Silent Joe (42 page)

There was a moment of silence.

"Mr. Blazak," said Birch. "We've got a videotape of you and Ms. Blas out in the guest house. It was taken by your daughter, Savannah, as part of a game she liked to play. Have you seen it?"

"Mr. Blazak won't answer that question at this time, on my counsel,'' said Duessler.

"We're just asking if he's seen a tape," said Ouderkirk.

"Jack?" Duessler asked.

Blazak shook his head.

Birch took out his notepad and pen. Blazak watched him. Birch wrote something, then looked out at Blazak. "Did you employ Luria Bias?"

"Mr. Blazak won't answer that question at this time, on my counsel.'' said Duessler.

"Did you have intercourse with Luria Bias?"

"Mr. Blazak won't answer that question at this time, on my counsel,'' said Duessler.

"He's paying you too much to say the same thing over and over," said Ouderkirk.

"Isn't that the truth!" said Duessler. "Look, gentlemen, my client willing to answer these and any other questions you come up with, but not at this time. The two of us have barely had time to speak about these matters. Give us a week to get up to speed on these things, and we meet again. There's absolutely no reason we can't all get what we want from this."

Birch nodded and stood. "What do you think about that, Mr. Blazak? You going to take orders from a lawyer, or maybe straighten things out yourself?"

"I'll take orders for now."

"It helps when we hear things from your mouth. You want us getting our information from everybody but you?"

"Get it where you want."

"Have it your way," said Birch.

"Get out of my house, you losers."

Birch and Ouderkirk exchanged looks. Something was asked and answered right then.

Birch shook his head. "Mr. Blazak, you are under arrest for the assault and battery of Luria Bias. You have the right to an attorney and you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Put your hands behind your head and turn around."

Blazak's face went red.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Duessler. "There's no need to cuff my client, or even to transport him at this time. Give Mr. Blazak the courtesy of a voluntary surrender at noon tomorrow. You surely can't consider him a flight risk."

"I consider him a flight risk," said Ouderkirk.

"You fucking bastards," said Blazak.

"Be reasonable," said Duessler.

"This guy screwed the maid," said Ouderkirk. "Then he beat her half to death when she got pregnant. That's how reasonable your client is, Mr. Duessler."

Birch cuffed him and led him outside.

"See you in court," said Ouderkirk. "Our DA's gonna swallow your client whole."

As we made our way down to Pacific Coast Highway I looked at the airborne hawks and the darkening sky and the mansions with their lights coming on. Saturday evening in Newport Beach, a little corner of paradise for a few of the people on Earth.

I wondered how a man could have everything in the world except common decency and common sense. His marriage, his family, his reputation, his business would all suffer and possibly collapse. He'd do time in prison, maybe a lot of it. All of that, because he thought his penis was more important than the rights of another human being, poor as she was.

He'd have a lot of money left over. That was about all you could say for him.

I turned and watched the black-and-white coming down behind us. Twelve billion dollars behind the security screen of a prowl car, and two deputies who make maybe a hundred grand a year between them, if they work all the overtime they can. What an odd glory, I thought, when the mighty fall. Somehow, I always try to pull for them. They should be better than us, shine a brighter light, show us the way.

We passed the guard gate, where Miguel Domingo had died trying defend the honor of his sister. A woman who had traded that honor for a little bit of money. All she'd left the man who beat her was a scratch. A machete, a sharpened screwdriver and a fingernail against the richest n in Orange County.

Miguel and Luria were about to win, I thought. It had cost them their lives, in a battle they had never wanted to fight in the first place.

Good for them.

I
called Valeen Wample that night from home. Grandma. The limp scrap of paper that had held her number in my wallet for all those years came apart as I unfolded it. The ink had faded to the color of a vein. The area code was down in the Southern California desert. She answered on the fifth ring. "Yeah?"

"This is Joe Trona."

A pause. I heard TV in the background, and something blowing—an air conditioner or a fan.

"So?"

"Your daughter's son, ma'am."

"I know that. What do you want?"

"Charlotte's address and phone number."

"I assume she's dead."

"The last ones you have, then."

"Why?"

"It's important that I talk to her."

Silence again. "You don't want to call Charlotte."

"Why?"

"Exactly.
Why?"

"To get some things straight."

"She's worthless, gutless and heartless. For starters."

"Thor isn't my father."

"Says who?"

"Thor. Charlotte paid him not to tell why he threw the acid."

"Oh, horseshit."

"Maybe, ma'am. But Charlotte can clear it up."

Another pause. I heard her set the phone down. TV. Fan. Then she was back, ice clinking on glass.

"This number worked five years ago. I called her to get some money. She didn't give me any. I haven't called it since then."

She gave me the phone number and an address in a small town call Fallbrook, not far from San Diego.

"Where do you live, ma'am?"

"Bombay Beach. It's the worst place in the world. We're so bad, we made the TV. Dead fish on the sand. Birds fall dead out of the sky from botulism. Filthy Salton Sea. A hundred and ten degrees all summer. Scorpions and snakes. A real hellhole, but I can't afford nothin' better."

"I can send you some money."

"How much?"

"Would ten thousand help?"

"Fifteen would help more. Zoom it right over, grandson Joe. I need every penny."

She gave me her address. I heard the ice clinking. "I wish you were going to talk to her. She's rotten. Ruins everything she touches."

"I'll give her your regards."

"Don't."

"Thank you for your help."

"You call it help. I call it stupid."

"Thanks, anyway."

"How'd your face heal up?"

"Some scarring."

"Tough break. Take my advice. Don't call her. Whatever you got, she make it worse.

Oh, she changed her name to Julie. And her last name is Falbo

I wrote out a check for fifteen grand. My account was almost empty because the rubies had cost so much. Then I looked through my collection of complimentary Paralyzed Veterans of America greeting cards. I donate once a year and they send me the cards as a thank-you. I found a blank one with a kitten and a ball of yarn on it, but couldn't think of what to write.

So I drove to the drugstore and looked in the card rack. I wasn't sure what a grandson was supposed to feel for a grandmother, especially one he'd only talked to twice in his life. She didn't seem to be a very likable woman, but you can't judge a person by two calls. I settled on one with a front that looked like a knitted sweater. It said
FOR GRANDMA
on the label. Inside, it said:
Just thinking of you, someone special in my life.

Back home I signed the card "With Respect and Affection," put the check inside and addressed the envelope. I went ahead and put the return address on it, wondering if she'd write.

I poured a large glass of vodka over ice and took it out to my backyard. In the dark I could hear the squirrels running along the power lines. If they fall the cats get them. The orange tree was losing the last of its blossoms but the yard still smelled sweet and good and it reminded me of those first months in the Tustin foothills with Will and Mary Ann because the citrus was in bloom the first day I walked into that home of dreams.

Rick Birch called me about two minutes later. "Pearlita's dealing," he said. "Dent told her he'd withdraw his death penalty demand for Felix. The truth is, he didn't think he'd get it with that jury, so he's throwing her a bone she'd probably get anyway. Here's Pearlita's ID on the passenger in Bo Warren's car that night—Orange County Supervisor, Second District, Dana Millbrae."

A woman's name. Kind of like Donna or Renee but maybe not either.

Dana.

I called Ray Flatley at home and apologized sincerely for doing so.

"No problem, Joe. I was working through some of that new Warren Zevon on the piano. I guess he's sort of a bad boy, but he's awfully funny. And those ballads of his actually make my scalp crawl they're so beautiful."

"I want you to help me make a recording."

"I didn't know you sang."

"Not music, sir," I said. "Just a few words."

"Whose words?"

"Mine. I'm going to play me. You're going to play John Gaylen."

A long pause. "And who gets to hear this piece of illegal police trickery?"

"You won't ever know."

"When does it get destroyed?"

"By ten o'clock tomorrow night. I'll hand you a melted glob of tape and plastic if you want, sir."

Another moment of silence before Flatley's deep, resonant reply: “Ah, Joe Trona, I can do what you want. When do you need John Gaylen to speak?"

"Right now."

He gave me his address and hung up.

I was back home by ten. I got Dana Millbrae's home number from Will’s address book.

Millbrae answered the phone himself. I told him we needed to talk; he didn't even ask about what.

"Call my secretary for an appointment," he said.

"It needs to be soon, sir."

"Police business, Joe?"

I heard the fear in his voice. It was impossible for me not to use against him. "Yes."

"Not here."

"How about the Grove, in one hour?"

"I'm not a member and neither are you."

"I'll take care of that, sir. You'll be my guest."

I hung up and called Rex Sauers. He said he'd have a booth ready for us.

Dana Millbrae shuffled self-consciously across the Grove lounge toward our booth, hands in his pants pockets and his eyes aimed downward. A sharp suit. He sat down and looked at me. He had a boyish face, earnest eyes and pale hair falling over his forehead. USC, Stanford MBA. This was his first term as a supervisor and he was thirty-four years old. Married, four children. He had told me at Will's funeral that losing Will was like losing a father: Will had taught him everything he knew about being one of the seven most powerful elected officers in the county.

We shook hands. He sat and glanced at me, then over at a waiter.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked.

I told him I didn't. The waiter came and Millbrae ordered a double Stolichnaya martini, up with a twist. He held a lighter to a cigar, puffed it to life and drew deeply on it.

"Okay, what?" he asked.

"You and Bo Warren met John Gaylen in the parking lot of Bamboo 33 the night before Will died. I want to know what you talked about."

He stood and drew the privacy curtain, looking at me uncertainly as he sat back down.

"We talked about getting Savannah Blazak back."

"What did Gaylen know about Savannah Blazak?"

"He was in touch with Alex. They'd done business."

"What did Gaylen say, exactly?"

Millbrae puffed and finally met my eyes. "I don't remember, exactly."

"Give me the generalities, then."

The waiter parted the curtain, set Millbrae's drink on the table, drew the curtain closed behind him.

Millbrae sipped deeply, then sipped again. "He told us that she was all right. That everything was going to work out."

"You and Bo Warren drove all the way to Bamboo 33 after midnight, just to hear that?"

He nodded.

"I don't believe you."

"Ask Bo. That was the truth."

"Bo said he was there with Pearlita."