up at the stern. A panga boat – Darren was pretty sure that’s what it was. And the guys that rode in them – they called them pangeros.

  There was something special about the boat. The stern remained in the water, and a thick ring of blue phosphorescence, shining with a strange light, circled the rear of the boat like an unholy halo. What did that mean?

  Four times in all the men ascended the narrow path. Three times four: twelve bales in all. And on the fourth ascent, a voice shouted in English from up on the cliff top: ‘Move it you fucking assholes!’

  Darren froze.

  He knew that voice. That blaring voice, and the mouth and the face that went with it. The cop was mean. He was one of the reasons Darren had left town and walked all the way from the marina to this cliff below More Mesa.

  Now he tried to not breathe.

  But not breathing did something to his throat. He coughed, he couldn’t help it. And then the night grew still. He prayed over and over: Please God, don’t let them find me …

  For once his prayer worked. He heard the cop say something in English, then repeat it in Spanish. One of the men answered, but already their voices seemed farther away.

  Darren waited five minutes. He was pretty sure he had the place to himself because an owl called, soft yet loud: hoo, hoo-hoo …

  He stepped out of the bag and inched closer to the path. He wanted to take a look at the panga boat, to see if the pangeros had left anything useful behind.

  Just as he stepped into the open, he heard a crashing above. One of the men must have returned. Darren slipped back into the brush just in time. A minute later a pangero tore down the zigzag as fast as he could go without falling. He came within a few yards of Darren, but the guy was conc
entrating on his feet and the path and saw nothing.

  Darren watched as the man ran across the sand and crouched over the small boat. When he straightened, he held a bundle under one arm. Then the pangero turned and set off east along the south-facing beach, jogging into the dark.

  What was going on? Darren thought he’d heard something weird: the cry of a cat. So the man had what, picked up a cat?

  Most things in the world weren’t what they appeared to be. You might as well just accept it: Darren knew that by now. He’d learned it the hard way.

  He still wanted to see into the boat, the little boat crowned by the ring of blue fire. But he hesitated: somebody else might show.

  Sure enough, a minute later, another crash sounded above him. He turned and looked up the trail. Now a tall woman in heels was making her way down. She too was moving as fast as she could, and as she passed by Darren’s hiding place, her long black hair swung forward, obscuring her face. She slipped and nearly fell, then caught and righted herself and clambered on.

  When she reached the sand, the woman kicked off her heels and raced across the beach to the boat. She sank to her knees and bent over the hull.

  All was quiet for a time. Then, the woman screamed.

  The scream was terrible, anguished. Darren felt like his heart had stopped. He remembered a scream like that: he’d heard it the night his mother had found his sister hanging from a rafter in the garage.

  He put his hands over his ears to block out the unbearable sound, just as he’d done that night long ago.

  The tall woman remained bent over the open boat. She seemed to have a flashlight now. Maybe it was a phone. Darren watched as she climbed into the boat, knelt down and shined the light into every corner.

  Then the woman lurched to her feet. She had something small cupped in her left hand. She focused the flashlight beam onthe object.

  After what seemed like a long time, she stepped back onto the sand. She trudged back across the beach, one dragging step after another, and climbed the path.

  Darren didn’t want to look into her eyes as she passed close by him. But he did, he couldn’t help it. He peered through the scrub and looked into her face, and he saw the suffering written there. He recognized that raw torment, he remembered it in his mother’s face. Some shadow of it had never gone away.

  Except … except in this case it wasn’t her face, or her torment. It was his. That was one thing Darren was pretty sure of: this woman wasn’t a woman, but a man.

  ONE

  The morning was pure and bright, as only a morning in the first weeks of spring can be. I biked to my downtown office, skimming through the streets like a bird. It was a poem of a morning, lilting, full of promise.

  I pulled my Schwinn up in front of the bungalow court at 101 West Mission. As I straddled the bike and doubled the band on my ponytail, I studied the sign that read, among other things, SANTA BARBARA INVESTIGATION AGENCY. Something large, an owl or a gull, had splattered the board. I was in such a magnanimous mood that I felt honored: mine was the only business on the board that nature had thus anointed.

  But as I wheeled my bike into the courtyard, somehow themorning’s promise soured. I don’t believe in premonitions, so I can’t tell you what it was that altered the mood. Maybe it was just too quiet. No tiny frogs chirped in the old concrete fountain my office manager, Gabi Gutierrez, had resurrected. Nothing scuttled in the leaf litter or chattered from the flower bracts of the giant bird of paradise.

  I cabled my bike to the wrought iron banister and climbed the three steps. Pulling open the screen door, I let it bang against my back as I shoved the key into the stiff lock of the main door. Inside, all was dark and still.

  I left the solid door open to let in the fresh morning air, drew up the blinds and lifted the window sashes. It was still early and Deadbeat, my neighbor’s parrot, had yet to take charge of his outdoor perch. The African Grey was indoors, no doubt scheming under a tablecloth.

  I walked through to the kitchenette and raised the blind looking out to the concrete block wall at the back. I noticed that the hot pink bougainvillea, which had been attacked last fall by an invasion of bougainvillea loopers, was making a bid for survival. As were we all.

  I was about to fill the coffee carafe at the sink when I heard the screen door squeal open, then close.

  ‘Um … Hello? Anybody here?’

  I set down the carafe and turned to peer into the office. The figure of a curvaceous woman filled the doorway. I say filled the doorway because she stood well over six feet tall. I’m no shorty myself, and she towered over me. Her face was in shadow, and the morning sun shone all around her like a white-gold aura.

  I’d had my own aura done once. It had proved to be purple and black.

  ‘Hi. Come on in.’ I walked back into the office and stretched out a hand. ‘Jaymie Zarlin.’

  The lady’s four-inch heels struck the old oak floor like hammers driving in nails as she stepped forward to greet me.

  She extended her own hand, as a countess might. But when I took it into mine, I felt a small shock of recognition. In spite of its limpness, the hand was large and strong. I looked into her face, and at that moment, I knew that she knew that I knew. She tilted up her chin as if to say, so what.

  ‘I’m Jesús María Robledo.’ She tried to smile. ‘They call me Chucha.’ Her low voice was silk-soft.

  I found it hard not to stare. Who wouldn’t? Chucha was gorgeous, dark and exotic, with fine aquiline features and long black hair. Her nose was arched, and she looked like an Aztec queen. In spite of the cool February air, she wore a white peasant blouse cut low enough to display a good four inches of cleavage. Her black pencil skirt could have been spray painted on.

  When I realized I was staring, I looked away. But Chucha was no doubt used to being stared at and didn’t seem to care. Besides, it was plain she had something serious on her mind.

  ‘Please sit down.’ I indicated the couch, walked over and shut the front door, then took for myself what my office manager called ‘the hot seat.’

  I watched as Chucha arranged herself on the couch, hiked her blouse up and her skirt down. Then she fixed me with her gold-brown eyes. ‘I don’t know how to say this. It’s so hard. And …’ She swallowed and stopped.

  ‘Lots of clients feel that way in the beginning. Don’t worry, you won’t be telling me anything I haven’t heard before.’

  Her eyes welled with tears, but this time she managed a smile. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  I wasn’t so sure myself. ‘Start anywhere, Chucha. You don’t need a beginning.’

  She nodded and rubbed a knuckle along her chin. It was a masculine gesture, unconscious. ‘Maybe – maybe I’ll start with this.’

  She unsnapped the clasp on her handbag, reached in and withdrew a ziplock bag. She stared at it for a moment. Then, meeting my gaze, she leaned forward and handed it to me.

  I unzipped the bag and withdrew a white cotton handkerchief that had been folded over several times. I pressed the handkerchief with my fingertips: something was wrapped in the cloth. For some reason, now the room seemed very still.

  I unfolded the handkerchief: a small silver cross nestled in the fabric. The edges of the cross were filigreed, and in the middle, running down the center of the cross, four letters were etched: MACB.

  ‘You’ll have to explain, Chucha. I can see it’s a cross made for a child. But what does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue.’ When she shook her head, her long black hair fell forward and obscured her face. ‘I found it this morning. I found it in …’

  Then Chucha began to cry. She tried to hold it in, but her shoulders shook with long racking sobs.

  I got up and went over to sit beside her on the couch. I took her hand, and she drew a ragged breath. The woman was trying to get ahold of herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t be.’ I got up, went over to the desk and picked up the Kleenex box. I handed her th
e box and she pressed a tissue to her eyes.

  ‘I can see it’s hard to talk about, Chucha. You’ve had quite a shock. Take your time.’

  ‘I’ve had a shock, yes. But not because—’ Chucha sat up straight and flicked her hair behind her shoulders with both hands. ‘Not because I found that cross. I’ve never seen it before. It’s because I didn’t find—’ She bit her bottom lip.

  I perched on the corner of the desk and waited. I could see Chucha had something she needed to say, something that was almost too disturbing to put into words. But even so, it had to be said.

  ‘Ms Zarlin, I’m telling you this because I know you find missing people. I heard about you, people say you won’t go to the police. Is – is that right?’

  ‘Call me Jaymie. And no, I won’t tell the cops.’ A knot had formed in the pit of my stomach. I told myself to be cool, not to commit. Chucha was reeling me in fast, and so far I had no idea what all this was about.

  ‘All right.’ She knitted her long, elegant fingers together. ‘What I didn’t find was what was supposed to be there, in the boat: my baby, my little girl. Now do you see?’

  The knot in my stomach pulled tight. This person had a kid? Chucha was right: this wasn’t something I’d encountered before.

  ‘I’m beginning to see. You had an arrangement, right? To pick up your daughter in a boat. Where?’

  ‘On the beach below More Mesa, last night.’

  ‘More Mesa.’ I nodded, but kept my expression neutral. ‘I understand the police confiscated a panga boat down there this morning.’ I’d read that on Edhat. Roger the Scanner Guy had reported it first thing.

  Chucha leaned forward, holding my gaze with her own. ‘Yes. That was the boat. They phoned me at 3:30 a.m. and said my Rosie was waiting there for me, no problem. Just like I’d paid for.’