Mission Canyon (11 page)

‘‘It can’t be,’’ Jesse said. "C. M. Burns? C. Montgomery Burns?’’

‘‘And Bob Terwilliger.’’ Simultaneously we said, ‘‘Sideshow Bob.’’

Adam said, ‘‘What?’’

Jesse said, ‘‘You don’t watch enough TV. They’re cartoon characters.’’

‘‘From
The Simpsons
,’’ I said. The room seemed to shift beneath me. ‘‘He faked the names. The accounts are fraudulent.’’

The rest of the implications fell into place on their own.

I said, ‘‘Brand was embezzling from Mako.’’

‘‘And Isaac stumbled onto it,’’ Adam said.

Brand stole the money, and Isaac found out. Maybe he didn’t even know what it was he’d found out. But he kept pestering Brand about it. He started dragging it into the daylight. He would have exposed Brand.

Jesse said, ‘‘The hit-and-run. He ran Isaac down deliberately.’’

Adam’s face looked desperate. ‘‘Brand murdered him.’’

Chris Ramseur hung up the phone. ‘‘The lieutenant’s on his way.’’

He stirred chunks of nondairy creamer into his coffee. Behind his head the morning sky was a square of gray light outside the window. He was staring at the stack of papers Adam had slapped down on his desk. The minidisk was in his hand.

He shook his head at me, his eyes crackling with energy. ‘‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? You stole this from Brand—’’

‘‘Borrowed.’’

‘‘—stole this from Brand, you hand it to me on a platter, and expect applause.’’

I held out my hands. ‘‘Cuff me, Detective.’’

He sighed and threw his coffee stirrer into the trash. ‘‘There’s no chain of custody, no proof of where this disk came from, beyond your word.’’

‘‘That disk contains enough evidence to prosecute Brand for theft, fraud, and tax evasion.’’

‘‘And murder,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘It reads like the prosecution’s exhibit list. Don’t you believe me?’’

‘‘I believe you,’’ Chris said. ‘‘But I feel a yearlong migraine coming on.’’

Adam said, ‘‘But you can get corroboration from the banks in the Caymans and Bahamas, and from Mako. You need to get over there and lock down their computers. Get a warrant or whatever you do.’’

‘‘Dr. Sandoval—’’

‘‘Their system will contain records of Brand’s fraud. Even if he wiped his hard drive, Mako will have backups or a server that keeps their records. But you should hurry, because if he gets wind that we’re onto him, his friends there might try to destroy the proof.’’

Chris said, ‘‘We? Your surveillance is off. Kaput. Finito.’’

Adam said, ‘‘No. Brand might decide to run.’’

‘‘We’re on it.’’

A deep voice said, ‘‘Detective,’’ and Lt. Clayton Rome walked up to Chris’s desk. ‘‘What’s going on?’’

Rome was crisp, buffed, growly—a man who presented himself as though he were a police motorcycle. His buttons and belt buckle gleamed. His black hair gleamed. His teeth gleamed. He listened to Chris explain the situation, and stared at us, rubbing a finger alongside his nose.

‘‘Okay, we’ll take it from here.’’ He gestured at me. ‘‘You give a statement about the assault at the motel?’’

‘‘It’s being typed up,’’ I said.

‘‘And you’re done playing vigilante?’’

‘‘Certainly.’’ I avoided Chris’s eyes.

Rome looked at Adam. ‘‘I’m sorry about the loss of your brother. We’ll give this our complete effort.’’ He sighed at Jesse and patted him on the shoulder. ‘‘Hang in there, son.’’

He walked away. Jesse let his condescension go without comment.

I said, ‘‘The blond man at the Biltmore, the one who gave Brand the minidisk. What does he have to do with all of this?’’

Chris stared at the disk for a moment. ‘‘Mickey Yago.’’

‘‘Pardon?’’

He looked up. ‘‘The blond’s name is Mickey Yago. He’s from L.A., and he’s a career criminal. He is not a person you three want to have any contact with.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘What kind of career criminal?’’

‘‘Narcotics, porn, extortion. He’s sly, and he’s violent, and he doesn’t work alone. Stay away from him.’’

I crossed my arms. We were all staring at Chris.

I said, ‘‘Who does he work with? Franklin Brand?’’

‘‘That’s under investigation. I’m telling you this to help you protect yourselves.’’

‘‘At the motel Brand asked if Mickey sent me, if I was one of his flunkies,’’ I said. ‘‘Who are Mickey’s flunkies, Chris? The fat man and skinny girl in the Mercedes SUV who stole my wallet?’’

Chris tapped his pencil against the desk.

I said, ‘‘You have any more names for us to stay away from?’’

‘‘Fine. Win Utley and Cherry Lopez. These are all people you should be vaccinated against; I’m not kidding.’’ His face looked strained. ‘‘Brand killed your brother, Dr. Sandoval, and he . . . Jesse, he did this to you. Now you bring me evidence that perhaps he did it intentionally.’’

Adam said, ‘‘He did.’’

‘‘My point,’’ Chris said, ‘‘is that Brand may be more dangerous than we thought. And he may be connected to people who regard violence as ordinary business.’’

My mind jumped forward on the playlist. Porn. Extortion. ‘‘Is Mickey Yago involved with the attempt to threaten Jesse?’’

Chris pointed a finger at me. ‘‘A warning, Evan. Brand may come after you for the disk.’’

‘‘You think he’ll find out who I am?’’

‘‘I would take the possibility seriously.’’ His eyes were solemn. ‘‘Be wary.’’

After signing my statement, I walked out into the gray morning. Across the street, the white walls of the courthouse blended into the gloom. I felt as though I’d grabbed an exposed electric wire.

Jesse and Adam were waiting on the corner. Adam was running a hand across his short hair, staring at the sidewalk.

When I walked up I heard him asking, ‘‘Will Ramseur follow through?’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Yeah, because I’ll pester him.’’

Adam gazed into the distance. ‘‘I can’t . . .’’ He fingered his crucifix. ‘‘I have no words to tell you how . . . appalled I feel that—’’

‘‘Stop.’’

‘‘You were injured so badly because Brand went after Isaac.’’

‘‘It’s a bitch, buddy. Life’s a bitch. And Franklin Brand is her suckling dog. But my injury is not your fault. Don’t you dare blame Isaac, or yourself.’’

Adam looked at him and clearly did not believe it. He walked away.

‘‘I’ll drop you at home,’’ Jesse said. But he didn’t.

We drove in silence. The ashen sky weighed on us. The stereo was playing
Riding with the King
. Clapton and B. B. King, dueling blues guitars. The car bounced over dips in the street, Jesse driving just over the limit. His car had a big engine, a guy’s engine, and he drove smoothly. But too fast today.

I didn’t speak. He needed company, not conversation. He drove toward the mountains. They rose, massive and dark, into the clouds. We drove by the Old Mission and on past Rocky Nook Park. The live oaks stretched overhead, gnarled and dark. I knew where we were heading. To Mission Canyon. The place we never went, the pain he never spoke about.

We crossed Foothill Road and broke out of the clouds into sunlight, throbbing greenery, the sandstone shining on the mountains, the sky above La Cumbre Peak a lacquered blue. The road split and started climbing along the west flank of the canyon. After a few minutes the houses died out. Below us, oaks and sycamores lined a creekbed littered with boulders. Down the canyon it was a million-dollar view to the Botanic Garden, the city, and the sea, with the cloud layer unrolling over the coastline like wool. Jesse slowed.

‘‘Right here, Isaac passed me. He goes, ‘Last one to the top buys the beer.’ ’’

We were going to trace their final journey together. ‘‘It was a gorgeous day, a hell of a day. It’s a mile up the canyon to this point, and we were pumping, really gunning it. Jesus, Isaac went balls to the wall. Always.’’

The road climbed steeply. The hillside rose on our left and fell away sharply to our right, through tall grass down to the creekbed. There was no guardrail.

Jesse pulled over and cut the engine. An unsettling quiet flowed around us.

‘‘I pulled ahead of him by a couple of feet,’’ he said. ‘‘Twenty-four inches, that was the difference between us. The only sound was our breathing, and the pedals turning. Until we heard the BMW.’’

I rested my hand on his shoulder.

‘‘High revs. The engine was just screaming; he must have been redlining it. I always thought it was because Brand was too busy getting blown to shift—you know, she was leaning across the stick. But that wasn’t it. He was accelerating at us.’’

His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.

‘‘The noise, it just filled me up. And it was . . . bang, I went into the windshield.’’ His muscles were rigid. ‘‘He hit us so hard it blew my shoes off. I don’t think they ever found them. And Isaac had a necklace, a crucifix Adam gave him. Just gone.’’

He looked toward the edge of the road.

‘‘I went over the side, into the air for what felt like forever. I hear this sound, and realize it’s me hitting the ground. I’m going ass over ankles with the bike, just going over and over. Until I blacked out.’’

He clutched the steering wheel.

‘‘When my vision came back I was facedown on top of the bike. Dirt up my nose and grass in my mouth. I knew I was hurt and it was bad. I lifted my head and saw Isaac. He was just uphill from me, on his back. His arms were thrown out from his sides. He wasn’t moving; his face was turned away. I called to him. I tried to get up but couldn’t, kept calling his name. His head . . . he . . . all this blood . . .’’

He pulled off his sunglasses.

‘‘I saw . . . thought I saw his hand move. Was sure. He was fighting. I tried to get to him and I . . .’’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘‘Just wanted to hold his hand. Tell him he wasn’t alone, hang on. He was six feet from me, right there.’’

He fought for his voice. ‘‘And I couldn’t fucking move.’’

He backhanded his fist into the door. ‘‘Brand put me in the dirt with a broken back, and Isaac died alone.’’

He hit the door again and fumbled for the handle, shoved the door open, and swung his legs onto the pavement. He wrangled the wheelchair from the backseat and hopped on.

I got out. We were parked at the edge of the hill, and I watched my step. I walked around the car to see him sideways on the road, gripping his push-rims to keep from rolling downhill. I looked at him with alarm.

‘‘Jesse—’’

‘‘Don’t, Evan.’’

God, how I hated this. I bit my tongue, kept my hands at my sides, didn’t step toward him. He let nobody push him, ever.

He set his shoulders and swung around, cutting an S-CURVE, working uphill to get around the car. He aimed for the side of the road and I followed. I heard an engine up the hill. He headed off the asphalt onto the shoulder, stopping near the dropoff. I watched to see that he set his brakes. A pickup truck curved past, heading downhill.

I knelt down next to him. ‘‘Don’t punish yourself.’’

‘‘You don’t understand. I’m not talking about guilt; I’m talking about what Brand did to Isaac. He stole the only solace he could have had at the final moment of his life.’’

He stared over the edge, his eyes cobalt in the sunlight.

‘‘I hate him, Evan.’’ He pressed his fist against his heart. ‘‘So much that it gives me chest pain. It’s like this
thing
inside me, a snake, with teeth, and it crawls and chews on me.’’

I put my hand on his arm.

‘‘I thought I was past it; I truly did. Told myself, Life’s short; don’t waste it on anger. Hatred only gives him power. And I didn’t want him to have any power over me. But . . .’’ His voice trailed off. ‘‘But he did it intentionally. If I see him again, if I get close to him, I don’t know what I’ll do.’’

He shook his head, as though pushing away the thought. Exhaled.

‘‘Adam’s the one we have to worry about. You saw him outside the police station, that look on his face.’’

‘‘Like the guilt train had derailed inside his head,’’ I said.

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘‘He’s always had trouble with what happened to me. Now it’ll be ten times worse.’’

I held on to his arm.

‘‘Half the time he thinks it’s horrible that I got my ticket punched, no exchanges, no refunds, lifetime guarantee. The other half he sees me and thinks, Why can’t that be Isaac?’’ He looked down the hillside. ‘‘I can’t walk, big deal. I’m here. Isaac isn’t. And I agree with him. I am so goddamned glad to be alive. But how could I ever tell him that?’’

I had no answer.

‘‘Keep your ears open. He won’t talk to me, but maybe he’ll talk to you.’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Evan, he loves you like a sister. You didn’t know that? Because you love me. You make me happy, and he thinks the world of you because of that.’’

‘‘Oh, Jesse.’’

He touched my face. ‘‘You do, you know.’’

Raising an arm to his face, he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his T-shirt.

I said, ‘‘Can we continue this conversation in the car?’’

‘‘Too much catharsis for one day? Yeah, fine.’’

He flipped off the brakes. Half-consciously I put a hand out in front of him. He gave me a wry look.

‘‘Planning to throw yourself in front of me if I start to go over the edge?’’

‘‘Something like that.’’

He spun sharply. ‘‘Don’t worry. Once was enough.’’

He pushed onto the asphalt, and I felt myself easing down. Until he swung out into the road.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ I said.

He looked up and down the hill. ‘‘What do you see?’’

‘‘You in the middle of the road, with no way to evade oncoming traffic.’’

‘‘My point exactly.’’

My toes were cramping. I looked down the hill. The road bent around the mountainside. With the trees, brush, and curves, I couldn’t see anything until almost the bottom of the canyon. I thought about the hit-and-run: Jesse and Isaac taking off after work and heading out to ride through wooded back roads.