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  But Dex wanted the last word. He bounded after on his three legs, caught up with Del and nipped him on the achilles.

  ‘Fucking mutt!’ Wasson pulled back his leg to kick the little cow dog.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch him, you jerk!’

  The gloves were off. Wasson glared, and I glared back. Blanca whined and circled in fear.

  Alas. Del and I would now never be friends.

  When the dogs and I had returned to the Camino and settled in, I switched on my cell and phoned Mike.

  I knew he wouldn’t pick up. He was on the assignment now, hiking into the backcountry to bust up the meth op. By this time he’d have moved into a different mindset, one that was focused, uncomplicated. One that didn’t involve me and my messy life.

  ‘Mike, there’s no need to call me back. I just want to let you know Rosie is alive, we’re sure of that now. There’s more, a lot more I want to talk to you about …’

  I stopped. I wanted to tell him everything, about Darren, Chino, Del Wasson, and most of all, about the little one who’d died at sea. But Mike had enough on his plate, and I could tell him when he returned.

  I also wanted to say, ‘Please be careful. You are so important to me. Take care of yourself.’ But instead I just signed off with ‘love ya’, and left it at that.

  I guess I hoped ‘love ya’ would cover it all.

  Blue Boy was too convenient, his newly upholstered seats so cushy. If I kept opting for the Camino over my Schwinn my own seat would soon become cushy too. Even though it was a long ride out to More Mesa, that afternoon I cowgirled up.

  I checked my back more than once as I pedaled along. Del Wasson seemed to be taking an interest in me, and the last thing I needed was a cop on my tail. But today, it seemed, I was on my own. Maybe my suitor was losing interest.

  When I arrived at the mesa, I bumped my way across the weedy meadow, heading for the ocean cliff. I chained my Schwinn to a muscular eucalyptus trunk and paused for a moment at the top of the path that led down to the beach. The morning was cool, but a current of heated air rose up the cliff, caressing my face.

  Santa Cruz Island was only just rising from her bed, and the night’s mist swaddled her feet like a discarded nightgown. The channel waters effervesced like champagne.

  I made my way down the narrow path, through thick stands of lemonadeberry. I could hear rats or rabbits bustling in the undergrowth, and the coo-cooing of doves. It was that delicate season in California for which there is no name, the lush weeks of late winter and early spring when the grass glows with the green of stained glass and wild flowers swell with tight buds.

  Halfway down the slope, at a switchback, I halted. From there I could see the beach below. The tide was in, and the teasing waves lapped at dry sand.

  Not far out from the water’s edge, a thin dark figure splashed in the surf. A man was playing in the chilly water like a child, carving wide arcs of spray with the flats of his hands.

  I stepped off the path so I was hidden from the beach by the scrub. Then I pulled out my binoculars and trained them on the reveler.

  As I’d guessed, it was Darren. I watched him for a few moments, my heart hurting a little. Even from here I could see he was happy. It was midweek in winter, and the beach was empty of visitors. For once, Darren could let down his guard.

  I lowered the field glasses. I was about to intrude, and it didn’t feel right.

  But I couldn’t stand there all day. After a few minutes I continued making my way down, keeping my eyes on the path. I didn’t look out at Darren again till I was crossing the crusty sand. He must have caught sight of me, because he’d sunk down in the cold water. Only his head and the tops of his shoulders were visible.

  To give Darren time, I waved at him, then continued walking westward. Sand hoppers popped around my ankles. I passed by his clothing, folded and stacked. When I came to an old driftwood log, I sat down to wait.

  It wasn’t long before Darren walked out of the ocean. I was glad to see that, because the water was frigid enough to kill a person, given time. People with schizophrenia aren’t always aware of temperature, and I wasn’t sure Darren would know if he was heading into hypothermia.

  He struggled into his sweatshirt and pants, his back to me. Then he tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and started to walk away.

  ‘Darren, wait,’ I called out. I hated to hound the guy, but I couldn’t afford to let him get away.

  He stopped and looked out to sea. I took it as an acknowledgment – as much of one as I was likely to get.

  I trudged toward him, trying not to break into a trot. When I got to within speaking distance, I halted. ‘Hey, Darren. I’m Jaymie, remember?’ As I reached toward my messenger bag, he froze.

  ‘It’s OK. Just thought you might like a little lunch.’ I snapped open the bag, took out a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water, and held them out to him. When he didn’t respond I ventured into the no-man’s land between us, knelt down and brushed the sand clean, and put down the water and food. Then I retraced my steps.

  Darren hesitated, but not for long. He walked forward, reached down and grabbed the sandwich. He took a few steps away, turned his back on me again, and began to eat fast. I could see the poor guy was famished. When he was done, he folded the paper wrapping again and again, then slipped the small square into his sweatshirt pocket.

  ‘Darren, remember? You and I talked the other day. I’m trying to find the little girl that came in on the boat.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Listen, we have the same friend. Charlie, the old guy who lives in a van and always parks down at Leadbetter.’

  Darren glanced at me, then away. ‘The guy in – in the sack?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Charlie all right. He asked me if you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m OK. It’s just – it’s just—’

  He didn’t seem as well as he had the first time we’d spoken. Maybe Darren was just having a bad day, or maybe something scary had happened, something that had pushed him deeper into himself.

  ‘Darren, there’s one question I forgot to ask you. That night, the night they unloaded the bales of dope off the boat? I heard that one of the guys was a cop.’

  He began to hum – not a tune, but a single long extended note. Brodie used to do that too sometimes, to block out the voices.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to ask. Nobody will know you told me, I promise. Was there a cop here that night?’ To Darren’s ears, I was sure my promise had a hollow ring. People with schizophrenia learn the hard way to never trust anyone – they’re let down all the time, especially by the ones who bleat ‘trust me’.

  He cleared his throat. ‘A cop, yeah. One of the bad ones.’

  ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘He – he’s – downtown. He comes around at night, under the fig tree.’

  Of course I knew the tree he meant. The fig tree down near the train station. The largest Moreton Bay fig in the world, it had sheltered homeless people for decades. At night men and women curl into the curves of its roots, grabbing snatches of sleep. And some nights the most malicious cops, those with time on their hands and an itch in their brains, storm through and jostle the sleepers awake, harassing and tormenting them.

  ‘So he’s one of the mean ones. Do you know his name?’

  Darren began to shake his head back and forth, like a metronome. I was pushing him too hard, throwing shit at him, shit he didn’t want to remember. But I needed to know one more thing.

  After my tête-a-tête with Wasson in the gully, I’d taken the time to download Del’s photo from the internet. No surprise, the guy wasn’t camera shy. He especially liked to be snapped when he held a tennis racquet in one hand and a super-sized trophy in the other.

  ‘Darren, I need you to look at a picture, that’s all.’ I took my phone from my pocket and pulled up Wasson’s photo. ‘Is this the cop you saw that night?’ I held out my hand.

  He didn’t take the phone from me. Instead he s
tepped closer, then leaned forward and peered at the phone. I saw him relax a little.

  ‘No. That’s … that’s not him.’

  I didn’t have to ask again. Del Wasson wasn’t the guy.

  ‘Thanks, Darren. I owe you.’ I slipped the phone back in my pocket and shouldered my bag. ‘You know Charlie. I wonder if you knew my brother, Brodie Zarlin? He used to hang out around Leadbetter. He was a surfer, and he had a Camino. Back then it was painted blue.’

  ‘I know Brodie, man. He’s, he’s all right.’ Darren met my eyes for the first time. ‘Brodie died, man. That was – that was—’

  ‘Yeah. That was sad.’ I kicked a little sand over a glistening lump of oil. ‘Darren, I don’t want to pry. But is there some way I can help you? Find your family, maybe, or help you get a place to stay?’

  ‘I don’t need nothin’.’

  I looked at him: one of his eyes was infected, and a bead of yellow pus leaked at the inside corner. ‘Darren, you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, man. I got everything I need.’

  Del Wasson slouched when he walked. I recognized that walk when I caught sight of a figure at the far end of the More Mesa meadow.

  He must have followed me after all. Damn it to hell. I’d been careful, but not careful enough. Now I’d put Darren at risk.

  I pedaled harder, determined to catch up with the creep. But he moved rapidly, and the rough meadow path was pocked with stones and pitted with gopher holes. The going was slow, and by the time I’d crossed the meadow and reached the road, the guy had disappeared.

  I cruised to a halt. ‘Come on,’ I muttered aloud. ‘Think this through.’

  The cop Darren had seen that night wasn’t Wasson. Yet Wasson had made it his business to follow me, first to the gully, now here. I’d stepped into a maze I couldn’t comprehend.

  One thing I did comprehend: if Wasson had spotted me with Darren, the homeless guy wasn’t safe. I needed to tell Darren to get the hell out.

  I turned my Schwinn around and pedaled back. I called and called Darren’s name along the cliff edge. Then I climbed halfway down and scanned the beach. He was nowhere to be seen. I yelled some more, but no one answered or showed.

  No doubt Darren had had enough of me for one day. I’d have to come back again later to alert him, to let him know he’d better move on.

  TEN

  ‘Nice place you have here, Angel.’ I relaxed in the aluminum lawn chair and took a long slow sip of a Gabi-rita, the saltiest, tangiest margarita this side of Mexicali.

  Angel chuckled, and his laugh made me laugh. He was the most modest of men, and yet his chuckle had a hint of throaty seduction about it. Not for the first time I thought, Gabi, you are one lucky girl.

  ‘It is true, sometimes I think all this belongs to me. Mrs Fleischman, she lives in New York. She don’t want to come here no more. The last time she came for a visit was two years ago.’

  ‘Her son, he died over there.’ Gabi pointed into the dusk, across the wide rose bed to a gazebo. ‘He shot his own self in the head with a gun.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I set my margarita down on the small table.

  ‘It was terrible. Mr Chris, he was a nice man.’ Angel rested his hands on his knees. ‘Because he died here, Mrs Fleischman will never sell this house. But she cannot stay here. For her it is too hard.’

  I thought of Brodie’s studio. All his belongings were stored there, going back to elementary school days. It was still difficult for me to enter the space, even though my brother had never managed to move in.

  ‘Believe me, Angel, I understand.’

  The three of us sat in a semicircle facing the roses. Dusk had filtered into the garden, and all the color had pooled in the blossoms: glowing mauves and reds, gleaming splashes of white.

  ‘It is sad,’ Gabi murmured. ‘But still the night is beautiful, you know?’

  I watched a large pale moth weave its way through the rose bushes. ‘I can’t help thinking about Rosie. Where is she right now? What is—’ I stopped. I’d been about to say, ‘What is happening to her?’ But some of the possibilities were unthinkable. A sudden chill passed through me, and I shivered.

  ‘Miss Jaymie, I will go get a sweatshirt for you.’ Gabi got to her feet.

  ‘No.’ I reached up and put a hand on her arm. ‘A sweatshirt’s not going to help.’

  ‘Then drink your margarita.’ She dropped back into her chair. ‘That will warm you up, I can promise.’

  ‘It’s a damn good margarita.’ I complied and took a few more sips. Gabi had not stinted on the tequila. ‘Now’s the time for your positively-positive approach. Rosie is out there, alive. We’ve got to find her.’

  ‘OK, Miss Jaymie.’ Gabi sat up straight. ‘But what’s the next thing to do? I don’t think you got any, you know, what they call leads.’

  Both Gabi and Angel had turned to me. I could just make out their expressions in the dark: expectant, hopeful.

  ‘Maybe not leads. But there’s at least one loose thread I can pull. I’ve got an appointment to visit Darlene Richter in the morning. Remember her?’

  ‘Miss Richter?’ Gabi looked at me in surprise. ‘The one who paid so, so much money for you to find her dog?’

  ‘The very one, Gabi. The one who arranged and paid for Beto’s plastic surgery.’

  ‘That is a very good lady,’ Angel observed. ‘Gabi told me about her. She is like another mother for those children, you know?’ For some reason, he looked away.

  ‘That lady,’ Angel added after a moment, ‘she is the way all mothers should be.’

  ‘Jaymie, it’s so good to see you.’ Darlene Richter narrowed her green eyes against the morning sun. ‘It’s been what, eight or nine months since we’ve seen one another?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I returned her smile. ‘How’s everything going?’

  ‘Wonderful. Never perfect these days, but perfectly wonderful. Let’s go sit outside, shall we? The garden is just waking up with the spring.’ She took me by the arm and led me along a flagstone path. ‘It will be nice to sit down and relax for a bit. Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, Darlene. Gabi made a pot in the office.’

  ‘Gabi, how is she? Still keeping Santa Barbara on the straight and narrow?’

  ‘Doing her best.’ I grinned. ‘You’ve got her number.’

  We turned a corner and entered the enormous garden at the back of Darlene’s estate. A King Charles Spaniel was digging furiously in a bed of lavender, spraying dirt in all directions.

  ‘Chica,’ Darlene called out. ‘Come see who’s visiting us.’

  The pooch looked up, then scampered over. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. ‘So Minuet is called Chica now?’

  Darlene pushed her hair off her face. The auburn was streaked with gray, and she wore no make-up this morning. Even so, she was a beautiful woman.

  ‘Yes, I gave in. Beto and Alicia call her Chica, and she seems to prefer it. Besides, I think it suits the rascal more than Minuet. The children indulge her, and of course she’s not as well-behaved as she used to be.’

  I followed Darlene to a patio overlooking the grounds. And no, the yard wasn’t perfect: it looked like Chica had spent the entire morning excavating.

  ‘How are the kids? Are you still babysitting them after school, when their mom’s at work?’

  ‘Oh yes, though I wouldn’t call it babysitting. Alicia’s a young lady now, you know. She loves to bake, and I give her free rein in the kitchen. And Beto, he’s very responsible for his age. He brushes Chica and takes her for a walk every day.’

  ‘Beto – I know he came through his plastic surgery OK. But what were the results?’

  ‘Oh … good, I’d have to say.’ Darlene gave me a quirky smile. ‘I don’t know, Jaymie. Maybe I’m too much of a perfectionist … I’d hoped for more.’

  Chica raked my leg with her tiny claws. I reached down and patted her again. ‘So Beto’s birthmark is still pretty obvious?’ Most of the little boy’s face had been cov
ered with a dark wine-colored stain.

  ‘More obvious than I’d like. But it’s much better. People still notice, but they don’t stare the way they used to.’ Darlene led me over to a white-painted wrought-iron table and chairs. We sat down facing one another.

  ‘What matters most,’ she continued, ‘is that other children don’t make fun of Beto anymore. And the doctors say he can have another operation in a few years, so that’s something too.’

  ‘Sounds like a success to me. Beto can play with kids his own age, go to school. He doesn’t have to hide at home. That was no life for a little boy.’ I thought about how he’d been tortured by a group of schoolmates, how they’d held him down and rubbed the skin on his face with gravel, till it bled.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Though I have to tell you, I’m not so sure the school staff members are thrilled to have him back.’ Darlene laughed her silvery laugh. ‘He’s a delight here with me, but at school he can be quite the little troublemaker.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’ Darlene smoothed her mint green twinset over her arms and leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well. You helped me so much, Jaymie. And now it sounds like I can begin to return the favor – is that right?’

  ‘You don’t owe me a thing, Darlene. But yes, I have a question I want to ask you.’ My gaze followed an orange and black hooded oriole as it dipped into a fan palm. ‘I understand you attend the women priests’ church, is that right?’

  Darlene raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s the last question I’d have expected you to ask. How did you know?’

  ‘I visited Laura and Bernadette. They mentioned you because you’d told them about me.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did. Back when you were investigating the solstice murders. You helped me, Jaymie. You helped me face up to my past.’

  ‘You did the heavy work, Darlene.’ I ran a hand over the bumpy wrought-iron tabletop. ‘What do you think of them? You must know Laura and Bernadette pretty well.’

  ‘You’d think so, by now.’ Darlene got to her feet again. She wrapped her arms over her chest, as if she were cold. ‘You know, the Magdalen community is important to me. I was raised Catholic, and after the Solstice Murders, I wanted to start going to church again. But because of my … background … well, I was not going to go to a church run by a male priest. Period. I’m sorry, I won’t do that, not anymore.’