Final Appeal (17 page)

“All right, Toni. I've got it all written down. What? Oh, sure. I'm looking forward to it, too.” That was when Toni said something else that made Michael wince. His acting skills were rusty if she'd picked up that easily on his anxiety. “Wrong? No, Toni. There's nothing wrong. I'm just a little preoccupied with this story, but I promise to leave it all behind when I see you at six. And thanks, Toni. You've really helped. I honestly don't know what I would have done without you.”

Michael hung up the phone. His hands were sweating, and he could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck. His stomach had turned into a painful knot of tension, and he actually felt sick. After the numbers Toni had given him, there was no longer any question that the jurors' deaths were related. Someone was killing them off one by one. But who? And why?

Had he done it? Was he slipping out in the dark hours of the night to weave reality into the fabric of his nightmare? Michael refused to believe it. But someone was killing the jurors. That was frighteningly clear. And Michael knew he'd better figure out some way to warn them before it was too late.

“Papa? Wake up, Papa. Mama says to tell you that dinner's ready.”

Jose Sanchez rolled over in bed. It seemed as if he'd just gone to sleep, although Marguerita always made sure he had at least two hours. He yawned and stretched while the little boy watched, and then he reached out and pretended to grab his son's nose.

“Look what I have, Berto.”

Jose held his thumb between his fingers, and the little boy laughed in delight. It was a game Jose had played with all of his children, and it made him sad that soon Roberto would be too old to play.

“Tell Mama I will have Berto's nose for dinner. It is much more delicious than her very best cookies. But perhaps I should put it back. The other boys will laugh if the youngest son of Jose and Marguerita has no nose on his face.”

“That's your thumb, Papa. It's not my nose.” Roberto ran to the mirror and pointed to his nose. “See? My nose is still here. You can't fool me anymore.

“My son is too smart for me.” Jose sighed in mock grief. “Soon he will go out into the world and forget all about his poor father and mother.”

“No I won't!”

“Yes. It is true. Soon Roberto Felipe Luis Sanchez will be rich and he will live in a big white mansion with a high white wall around it. And he will have a long white limousine with a driver in a bright red uniform to take him past the home of his poor old father and mother. But will he stop?”

“Yes, I will!” Roberto was giggling now. He knew what was coming.

“No, he will not. For he will be on his way to the inauguration of the President of the United States. The election has been a grand victory, the first and only time in history that all electoral votes have been cast for a single man. And that great man will be—” He paused and smiled at his son. “Roberto Felipe Luis Sanchez”

Roberto jumped on the bed and threw his arms around his father. Even though moments before, Jose had been tired and exhausted, he now felt happy and eager to complete the eight hours of work that still awaited him. If he earned enough money to pay for his children's education, it would give them an advantage Jose had never had. Not that Roberto was likely to become president. That was a game Jose had created to teach his children to reach for the sky in their dreams. But all six of Jose's children were intelligent and hard-working, and there was no reason why they could not reach those goals that had proved unattainable for their parents.

“Are you filling my baby's head with wishes again, Jose?” Marguerita stood in the doorway watching them. Her voice was solemn, but there was laughter in her eyes. “His head will grow so large, it will no longer fit his body. Which is it this time? President? Or king of the world?”

“President, Mama.” Roberto giggled. “With the mansion and the long white limousine.”

“What became of the swimming pool with flowers that float on the water?” Marguerita broke into a smile. “Or the famous chef who prepares dishes from each country in the world?”

“The chef's you, Mama. You know how to make Italian chicken.”

“Pollo alla cacciatore, Berto.” Marguerita corrected him. “And I am finished with Italy. Tomorrow morning I will begin in France.”

“What will we have then, Mama? French chicken?”

Marguerita laughed. “No, Berto. I will make boeuf bourguignon. You will like it, I know. Now hurry in the kitchen and help your sister set the table.”

When Roberto had left, she turned to Jose with a smile. “I have decided to wait with the German book. The food has much starch, and I am twenty pounds greater than when we were married.”

“You look even more beautiful to me, Marguerita.”

“Ah! That is good to hear. You will like the food from France, Jose. The recipes are very different.”

“I know I will.” Jose stood up and hugged her. The whole family had pooled their money and given her a set of cookbooks for Christmas. Seven cookbooks from seven countries. Marguerita had been delighted. She was already an excellent cook, and she welcomed the challenge of preparing food she had never before tasted.

“Jose? I have a sad thing to tell you. Lester Robinson is dead.”

“The man with whom I served on the jury? You are right, Marguerita. It is sad. How did he die?”

“He was murdered, Jose. In the night. The man on the television said the police are searching, but they have not yet caught the one to blame. Shall I send his family a card?”

“Yes, in English. And tell the children to sign it also, even Roberto. It would be right.”

“You will light a candle?”

Jose nodded. “Tonight. On my way to work. Our Lady will intercede for Lester. He was a worthy man.”

“That is three, Jose. Three on the jury with you who have died in such a small time. Is it a sign?”

“No, Marguerita.” Jose hugged her again. “It is a tragedy, but do not worry. In English they call such a thing coincidence.”

 

 

Michael leaned back in Toni's kitchen chair and stared at her in utter amazement as she reached for the last piece of pizza. Where was she putting it? The top of her head came up to his chin when they were facing each other. That meant she couldn't be taller than five-five or five-six at the most. And he was willing to swear she didn't weigh over one hundred and ten pounds stripped down. Picturing her that way was a delightful thought, and he sighed in contentment.

“You look happy, Mike.”

“I am. Between the pizza and the company, I feel great, Toni.”

They had just finished two huge pizzas with everything on them, washed down with two cokes apiece. He'd brought another bottle of good red wine, but Toni had told him it was a crime against nature to have expensive wine with pizza.

“Do you want me to run off your hard copy, Mike?” Toni asked, finishing the last bite of pizza and wiping her lips on a paper napkin. “I'm done with my job for the cable company, so the decks are clear.”

Michael frowned. “I knew I forgot to bring something. I'll get it when I go back to take my call, and you can print it later if you feel like it. I didn't do all that well today, Toni. Only eight pages.”

“But that's good, Mike.” Toni sounded pleased. “Besides, you spent a lot of time working out that idea for your new book.”

“My new book? You're right, Toni. I completely forgot about the time I spent on that. That reminds me, is there any way to locate a person in those data banks you told me about?”

“There are lots of ways. Do you want me to show you? We've got some time before your call, and we'd better not start . . . uh . . .”

Toni blushed, and Michael laughed.

“I mean, we'd better not get involved in anything that . . . Stop laughing, Mike. You know what I mean. Follow me and don't make any wisecracks.”

Michael followed her into her office and pulled another chair up to her computer console. When the system had warmed up, she turned to him with a smile. “First I have to connect to the proper data bank. Who do you want to locate, Mike? Just pick a name, and I'll plug it in.”

He grinned at her. She looked adorable with her hair pulled up in that silly plastic clip. “My cleaning lady in Cleveland asked me to look up her cousin. His name is Sanchez. Jose Sanchez.”

“Sanchez, Jose.” Toni began to make a file on her computer. “Do you know how old he is?”

“In his late thirties, I think”.

“Do you have his last known address?”

“No. I've got it written down somewhere, but it would take a while to find.

Toni sighed, “Okay let's go at it from another angle. Is there anything distinctive about him, Mike? Something that might set him apart from other people?

“Let me think.” Michael concentrated on remembering the biographical sketches Stan had prepared on the jurors. “There's one thing, but I don't know if it'll help. He's married to a woman named Marguerita. She's not a U.S. citizen. My cleaning lady said she was glad that the children were born here so they got their citizenship automatically.”

“Wife's name, Marguerita. That's good, Mike. I'll check immigration for Marguerita's green card, and we can find Jose through the address she gave. She's legal, isn't she?

“I think so. Yes. I'm sure she is, Toni.”

“Okay, we'll try it. I'm going to access the INS data bank.”

Michael watched, and a message came up on the screen. AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY. ENTER KEY CODE NOW.

“What does that mean?”

Toni sighed. “It means I'm attempting to access a guarded data bank. I'll try once and show you what happens. Of course, I won't have the proper code. The chances of hitting one at random aren't even worth mentioning. “

Toni entered a code, and another message flashed on the screen. INVALlD CODE. ENTER KEY CODE NOW.

“Okay, let's try another one.”

Toni typed in a second code, different from the first one she'd tried. Then she pointed at the screen.

“See that? An invalid code again, and this time it gives me a warning along with the option of quitting or trying again.”

“I see that. What happens if you put in the wrong code the third time?”

“All hell breaks loose, Mike. The alert goes out, my system freezes and they automatically trace me. I'm not exactly sure what the INS would do, but I've heard horror stories about people who've tried to crack the CIA data bank. It's every bit as illegal as physically breaking into an office building to steal their files.”

“Oh, well!” Michael sighed. “I guess we can forget about locating Jose Sanchez through his wife.”

“That would be the intelligent thing to do. I've written a program to crack access codes, but I'm not sure I've got all the bugs out yet. Since we're just playing around, I'll save it for something more important.”

“Like what? Transferring funds at the bank?”

“Oh, no. That would be incredibly stupid, and I'm no criminal. I'd only try my program in case of a life-threatening emergency.”

“Like what?”

“How should I know? I'll recognize it when it comes up. But just having that program makes me feel safer, more in control of my world. Does that sound crazy to you?”

Michael nodded, and Toni laughed. “I know. It sounds pretty crazy to me, too. Actually, I was just playing around one day, and the idea came to me. I've always been a nut for solving the impossible puzzle. Harry said I would have made a good cop.”

“You told him about it?”

“Sure. He got a huge kick out of it, said he'd know exactly where to look if anyone ever messed with the Treasury Department's computers. But I don't think he actually believed I could do it.”

“That's a relief.”

“It certainly is.” Toni laughed. “Harry'd lock up his own mother if she broke the law. We'd better stick to the straight and narrow to find your Jose Sanchez. Does he have a police record? Harry gave me an access code to their setup.”

“I don't think so, Toni.”

“Too bad. I'll try DMV, then. Everyone in L.A. drives a car.” Toni typed some numbers on her screen and leaned back. “Jose Sanchez. That name's so familiar, Mike. I wonder if I've ever met anyone named . . .”

Michael pointed as a list appeared on the screen and started to scroll. Toni took one look and laughed.

“No wonder that name seemed familiar! I must have met at least one of them. Over four hundred Jose Sanchez's in California alone. But don't panic. I'll narrow the field.”

The red light flashed on Toni's hard disk as she entered what looked like a foreign language to Michael. There were quotes and equal signs and little marks that looked like miniature corporal stripes lying on their sides. The only thing that seemed to resemble the English language at all was the word QUIT preceded by two question marks.

Toni pressed the send button and leaned back again. “This might take a couple of seconds, Mike. It has to weed out all the ones that don't match. Ah . . . here it is! Jose Sanchez with an address in Venice. That's right by Santa Monica. You've heard of Santa Monica, haven't you, Mike? And this address is . . . uh-oh!”

“What's the matter?”

“According to the DMV computer, Jose Sanchez lives smack dab in the middle of the area hit by the quake two years ago. That building's gone, Mike. I'm almost sure of it.”

“We struck out?”

Toni shook her head. “Oh, no. We've barely scratched the surface, and this is just a minor snag: I'll plug into the Maple Grove Center next.”

“The Maple Grove Center? Sounds pretty.”

“Not really. It's just a big complex of high-rise office buildings. But a whole lot of L.A. department stores use their facility for billing. If Jose's got plastic, he might be listed.”

“Plastic?”

“That's slang for credit cards. I keep forgetting you're from Cleveland. They probably don't call them that back there. Look, Mike.” Toni pointed at the screen. “There he is. They list the same address as DMV, but now I can bring up his work history.”

Toni typed in some commands, and the screen filled with information. “Does this sound like your man? Jose Sanchez, thirty-eight. Wife's name, Marguerite. Six dependent children.”

“That's him.”

“This Jose Sanchez is employed full-time at the Crossroads Truckstop at the junction of the Santa Monica and Harbor freeways. He's a good credit risk, Mike. See that little symbol after his name? That means he sends his payments on time. Do you want me to print this out for you while you take your call? It's almost nine.”