3 Savor (18 page)

The driver’s side door creaked
loudly when he pushed it open. “Javier is from that neighborhood,” he said,
moving around the back of the truck.

She stopped and waited for him.

He looked down, hands stuck in the
back pockets of his cotton workpants. “I hope you won’t be upset but I’ve been
letting him stay in the woodworking shed until he gets a place.”

“Ernesto, the winery could get in
trouble for that. It’s against regulations to have people live in those buildings.
You know that.”

He met her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll
find him someplace else.”

The sadness in his eyes was
curious. “Is Javier more than an employee to you?” she asked.

He hesitated before nodding. “He’s
my cousin’s son. I promised his father I would look out for him, but when Vega
went to prison, Javier fell in with the same gang. He was only fifteen, but
there was nothing I could do. That was three years ago. He showed up a few
weeks back and said he was done with that life. He wanted a fresh start.”
Ernesto reached in his pocket for his wallet and opened it. “I can pay you for
rent,” he offered.

She put out a hand, urging him to
put his money away. “No. That’s not the problem. It’s city regulations. If it
were up to me I wouldn’t mind him staying here temporarily, but I can’t afford
to be fined or shut down because of it. You understand?”

“Sí. I will move him out.”

“Can’t he stay with you?”

“We don’t have an extra room. My
mother-in-law lives with us now,” he said. “But I will talk to Mona. She will let
him sleep on the couch until we find another place.”

Billie took that to mean his wife
was not too keen on the idea or Javier would have been there already. She
probably didn’t want an ex-gangbanger hanging around her two little boys.

“Thank you for understanding, Miss
Fredrickson. I don’t want to make trouble for you.”

Billie couldn’t help wondering as
she walked back to the house whether trouble had already been made. Was it a
coincidence that Javier showed up about the same time that Handel had his accident?
Stranger still – that they’d had a rash of vandalism since he’d been
living on her property.

She poured herself a cup of cold
coffee and stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. Her mother was already
gone out. The garage was empty and the door left open when she walked by. She
sat at the kitchen table and dialed Handel on her cell phone. He didn’t pick up
after four rings and his answering service picked up.

She left him a message. “Handel,
when are you coming home? Did you decide to stay at the office and work a
while? I spoke with Ernesto. He told me some things you might find interesting.
I’ll talk to you when you get back. Love you. Bye.”

•••••

Handel felt the phone vibrate in
his pocket. Probably Billie. He hoped she wouldn’t be too upset when she found
out he’d left without her, but it would be tricky enough to get in and out of
Hosea’s neighborhood intact without bringing his wife along. He flipped on the
radio to pass the time.

After the weather report, news
turned to the trial. The talk radio host’s glib tone made Handel think he was
announcing the release of a Hollywood movie, rather than a trial that would
decide someone’s fate. “After a lengthy continuance, San Francisco’s high
profile murder case, Kawasaki versus the State of California, resumes this
Monday. Sloane Kawasaki’s lead defense, Handel Parker, was in critical
condition after an accident on I80E early last month. He has since been
released from the hospital and is reported to be doing well.”

The host’s sidekick spoke up. “That’s
one way to buy time to refute the state’s case.” Laughter.

“Yeah, the hard way. But whether he
can prove his client innocent is yet to be seen. For those of you who have been
living under a rock, here’s what happened. Multi-millionaire owner of Sakitown
Imports, Sloane Kawasaki, is on trial for murder in the death of his wife. She
was found dead last September when police were sent to the Kawasaki residence
due to an anonymous 911 call.”

“Sounds like another way of saying,
the bastard knocked his wife around then left the house and called from a
payphone so no one would know he’d been home. Living in a house that big, so
far from other neighbors, who’s gonna know?”

“True. Unless the servants speak
up, and they probably don’t speak English,” the host said dryly. “Or have green
cards. But who needs’em? This is a sanctuary city after all!” They both laughed
and the host continued his version of the news. “Mr. Kawasaki has maintained
his innocence, pleading not guilty and in fact put up a one hundred thousand
dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the true
killer.” He scoffed. “Might be kind of hard to find a witness in that
neighborhood. They were probably all out playing golf at the country club.” The
sidekick laughed along and they cut to a commercial.

“Ha ha,” Handel murmured. He wished
the media would quit trying the case in the court of public opinion so that he
could do his job. At this point, even if Sloane were acquitted, the many who
believed the pontificating of the media, bloggers, and/or anyone with an
opinion, would still consider him guilty.

After sitting in bumper-to-bumper
traffic for an extra half an hour because of an accident up ahead, Handel
finally exited the freeway and made his way through the city, following GPS
directions. He was soon in a part of town he’d always managed to circumvent in
the past. Rundown buildings, barred windows, and tough looking characters
hanging out on street corners were a few clues that he was not in the Valley
anymore.

At a stop sign he flipped on his
turn signal and waited for an old pickup to make a left hand turn across from
him. A group of young men lounged against the building to his right, eyeing him
like a rabbit fallen into a den of wolves. One of the men stepped forward,
pulling up faded, sagging jeans with one hand. “Yo, dude,” he said loud enough
to be heard through the closed window. “You lookin’ fer something? I got what
you need.” He pulled the edge of his shirt up and revealed little baggies taped
to his stomach.

Handel shook his head and turned
the corner. He saw the man flip him off when he glanced in the rearview mirror.
Two more blocks and he turned left, onto Bourbon Street. The houses were close
set, peeling paint and broken shutters. Patches of dirt and chained Pitbulls
claimed the area where grass should be. Two kids, not more than twelve or
thirteen, sat on a front porch smoking.

House numbers were nearly obsolete,
but he managed to make out the faded outline of 19457 on the mailbox of a
bright turquoise house in the middle of the block. There was no killer dog in
sight but there was a warning sign on the front door that said, No Trespassing.
Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.

He pulled along the curb and shut
off the engine, looked around. The two boys were watching him cautiously from
their stoop, necks craned. They were probably wondering if he was a cop or
something. He should move quickly before Hosea realized he was here and snuck
out the back before he had a chance to talk to him. Now was as good a time as
any. “Relax. Deep breaths,” he told himself. He drew his gun from the holster,
pulled open the door and stepped out. A dog yipped a couple doors down and he
glanced that way. A tiny Chihuahua stared at him through the slats of a rickety
wood fence, bulbous eyes glaring as though he thought he were a Doberman. But
his bark was annoying rather than frightening, and Handel wished the thing
would shut up.

Holding the gun close to his side,
he hurried up the crumbling blacktop driveway. An old, rusty, white, cargo van
was parked there, the front passenger-side tire completely flat. He stepped
over a pile of boards left stranded in the path and up to the front porch. He
read the warning sign again and confidently gripped his gun, being careful to
keep his finger off the trigger. He’d had plenty of hours of practice, but
actually carrying a weapon and maybe having to use it in a real situation was
much different than shooting at outlines of Osama Bin Laden at the firing
range.

He rapped at the door, half
expecting a large dog to announce his presence by lunging at him from the
inside, but there was no sound. Nothing. Maybe Hosea wasn’t home. He banged
harder. There was a doorbell, but it was dangling from the wall on the end of
exposed wires, as though someone had gotten angry at the sound and ripped it
off.

Handel slipped his gun in the
holster and cupped his hands to look in the front window. There was a curtain
covering most of it, but a small opening was all he needed. He peered in,
squinting to focus. He saw a light on in the back. It looked like the kitchen
area. The front room was dark but he could make out a sagging couch and old
stuffed chair.

He turned around and looked up and
down the street. The boys were gone from their porch, but a woman was staring
at him from the yard where the yippy little dog was still barking. He waved.
“Have you seen Hosea?” he called. She picked up her dog, turned around and
hurried back into her pink house. “Thanks,” he said under his breath.

Before he could talk himself out of
it, he put his hand on the knob and turned. Much to his surprise and more than
a little disappointing to his personal safety gauge, the door opened. “Hosea?”
he called softer into the gloomy room. “Are you here? I’d really like to talk
to you. I come in peace,” he added as an afterthought, remembering Billie’s
analogy of Tonto and The Lone Ranger.

Other than the soft hum of the
small window air conditioner in the front room, the house remained quiet. He
moved slowly toward the kitchen where he could see the side of a refrigerator
covered in magnets and pet dishes in the corner against the wall. Hosea did
have a pet, but the bowls were small so hopefully the dog would be small as
well and easy to fend off if it showed up.

The kitchen was an L shape so until
he got to the doorway, he couldn’t make out the rest of the room. A soft meow
startled him and he stopped and drew his gun. A white and tan cat ran out of
the kitchen and straight toward him. But instead of attacking him like a good guard
dog would have done, the cat ran through his legs and out the open front door.
Great. Now Hosea really would have a reason to kill him.

He looked down at the carpet where
the cat had just run across. The matted, green nap was certainly not the
cleanest he’d ever encountered, but he could still make out little paw prints
in a slightly darker shade. He turned and followed the trail into the kitchen
where the tracks glistened damply red against yellowed linoleum. Blood.

He raised the gun and moved slowly,
careful not to step in the trail that led directly to Hosea’s body. The young
man’s head was braced against the bottom of the cupboards, his body sprawled on
the kitchen floor as though he’d slowly slid down to rest. Blood oozed from
gunshot wounds to his chest and head, puddling beneath him.

“Dear God. I’m in deep –”

The high whine of sirens alerted
him to danger. He quickly holstered his gun, stepped around the murder scene,
and hurried to the front door. A police cruiser was already turning into the
end of the street. He sat down on the front porch and waited. When the officers
stepped out of their car, he raised his hands in the air to show them he was
safe.

“Get down on the ground!” one of
the officers yelled, moving forward with gun in hand.

Handel put his hands behind his
head and slowly eased off the porch and got down on his knees. When the officer
approached, he volunteered, “I’m Attorney Handel Parker, Officer. I have a
conceal carry license and am carrying my weapon in a shoulder harness.”

“Lay flat on the ground, hands
behind your head!” the officer yelled again.

The other officer knelt down and
relieved him of his weapon and cuffed his hands behind his back. Handel
remained completely still, complying with the officers. The younger officer
grabbed his arm and pulled him up to a standing position. He took out his
wallet and checked his identification.

“What are you doing here, Mr.
Parker?” the officer demanded. “We got an anonymous call reporting a shooting.”
He raised Handel’s gun and sniffed. “This hasn’t been fired.

“I came to speak with a potential
witness about the trial I’m working on and found Mr. Garcia dead on the kitchen
floor. He’s been shot at least twice.”

The other officer called it in on
his radio. “Okay, you’re going to have to sit in the car and wait, sir, while
we get this sorted out.” They put him in the back of the patrol car, still in
handcuffs, and shut the door.

Handel watched the two officers
prepare to enter the house, guns drawn, one from the front, the other circling
around to the back. He tried not to breath too deeply in the enclosed space.
The back seat of the cruiser smelled like stale urine and vomit. He was going
to have a lot of explaining to do when he got home.

After a nice, civilized lunch with
her son, learning that he was doing all the things she’d hoped he’d given up,
Sabrina dropped Adam off at his apartment and headed back down the highway
toward the winery. He was a grown man, like Billie said, but she couldn’t seem
to see him that way. He was still her little boy, just taller with rougher
cheeks. She knew she had to let him make his own decisions, even if they
included stupid choices she didn’t agree with. She’d made plenty of those
herself over the years. Was it a crime to wish better choices for your
children?

Her cell phone buzzed and she
assumed it was Adam calling to apologize for disappointing her. She glanced
down at the passenger seat where she’d dropped her phone with her purse. The
screen was lit up with a number.

Edoardo. Her heart did a little
flutter. She felt like a teenager when she was with him, so insecure and pulled
in by his obvious mastery of the female psyche. He could say that her hair was
as brown as the underside of a muskrat and she’d probably smile and giggle.
What was wrong with her? She knew the man was no good, but whatever had been
pulling her to make split second decisions for the past year or so had also
taken over her ability to say no to bad boy types – or bad man types.

She shook her head and kept
driving. Italian millionaires be damned! She would not answer the phone. When
it stopped ringing, she breathed a sigh of relief. Wonderful. He’d given up.
Now she could go back to Billie’s place and act like the stick-in-the-mud woman
she’d always been. It was certainly safer.

The phone tweeted, alerting her to
an incoming text. Would the temptation never end? She pulled the car over onto
the shoulder of the road and picked up her phone, opened chat and read the
message. Come with me to Honolulu. If we leave now, we can be there for a torch
lit Luau on the beach. “Of all that’s holy…” she murmured into the quiet of the
car.

She pressed her lips together and
closed her eyes. A Luau on Waikiki. She could feel the sand between her toes,
balmy breezes playing through her hair, and hear waves gently lapping against
the shore. This was the stuff romance novels were made of. A rich, handsome man
who was probably no good, enticing her to run off on a whim and live out what
she’d only allowed herself to fantasize about up till now.

Dropping the phone, she glanced in
her rearview, and whipped the steering wheel around, making a U-turn back onto
the highway. Billie would have to pick the car up at Harvest House if she
needed it. She was going to Honolulu.

•••••

Billie had been back working at the
office for a couple of hours before she realized that she still had not heard
from Handel. She tried his cell again, but it went straight to voicemail. She
turned off her computer and overhead light and pulled the door closed after
her. Sally was sitting at her desk chatting with Loren when she stopped in the
doorway.

“No customers in the tasting room?”

Loren shrugged. “Slow day. Sammie
is watching the bar for me.”

“Great. Could you tell Margaret I
went home?” she said to Sally. “If she needs me I’ll be around. Just give me a
call.”

“No problemo, boss.”
 

Loren followed her out to the front
door and held it open. “When’s your mom going home? Thought maybe Sally and I
could ride along to the city with her when she goes. Make sure she gets back
all right and have a little adventure at the same time.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,
Loren,” she gave him a crooked smile, “but I have no idea when she’s going.
I’ll be sure and pass along your offer though.”

He grinned. “Mother squaw getting
on daughter squaw’s last nerve?”

“Something like that. She’s out
getting on Adam’s last nerve right now. I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him
soon.”

Loren laughed and let the door
swing shut.

Except for her mother’s rented
Harley parked along the side, the garage was still empty when she passed by. It
felt strange as if she’d been deserted. Where was he? She once enjoyed her own
space, felt freer alone, but since Handel came back into her life she couldn’t
imagine that state of existence being attractive ever again. He was more than a
lover; he was her best friend. She could confide in him, share her heart with
him, and just simply be with him.

She let herself in the back door
and flipped on the kitchen light. He was so insistent on speaking with Hosea
Garcia in person before the trial resumed that she felt sure he would have
returned from the office by now. She filled the decanter with water to make
coffee, and reached in the cupboard for the Hazelnut Crème coffee beans when
the realization hit her like a hammer to the chest.

“He wouldn’t,” she told herself
even while her heart raced with dread. She dropped the bag of coffee beans and
picked up her cell phone. Quickly scrolled through the numbers to Handel’s
office. It rang only once before Patty picked up.

“Parker & Associates.”

“Patty? This is Billie. Is Handel
there by any chance?” She bit at her lip, expectantly hopeful, yet dreading the
answer.

“I’m sorry, Billie. Mr. Parker left
quite some time ago. He said he had some errands to do. I’m sure you’ll be
seeing him soon.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I will,” she
said. She dropped the phone on the table and sank into a chair, feeling numb.
He’d lied to her. Not right out lied to her face, but just as good as. She felt
conflicted, wanting to wring his neck but at the same time desperate to know he
was safe. She glanced at the clock. He would have had plenty of time to get to
the city, find Hosea, and start home by now. Unless something had happened.
Something bad.

She snatched up the phone and
called his cell, and once again it automatically switched over to voice mail.
She didn’t do helpless well, but that’s what she was. Without a car and without
a clue. It was time to trust someone bigger than herself. Someone who knew the
beginning from the end. “Please God, don’t let anything happen to him,” she
begged.

•••••

Adam picked Davy up from soccer
camp same as always, but the boy was unnaturally quiet. He sat with his head
pressed against the door, not saying a word. Adam noticed he had a couple huge
scrapes down the side of his leg and another cut on his lip, but he decided to
ignore that until Davy was ready to talk about whatever happened.

He flipped the radio on to a
classic rock station and sang along. “Hot blooded, check it and see. I got a
fever of a hundred and three…”

Davy turned his head to stare at
him curiously. “Do you know the words to every song ever written?” he asked.

Adam laughed and turned the radio
down. “Not quite. I know a lot of songs but I’m sure there are a few out there
I haven’t heard yet.”

“Mom said you’re a musical genius.”

“No, she didn’t,” Adam shook his
head, grinning. Margaret might love the way he played but she would never use
those words. People like Page, Hendrix, Clapton, they were genius. He was adequate.
“You must have misunderstood her,” he said.

“No, I didn’t. She was talking to
Uncle Handel and said compared to his singing you were a musical genius.”

“I liked the shorter version
better.” He shook his head. “But thanks for the update.” He turned into an
empty corner lot where an ice cream truck had set up business. A line of
customers were already waiting for popsicles and ice cream bars. He shut off
the engine and rolled down the window. Ice cream always made things better.
“Hungry?”

Davy nodded.

Adam pulled out a ten-dollar bill
and handed it to him. “Get me whatever you’re having,” he said.

 
“Okay.”

He watched Davy run to the truck
and get in line behind three other kids. His cell phone rang and he picked up.
“Hey,” he said, seeing it was Billie calling. “What’s up?”

“Are you with Mom?” she asked,
without preamble.

“Nope. I just picked Davy up from
soccer practice. She left hours ago. Probably two, two fifteen.”

“Really?” She sounded worried.

“What’s wrong, Billie?” He
unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. Keeping an eye on Davy, he
walked over to stand in the shade of a group of walnut trees bordering the lot.
“You know she likes to shop. Maybe she stopped somewhere and lost track of
time. She’s definitely been acting weird lately.”

“You told her you’re playing the
club, right?”

“Yeah. She was disappointed, but I
think she took it well.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“What else is wrong?” he asked. It
was Davy’s turn to order so he would be running back in a minute. “It’s not
just Mom, is it?”

“Handel went to San Francisco
without me.” Billie’s voice sounded husky like maybe she’d been crying.

He didn’t want to sound
unsympathetic, but that was the lamest reason to be upset he’d ever heard.
Handel practically lived in San Francisco during a trial, and that was starting
up again on Monday. His accident had apparently brought out her anxious,
paranoid side. “He’s always done that. Why’s this time different?”

“Because he could get himself
killed,” she said, choking on the last word. She hated crying in front of
anyone. Always had to be the strongest, the bravest, the one with airtight tear
ducts. His sister had been a tough act to follow.

“Hold on. Where exactly did he go?”

Davy was walking toward him, an ice
cream bar in each hand.

“He went to see that guy who was at
the concert the other day. You know, the one covered in tats? He’s a member of
the MS-13 gang and says he knows who killed Sloane Kawasaki’s wife.”

“What? Shouldn’t he send his
private investigator or something?”

Davy handed him an ice cream bar
covered in chocolate and crispy things. He took a bite and nodded his thanks.
Davy apparently recognized one of the other kids cause he took off again and
stood near the car eating his ice cream, talking to a big kid with freckles and
long red hair pushed behind his ears.

Billie sighed, exasperation seeping
through the line. “That’s what I told him but he wouldn’t listen. I thought he
was going to wait and have someone else go with him, but he took off and isn’t
answering his phone. He intentionally left this morning while I was sleeping.”
She sniffed again.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe his
battery went dead,” he suggested, feeling the need to stick up for Handel. The
man was only trying to keep Billie out of danger. That was his job after all,
to protect his wife. Not that she would see it that way. Come to think of it,
Margaret probably wouldn’t think of it that way either. A real man didn’t stand
a chance these days.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “If you
hear from Mom let me know.”

“Will do.”

He slid the phone in his pocket and
returned to the car. Davy was done with his ice cream and was taking turns
kicking a hacky sack with the other kid. He waved goodbye and climbed in the
Corvette beside Adam.

“Is that a friend of yours?” He
asked as he pulled out of the lot back onto the street, moving slow to keep
from bottoming out his shocks on a big dip in the entrance.

Davy nodded. “He’s in my class at
school. He’s eleven but he got held back by his mom,” he said as though that
were a badge of honor. “He didn’t have to go to school till he was seven.”

“Cool,” Adam said and rolled up his
window to turn the air on again.

“Who was ya talking to?”

“Billie. She was looking for
Sabrina.”

Adam was eager to get back to the
winery, drop off Davy and drop in on his sister. He accelerated and passed a
red Honda on highway 29 going five under the speed limit. Davy slipped down in
his seat as though he was afraid of being seen. Adam shifted gears and pulled
back into the right side. “Someone you know?” he asked.

Davy nodded.

“I thought you loved this car. Why
are you acting ashamed to be seen in it?”

Davy straightened up but kept his
face turned away. “I’m not.”

“Looked that way to me. It wouldn’t
have anything to do with the cuts and scraps all over you today, would it?” He
glanced in the rearview and passed another car.

Davy shrugged.

“Was that a yes?” He tapped a beat
on the steering wheel. “You know your mom isn’t going to accept a shrug as
explanation. She’ll want to know exactly what happened.”

“Can’t you tell her I got hurt
playing soccer?”

“Did you?”

“No,” he said, barely loud enough
to hear.

Adam shook his head. “I won’t lie
to your mom and neither should you. What ever happened, she’ll understand.”

He was quiet. They passed vineyard
after vineyard, the heady sweet scent of ripe grapes heavy in the air. Even
with the air conditioner on it filled the car. Finally, they passed the sign
for Fredrickson’s. Davy stirred beside him, grabbing the handle of his sport
bag in readiness as though he were going to jump out while the car was still in
motion.

Adam slowed for the turn and
glanced across the fields. Black smoke rose hazy on the still air. “What the…?”

Davy turned to look in the same
direction. “It’s the wood working shed! It’s on fire!” he said unnecessarily.

Adam pulled into the end of the
driveway and churned up gravel as he skidded in a U-turn facing back the way
they’d come. He hit the gas and peeled out, tires squealing against blacktop as
they gained traction. In seconds they were turning in at the Fredrickson
corner. He handed the phone to Davy. “Call 911 and tell them there’s a fire at
the winery.”

Adam parked back by the house and
honked the horn, hoping to alert anyone still around and bring them out to
help. He ran toward the hose reel attached to the garden shed and started
yanking it out. There was a sprayer end on it that Billie used to wash the car.
He twisted the faucet on all the way, grabbed the end of the hose and ran,
stretching the coil as far as it would go.