Mr. Kiss and Tell (9 page)

A stairway in the transept led Veronica down to the cathedral’s subterranean multipurpose room. It was a large space with linoleum floors and fluorescent lighting, more high school cafeteria than Gothic catacomb. A kitchen was visible through an open door at one end. Several people sat talking and laughing at the long folding tables. Children ran around the open space, playing a game with rules obvious only to themselves.

Gladys Corrigan came out of the kitchen balancing a silver tray heaped with Oreos. She placed it on a small table next to two large carafes of coffee, and was busily straightening the sugar packets when Veronica stepped up next to her.

“Hi, Ms. Corrigan. I don’t know if you remember me, but my name’s Veronica. I met you at the Neptune Grand a few days ago?”

The woman blinked rapidly, then took off her glasses and polished them on the edge of her blouse. “Veronica. Yes, I’m sorry, you startled me. Hello.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry to sneak up on you like this.” She smiled, doing her best impression of affable. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

Gladys hesitated, her brow knit into a complex tangle of lines. She glanced around the room. “What is this about, dear? If it’s something work related, I can’t really…”

“I’m trying to find someone…anyone…who can talk to me about Miguel Ramirez. You mentioned that you knew him through church. How well did you know him?”

Gladys twisted her lips in a thoughtful pout. “Well, we talked after Mass sometimes. When my husband died a few years ago, he came by once in a while to help me mow my lawn. It was so sweet of him. I was too…you know, too heartbroken to see to it myself.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t know much about his personal life, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Is there anyone here who might know more?”

Gladys straightened herself up, one hand going to her hip. “Miss Mars, these people are here for
church
. You can’t just ask—”

“You sounded very sure that Miguel was innocent,” Veronica interrupted. “If that’s true, don’t you want his name cleared?”

Gladys fell silent for a moment. At the tables around them, people chattered on, oblivious to the tension at the snack table. A small child darted between them, grabbed an Oreo, and ran off to join his friends again.

She gave Veronica a strange, searching look. “He’s already been deported. It doesn’t matter.”

Veronica took a deep breath, frustrated.

“It
does
matter. I’m trying to save the place you work millions of dollars. I could also restore the reputation of someone you believe is a sweet young guy who couldn’t have done what he’s been accused of.”

The woman’s eyes dropped down to the dirty linoleum floor. Veronica knew the details of the crime were probably common knowledge among the staff of the Neptune Grand.

“I don’t want to bother anyone, or get anyone in trouble,” Veronica continued. “But unless I can find some way to either rule him out or find him, this case is going to fall apart.”

Gladys looked up, her lips pressed tightly together but shaking. She took a deep breath. Then she held up her hand, calling out to someone across the room. “Bianca, honey. Can you come here for a second?”

Veronica watched as a young woman in a yellow sundress turned toward them from the table where she sat. Her black hair was cut short, and she tucked the ends nervously behind her ears as she approached.

“What’s up, Gladys?” She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that seemed more self-protective than hostile.

“Well…if you have a few minutes…” Gladys gave a sad little smile. “This young lady has some questions about your husband.”

Veronica and Bianca sat together on an oak-shaded bench in Founder’s Park, just across the street from the cathedral. Eucalyptus and palm trees dotted the expanse of the neatly manicured lawn. Paved trails wove through the greenery, joggers and speed-walkers hurrying past. Their bench faced a playground where Bianca and Miguel’s four-year-old son, Gabe, shrieked with laughter as he chased another boy.

Bianca angrily wiped a tear from her eye. “I can’t believe I didn’t know.”

The feeling is mutual, sister.
Veronica had been prepared to question churchgoers about Miguel, but finding out that he had wife—a wife who had no idea that he was accused of any crime, much less a vicious rape and beating—had left her reeling.

“It’s strange. If local law enforcement ran any kind of identity check on Miguel, you and Gabe would have come up,” Veronica said, leaning forward, bracing her forearms against her knees.

Bianca sniffed. “Not necessarily. ‘Miguel Ramirez’ wasn’t his real name. And we weren’t…we weren’t legally married.” Her voice dropped, ashamed. “We always really wanted to be. But he didn’t want me to get in trouble if he got caught. No one at church knows the truth—we told everyone we were married in San Diego.”

Bianca pulled her phone from her purse and, after pulling up the photos, handed it to Veronica. The screen showed a smiling Miguel with Gabe on his shoulders, somewhere down by the Boardwalk. Carnival lights flashed in the background, and Gabe held a towering cotton candy high over his head. It was hard to reconcile this image with that of the sinister-looking alleged perp in his mug shot. But then, that was the nature of mug shots. They could make Bruno Mars indistinguishable from Rondo Hatton.

“He told me he was undocumented before we even had our first kiss,” Bianca said softly. “He knew what it could mean for me. For us.”

“Couldn’t he apply for citizenship once you were married?” Veronica asked.

“It’s not that simple. You have to go back to your home country to apply for a green card, but there’s a law that anyone who entered the country illegally is banned from reentering for ten years. So we decided to risk it and stay here. I’ve been constantly afraid he would get pulled over for a bad taillight or something. That’s all it takes for them to get you.”

“Are you in touch with him now?”

“Of course I am.” Bianca tucked her hair behind her ears again and frowned. “But if you’re hoping I’ll put you in touch with him—no way. Just no
way
. Miguel can’t possibly have done this…thing you say he’s accused of. Look, Ms. Mars, Miguel is the gentlest man I’ve ever met, okay? He never raised his voice with me or with Gabe. He never even slammed a door. I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d expect me to say, but it’s true.”

“Maybe so. But with him out of reach, no one here has a good incentive to prove him innocent. Think about it—if you were, say, a lazy, corrupt deputy, would you put much effort into finding an accused criminal once he’d disappeared into Mexico? Or would you throw your hands up and assume he’s guilty so you can move on with your day?”

She’d phrased it carefully. She wanted Bianca to hear the word
innocent
before she heard
guilty
. She wanted Bianca to trust that she would take either possibility very seriously.

“Mommy! Watch me!”

Gabe’s high-pitched voice wafted back to them from the playground. He started to climb up the miniature rock wall—a three-foot ledge with hand- and footholds bolted to the side. Bianca’s eyes followed him closely as he scaled the wall. When he’d gotten to the top, he waved. She waved back. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, broken.

“I grew up getting the shit beat out of me on a regular basis. Grew up watching my mom get the shit beat out of her too. I used to watch her cover for my dad at the hospital. Bruises all over her body, broken wrist, broken nose, and she told the cops she walked into a door. I swore up and down I’d never let anyone treat
me
like that. Never.”

Veronica fought the urge to reach out and touch the woman’s hand. She knew it would not be welcome.

“Whoever said this about him is lying.” Bianca tugged at a lock of her hair, looping it tightly around a finger. “You said there was DNA evidence?”

“Yes. If we could get a sample from him…”

The woman shook her head tightly. “He’s in Michoacán, on his sister’s farm. It’d take you weeks to find him and get him tested.” Her eyes stared out over the playground. Gabe ran along the playscape to the fireman’s pole, leapt onto it, and squealed as he slid to the ground. “There’s another way, though, right?”

Veronica didn’t answer. She’d been hoping Bianca would have the idea for herself—and she didn’t want to say anything that might accidentally change her mind.

“Gabe,
mijo
, come here for a second, please.” Bianca gestured for the boy to come over. The child ran over, tripping on his shoelaces once but getting right back up.

“You can take his, can’t you?” The woman scooped the boy up and pulled him in her lap.

Veronica hesitated. “I could,” she said. “Do you mind?”

Bianca’s nostrils flared. “Do it.”

The little boy stared up at her with wide, baffled eyes. Veronica used the tweezers she kept in her purse to pluck five glossy black hairs from his head and put them into a plastic bag. This sample, of course, wouldn’t be admissible in court. It would be too easy for a lawyer to claim—for a while at least—that there was no proof Gabe was Miguel’s son. However, it would determine her next step. If the samples matched, that would be enough to get the FBI interested in tracking down Miguel Ramirez, or whatever his name really was.

And if they didn’t…Well, it wouldn’t completely rule Ramirez out. But Veronica would start looking damn hard at other suspects, other possibilities. Because she sensed that, like all survivors, Bianca Ramirez was a kind of amateur detective herself. Anyone who’d spent a childhood waiting for the other foot—or the other fist—to fall knew how to sense danger. And she didn’t get the feeling that this was a woman who’d tolerate a threat in her home for very long.

On Thursday, not quite a week after Veronica’s visit to St. Mary’s, she and Logan joined about thirty journalists, activists, civic voyeurs, and well-wishers in the cramped lobby of a midtown office building to bear witness to the official announcement of Weevil’s lawsuit.

“Thank you so much for being here.” The lawyer’s name was Lisa Choi, a rising star who projected the riveting charisma and no-bullshit focus of Helen Mirren on
Prime Suspect
. Veronica had been shocked to learn that the nationally lauded prosecutor with the Hillary pantsuit and black-framed glasses was just thirty-two years old—three years her senior. “Today we have filed a lawsuit against the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department. In January of this year, my client Eli Navarro was attempting to render aid to a citizen whose vehicle had broken down. He was shot at point-blank range for his trouble, and he still suffers chronic pain and disability from this unwarranted attack. Yes, Mr. Navarro is lucky to be alive. But luck certainly wasn’t in his corner when the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department arrived on the scene.”

Weevil stood to Lisa’s right, looking uncomfortable in the same slacks and button-down shirt he’d worn for his criminal trial. Keith and Cliff lingered on the sidelines, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Both men had long, contentious histories with Lamb, and Veronica knew that Lisa wanted the trial to be perceived as all about Weevil, not a political vendetta.

“The night my client was shot, deputies of the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department planted evidence on him to falsely indicate that he’d been attempting to rob the woman he was trying to help. Mr. Navarro was later found innocent of all charges. For all of us who believe in equal justice under the law, that’s a start. It’s a good start.” She paused for effect and turned to Weevil, whose stoic face was flushed from the effort of suppressing his emotions. “However,” Lisa continued, “this still fails to undo much of the damage that’s been inflicted upon his career, his health, and his mental well-being. It fails to undo the injustice perpetrated on my client and on the
community of Neptune at large.
” She looked around the room at that, as if challenging someone to disagree. “When we lose faith in our officers of the law, it harms all of us. It cripples our criminal justice system. It threatens the most vulnerable parts of our community. It allows money and power to subvert justice.”

“I miss money and power,” Logan whispered in Veronica’s ear.

Veronica pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh, then turned her attention back to Lisa.
What she’s doing—that could have been my life, if I’d wanted it
.

Veronica had gone to law school in part to get away from the PI life, convincing herself she wanted to be comfortable and detached and…and what? Normal? Whatever that was supposed to look like. In the end she hadn’t been able to stay away.

Did she have regrets? Maybe. But she’d had half a year to accept the choices she’d made—to stay in Neptune, to work in her father’s profession, to give up law. Now it all felt inevitable. But there was no denying a twinge of envy as she watched Lisa command the room.

“We will show that the officers who planted that gun on my client are not, as the department has claimed, outliers, but that they are part of a pattern of corruption infecting the department at large—a pattern reaching all the way up the chain of command.” She hadn’t named Lamb outright, but Veronica knew the journalists in the room would immediately zero in on the sheriff. “The Sheriff’s Department has been manufacturing its own twisted version of justice for years now. My client was only the most recent victim of this pattern. Our aim is to expose as much of this endemic, unchecked corruption as possible so Neptune can once again have a
justice
system worthy of the name.”

Glad she’s on our side, but I hope she’s got a bodyguard.
Veronica glanced over at her dad, who stood next to a potted ficus on the other side of the room. Someone had tried to kill him for daring to ask too many questions. Now Lisa Choi was asking those same questions, with a bullhorn.

“I’m ready to take any questions you might have,” Lisa concluded.

The room exploded in a chaos of TV, radio, and print reporters’ urgent voices.

“What kind of damages are you seeking?”

“Are you suggesting that Sheriff Lamb knew about the planted evidence?”

“Are you planning to name Mrs. Kane in the suit as well?”

Veronica had heard enough. She gave Logan a little nod, and together they pushed out the glass doors, onto the covered sidewalk. It was almost three p.m. and visible waves of heat rolled up from the concrete. She was temporarily blinded by the sun’s glare reflecting off windshields in the parking lot.

“Well, that was romantic,” Logan said as she rummaged for her sunglasses in her bag.

“Why, darling, what could be more romantic than uncovering systemic corruption through a grueling process of investigations, subpoenas, and litigation?” She tilted her head and grinned. “But I guess, if you want, we could do something more, you know, light and fun?”

He did a mock double take, wiggling his index finger in his ear as if clearing it out. “I don’t understand. What’s this ‘fun,’ and how do you do it?”

“I’ve heard some people do it two days a week,” she said. “Maybe we could take a drive up the coast? Have dinner later tonight?”

“Dinner, like, at the same place, at the same time?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now that sounds suspiciously date-like.”

“Yeah?” She leaned up to kiss him. “Play your cards right, maybe I’ll take you home after.”

Before he could say anything else, her phone trilled from the depths of her bag. She dug it out and checked the screen.

It was Preuss Insurance.

“Let me take this real quick, okay?” She held up one finger toward Logan, then answered the phone.

“Hi, Veronica, this is Joe Hickman. I’m calling to let you know that the hair you sent in—Ramirez’s kid? The DNA doesn’t match.”

Her heart picked up speed. She moved the phone to her other ear and took a few steps away from Logan.

“I knew it. Have you talked to the victim’s lawyers yet?” She hadn’t talked to Grace since she found out Ramirez had a family; she’d wanted verification first.

“Not yet. Now that we know he’s in Michoacán we’ve sent someone down there to take a sample from Ramirez himself.”

“Great, so now I’ll focus on finding Grace’s boy—”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Mars. I don’t think you understand,” Hickman interrupted. “We hired you to determine if Ramirez was guilty. Based on what you’ve found, we’re reasonably satisfied that he’s not.”

She paused, her shoulders going rigid. “So you’re saying I’m off the case.”

“No, I’m saying the case is
closed
.” His tone was firm. “We do get several cases a year that require the assistance of a private investigator, and we’ll certainly call you the next time that happens. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

She kept her voice measured. “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

As she hung up, she caught sight of Lisa Choi, still declaiming from the podium. She thought about her dad, nearly dying to get at the truth about the Sheriff’s Department; about Cliff, who defended people the rest of Neptune wanted to throw away.

Grace’s words floated back to her.
I thought you were a big hero.
She had an image of Grace as a child, waiting for Veronica to come back. Waiting for her to open that closet one more time, and tell her it’d be okay.

Veronica’s decision came clearly in that moment, as unavoidable as it was surprising. Concepts like heroism and moral certainty were so far from her normal worldview, naive at best, delusional at worst. Yet here she was, determined to keep working the case. She shoved her phone in her bag, and turned to Logan, a hundred apologies on her lips. But then she saw he was looking at her with a knowing smile.

“Our plans just got canceled, didn’t they?”

“Logan, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to—”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see if Dick’s around tonight. Maybe
he’s
up for a romantic drive.”

She gave a wan smile. “You get going. I’ll grab a cab home later.”

He gave her a final lingering look, then nodded, heading across the parking lot to where he’d parked the convertible. As soon as he was out of sight, she pulled out her phone again, and dialed Grace’s number.

The phone rang three times before the girl picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Grace. This is Veronica Mars. Can you talk?”

There was a short pause.

“Okay.”

“I just have some follow-up questions for you about the night of the attack.”

“I already told you everything I remember.”

“I know. The thing is, Grace, we’ve managed to get DNA evidence that proves it wasn’t Miguel Ramirez who raped you. I know you were really certain it was him, but…”

Grace exhaled sharply. “DNA evidence? How? I thought he was in Mexico.”

“He is, but his son’s here in the US and we were able to get a sample. They’re working on getting Ramirez’s DNA just to be sure—it might take a few weeks, but they’re pretty sure it’ll clear him.” Veronica chose her next words carefully. “No one’s accusing you of lying, Grace. You went through a lot. It’s possible your brain injuries scrambled some of the details. I mean, maybe you’d seen Ramirez around the Grand before, and so he popped up in your memory when you were trying to reconstruct the attack. Or maybe it was someone who looked a little like him, or…”

“Don’t act like you’re trying to help me.” Veronica could just make out the tremble in the girl’s voice. “All this time you’ve been trying to prove I’m lying. Don’t ever think I’ve forgotten: You’re working for
them
, not me.”

“No, I’m not working for them. Not anymore. As far as they’re concerned I’ve done my job and I’m off the case. Which means right now they’re probably on the phone with your lawyer, telling him your suit is falling apart. But I still want to figure this out, Grace. And if I’m going to help you, I need to know the truth.”

The girl was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again her voice was steady.

“So what does that mean?”

“That means I need the name of the guy you were there to meet that night.” The deputies who questioned her were assholes, but they weren’t wrong. In 99 percent of cases, the assailants were boyfriends or husbands. Without ruling Grace’s out, the case couldn’t move forward.

“You’re just like those cops, you know that?” Grace said. “They kept asking and kept asking, trying to catch me in a lie. They came to my hospital bed and talked to me while I was high on morphine before the nurses finally chased them off. And here you are, playing good cop, acting like you’re my friend. Good cop, bad cop. It doesn’t make any difference—none of you give a shit about me.” She took a ragged breath. “Forget it, Veronica. I’ve already told you what happened. If you don’t believe me, you can just join the fucking club.”

With that, Grace Manning hung up the phone.