Blood Orange Page 4

  I called up an image of Brodie as a kid, freckle-faced, alarmingly hyper, and infuriatingly mischievous. Once, when he was eight, he’d found a Jerusalem cricket in the yard and tucked it between my sheets. I could still recall the look on his freckled face when I screamed: a warring mix of remorse and delight. If I moved on, who would remember my brother? And if no one remembered him, he would be lost.

  I sat there for ten or fifteen minutes, allowing a braided river of memories to flow through my mind. At last, I got to my feet. “Dex, want to come? I’m going to the house.”

  The dog, curled into a tight knot, lifted one tan circular eyebrow and let it fall.

  “OK, have it your way.” I left the door open behind me. Dex would follow in his own good time.

  * * *

  Inside the house, I filled a glass with white wine from the fridge, then went out to sit in the old redwood chair facing the channel. I took a long sip and shut my eyes, letting the icy-cold liquid trickle down my throat.

  Just as I was beginning to relax, my cell jangled in my jeans pocket. I fumbled as I pulled it out.

  “Jaymie, it’s Mike.”

  As I hopped to my feet, my free hand shot out and connected with the wineglass I’d balanced on the arm of the chair. The glass shattered on the old concrete pavers.

  Annoyed by my distracted reaction, annoyed that I’d broken the glass, I spoke curtly. “What’s up?”

  “Hey. Take it easy.”

  “Sorry.”

  “This business with Danny Armenta. Makes me think about Brodie.”

  I stepped over to the hip-high stuccoed wall and stared out into the gathering fog. “Yeah. Me too. “

  “That’s not why I called, but … I just wanted to say that.” Mike paused before he continued. “As a matter of fact, I’m calling with news about Danny.”

  “OK. But why call me?” I felt my chest tighten. “I haven’t decided to take on the case.”

  The silence expanded between us. The night’s first moans from the foghorn sounded out in the harbor.

  “Have to say I’m surprised.” Mike’s voice was cool.

  “Why?” I said stubbornly. “Just because my brother was mentally disabled and this guy is too, it doesn’t follow that Armenta’s my concern.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “But … I’d still like to hear the news.”

  “Sorry. The news is only for someone who gives a shit.”

  “Hey!” I squeaked. “That’s not fair.”

  “Maybe not. Anyway, here it is. This afternoon, Danny Armenta was beaten up by a couple of inmates, thugs. I talked to a guy I know at the jail and got the kid moved to a single cell. But I’ll tell you what, nobody’s in the mood to do him any favors.”

  “He needs to be out of there, Mike. Have they set bail?”

  “Half a mil.”

  “Might as well be a billion. He’ll never raise it.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It’s possible Danny didn’t do it. In fact, I don’t think he did.”

  “If that’s what you think, then you better get to work and prove it.”

  “But … maybe that’s not what I think, just what I hope. How can I tell if I’m fooling myself?”

  “Does it matter? Either way, you’ll go after the truth. But I wouldn’t waste time if I were you. The DA’s frothing at the mouth.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t actually decided to—”

  “Jaymie? You sound like a broken record. Besides, I think you’ve decided.” Mike’s voice slowed and warmed. “You have, haven’t you.”

  “Um, can we talk later? I just broke a glass and I need to sweep up. Before, you know, Dex steps in it or something.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  What the hell was going on? It had been two years since Mike and I were together, two years since I’d backed out of what had begun to feel like too damn serious a relationship. We’d parted friends, at least on the surface—but I knew he’d been thoroughly pissed with me. Now the ice was thawing, it seemed. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  Oh, I liked the guy. I liked him a lot, in more ways than one. A memory of what Mike’s body looked like under that chambray shirt, and inside those cowboy jeans, came to mind.

  But it was complicated.

  Mike Dawson was the marrying kind, the house-full-of-kids kind. And for reasons I didn’t need to dredge up, I was not.

  I scowled and went for the dustpan and broom. I couldn’t trust the man. Nor could I trust myself.

  * * *

  The next morning, I found myself standing across the street from the century-old county jail. The three-story pseudo-Spanishy structure was topped by cyclone fencing gaily interwoven with concertina wire. The giant tiara glittered in the sun.

  I crossed the street, weaving my way through the women and kids milling about on the wide broken sidewalk. I circled two little girls kneeling on the concrete. Oblivious to their surroundings, they were busy tossing jacks.

  At the jailhouse entrance, I pushed open the heavy door and let it fall shut behind me. A mix of smells invaded my nostrils: sweat, bleach, boiled cabbage, and other substances I didn’t need to identify. The narrow room, little more than a hallway, was crowded with visitors. I paused as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  I’d always thought there was an ugly symmetry to this space. A trough worn into the ancient linoleum led from the door to the desk. Double barriers of glass block, enclosing visiting stalls, faced off on opposite sides. The room reminded me of an abattoir: lambs to the slaughter.

  Though I’d visited the jail a number of times since Brodie’s death on behalf of clients, I’d never quite gotten used to it. Never was able to walk in the door without gloom falling on me like a shroud. But what I felt about the place was irrelevant. I was here on business.

  The desk was unmanned, and a battered sheet of tin had been inserted behind the brass mouthpiece. The line of waiting visitors twisted back on itself like a snake. I walked to the end of the line, which was near the head.

  After five minutes, the crowd grew restive. At ten past three, voices were raised.

  At twenty past, a smiley-faced jailer appeared. “Take it easy, ladies,” he crooned through the mic. “Your men ain’t going nowhere.” He yanked up the tin sheet and tossed it on the counter, and a ritual of sorts began.

  Each supplicant stated the name of the man she’d come to visit. The jailer checked the name on a monitor, then slid a narrow black book into a well beneath the plate glass. The visitor signed the book, returned it to the well, and stepped aside.

  Guards began to usher prisoners to the stalls. The inmates wore plastic zip-tie cuffs and held their folded hands at their waists.

  At last I reached the head of the line. The grilled opening was set in the glass at the level of the jailer’s mouth, and I had to twist my neck and bend down to speak into it. “I’m here to see Daniel Armenta.”

  The smiling oily-faced man stared back at me through the inches-thick plank of smudged glass, his moist lips slightly ajar. His eyes watched my mouth.

  “How are you spelling that?” He tipped his bobblehead to read his screen.

  “A-r-m-e-n-t-a.”

  He peered at the screen. “Armenta. The one that killed the girl?”

  “That’s for a court of law to decide.” My temperature was rising, but I held my tongue. I knew all too well that a so-called bad attitude on my part could make things tough for Danny.

  The goon stared again at my mouth. Then he slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. “What’s your name and what’s your connection to the prisoner?”

  I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep cool. “Jaymie Zarlin. Daniel Armenta’s family has hired me to investigate his case.”

  “That’s great.” The jailer spread his lips, revealing oddly small teeth in a wide, heavy jaw. “Hey, I remember you.” He wobbled his head from side to side. “Joan of Arc, huh? Whatever turns you on.”

  What
would turn me on right now would be to wring your damn neck.

  Fifteen minutes later, when two large guards led a bent and broken young man into a chute, my mind cleared. This wasn’t about me.

  I watched through the plate glass as one man shoved a chair against Danny’s knees, and the other dropped a hand on his shoulder and rammed him down.

  “Zarlin. Cubicle seven,” the loudspeaker squawked. I glanced at the guy behind the desk: he was leering at me.

  I walked around the glass wall and approached Danny’s booth. He was hunched forward, his chin nearly touching his chest, staring at the tabletop. I sat down in a stained resin chair and leaned forward. “Danny…” But of course he couldn’t hear me through the thick glass. I picked up the black phone hanging on the wall, and waited.

  A full minute passed. I tapped the glass with the receiver.

  Danny lifted his head. For a single moment, his eyes met mine.

  A large dark bruise filled the socket of one bloodshot eye. Terror filled his gaze. Danny, I realized, was nearly catatonic with fear.

  Swiftly, before he could turn away, I motioned for him to pick up the phone. I smiled brightly, with what I hoped looked like encouragement.

  He hesitated. Then, miracle of miracles, Danny copied my motion. He picked up the receiver on his side of the wall and held it to his ear.

  “Danny,” I said as gently as I could, “I’m Jaymie. I know your tía. I’m Gabi’s friend.” A flicker of understanding lit his stunned face. I knew I had a brief moment to connect, nothing more.

  “I’m going to help you, Danny. I’ll leave my phone number at the desk. Anytime you want to talk, ask for a phone.” I studied his face, no doubt handsome before his illness. Was any part of my message getting through?

  “Danny, would you say something? My name, Jaymie—please say it back to me.”

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came forth. When he did speak at last, his voice sounded rusty, long out of use. “I—I—”

  But then his eyes blanked. The phone fell from his hand, dangling on its short cord, and his head lolled forward on his chest.

  “I’m going to help you,” I heard myself say. “Danny? I promise I will.”

  I watched as the two bulky guards fetched Danny from the booth. They lifted him like a limp rag doll. I couldn’t bear to watch, and looked away. But a moment later, a movement caught my eye. Danny lay sprawled on the floor, and the two men stood over him, smirking.

  My breath snagged in my throat. I knew better than to champion Danny now—that would only bring him more grief.

  The sun needled my eyes as I stepped out on the street. Blindly, I switched on my phone, then managed to punch in a number. “Gabi? It’s Jaymie. I’m ready to start.”

  * * *

  “Well, well. Jaymie Zee.” The deep, masculine voice, rough and tender as the purr of a big cat, vibrated through my phone. “I was just thinking bout you the other day, baby.”

  “Drop the sweet talk, consigliere. I know all your tricks, remember?”

  “I remember everything, sweetheart. But you musta forgot a few things. ’Cause you’d have called long before this if you remembered better.”

  I laughed out loud at the down-home act. Zavier Carbonel, born and raised in the Bay Area, had enjoyed a moon-shot ride from prep school straight through UC Berkeley and Stanford Law. “Zave? I’m going to say this straight out: I need a favor.”

  “Sure. But you’re not getting it over the phone. You want something from Daddy, you pay him a visit. Catch my drift?”

  “I’m not coming up to your office, Zave.”

  “Why not? I’d have thought a competitive young lady like yourself would enjoy walking in and closing the door on these skinny girls I got working for me. They all want a piece of the Zave—you know they do.”

  “And they all get it. That’s the point.”

  “OK, Jaymie, OK. Come by the house around eight. I’ll have dinner ready. Course, you’ll bring the dessert.”

  I had to laugh. “Sooo smooth. And … Zave?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “This is something … that matters.”

  “Hear you.” His voice sobered. “Don’t fret, Jaymie. We’ll sort it out.”

  * * *

  Zave’s posh office was located on the top floor of the tallest building in Santa Barbara, the Granada, with its three-sixty views. But his home was something else.

  I piloted Brodie’s old El Camino through the lower Westside. It was a mellow evening, approaching dusk. Already, several young men were conducting business on the corners. They noticed my ride and looked at me alertly, then slid their eyes sideways when they understood I wasn’t a customer.

  Zave’s neighborhood was arguably the worst in town. Trash from overflowing garbage cans, plus a dead skunk and other less identifiable roadkill, littered the streets. But this was also one of the oldest neighborhoods in Santa Barbara. The giant palms were stately, the bougainvilleas heaped in huge haystacks glowing maroon and pink in the dying light.

  Zave … Zave was fine, but maybe our relationship wasn’t. Not for the first time, I wondered whether I should be so involved with the guy.

  After all, some people would have a name for what we did. Zave, my connection to the well-heeled strata of town, provided me with info and assistance from time to time. And you could say I paid him back with—hey, what the hell—sex.

  But was it as simple as that? The payment, incomparable sex, paid both ways. And in helping me, the shyster had a chance to do some good. So how was it wrong?

  Out of the blue, without meaning to, I thought of a certain deputy sheriff. Now I didn’t feel so perky.

  I drove past a housing project. Tattered curtains hung listlessly from open windows, and in a courtyard, a rail-thin ice cream vendor rang a forlorn bell.

  Within a few blocks, the road began to meander up Carrillo Hill, and the streetlights and sidewalks disappeared. I turned into a narrow alleyway, rutted and overgrown.

  The track circled several tumbledown properties. The structures were sagging, buried in ivy and abandoned. Then the road made a sharp bend, and I pulled up before a state-of-the-art spiked steel gate. I reached out through the window and pushed a button on an illuminated pad.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Begging admittance, if it pleases you, sir.”

  The gate slid open with a rather sinister hiss. Up ahead was La Casa de la Boca del Canon, a strikingly beautiful Spanish colonial constructed by William Randolph Hearst in the 1920s. The mogul had it built for his movie star guests, those who required an overnight respite on their journey from Hollywood to Hearst’s castle in San Simeon.

  As I pulled up in front, I was zapped by sensor lights. I blindly fumbled my way out of the El Camino to the stone steps.

  “Ascend to seventh heaven,” Zave’s deep voice intoned from above.

  “For God’s sake, Zave. Switch off the klieg lights.”

  His laughter boomed out above me. I climbed the steps and was swept into his arms.

  “Come into my parlor, you delicate butterfly.” He held me lightly but firmly and tickled my neck with his tongue.

  “Said the spider to the fly,” I corrected. “You’re the spider, I’m the fly.”

  “Then give me a buzz, baby,” he murmured in my ear.

  Zave was not handsome, objectively speaking. His nose was slightly flattened and bent to one side. His eyes were recessed in his skull—a plus for a boxer, but a tough look on an attorney. You hardly noticed, though. Zave’s expression was so pleasing, so alive with intelligence, that the fact that his features weren’t classic just didn’t register.

  “Good to see you, Jaymie. Why has it been so long?”

  “You’re too much for me, Zave. I require months to recover from your attentions.”

  “Bullshit you do.” He took me by the elbow and steered me through several exquisitely tiled archways to his cozy dining room. “I’m going to suggest compartmentalization, Jaymie. Dinner fir
st, followed by business. Then, whatever your naughty little mind dreams up.”

  A pair of tapers set in crystal candlesticks burned away on the cloth-covered table, where eggshell-thin china and old silver were laid out for two. Zave was a tease, but I knew that in one matter he was deadly serious: the preparation and eating of food.

  He drew out a chair upholstered in mango-colored shot silk. “Madam?”

  I perched gingerly on the edge, suddenly conscious of my grubby jeans.

  The meal was sumptuous: elegant Cajun style. The flaky caught-that-day snapper was baked in a delectable toasted pecan butter sauce, the shrimp sautéed in cognac. “To die for,” I moaned.

  When we’d finished, I gave my lips one last pat with the linen napkin, then got to my feet and began to clear the table.

  “Leave it,” Zave commanded. “Eduardo will get it in the morning.”

  “Honestly,” I objected. “I’d feel better if I rinsed my own plate.”

  “You’re so damn bourgeois, Jaymie. I’m not sure if it’s a turnoff or a turn-on.”

  Zave served me a dry apricot sherry in the living room. I leaned back on the couch and studied the huge oil painting over the fireplace. It depicted a fiesta in colonial Spanish California.

  “I think I know that painting. It looks a lot like the famous one missing from the county courthouse.”

  “Does it?” He sat down beside me. “The guy who gave it to me bought it from some other guy. The courthouse painting went missing eighty years ago, you know.”

  “Doesn’t mean they don’t want it back.” I gazed at him over the rim of my glass. “So someone gave it to you?”

  “Uh-huh. For services rendered.”

  “You might have gotten the short end of the stick. I don’t know much about art, but it’s not a very good painting, is it? All out of proportion.”

  “It’s crap. But a lot of people would like to own it, therefore I like having it. I know I don’t have to explain how I am to you, Jaymie.”

  “No, you don’t. And this is no way for me to talk, considering I’m about to ask for your help.”

  “You’re wrong there. You’re being straight, and that’s best. Now, what is it you want from me? Besides the obvious, of course.”