Guilt (18 page)

Young black woman with short, straightened hair and a heart-shaped face. Extremely pretty and graceful despite a drab smock that could’ve come out of Adriana’s closet.

A single chocolate dot in a sea of vanilla.

The bones in the park had yielded African American maternal DNA.

I didn’t need to say anything. Milo muttered, “Maybe.” Then he pointed to the older man in the suit. “Got to be the pastor, whatever his name is.”

“Reverend Goleman,” I said. “Life Tabernacle Church of the Fields.”

He turned to me. “You memorize everything?”

“Just what I think might be important.”

“You figured the church might be important? Why didn’t you say so?”

“There’s
might
and there’s is,” I said. “No lead before its time.”

“You and that party wine from when we were kids—the Orson Welles thing.”

“Paul Masson.”

“Now you’re showing off.”

I reexamined the photos that included the black woman. “Adriana stands nearer to her than she does to anyone else. So let’s assume a close relationship.”

“The pal in the red car?”

“What we’ve heard about Adriana says she had a moral compass, would never have bailed on the Changs without a good reason. Helping a good friend might qualify.”

“If she was murdered because she knew too much, why dump the bones near her and risk the association?”

“He’s a confident guy.”

“Talk about a poor choice for your baby’s daddy. And that leads me
back to the problem I had before. Child abuse, even murder, something rage-related, happens all the time. But I’m still having trouble seeing anyone, even a psychopath, taking the time to clean and wax his own offspring’s bones then tossing them like trash.”

I have no trouble seeing anything and that turns some nights hellish. I said, “You’re probably right. The first step is I.D.’ing this woman.”

He looked at his watch. Close to three a.m. “Too early to rouse Reverend Goleman in Idaho.” Separating the photo album from the cartons, he dropped it into an evidence bag. We carried both boxes to the big D-room, where he secured them in a locker. Returning to his office, he wrote an email to the crime lab. Leaning back in his chair, he yawned. “Go home, sleep late, kiss Robin and pet the pooch. Have a nice breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not going home.”

“There’s a sleeping room near the holding cells. I may just bunk out so I can be ready to phone Boise in four hours. Hopefully a devout fellow like the Rev will be cooperative.”

“Speaking of devout,” I said, “where will you be attending Sunday Mass?”

“What? Oh, that. I said evidentiary, not suggestive.”

“Driving a tough bargain with the Almighty?”

“He wouldn’t respect me otherwise.”

I
slipped into bed just after three thirty a.m., careful not to rouse Robin.

She rolled toward me, wrapped her arms around my neck, murmured, “Morning.”

“Not enough morning. Go back to sleep.”

One of her eyes opened. “Anything new?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we wake up.”

“We’re awake now.” She propped herself up.

I gave her a rundown.

She said, “Mothers and babies,” sighed and slid away from me, was breathing evenly within seconds. Sometimes she talks in her sleep when she’s upset. This time she remained silent until daybreak. I knew because I watched her for a long time.

An internal prompt woke me at seven a.m. I should’ve been wiped out; instead I was hyped, eager to know what Milo had learned from the Right Reverend Goleman. I waited for him to call and when he hadn’t
by seven thirty, I took a robotic run, showered, shaved, brought coffee out to Robin in her studio.

No saw buzz or hammer percussion as I approached. Maybe she’d dozed less soundly than I’d thought, didn’t trust herself with sharp things.

She was sitting on her couch, Blanche a little blond pillow under her arm, studying a beautiful book showcasing a collection of vintage guitars. One man’s monomania. I’d bought it for her last Christmas.

I said, “Inspiration?”

“Aesthetics. You get any decent sleep?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“Hear from Big Guy?”

“Not yet.”

I held out the mug. She said, “Let’s go outside,” and we sat near the pond, tossing pellets to the koi and drinking coffee and not saying a thing.

Eleven minutes of uneasy serenity before I heard from Big Guy.

For someone who hadn’t slept at all, Milo sounded chipper.

“The bad news: Reverend Goleman is away from the office. The good news: He’s right here in SoCal, attending a convention in Fullerton. We’re meeting at my office at noon.”

“He give you the name of Adriana’s friend?”

“Yes,” he said, “but it’s complicated. See you when the sun’s high?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I arrived a few minutes early, encountered Milo as he was locking up his office. “According to Goleman, the friend is Qeesha D’Embo. Unfortunately, that doesn’t match anything in the databases.”

“Alias? She was hiding something?”

“Maybe—this looks like our clergy-type.”

A tall rotund man accompanied by a smallish female officer headed our way.

Milo said, “I’ll take it from here, Officer,” and shook Goleman’s hand. Goleman’s suit was plaid, deep blue with a pale pink crosshatch. His white hair was shorter than in the church photos, cropped nearly to the skin at the sides, bristly and uncooperative on top. Heavy build but hard-fat, no jiggle when he moved. One of those thick sturdy men built for hours behind the plow.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Reverend.”

“Of course,” said Goleman. His voice was deep and mellow, easy-listening at sermon time. He reached out to grip my hand. His paw was padded and callused, just firm enough to be sociable.

Milo led him to the same interview room, minus the extra table.

When Goleman sat, he overwhelmed the chair. He tugged up his trousers, revealed high-laced work boots.

“Something to drink, Reverend?”

Goleman patted his belly. “No thanks, Lieutenant, I had breakfast at the hotel including way too much coffee. Big buffet and I overdid it with the huevos rancheros. As usual.”

Milo said, “Know what you mean.”

Goleman smiled faintly. “It’s tough for us big guys with healthy appetites. I don’t even make resolutions anymore because I’m weary—and wary—of failing my Savior.” He began crossing a leg, changed his mind, planted his foot back on the linoleum. “I’m in despair over Adriana. She was a wonderful girl, not a mean bone in her body. I say that as more than her pastor. I knew her personally. She dated my nephew.”

“Dwayne.”

Goleman’s lips folded inward. “You know about Dwayne.”

“He came up in the course of trying to learn about Adriana.”

“Terrible, terrible thing,” said Goleman. “Farmwork’s always dangerous but when it actually happens … I have no doubt Dwayne and Adriana would’ve married and raised wonderful, warmhearted children.” His voice caught. “Now it’s Adriana we’re mourning. Do you have any idea who did this?”

“No, Reverend.”

“This is the kind of ordeal that tests one’s faith and I’m not going to tell you I passed with flying colors. Because when I heard about Adriana from her sister—wanting me to conduct the service—I couldn’t dredge up an ounce of faith.”

Milo said, “Bad stuff can do that, Reverend.”

“Oh, it can, Lieutenant. But that’s the point of faith, isn’t it? Believing when everything’s rolling along hunky-dory is no challenge.” Goleman massaged double chins. “And now you’ve implied Qeesha might be in trouble.”

“I didn’t find any record of any Qeesha D’Embo.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Goleman.

“You figured it for an alias?”

“Qeesha was always quite secretive, Lieutenant, and given her circumstances I can’t say I blamed her. She came to us two years ago as part of a group of fire survivors, a conflagration in New Orleans. Poor, desperate people who’d survived Katrina only to see their homes go up in flames. Several churches in our city collaborated to take some of them in and we got Qeesha. She was a lovely girl. Hardworking when it came to church activities. And the fire’s not all I was referring to as her circumstances. Not only had she lost her mother and her house, she was forced to run from someone who’d terrorized her.”

“Terrorized her how?”

“Domestic violence,” said Goleman. “One of those stalking situations. This fellow—she only referred to him by his first name, Clyde—had become obsessed with her, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Mind you, I never heard this from Qeesha. Adriana told me after I voiced my concerns about Qeesha’s reluctance to talk about her ordeal, suggested bottling everything up might not be the best idea, perhaps counseling would help. Adriana explained to me that Qeesha was dealing with more than the fire, was too overwhelmed to handle counseling.”

I said, “Instead, she confided in Adriana.”

“Adriana opened her home to Qeesha, they grew close very quickly. Inseparable, really, it was rare to see one without the other, Adriana was
our best preschool teacher and Qeesha served as her aide. They were terrific with the little ones. Then one day Qeesha didn’t arrive with Adriana and Adriana told me she’d moved to California.”

“Running from Clyde?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Adriana seemed to be surprised herself. Apparently, Qeesha had moved out in the middle of the night without explanation.”

Same thing Adriana had done with the Changs. “How long ago was this?”

“Qeesha was only with us for a short while—I’d say a couple of years ago, give or take.”

“Reverend,” said Milo, “when a homicide occurs, we need to ask all sorts of questions. You just said Adriana and Qeesha grew inseparable. Could there have been more than friendship?”

“Were they lovers?” said Goleman. “Hmm, never considered that. There were certainly no signs. And we do have gay people in our church, there wouldn’t be any official stigma. Though I’m sure some of our parishioners might look askance. But no, I never saw that. Not that I’m an expert.”

“What kind of church is it?”

“Nondenominational, fairly fundamentalist in terms of how we read Scripture. And yes, I do have my personal views on homosexuality but I keep them to myself because our emphasis is on faith, prayer, careful study of both Testaments with an emphasis on textual exegesis, and, most important, good works. We’re a community of doers.”

“Charity,” said Milo.

“Charity implies one person doing a favor for another, Lieutenant. Our view is that the giver gets as much out of the gift as the taker. I’m sure that sounds self-righteous but in practice it works out quite well. All of our members tithe and most everyone takes on some kind of good work. We’re not a wealthy tabernacle but we do our best to provide shelter and sustenance to the needy.”

Milo nodded. “Back to Clyde, if we might?”

Goleman said, “The only thing I can tell you other than his first
name—and I must say I found it appalling—is that he’s a police officer.”

“From New Orleans.”

“Adriana never specified but I assumed that to be the case. She told me that contributed to Qeesha’s fear: Clyde was a law officer, she felt he could get away with anything.”

“Was there any indication Clyde had located Qeesha?”

“No, sir,” said Goleman. “May I assume from your questions that you believe she’s also been a victim?”

“The investigation has just begun so we don’t believe anything, Reverend. Did Qeesha have a vehicle?”

“No, she—all the New Orleans people—arrived with virtually nothing.”

“Did Adriana drive?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because she didn’t drive in California.”

“Really,” said Goleman.

“Really.”

“Well, I can’t explain that, Lieutenant. What she drove in Boise was Dwayne’s truck. His parents—my sister and brother-in-law—insisted Adriana have it. But when she left to take the job in Portland, she insisted on returning it to Nancy and Tom and left on Greyhound. Truth is, my sister never wanted to see the truck again. Dwayne’s high school sticker was still on the rear window and Adriana hadn’t cleaned out his personal effects from the glove compartment. But Adriana insisted.”

I said, “Why’d Adriana leave Boise?”

“She never told me,” said Goleman. “I assumed she’d had enough.”

“Of what?”

“Grief, memories. A life that needed changing.”

M
ilo and Goleman exchanged cards and Goleman extracted a promise from Milo to let him know “once you’ve solved it.”

As we watched him barrel away, Milo said, “Optimism of the righteous.” We returned to his office, where he called Delano Hardy’s home number in Ladera Heights.

Milo’s initial partner at West L.A., Hardy had retired a few months ago. The department’s logic back then was a pairing of outsiders: gay D with black D. The partnership had worked well until Del’s wife pressured him not to spend his days with “someone like that.”

That same wife answered.

“Martha, it’s Milo. Del around?”

“Milo, how nice.” Her voice was Karo syrup. “He’s out gardening. How’ve
you
been doing?”

“Great, Martha.”

“Well, that’s
good
. Everything just coasting
along
?”

“The usual, Martha.”

“That’s really good, Milo. Hold on.”

Del came on. “What’s the occasion?”

“High intrigue in New Orleans. You garden?”

“Yeah, right. I’m weeding her flower beds, big-time fun,” said Hardy. “The old country, huh?” He’d moved to California as a teen but had grown up in one of the parishes swept away by Katrina. The division had passed around the hat for some of his relatives. I kicked in a couple hundred bucks, received a personal call from Del. I’m sure he did the same in response to Milo’s thousand-dollar donation.

“So what can I help you with, Big Guy?”

Milo explained about Qeesha D’Embo and a scary cop named Clyde.

Hardy said, “Only connection I might conceivably still have is Uncle Ray—not my real uncle, my godfather Ray Lhermitte, did patrol with Daddy, worked his way up to captain. But he’s a lot older than us kids, Milo. For all I know he’s passed.”