Blood Orange Page 8

  “Lili Molina,” one of the devils said.

  “LILI!” Danny screamed in terror. “ARE YOU OUT IN THE FOG? LILI, LILI, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU!”

  * * *

  “But Jaymie, where will you sleep?” Alma looked limp with exhaustion. “You’re giving up your bed.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be in the studio, right next door.” I smiled reassuringly. “I’ll just get a few things out of the bedroom, then leave you to relax.”

  Alma slumped. I could see her giving way, inch by inch. “God bless you,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, thank you,” Aricela piped up in her high clear voice. She and Chuy were already settled in front of the TV. Dexter, never one to miss an opportunity, was curled up between the kids on the couch.

  Scooby-Doo seemed a little young for Aricela, but no doubt the show was helping her escape from the day’s ugly events. Being drummed out of your home by an angry mob of neighbors was not something any kid should have to experience. I wasn’t sure Chuy grasped what had happened, but Aricela understood all too well. I knew she would never forget.

  I stuffed PJs and a fresh change of clothes into a duffel bag, then glanced into the smaller guest room on my way out. Danny lay curled into a fetal position on the single bed. He’d drawn the hood of his gray sweatshirt tight around his face.

  Chuy looked up from the TV when I walked back through the living room. “Can Dexter stay with me?”

  “I’d better take him to the studio for the night, Chuy. He wants to be let out early—five thirty in the morning. You’ll still be sound asleep.”

  “No-oh,” he mock-wailed, his voice rising and falling on the single syllable. “He likes me. He wants to stay!”

  “Mijo,” Alma admonished wearily.

  “Dexter will be waiting at your door when you get up in the morning, Chuy,” I said. “You can count on that.”

  I had to call several times before the mutt grudgingly slipped off the couch and followed me out. When I closed the door on the little household, he remained on the step with his nose pressed to the crack. “Tomorrow, Dex. They need you, God knows they do.”

  Inside the studio, I tossed my things on the table and drew the papasan chair up to the window. The mutt dropped down on the rug with an ill-tempered grunt.

  Dusk was gathering in the Channel, and a few faint lights twinkled out on the rigs. I leaned forward and turned the old aluminum crank. Salty sea air, tinged with the odor of the oil that welled up naturally out in the Channel, flowed into the studio.

  As it always did in this room, my brother’s memory rose to greet me. “Brodie—” My voice caught in my throat.

  I could barely make out Santa Cruz Island now, drifting off into the purple night. Loneliness, cold as the channel waters, seeped into my thoughts. To break the mood, I stepped outside and filled my lungs with the sweet prom-night perfume of the Victorian box tree spreading over the garage.

  I would give up the studio tomorrow, I decided. Danny needed a separate and quiet space.

  I looked over at the house. A light glowed in one of the windows. Tonight, at least, the Armentas were safe.

  After five or ten minutes I returned to the studio, switched off the light, and stretched out on the futon. I told myself to relax, but my mind raced like a squirrel trapped in a cage.

  Daphne. Daphne and Apollo.… How exactly had the story gone? Abruptly, I was wide awake.

  I flipped the light back on, fired up my laptop, and searched. Just a press or two of a key, and I came upon a retelling in Edith Hamilton’s Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes. The ancient myth blazed to life on the modern device:

  Daphne flew on, even more frightened than before. If Apollo was indeed following her, the case was hopeless, but she was determined to struggle to the very end. It had all but come; she felt his breath upon her neck, but there in front of her the trees opened and she saw her father’s river. She screamed to him, “Help me! Father, help me!” At the words a dragging numbness came upon her, her feet seemed rooted in the earth she had been so swiftly speeding over. Bark was enclosing her; leaves were sprouting forth.

  Rape. Once more I switched off the light and lay down in the dark. It wasn’t so difficult, I discovered, to put myself in Daphne’s place, to feel her panic and dread. But to think like the one who believed he possessed the right to rape … that was a challenge.

  Rejection would be intolerable to such a being, and a rebuff would only add fuel to a smoldering fire. God or man, the rapist nursed a seething fury—and a lethal drive toward revenge.

  I would pay another visit to the murder scene in the morning. Yes, the killer had taken great care to hide his identity. And yet—enthralled and distracted by his own ferocity—he could not have failed to leave a clue.

  Chapter Seven

  At eight the next morning, the mist was so heavy it pinpricked my cheeks. I stopped in the yard and listened to the foghorn groaning out in the harbor.

  Dexter stretched, extending one hind leg gracefully, then the other. The cow dog looked over at me and whined.

  “You’ll have to talk to your new family about breakfast, Dex. I’ve got business to attend to.”

  The unpainted garage at the back leaned sideways, and as always, the warped doors stood ajar. It took some elbow grease to lift and move them all the way open. I cursed under my breath as a redwood splinter stabbed into my palm.

  I hadn’t driven the blue and white El Camino in months, but I knew it would start with no problem. Brodie had always taken much better care of his vehicles than himself, and Blue Boy—Brod’s name for it, not mine—was in great shape considering its age.

  I slipped sideways into the garage, praying that none of the resident black widows would decide to hitch a ride in my hair. I squeezed into the cab and managed to shut the door. For a moment I just sat there in the gloom, allowing memories of my brother to wash over me.

  “Hi!” The passenger door edged open, and Chuy slipped sideways into the front seat. He tipped his penny-bright face up to me. “Can I go with you? Pleeze?”

  I returned his grin. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “Don’t care! I’m going too.” He wriggled down in the seat and snapped on the belt. “Come on, boy, hop in.”

  I had to laugh as Dexter skinnied in and somehow squeezed himself into the shoe-box-sized space at the kid’s feet. Chuy closed his door and turned back to me. “OK, we’re ready—let’s go!”

  “You two are my sidekicks, for sure. But this morning I’m afraid I’ve got work to do.” I backed out of the garage and angled around, pointing the El Camino down the hill. “Tell you what. Take Dex back in the house and give him breakfast. I promise, this afternoon I’ll take you both to the beach.”

  * * *

  I’d expected to use my lock-picking skills at the warehouse, and had pocketed several tools for the job. But I was surprised to find the side door unlocked. The moment I stepped in, I heard two people, male and female, talking. Their voices were strained and intense.

  I eased the door shut and walked softly down the concrete hallway, past the door to the dressing room. I paused at the entrance to the shadowy main work space. The hulking float, now partially dismantled, leaned against the far wall.

  The voices were coming from a far wing of the warehouse. I crossed the cavernous room and entered a rabbit warren of narrow hallways. Following the voices, I halted just before a half-open door.

  “Come on, baby. You know it’s just you and me. Fuck all of them, right?”

  “That’s what I thought!” The female voice was peevish, high-pitched. “But I saw you, Jared! I saw you leave with her.”

  “OK, but it wasn’t my idea. Lili asked me to drive her. I just dropped her off so she could change. Damn! I came back right away, I didn’t even wait for her. Fuck, Shawna, you saw me—”

  “Hey—I don’t think you like, did anything,” she said quickly. “I’m not saying that. Yeah, I saw you come back. But they�
��re going to find out you gave her a ride.”

  “No they aren’t, Shawnie.” His voice was syrupy now. “Nobody’s going to find anything out unless you open your mouth.”

  “Lili didn’t ask you to drive her back here just so she could change. That’s stupid, why would she do that while the party was still on? She probably wanted you to get into her pants! And you didn’t say no, not you.”

  “OK, you need to shut up. You’ve got it wrong. Like I said, Lili just wanted a ride. They told her to come back and change out of her costume. It’s worth a lot of money, they didn’t want her running around in it.”

  “Who’s they? You’re the Guild manager.”

  “Who? Damn, I don’t know.” Jared’s voice faltered a little. “The Triune, maybe.”

  “Oh, the big dicks.” Now Shawna’s voice was a tease.

  “Never mind about the big dicks. Listen, I want you to keep your mouth shut about all this, and if you don’t, you won’t be getting any from me for a while.”

  “And what if I do what you want?”

  “If you do what I want, we can still play.”

  “Play—like now?”

  “Hell yeah, we could now.”

  “I’ve got to get to work, you know.”

  “Forget about the French Press. You and me are gonna do some pressing right here.”

  “You’re funny. This early in the morning?”

  “What do you think, baby?”

  “I think if you say Lili Molina was an ugly little Mexican whore, you’ll get whatever you want.”

  Shit. Did I have to listen to this?

  * * *

  I slipped back down the hall and out of the warehouse. On my way in I’d noticed an old tan BMW parked across the street, and now I wanted a closer look.

  The car was clean inside and out. Anonymous, really. The only visible object was a black leather jacket, carefully draped along the backseat. I tried a door handle, but it was locked. I thought about breaking in but doubted it would be worth the trouble.

  Instead, I drove up the street and parked a distance away, in view of the Beemer. I sat and thought about what I’d just learned. Jared Crowley had delivered Lili back here to change—and to die.

  All hearsay, however, no proof. If challenged, Jared and Shawna would simply deny they’d ever had a conversation on the subject of Lili Molina.

  Twenty minutes later, the lovebirds exited the warehouse and crossed the street to the Beemer. Shawna tossed her head, and her long black hair glistened in the sun. She looked like the most confident person in the world, but Shawna was one needy girl.

  As soon as the vehicle was out of sight, I returned to the warehouse. The pair had locked up, and this time I needed to pick the lock. Once in, I passed through the warehouse to the room Jared and Shawna had just left. Several of Shawna’s long black hairs lay on the grimy felted-down carpet.

  I walked back to the murder room and found the door locked. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and again used my tools to let myself in.

  Except for the number thirteen and ladders blocking my path, I’m not superstitious. But if ever a room contained a ghostly presence, this was it. The photos were gone, but the rusty blood outline remained. The air was hot and smelled of sweat and sick.

  I crossed to the window. Mr. June Bug lay dead on the sill, gutted by ants. I scanned the room: what else had changed since my previous visit?

  The screen, chair, and coat tree now stood upright. Lili’s clothing was gone, no doubt to forensics. The scattered accessories and props were back where they belonged, in the storage bin, and the bin was shoved in a corner.

  Once again I dipped under the costumes hanging in the alcove and straightened, my back to the wall. Here the air was thick with dust, mold, and that peculiar pong of cologne and old sweat. I switched on my pen light and located the spot where the dowel had been wiped clean.

  No doubt about it. The costumes had been shoved aside, the dust rubbed from the dowel as the hangers parted. Forensics could have done it, I supposed.

  I ducked back into the room. This was my chance, I reminded myself. I might not come here again. What had I missed?

  I walked over to the prop bin and tipped it out onto the concrete. Then I dropped to my knees and spread out the heap of purses, hats, shoes—and belts, four of them.

  I reexamined each belt, recalling the mark on Lili’s neck. But none of these were a match—all four were too wide. Anyway, the forensics team would have gone through these items with a fine-toothed comb. I continued to rummage through the pile, not really expecting to find anything I hadn’t noticed before.

  But then my hand stilled. From the pile, I pulled out a thin leather cord, a heavy lace from a hiking or work boot. One end of the lace was stiff with dried blood.

  This could be the ligature that the killer had used to strangle Lili Molina. But where had it come from? The first time I’d visited the dressing room, the contents of the prop bin were spread over the floor. I’d sorted through the objects then, and was pretty certain I’d have noticed a cord dipped in blood. There was only one explanation: someone had visited the room and planted the evidence.

  In a rush of excitement, I nearly pocketed the thing. But I stopped myself: that wouldn’t do. After all, I couldn’t turn in the cord to the cops—how would I explain what I was doing at the murder scene, how I’d gotten in? The best thing to do would be to leave it in the bin.

  I laid the bootlace on the floor and snapped a few pictures with my cell. Then I reloaded the bin, tossing the objects in one at a time, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Handbags, hats, a pair of old-fashioned pumps … and then, something else. I sat back on my heels and stared at the object I held in my hands.

  It was a vintage megaphone, crafted of some sort of heavy cardboard, the sort of thing a cheerleader might have used at a sporting event many decades ago. No doubt a prop of some kind, once part of a costume.

  Why had the badly faded red and blue cone caught my attention? I had no idea. I snapped a picture of it too, before I chucked it back in the bin.

  * * *

  I slid the El Camino keys into the ignition, then leaned back in the old bench seat and stared at the stained cloth-covered ceiling.

  Tantalizing clues were surfacing. And maybe one or two of these lures actually signified something. But I needed to slow down: I knew I was getting ahead of myself. I turned the key in the ignition, mainly just to listen to the engine’s comforting thrum.

  The problem was, I wasn’t beginning at the starting point. How much did I actually know about Lili Molina? My next step—the one I maybe should have taken in the beginning—was suddenly clear.

  I arched my back and tugged my phone from my jeans pocket. “Morning, Gabi. Just checking to see if you made it in on time this morning.” I grinned and held the phone at arm’s length as my PA gave me an earful.

  “Seriously, I need Teresa Molina’s phone number and address. Text them to me, will you? Please,” I added. I’d rubbed the bobcat’s fur in the wrong direction, and no doubt I’d be paying a price for the rest of the day.

  I didn’t much like the idea of showing up unannounced on Mrs. Molina’s doorstep, especially as I was representing the boy accused of murdering her daughter. But when no one answered my call, I slipped the El Camino into gear and headed for downtown Santa Barbara.

  * * *

  I parked near the corner of State, got out and walked west on Ortega. The street was lined with big Victorians, some festooned with purple wisteria, all of them subdivided into apartments. A thumping boom box, perched on a windowsill, competed for air time with the sound of a crying baby. Battered old cars hugged the curbs, filled driveways and even front yards. Living was tight downtown, yet the rents were sky-high. No option for tenants except to pack in the roomies.

  I halted and looked across the street at 536 Ortega, a once stately, now slumping Queen Anne with a dirty old rug hanging out of a second-story window. A huge Moreton Bay fig tree s
pread over the entire front yard.

  Mike had said the Molinas rented a studio at the back of 536. I crossed the street and entered a narrow walkway running between the house and a wooden fence covered with peeling strips of yellowish paint. Another thirty yards along and I found myself in a garden filled with shrubs and flowers. In the farthest corner stood a converted Victorian summerhouse, no more than six or seven hundred square feet in size. Someone had trained a scarlet-flowered passion fruit over the door.

  I slowed and drew in a breath to ground myself. I was about to enter a house of mourning, and my visit would bring fresh pain.

  I pulled open the screen door and knocked gently, then allowed it to fall back into place. There was no sound of movement inside. Over in the main house, a man shouted in Spanish and a woman hollered back.

  After a time, there was a scratching noise on the inside of the door. Then it creaked open and a once-pretty woman with a slack face and dull eyes peered through the screen. “Yes?” Her voice sounded lifeless, mechanical.

  “Mrs. Molina?” I said gently. “I’m Jaymie Zarlin. Deputy Dawson suggested I talk with you. I am so very sorry for your loss.” My words sounded formulaic, unfeeling. Suddenly I was ashamed to be standing on the doorstep, ashamed to be interrupting this woman’s vigil.

  “Talk with me?” Teresa Molina stood very still, as if she were made of lead.

  “About your daughter, Mrs. Molina. If this isn’t a good time…” Of course it wasn’t a good time! What was I thinking? “I’ll come back later. I’m so sorry to have—”

  “No, please.” She straightened and nudged the screen door. “No, I will talk. And there is something I need. Maybe—maybe you can help.”

  “I hope I can.” I stepped in and gently closed the doors behind me. The cloying odor of church incense choked the air.