The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller (5 page)

“Liar,” I said from his doorway.

“What can I say? I love my job.” A few years before I met him he’d had a heart attack. He could easily take light duty if he wanted, but he didn’t and this was an example.

I sat in the chair in front of his desk and said, “Can’t you even give yourself one day? One single day?”

“When David’s classes are over we’re going rafting on the Kern River. Then you’ll be complaining, ‘Where’s Joe?’ ”

I dug out a small pack of M&Ms and fished a finger in. “Want some?” Joe shook his head and made a slight face. “That tequila will getcha every time,” I said.

“It’s not a hangover.”

“Sorry to tell you, but it’s called a hangover.”

“We still on for tonight?” he asked. “How’s six?”

“Fine.”

“Heard you had one out at Nellie Gail this morning.”

“Correct. We have ID, but it seems hokey.”

“GSW?” Joe asked.

“Here,” I said and touched the point under my chin where the victim sustained the gunshot wound. “Two rounds. No casings. He had a twenty-five caliber in his hand, but I took a slug out of a tree behind him that looks bigger, but it’s hard to know for sure until Firearms sees it.”

“Ear witnesses?”

“None so far.” On his desk I saw a familiar case file. “Something new on your Dana Point case?”

“Not really.”

Six weeks ago Joe attended a scene where a woman’s body was discovered on a high ocean bluff after her small dog returned to their neighbor’s house dragging its leash. The husband, when he was told, was too nonchalant, playing a radio strapped to his belt the whole time of the interview. He answered questions without rancor and seemed to cooperate, but Joe thought the guy was guilty as hell and every once in a while hauled out the case file.

He stood and rounded the desk and said, “Come out to the car with me. I have a present for you.” He stopped when I didn’t trail him. “Why the face? I just felt like giving you a present.”

“You know they make me feel…”

“Funny,” he said.

“Gifts are like pants before the advent of suspenders,” I said. “They’re too hard to keep up.”

“How long have you been planning to use that one?”

“Long time,” I said.

In the parking lot, a bird hurtled onto a low limb of a jacaranda tree whose purple buds were partially open. Joe said, “Name that bird.”

“That’s an LBJ.” He waited for me elaborate. “Little Brown Job,” I said.

“For that,” Joe said, “you don’t get your present till tonight,” and pocketed his keys. Then, looking beyond me, he said, “What happened to your car? That’s your ride over there, isn’t it?”

We went over to my car, backed into the slot. My heart sank. All along the passenger side was a deep scratch. Joe bent down to inspect it. “That’s not from somebody parking too close. Where you been hanging out?”

“Nowhere. Well, with
you
and bad company like Ray Vega.”

“There you have it,” he said, teasing.

Back inside, I had two phone messages waiting. I was on the second return call when my boss dropped by and stood in the doorway. I wasn’t able to get off the phone right away. He left. When I got off that call, I phoned the morgue to find out the autopsy schedule for the Does so I’d have something to tell Stu. They were backed up. It probably wouldn’t be till Thursday.

The rest of the afternoon I worked on the Nellie Gail and never saw Stu and never saw Joe again before I left. When I went to my car and got reminded of its damage, I wasn’t even mad anymore, just resigned.

The crowd at The Quiet Woman was noisy from a birthday party, the honoree screaming her surprise at every turn. Joe and I hid in a booth, wishing the establishment’s name applied. The wooden sign near the front door was a painted depiction of a woman in Dutch dress, minus a head; hence, the quiet woman. Legend has it she incurred the fatal wrath of her relatives by talking too much.

Over the racket, Joe mentioned again that something seemed to be bothering his son.

I sipped my wine and asked benignly, “Girl trouble?”

“Don’t think so. And as far as I know, he’s doing okay in school. So says Jennifer. She usually gets something out of him.”

Behind us the birthday girl was opening a pink package, crying, “Amy-y-y, you
shouldn’t
.”

Joe said, “It’s like he can’t finish a thought, a sentence. His knees bounce. We’ll be sitting somewhere, his knee takes on a life of its own. He’ll put his own hand on it. Then the other one starts.”

I felt guilty for not telling Joe what his son said about his roommate. But a confidence is a confidence, and that’s that.

“I mean, we already had the sex talk, what, five years ago,” Joe said. He took my hand and said, “Do something to your hair?”

“Washed it.” I gave him a nuzzle.

“How novel,” he said. The curve of lines by his deep-socket eyes and the rich smell of his skin set me to amorous thoughts.

When I clicked back in, Joe was saying, “He’s busy enough. He’s into a game called
Go
. Chinese. You play with little stones. I’ve never seen it. Besides that, he’s doing this conservation project near Culver and Michelson, in there. So it
seems
like everything’s going all right.”

“David will be fine. He probably wants to hit you up for a loan for his gambling debts.”

“He owes me for tires.”

I smiled. “He told me about that.”

“He did, huh? Was I ever that dumb, I wonder?”

“Probably.”

The server brought our meals: halibut and halibut.

“Tell me,” I asked Joe, “what do you know about Boyd Russell? He’s the investigator on my two Does.”

“Russell? He’s okay. Nothing exactly faulty. Just no imagination, no creativity.” He looked down at his drink. I had the feeling there was more he wasn’t telling me.

“What else?”

He paused, then said, “The way he conducts his private life.” He regarded me with half-closed eyes. “Has Boyd hit on you yet?”

“
Boyd?
No,” I said, laughing.

“Watch him next time you’re on an investigation with him. He spends a lot more time interviewing the women than the men.”

I slipped along the leather booth, closing the space. “Yeah? How about losing this joint, you and me? You been hit on, buddy.”

The moon rode low on the bluffs near the bay as we drove. Joe had a CD of Carly Simon’s “Boys in the Trees” playing, a favorite of mine. When we reached my place he hauled out a package wrapped in red tissue paper, twisted off with a red curly ribbon. He brought it into the house and set it on the coffee table, then took a seat on the sofa.

I unwrapped it, exposing a stuffed Tasmanian Devil dressed in a leather biker jacket and a red bandanna. “Remind you of anyone?” Joe asked. It did: a certain biker of the felon variety: One Monty Blackman from a case two years earlier, Harley rider, bar owner, pig farmer, smuggler, general all ’round rough trade.

When I looked at Joe, he had a hand on his stomach again.

“Are you all right?”

“Water would be good.”

On my way to the kitchen I put on music I bought because I knew Joe would like it: Linda Ronstadt, songs of the Forties. Joe was on the balcony looking over the bay when I came back. The inky bay was glossed with the cast light of local businesses along the coast. He stepped back in and sat at the counter and said, “C’mere,” tapping his leg.

I did, and put my arms around his neck and whispered, “Thanks for Taz.”

“Don’t mention it, lady.” He gave me a kiss, and just as it was getting interesting, he said, “You know, babe, I think I should call it a night.”

“Already? You want a Tums or something?”

“I think I’ll just go on home.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

He paused, then said softly, “Hey, kid. You’re not neglecting your other friends for this old man, are you?”

“In the first place,” I said, “I don’t know any old men. And in the second, no.” I got off his lap but stood close.

His palm ran up and down my leg. “You know if you ever want to date someone else, it’s all right, don’t you?”

I gave the leg of his stool a kick.

He said, “Just making sure we covered that ground.”

“We have. Before.”

“Just so you know you’re a free agent.”

“What about Boyd Russell?”

“You want to date
him?
”

“I’m
say
ing, you don’t like it that
he
sleeps around.”

“He’s married. That’s the difference. I only want the best for you,” he said.

“Then you’re wishing for what I already have.”

He got up to go. “We have that wedding Saturday.”

“Right,” I said. “Sunday I’m going on an Audubon cleanup. To help clear out invasive plants down along San Juan Creek. That’ll kill the morning, but you want to do something later?”

“Boy, you sure plan far ahead.”

“It’s because I haven’t had a weekend in so long it seems like a vacation.”

At the door Joe said, “I’m supposed to go look at cars with David Sunday. He’s trading up. Old Dad here may have to be making the payments even though Dave says he got a raise at the bookstore. Did I tell you he’s working in the college bookstore? Stacking books.”

“Right.”

“I asked him if he was reading any. He says sure. Then he tells me a joke he read in one, which was not exactly what I had in mind.”

“You going to keep it to yourself?”

“Hm?”

“The joke.”

“It’s an Aggie joke. Texas Agricultural. Nerd-U,” he said. “So this Aggie was trying to light a match. The first one doesn’t work. He throws it away, tries another. That one doesn’t light either. Throws it away. Strikes a third. Poof! It fires. He blows it out, says, ‘That’s a good one. I gotta save it!’ ”

“Oh moan.”

“You asked.”

I stood on the front balcony and watched him go to his car. A corner floodlight gave luster to his silver hair, and his brown leather jacket shone like rich mud as he walked and juggled his keys hand to hand.

FIVE

I
 had a training class the next morning at nine that had been set up six weeks before. There’d still be enough time to meet Ray Vega for a little pre-work plinking at a range that lets cops come in early. On the way, my cell phone rang.

“Smokey, Ray,” he said.

“How’d I know it would be you?”

“I can’t make it this morning.”

“You jerk,” I said.

His voice gravelly, he said, “You never had a hard night?”

“Plenty of ’em, but I don’t stand up my friends. You’re gettin’ old, Ray-boy.”

“On that you may be right,” he said. “What the hell am I? Thirty-one, Jesus. I gotta snag some sleep. Hey, you ever get that gun you were going to?” I pictured him sitting on the side of his bed in his shorts, head in his hand, phone clamped to his ear.

“Yeah, I bought it. Five-shot snubby. What’s it to ya? You can’t get your ass out of bed to come see.”

He sighed or yawned again, and said, “That hurts.”

“Cry me a river.”

“I’m thinking of getting me a new backup,” he said. “What kind’d you say?”

“I already told you.”

“I mean, what
kind
.”

“Smith Airweight. Spurless.”

“Like it?”

“Gun’s great. Shooter’s terrible.” He yawned again in my ear. “Go back to bed, Raymond.”

“Nah, I gotta get up. Hey, Smokey?”

“What?”

“You should see this new girl…”

“Oh no, Raymond. Not another one.”

“You have to meet her. She’s special.”

“They’re all special, Ray. You notice a pattern there?” A slow sedan listing to one side pulled ahead of me, causing me to change lanes. “Two cars on a long run of nothin’, and this guy has to pull in front of me. Where are you when I need you?”

“Shoot ’im,” Ray said.

“Now there’s an idea,” I said.

“Hey, this girl?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh man. She’s hot.”

“I don’t need the details, pal.”

“Can you hang on? I gotta get a drink of water.”

“No, I can’t hang on. I’m coming up on Camino Capistrano.”

“Oh, okay. Well, her name’s Tamika. She’s a guess-what.”

“What would that be, Raymond?” My tone wasn’t patient.

“A stripper. Down in Oceanside.”

“Terrific.”

“Yeah,” he said cheerily. “What do you think?”

“I think you should be tied up and whipped hard.”

“You want to come do it?”

“Goodbye, Raymond.”

“Hee-hee,” he said.

Off the freeway, I drove the quarter-mile down a road known only to shooters and people in search of nursery plants, kitchen tile, or getting their fenders fixed.

Sweeps of willow, mulefat, and oleander bushes waved in the wind on the left side of the road. The thick stands were
perfect bedding-down places for illegals coming up from the southern border. Sometimes those voyagers crossing the tracks that zipper between the road and the distant cliff-side misjudge the speed of a train, and a tech like me is called out. Once, a man with an urge to self-destruct drove a shiny new car onto the rails and sat there, waiting. Ray says there’s nothing like train deaths for mayhem, forget your mere murder. No one can imagine, he says. Problem is, I can.