Dragon Fruit Page 22

  Every town in the state had a golf course. But I could think of only one town which no golfer would travel to without bringing along a set of clubs.

  ‘Claudia. The guy who lives in Palm Desert – he’s the one. Here’s my phone. Enter that address into the GPS.’ I swallowed the remaining hot coffee in three gulps.

  ‘Gabi, can you keep an eye on Dex? I’ve got to run.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  I motored into a seedy section of Palm Desert late in the afternoon. The light was mellow, the temperature a lazy eighty-one degrees. The cacti, snug in their beds of quartz gravel, bloomed in splashes of cerise and tangerine.

  All the homes on Silver Spur Drive were early sixties tract houses, built in angular modern designs. Back in Santa Barbara houses like these would have been snapped up and renovated. But here in the desert they were left to the elements. Peeling paint, cracked stucco, and trash in the gutters prevailed. In oil-stained driveways, a few disabled vehicles awaited future repairs.

  I cruised up Silver Spur in the Camino. A man in his seventies stood in his front yard, watering from a hose in his hand. In his other hand he held a cigarillo. A thin spiral of smoke rose upward in the stagnant air.

  I slowed to a crawl as I approached 153 Silver Spur. An old blue Accord hunched in the drive.

  A thin woman wearing navy canvas pants and a pink and blue top stood at the curb, peering into the mailbox. She pulled out a handful of mail and leafed through.

  I didn’t want Mrs Ronald Goretz to see me. But I did want to get a good look at her. As I passed by, I took in her straight shoulder-length brown hair and navy blue headband. Her blouse featured a peter-pan collar, a design element I hadn’t seen for years.

  I adjusted the rearview mirror. Mrs Goretz looked up from the mail, glanced at the receding Camino, then looked away. She hadn’t seen my face, I was sure.

  But I had seen hers. Her expression was defensive, gullible, and perhaps just a little afraid.

  I located the nearest car rental agency on my cell, then headed straight for it. Mrs Goretz had noticed my bright red Camino. Of course she had – it shouted out for attention.

  I left Blue Boy in the agency lot and drove off in an unremarkable mouse-gray sedan.

  Next stop was an office supply store. I grabbed a clipboard, pen, and a packet of official-looking forms. It didn’t matter what the forms were intended for: they would become part of a magic trick, a sleight of hand.

  Back in the sedan I grabbed a comb from my toiletry kit and ran it through my snarled hair, then re-did my ponytail. I figured my standard black jeans and dark-colored T-shirt would do.

  I pulled down the visor mirror and met my own eyes: they looked kind of wild. I sucked in a slow breath to calm down. I was about to put on a performance, maybe the performance of my life.

  I slowed to a stop in front of 153. The blue Accord still hunkered down in the drive. The house faced west, and though summer hadn’t yet arrived the blinds were shut against the blaring sun.

  I attached several of the forms to the clipboard and stepped out of the car. Assuming what I hoped was a semi-official air, I walked up the mottled-red concrete path and knocked. As I studied the paint blisters on the door’s surface, I rehearsed what I was about to say.

  ‘Yes?’ The lady of the house peered at me around the edge of the door. Her forehead was puckered.

  ‘Mrs Goretz?’ I glanced at my clipboard. ‘Mrs Ronald Goretz?’

  ‘Yes?’ she repeated. Her mouth smiled but her brow tightened.

  ‘Is Mr Goretz at home?’

  ‘No. No, he doesn’t get home till at least six.’

  I made a face of disappointment. ‘Six? I’m afraid we don’t make inspections past four thirty.’

  ‘What – who are you with?’ She opened the door a little wider. Behind her I could see half the living room: a couch, armchair, and the corner of a droning TV.

  ‘I’m Christine Knight. I contract with the city, the water department. Your husband should have received a notice. They were sent out over two weeks ago.’

  ‘Notice? What for?’

  I glanced again at my clipboard. ‘Water consumption. Your usage is over the third tier. Whenever that happens, we like to come out and inspect the property. To work with you, not against you. To give you some tips.’

  I was confident Mrs Ronald Goretz did not pay the bills. If she did, I was sunk: the property looked as if it hadn’t been watered in months.

  ‘I think Ronald is pretty careful.’ She ran a finger under her headband. ‘We hardly use any water. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. And if you are as careful as you say you are – and I believe you – then I’m afraid it means there’s a leak.’ I was growing impatient and told myself to slow down. ‘The leak could be underground. If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a walk-through of the premises.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her face closed like a drawstring sack. ‘No, my husband doesn’t like people coming around.’

  ‘I don’t need to go inside your house, Mrs Goretz.’ I’d have loved to look in the house, but would take whatever I could get. ‘I’ll just walk the property. Nobody ever objects to that. Or – is there some reason it’s not OK?’

  ‘I … I guess you can.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I gave her my most radiant smile. ‘Mind if I start in the back?’

  ‘OK.’ She still looked unsure. ‘I’ll unlock the gate for you.’

  ‘Great. Do you mind if we hurry? I have two more houses on my list and I want to finish before dark.’ I needed to move quickly, in case wifey decided to give hubby a call.

  I followed the woman across the front of the house to the gate at the side. The fence was constructed of ordinary sun-bleached cedar boards, but the gate was another matter. Custom-built of powder-coated steel, it was mounted on a stout post. I watched over the woman’s shoulder as she entered in a combination on a keypad, but I couldn’t make out the numbers. The gate swung back.

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs Goretz. I’m paid by the house, not the hour.’

  ‘I’m Patty.’ For the first time, the woman smiled. ‘I used to work in sales. I know how it is.’

  I stepped into the back yard. And halted. Because fuck, my stab in the dark had been right: Ronald Goretz was the one.

  The yard looked abandoned: unwatered, untended, fast reverting to desert. But there was nothing abandoned about the rock-solid new shed. The structure, gleaming with white paint, stood in the southeast corner of the block-walled lot.

  The shed wasn’t prefab. It was large, about twelve by twelve, constructed of lumber, and taller than any shed needed to be. The roof was shingled in sheets of gray asphalt. A tubular skylight, no more than a foot wide, projected several inches above the roof. There was a door, but no windows at all that I could see.

  I turned to the woman. ‘Patty, do you have a dog?’

  ‘No, my husband doesn’t like pets. I like dogs. If it was up to me …’ She trailed off.

  ‘Then you don’t need to stay out here with me, do you? I’m sure you have something better to do. I’ll just go through my checklist. Shouldn’t take long.’ I nodded at the yards of black tubing arcing up out of the sand. ‘I’ll start with those old drip lines. Bet you’ve got a nasty leak somewhere in there. Could be costing you plenty.’

  ‘Oh. All right then. Will you close the gate when you leave?’ Poor Patty. She looked disappointed and sad. A lonely woman, she seemed to think she’d found someone she could talk to.

  ‘Sure will. Thanks.’ I turned away.

  There was no point in messing around. As soon as Patty had closed the back door to the house, I walked straight over to the structure and circled behind it.

  Between the shed and the block wall, out of sight, stood a brand new air-conditioning unit. It was silent, switched off for now.

  I continued around the back of the shed to the south side. There, a new wooden trellis was fixed to the siding. A shrub, some sort of thorny desert specimen, was
planted in front of it.

  I circled back around and stopped to study the shed door. Dried paint bridged the gap between the door and the frame. It hadn’t been opened since the structure was painted.

  When I looked over at the main house, I saw a crooked finger holding back a drape. I moseyed over to a nearby faucet, dropped to one knee and made a show of switching it on, then off. I got to my feet.

  Enough. It was time to go.

  I was out of the yard and into my rental car before Patty could exit her house to approach me. In a matter of seconds I’d turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  I wasn’t so sure I felt sorry for Mrs Goretz. Maybe the woman knew nothing, but on the other hand, maybe she wanted to know nothing. Either way, her world teetered on the brink of change.

  I drove a few blocks away from Silver Spur Drive and parked at a strip mall. I’d planned on grabbing something to go while I waited for six p.m., and Ronald Goretz to return home. But the thought of food somehow repulsed me.

  I leaned back in the sedan and stared at the shop in front of me: a swimming pool supply store. The sign in the plate-glass door read Closed.

  Pedophilia. I knew I should feel some compassion for the perps. Because so often they were passing on the poison that had been dosed out to them as kids. And I could be compassionate, if I kept that in mind – and if the pedophile asked for forgiveness, and was determined to cease and desist.

  The thing was, Mr Ronald Goretz was not on that path.

  I didn’t hate the man. It was worse, in a way: he was nothing to me. One day, perhaps, I’d be able to see Goretz as a human being. Right now though, he was less than a rat in the road.

  It was Rosie I needed to think about, Rosie and Chucha. I reached for my cell.

  ‘Gabi. Thought I’d check in.’

  ‘Miss Jaymie, I am so glad this is you. I couldn’t decide, should I call you or not? First tell me, what is going on?’

  ‘We’ve got the right guy. I’m waiting for him to get home from work.’

  ‘Good, that is so good. And Rosie? Did you see her?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t been handed over to him yet, I’m pretty sure. And so far there’s no sign of Morehead and Eric.’

  ‘Miss Jaymie …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Like I said, I thought, should I call you? Then I decided no, you had to focus, you know?’

  ‘Gabi, right now I’m kind of on edge. Just spit it out.’

  ‘Chucha. It’s Chucha, Miss Jaymie.’

  I’d been so focused on my own situation that I’d missedthe anxiety in Gabi’s voice. ‘Chucha – is she—’

  ‘No, no. But I went back to the hospital today. And the administration guy, he figured out she isn’t my sister’s daughter like I said. But one of the nurses, she is my sister’s daughter’s …’ Gabi stopped. ‘Miss Jaymie, she told me in maybe three days, they are gonna do it. They decided for sure. Pull the plug.’

  The sun slid down behind the strip mall. Right away I could feel the desert chill creeping in through the open window. ‘Three days. I have to make this work now.’

  ‘Yes, you gotta find Rosie and bring her to Cottage right away. Even if Chucha cannot hear or see, I think she will know.’

  I wasn’t sure about that. But for Rosie’s sake, I wanted a photo of her with her mother. I knew she would cherish it one day.

  ‘I’ll do my best. Keep your phone switched on just in case. The sun’s setting. I need to get ready to roll.’

  ‘Vaya con Dios, Miss Jaymie.’

  I drove a few blocks away to Home Depot and picked up a crowbar, a file, and a small set of screwdrivers. Power tools would have been useful, but the noise made them out of the question. Even using hand tools might be a risk.

  Back in the car, I checked my phone: five thirty-seven. Soon it would be time for hubby to return home.

  But something nagged at me. I’d gone to see Mike, and I’d checked in with the home team. Even so, I had the feeling I’d left something undone.

  And if I were honest with myself, I knew what it was.

  I got out of the car and paced through the dusky parking lot, stopped still and dialed.

  ‘Hi Doreen. It’s me. How are you?’

  ‘Jaymie? Jaymie, is that you?’

  I heard the loneliness and the panic in my mother’s voice. But sure enough, in her next sentence she covered it over.

  ‘How am I? I’ve been sitting by the phone for days, waiting for you to call. Days, do you know what that’s like? Didn’t your father tell you I’m not well?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I—’ But then, maybe for the first time in my life, I stopped myself. If this was going to work at all, I’d have to change.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that now. How are you feeling?’

  ‘How am I feeling?’ Now she tried outrage. ‘I have – I’m ill! Of course, what do you care? What do any of you care? Most people, when they hear their mother has – has—’ She stopped, unable to say the word.

  ‘Mom, I have to go. But I wanted to let you know I’ll be coming up to visit you, soon.’

  I heard her start to cry. Was it because she had cancer, or because I’d said I would come to see her? Or was it because, for the first time in my life, I’d called her ‘Mom’?

  I drove back through the streets of Palm Desert to Silver Spur Drive. The red-orange spires of a flowering ocotillo fence glowed like candles in the fading violet light. No one was out in the neighborhood. Nobody noticed or cared when I parked five houses up from 153.

  My window was open, and I heard a clackety-clack approach from behind me. I glanced into the side mirror: a girl was dawdling along on a skateboard, staring at the rented sedan.

  I grabbed my phone and started fake-talking into it, keeping my eyes on the kid. By the time she clattered past, the girl had lost interest. Once she’d turned the corner I relaxed down in my seat, keeping an eye on my rearview mirror.

  Five minutes later a van pulled into the driveway of 153. An overhead sensor switched on, flooding the driveway with light.

  So Ronald Goretz drove a van: what a cliché. The van wasn’t white, though, and it wasn’t a panel van. Two-tone, maybe beige and brown – it was hard to make out the colors in the half-light. The windows appeared to be tinted, reflective. I turned in my seat and studied the vehicle. Could Rosie be inside?

  As I reached for my field glasses, Goretz got out. He slammed the van door shut with more force than was necessary. Goretz was pissed off about something. He reached out a hand, and I heard the faint beep-beep of a door lock.

  Goretz stood there for a moment more in the glare. The guy was of average height and build, the kind of person you’d pass in the street without giving a second glance. His light brown hair was thin on top and he wore it clipped short. Even his clothes were nondescript: brown slacks and a long-sleeve light blue shirt. I wondered what he did for a living: hotel manager, maybe? High school teacher?

  Goretz was ordinary, except in one detail: he’d buttoned his shirt all the way up over his Adam’s apple, and it made him look as if he were choking.

  I was still peering at him through the binoculars when he turned and stared up the street. I froze in position, the glasses raised to my eyes. It seemed as if we’d locked gazes, Goretz and I.

  But then he turned again and looked in the opposite direction. I knew he hadn’t seen me, thanks to the shadowy darkness of the street and the bright light pouring down all around him. I was pretty sure, though, that he’d noticed my car.

  After a moment the guy walked up to the gate, punched in the code, and stepped through. The gate closed. I sat there, waiting for the sensor light to switch off so I could get out of the car and walk over.

  The damn floodlight lit up the entire front of the house and part of the right-hand neighbor’s house, too. How long was it set to stay on? Five minutes, ten? My hand drummed the console, and I ordered myself to stay calm.

  Yes, it was possible Ros
ie was locked in the back of the van. But my guess was that Morehead hadn’t handed Rosie over – not yet.

  Then, a minute later, something odd happened. The lights came on in the Goretz’s living room, and Ronald himself proceeded to lift up all the blinds.

  Soon the interior of 153 Silver Spur was illuminated like a stage set. Goretz switched on the TV, then set up two tray tables. As I watched through my binoculars, it occurred to me that the scene looked like something out of the 1950s. June Cleaver, a.k.a. Patty Goretz, minced in with hubby’s dinner and set it on one of the tray tables, then returned to the kitchen and reappeared with her own plate.

  They both settled into their easy chairs and stared at the big screen TV as they forked food into their mouths.

  Was this something the Goretzes did every evening: put on a show for the neighbors and passersby? If so, why?

  I lowered the glasses and stared at the brightly lit fishbowl. And after a moment, I thought I understood. Ronald Goretz was showing everyone that he had nothing to hide.

  The Goretzes were every bit as normal and boring as theirneighbors. More so, in fact. As anyone could see, they never argued, drank, smoked, or touched.

  By this time the sensor light had switched off. But my instincts told me to stay put.

  It wasn’t long before Ronald finished his supper. Was dessert to follow? It seemed not. He picked up his cell and looked at it, then wiped his mouth with a napkin and walked out of the room.

  After a few minutes, Patty got up and cleared the dishes. Then she took possession of the remote and settled back in her chair.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ten minutes later the floodlight poured down once more and the side gate opened. Goretz carried a tennis racquet bag now and seemed to be in a hurry.

  He glanced up and down the street, his eyes pausing again on my rental sedan. Then he stepped over to the back of the van, opened one of the doors and shoved in the bag.

  Goretz climbed into the driver’s seat, backed the van out of the driveway, and motored down the street at a good clip. I started my engine but waited before I switched on the headlights. As I cruised past 153 I saw Patty at the window, closing the blinds.