Blood Orange Read online

  “I wish I could help.” I felt squishy with sweat. “But Dawson shouldn’t have given you my card. I’ve never investigated a homicide—it’s outside my area of expertise.” This wasn’t entirely true. I’d investigated two homicides, on behalf of the families of mentally disabled victims. But this was different, wasn’t it?

  “I’m sorry, Gabi. Look, I can give you the names of several attorneys who might be able to help you. If they can’t, they’ll give you referrals.”

  “Hey, come on. Do you think Alma has money for a lawyer?” Gabi stood up and stretched to her full five-foot-flat height. “She cleans houses, like me.”

  “Well, there’s the public defender—”

  “You don’t get it. Everybody except Alma thinks Danny did it. Especially the cops! No public anything is gonna help him. Even me, I’m not sure.” She held out her hands to me, palms up. “I want the facts, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am.” I dropped back into the desk chair. “But I’d be misleading you if I took this on. I’d be out of my depth, and I might even damage your nephew’s case.”

  “The reason he gave me your card—the sheriff? He said you would help. Pft! What did he know.” Gabi Gutierrez stomped over to the door, yanked it open, and shut it smartly behind her. Five seconds later, she jerked it open again.

  “Mentally disabled. Yes, that’s a nicer word. So you use nice words, so what?” Again the door slammed.

  I looked out the side window. Deadbeat was hunched like a mini vulture, muttering into his chest.

  God knows I wanted to help. But a voice in my ear warned me to stay away. Danny Armenta and his troubles hit too close to home.

  Besides, I had to be practical, didn’t I? What I needed was a paying client, as in cash on the barrel. I suspected Gabi Gutierrez planned to reimburse me with her energetic services. That was all I needed: someone stirring up dust, bouncing off the walls to a funky salsa beat. My head throbbed just thinking of it.

  Deputy Dawson, just wait till I … till I what? Apparently even a mental image of the guy could heat me up. And now, thanks to Ms. Gutierrez, I suspected I was about to make contact with more than an image.

  I sat down at the kitchen table while I waited for my coffee to drip, and stirred a loose pile of paper with one listless finger. Honestly, I didn’t need to look at a bunch of numbers to know the score. Santa Barbara Investigations had never operated in the black. I’d shored up my venture from its inspired beginning, two years ago now, with my savings. And those savings, which also helped pay the mortgage on my house, had nearly run out.

  I poured the coffee into my mug and walked over to the east-facing window at the back of the kitchen. If I couldn’t be outside on this achingly lovely June morning, at least I could hang halfway out. I shoved the protesting sash up with one hand, parked my rear on the sill, and rested my eyes on the bougainvillea draping the block wall.

  But my thoughts wandered back to the nagging subject of money. Specifically, the lack of it.

  I’d squirreled away gleanings throughout the mind-numbing decade I’d worked for the San Joaquin Grape Growers Association. Nearly ten years spent sending out bulletins warning of bunch rot and glassy-winged sharpshooters. I tipped back my head and groaned: the fruits of all that tedium, down the disposal in just over two years.

  A hummingbird sporting a purple gorget zoomed in out of nowhere, the beating of his wings as loud as a lion’s purr. He studied me for a moment, then dashed over to stab zealously at the glowing pink bougainvillea flowers.

  Down the disposal? Come on, I chided myself, that just wasn’t true. In the past two years I’d located twenty-seven missing people, eighteen of them mentally disabled. I’d helped save several lives. Did none of that matter?

  I tossed the last of the coffee out the window, then hopped off the sill to rinse the mug at the sink. The cup, with its worn image of Santa Barbara’s harbor, was precious to me. I smiled as I dried it gently with a dish towel. My brother found it in a thrift shop and gave it to me on my thirty-fourth birthday. Brodie had apologized because the gift was secondhand, but even back then, the mug was worth its weight in gold. Now it was priceless.

  I returned the cup to its place on the shelf and walked over to the paper-strewn table. The fact was, I needed more work. Finding missing people was a labor of love, all I really wanted to do. But if I also wanted to survive, I’d need to broaden my horizons.

  Just now, what I needed was fresh air. I turned my back on the table and headed for the door.

  * * *

  As I pedaled down Anacapa Street, I told myself I was out for a spin, heading nowhere in particular. Anacapa, like a grande dame sweeping her skirts through the city, descends slowly but surely to the ocean, and I was enjoying the ride. But as I glided past the Lobero Building and approached the main post office, a line of newspaper dispensers caught my eye.

  I popped my bike over the curb and scanned the offerings. The headline on the local paper had me digging for change. Murder at Solstice: Apollo Guild’s Daphne Found Dead.

  A light breeze clanked the lanyard on the post office flagpole as I studied the grainy photograph. A lovely young woman with a shy smile gazed up at me: Lili Molina, Danny Armenta’s friend.

  I decided to pedal on down to the Apollo Guild warehouse. Couldn’t hurt. Didn’t mean I was getting involved.

  Chapter Three

  Santa Barbara’s uptown streets are lined with beds of exotic flowering plants, brick sidewalks, and swanky shops. But the warehouse was located down in the sin-and-light-industrial zone, on Indio Muerto Street. This was the city’s funky back side, packed with auto-detailing shops, massage parlors, junk stores, and many one-of-a-kind enterprises such as the skateboarders’ Church of Skatan.

  Speeding along on my steed, it took me no more than ten minutes to get to the warehouse from the PO—thanks to the car-clogged streets, no longer than a vehicle would have taken. And hey, I’d enjoyed the health benefit of sucking up a liter of exhaust.

  Deputy Dawson must have received my frazzled brain waves. Because it was none other than tall-dark-and-handsome himself who pushed open one of the big warehouse doors as I labored up the sidewalk, cruiser in tow. Mike’s gold-flecked brown eyes narrowed, and his curvy lips fought down a smile. It was early summer, but his skin was already darkly tanned, thanks to his Native American grandma.

  “Hey, Jaymie.” He tilted his chin in a hello. “It’s been a while. I see you’re still dragging that clunker around.”

  “Mike. How are you?” I tried to sound professional, but my voice came out kind of prissy.

  He gave in and grinned. “Not bad.” At six foot four, big-boned and broad-shouldered, Mike was no kid. But somehow his smile said otherwise.

  “So what’s a deputy sheriff doing in town?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Except this block is county land. The city never incorporated it—too many improvements to make, I suppose. The city cops are conducting the investigation, but my boss asked me to keep tabs on the case.” His smile snuck back. “You know, I was just thinking about you. This must be fate.”

  “Uh-huh, fate. By the way, I don’t know whether to thank you or kick you in the rear for giving my card to Gabi Gutierrez. Loads of money in that job.”

  “Since when do you care about that?” Mike’s goofy look vanished. “That family needs help—I thought you could give it to them. Nobody’s twisting your arm.”

  “No, course not.” I kept my tone flippant, but I was chastened. “Look, do you have a minute? I’ll admit, I’m curious about the case. You could brief me, maybe.”

  “OK … sure, why not.” Mike held open the door, and I wheeled my bike into the entry hall.

  “Listen, Jaymie.” Mike hooked a thumb in his belt. “I should warn you. Deirdre Krause is in the main workroom, conducting interviews.”

  “Dear Deirdre.” I pushed the bike against the wall, shoving it harder than I meant to. “She still hot for you?”

&
nbsp; “What?” He frowned. “I don’t know that she ever was. What makes you think that?”

  “Give me a break, Mike. She never could keep her dimpled little hands off you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Nope, hadn’t noticed a thing. Come on, we’ll slip past her and talk in the hall.”

  I followed him into a two-story-high open workroom, where a massive parade float stood in a far corner. Card tables were set up in various parts of the room, separate from one another. Plainclothes cops, plus a few uniforms, were interviewing teenagers. Half a dozen more kids were draped over folding chairs, awaiting their turns.

  I caught sight of the back of Deirdre’s curly blond head, and suppressed an urge to step over and bait the Kewpie doll.

  “They’re talking to every single kid who worked on the float this year,” Mike said as we crossed the space. “Fast, before they start swapping stories.”

  We came to a dark windowless hall leading to the left. It was cordoned off with yellow tape.

  Mike stopped and put his big hand on my wrist. “You know I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”

  “I know. So I’m figuring you’ve got a reason. Same reason you sent Gabi Gutierrez to see me. Same reason you’re even here today, I’d guess.”

  “Yeah, well.” He frowned. “I’ve got a few buddies in the police department. What I’m hearing from them … I don’t like it, that’s all. Let’s put it this way: the higher-ups have already made up their minds.”

  “Ah. The wheels of justice are spinning a little too swiftly. So … you’d like to throw a cog in those wheels.” I smiled sweetly. “Cog—meaning me.”

  Mike grinned. “Your head’s hard enough.”

  I could have responded, but my thoughts were racing on.

  I knew Mike pretty damn well, and I knew he wasn’t one to rock the boat unless he had a good reason. It was none of my business … but now I really was curious about the case.

  “Mike? I’d like to visit the murder scene.”

  “You know that’s going too far.” He gave me a long hard stare. “But I suppose it’s for a good cause. And I’d like to know what you think.”

  “Great,” I said brightly.

  Mike shrugged. “The rope’s already around my neck. Suppose I might as well go and hang myself.” He detached the yellow tape and we passed on through.

  I followed him down the narrow hall. “The body’s gone?” I said to his back.

  “It’s gone, all right. The cops removed it straightaway. Not by the book, and Deirdre’s pissed. But when you look at the photos, you’ll see why they did it.”

  Chaos and violence were evident the moment we entered the dressing room. I stopped just inside the door and took inventory.

  A big three-part folding screen lay flat on the floor, and an old bentwood chair was upended. A circular storage bin was tipped over in one corner, and the contents—old hats, purses, theatrical props—were strewn about. Clothing lay scattered over the pitted gray concrete: a seashell-pink bra and matching underpants, nice jeans and a lime-green top, brown costume gloves with leafy green fingers, and layers of silver netting. Every single article of clothing was either slashed or torn.

  The lone window was shut tight, and the space was claustrophobic. A bad smell hung in the room—sweetish, sick. Splashes of blood, already rusty and dried in the summer heat, spread like an angel’s halo around the chalk outline of a head.

  I turned to a double line of photographs stuck with blue masking tape to the wall. “Dear God—” I pressed a hand to my mouth.

  “Ugly, isn’t it. That’s why the first responders didn’t wait to move her. One of the cops knows the victim’s mother, and he didn’t want her seeing her daughter like that. How can you blame them? Truth is, I think the guys couldn’t stand it themselves.… I’m surprised they didn’t wring the perp’s neck on the spot.”

  I forced myself to look closer at the photos. Lili Molina’s slim naked body was spread-eagled, stripped, badly beaten. Her light-brown skin was carved into bizarre patterns, swirls and crosshatches. A hank of what looked like her own hair, clotted with blood, was stuffed in her mouth. And her sliced face … cartilage and bone were exposed.

  I glanced up at two photos placed higher on the wall: Lili’s graduation portrait, the one I’d seen in the paper, and a picture of her costumed as the goddess Daphne. “She was a lovely girl, wasn’t she, Mike? Not exactly beautiful—better than beautiful, really. Her good nature showed through her looks.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  I told myself it was time to cordon off my emotions. “So. Who discovered the body?”

  “Couple of girls, members of the Guild. They snuck back here yesterday afternoon, to do what fifteen-year-olds do. Freaked them out—they’re getting counseling. They won’t be playing house again anytime soon.”

  “What exactly did they see?”

  “Danny Armenta was mumbling to himself, crouched near the body. A knife lay beside him on the floor. The forensics report isn’t back yet, but it’s fairly certain it was the same knife that inflicted the wounds.”

  “Not the murder weapon, though.” I pointed at one of the photos. “Those marks on her neck? Lili was strangled to death, with some kind of cord.”

  “Right. The stab wounds were most likely postmortem—thank God for that.” He looked at me appraisingly. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet. You’ve got a good eye.”

  I ignored the backhanded compliment and glanced over the room. “Everything but the body has been left just as it was?”

  “All still in place. You won’t find anything new, Jaymie. The detectives have their own opinions, but when it comes to the evidence, they do their job.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have to tell you, I think the guy probably did it. I mean, look how crazy the killer was—all those weird cuts, like it was a ritual or something.”

  “Pretty convincing, all right.” But I wasn’t convinced. I walked over to the corner, knelt down, and sorted through the items that had been tipped from the prop bin. I came across two belts and a sash, but nothing that matched the marks on Lili’s neck in the photo. I glanced up at Mike. “Did the police find the murder weapon?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  As I rose to my feet, a movement caught my eye: a big june bug bumbled in the top corner of the window frame, wanting out. Its carapace sounded a rhythmic knock-knock on the pane.

  I walked over to the window. Industrial style: wire netting embedded in hazy glass, set in an old redwood frame. “That’s odd. The sill’s wiped clean.” For a moment, I watched the efforts of the june bug.

  “Tell me something, Mike. Why was Lili down here, if the party was on? And how did she get here from Alameda Park?”

  “The cops are still working on that. They don’t know why she came back. But it’s not all that far—maybe seven blocks. She probably just walked.”

  “Kids don’t walk these days. Not without cattle prods at their backs.” I turned back to examine the frame and sill, then peered through the grimy glass into an asphalted alley. “When we’re done here, I’ll take a look outside.”

  “Sure.” Mike shrugged. “But remember, the window was shut tight when the girls came in, and the door was wide open.”

  “The window was shut.…” I circled the room, then stopped before one of the open alcoves holding a fifteen-foot-long garment rack. The rack, nothing more than a thick dowel stretched end to end and braced at three points, was packed tight with costumes spilling and frothing from their hangers. “Looks like the Guild’s running out of storage space.”

  “They ran out a while back,” Mike said. “For the past few years the new parade outfits have been stored in a locker out in the manager’s office. These costumes aren’t used anymore, they’re the old ones. And I mean old. The Apollo Guild was in existence a long time before the citywide Solstice Celebration started up. Since the nineteen thirties, as a matter of fact.”

  “Seriousl
y?” I stepped close to the alcove, breathing in a fusty unwashed odor. “So what was the Apollo Guild originally, some kind of private club?”

  “Was, and still is. Private and restricted, only for the very wealthy. And men only, even today. After World War Two the Guild became a charity too, a way for the rich to help disadvantaged local kids. Made the members look better, I suppose, community-minded. When the city started up their own solstice celebration, the Guild was the first to sponsor a parade float.”

  “Hm. Got a flashlight?”

  Mike reached into his Windbreaker and pulled out a silver penlight. “Thought you weren’t getting involved.”

  “Just being nosy.” I ducked under the clothes at one end of the rack and squeezed sideways, step-by-step, shining the intense light on the dowel. My nostrils filled with dust and the funk of old sweat and perfume. Two-thirds of the way along, I halted. “Right here, Mike. No dust.”

  “What?” He stepped over to the alcove. “Far as I know, nobody’s said anything about that.”

  “Maybe nobody looked. But this is the spot: I’m standing where Lili’s killer waited for her.”

  “Waited for her? But Danny Armenta—”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, OK? If I part the costumes a little, I can see into the room. And not just into the room. Mike, go over to where the dressing screen stood. You’ll see rust stains from the old iron feet on the floor.”

  “But like I said—”

  “OK, stop. I can see you now. From here I could watch you undress.”

  “Michael, what are you doing back here?” A female voice screeled like a gull from the doorway.

  Michael? Ugh! The ultra-high voice made my teeth ache.

  “Hey, Deirdre,” Mike muttered. “We were just, uh—”

  “‘We’? I only see one of you, Michael.”

  I couldn’t stand it. I ducked under the costumes and popped back into the room. “Ta-da!”