Burning Man (19 page)

“Didn’t I tell you it was
habit
forming?”

“Don’t you get tired of hearing people groan when you tell them that?”

With Jersey emphasis she said, “The pot’s calling the kettle black?”

“You want me to say five Hail Marys?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. You might as well say five Hello Dollys.”

“Let’s start with a hello, Dottie. What do you got for me?”

“You’re in luck is what I got. I just finished talking with Karen Santos. She’s pretty sure she waited on the girl you’re looking for, but you better talk with her yourself, and there’s no time like the present, because Karen’s got the afternoon shift and the reverend mother has agreed to see you today at four thirty. I’m thinking you’ll want to kill two birds with one stone.”

“You’re thinking for me?”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

“If I see the reverend mother carrying a ruler I’ll probably have posttraumatic stress disorder.”

“If she scares you silent we should be so lucky. Speaking of lucky, did the chocolates do the trick?”

“Is that the kind of question you should be asking from a monastery?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m no nun.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t heard, a gentleman never tells.”

“If I was talking to a gentleman, I wouldn’t have asked the question.”

“Shouldn’t you be selling holy water or something?”

“You’re right. I’ll be putting a bag together for you, and I’ll make sure to include a Saint Jude medal in your order.”

Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes. Dottie heard me laugh before I hung up on her.

I put Sirius on a leash and let him accompany me on my walk through Beverly. The presence of the canine didn’t go unnoticed, and I was sure scores of panicked texts were being sent that a drug-sniffing dog was on campus.

Once again I reported to the assistant principal. Mrs. Durand surprised me by acting as if she was glad to see me, but the presence of Sirius had something to do with that. Without my partner at my side, people don’t recognize me. I am Frick without Frack.

“I kept thinking there was something about you that was familiar,” she said. “You’re the policeman that captured the Weatherman.”

“Two officers made the arrest,” I said. “Meet Sirius.”

On cue the mutt wagged his tail and the assistant principal suddenly acted starstruck. Long ago I had gotten used to having third billing behind Ellis Haines and Sirius. One of the secretaries in Media Relations had once told me that there had been more than a thousand requests for “signed” pictures of Sirius, which was about a thousand more than there’d been for signed pictures of me. What the public doesn’t know is that the department used some other dog’s paw to ink the pictures. They better hope that news doesn’t leak out. When baseball fans learned that most of Mickey Mantle’s autographs were forged by the Yankees’ clubhouse trainer, they were ready to riot. It was blackmail I was holding over Sirius. Say it ain’t so, Joe.

“I was hoping you could send for Jason Davis,” I said, “and that the two of us could chat in the conference room.”

Instead of raising objections, Mrs. Durand said that would be no problem and then asked if Sirius needed a water bowl. I considered saying my partner preferred coffee but swallowed my
sour grapes and told her that would be nice. What can I say? I was second fiddle but I still had my part to play.

When Jason Davis appeared five minutes later, he looked none too pleased to see either Nero or me. He sat in a chair across from me, slouched down, and waited for me to speak. I decided to get his attention.

“Jason Davis,” I said, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to consult with an attorney and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you desire, the court will appoint you an attorney at no cost. Do you understand those rights?”

My words had made Davis sit up straight. His eyes were wide, and his response was high-pitched and incredulous: “Are you arresting me?”

“That depends.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve obstructed justice. You purposely didn’t tell the full story of Klein’s bullying. Maybe that’s understandable because you were part of his gang and didn’t want to look bad yourself.”

He shook his head. “That’s not how it is. Like I told you, we never were a gang. Our group might have said a few things to a few people, but that’s all.”

“You threatened violence and you committed vandalism.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember your trip to Palos Verdes? What was the Agency trying to do, pay homage to a KKK cross burning?”

Davis raised both his hands and started waving them as if trying to push away my words. “It wasn’t anything like that. It was a surfboard, and that was Paul’s thing. If you don’t believe me, ask David Popkin or Cody Schwartz. All we did was drive with Paul.”

“I will ask them. Everything you say I am going to personally check out. And that’s why if you don’t tell me the complete truth you will have reason to regret it.”

Davis started wringing his hands and nodded. For the moment at least he’d lost his teenage insouciance and looked like a scared kid.

“How long has the bullying been going on?”

He sank back down in his chair and said, “I don’t know. I guess maybe since junior high.”

I pushed a piece of paper his way. “I’ll need you to make a list of your favorite targets over those years.”

“How do you expect me to remember everybody?”

“If you want, I can put you in a cell so that you can have as much time as you need to think about it.”

“Look, I’ll do my best.”

“You better. I don’t care how long it takes you—I want a complete list.”

Davis took up the pen and started writing. I sat there staring at him. It took him about fifteen minutes, but he came up with eleven names. Klein and the Agency had been busy. Seven of the names on his list looked to be Persian.

“There are a lot of Persians on your list.”

“There are a lot of Persians in Beverly Hills.”

“They seem to have been singled out.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You just went along with whatever Paul wanted?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You ever heard the word ‘Brownie’?”

“Look, it’s not like I’m a practicing Jew.”

“But you’ve heard the word directed at Persian Jews?”

He nodded.

“Did Paul or your group commit any hate crimes?”

“We didn’t do anything besides hassle a few kids.”

“We know that Paul took out Troy Vincent on the lacrosse field. Did he commit any other acts of violence?”

Davis shook his head.

“Someone murdered Paul and then crucified him. That’s not a crime of passion. That’s something premeditated. Who could have hated Paul that much?”

“I don’t know.”

I studied him, hoping he was lying, but he seemed to be telling the truth.

CHAPTER 12:
APPROVED BY THE VATICAN

The shadows were already coming home to roost when I took my leave of Gump and Martinez. The two detectives would be making calls and trying to connect dots until well into the evening. No one had said it, but our efforts were beginning to feel like busy-work. The three of us had even resorted to sifting through the so-called leads called into Adam Klein’s reward hotline. We needed a break—or divine intervention. Such were my thoughts as I set out for the monastery.

The sun was low on the horizon and looked ready to beat a hasty retreat to the encroaching dusk. That’s the way it is in January, even in California. The Golden State doesn’t have such a golden luster. It was two years ago in January that Sirius and I suffered our burns, but even before our encounter with fire I had never liked the month. Maybe it was seasonal affective disorder on my part; maybe it was creeping postholiday depression. T. S. Eliot was wrong about April being the cruelest month: it’s January.

My partner whined. He was probably catching the vibe from my dark mood. “It’s all right,” I told him.

He didn’t believe me. As we drew nearer to the Monastery of the Angels, Sirius started pacing the backseat. When his Geiger counter goes off, I’m usually sensitive to it, but this time I figured I was the cause and told him to shut up.

“You were dropped on your head as a puppy,” I said.

He ignored me and continued pacing.

My cell rang, and a bit of my mood came through in my voice as I answered. The caller asked, “Detective Gideon?”

The sound of Lisbet Keane’s voice dispelled my January blues. “I’d rather you called me Michael. If you do that, I can call you Lisbet.”

“Deal,” she said and then tried my name out for size, “Michael.”

In the backseat Sirius was still making his worry noises. “Shhh,” I hissed and then explained, “That wasn’t directed at you but at my partner.”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Nope,” I said, “I’m on my way to a nunnery.”

“That sounded like you just said, ‘nunnery.’”

“As in, ‘Get thee to.’ I have business at the Monastery of Angels.”

“Does that have anything to do with Rose?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“She’s why I’m calling,” Lisbet said. “I wanted to invite you to Rose’s funeral. It’s going to be held at four in the afternoon tomorrow, but please don’t feel you have to...”

It would mean a frenetic day, starting with an early flight to the Bay Area. It would mean basically writing off the day on the high-profile Klein case. But I still said, “I’ll be there.”

Sirius started making noises again and ignored my hand signals to be quiet.

“Do you remember how to get to the Garden of Angels?”

I didn’t want to conduct our conversation over Sirius’s whines, and I didn’t want our talk to be hurried or only about funeral arrangements.

“Can you do me a favor, Lisbet?” I asked. “I’m almost at the monastery, and Sirius has decided this is a good time to practice his bird calls. I would really appreciate it if you could ring me back in an hour. That way I can give you my undivided attention.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll catch you in a bit.”

We pulled into the monastery’s parking lot, and Sirius breached his training by jumping to the front seat without an invitation. His body language showed how intent he was on accompanying me.

“No,” I said and signaled for him to return to the backseat.

Sirius obeyed in slow motion, his body reluctantly inching to where I pointed. As he grudgingly returned to his place, he made a plaintive sound in his throat, begging me to reconsider.

I was surprised by his acting out, and I assumed the alpha male pose while spitting out “
Lass das sein
!,” the German for “Don’t do that!” Sirius shrank a little at the rebuff and stopped his noises, but he appeared to be more sidetracked than chastened.

Before leaving the car, I made sure all the windows were opened several inches. As I walked away, Sirius pressed his muzzle as far as he could out the driver’s window and whined. His persistence almost made me stop, but I knew that cloistered monasteries don’t make a point of welcoming two-legged outsiders, let alone four-legged ones.

Outside the monastic enclosure were displays showing the Stations of the Cross. Each of the stations portrayed Christ on his fateful journey from Gethsemane to Golgotha. The women inside the monastery, I thought, had devoted their lives to remembering that journey.

I passed by the stations without stopping. There wasn’t a soul at the deserted meditation garden—Nordstrom was probably having a sale—and I continued on to the gift shop. Standing inside the door and finishing up with a customer was a woman I assumed was Karen Santos. Karen and the woman she was talking to were both Filipinas, and as they said their good-byes they
spoke a combination of Tagalog and English. I held the door as the woman made her way out. She looked to be weighed down by her package, which meant she was probably carrying a loaf of the pumpkin bread.

Karen turned to face me with a tight smile. She extended her hand and in unaccented and precise English said, “You must be Detective Gideon. I’m Karen Santos.”

Second generation, I decided. Her parents would have pushed her to succeed in the new land, and her dignified bearing made me think that she had. We finished our handshake, and then Karen did a little hand wringing. “I just wish Dottie had arranged for you to call me before you made your trip here, Detective. She seems sure that I can help you with your case, but I have my doubts about that, and I am hoping this won’t turn out to be a fruitless journey for you.”

I tried to put her at ease: “Well, it won’t be
fruitless
, because I’m picking up a loaf of pumpkin bread. Or are pumpkins a vegetable?”

“Pumpkins are a fruit, I believe, because they contain seeds.”

“Then my visit will be fruitful, although I do have some non-fruit-related questions.”

“I’ll be glad to answer them if I can.”

The fruit icebreaker had her looking more relaxed. “Dottie told me that you waited on a customer that bought some blue and pink bootees, and a loaf of pumpkin bread.”

Karen nodded. “I think she was here last Friday. It was the blue and pink bootees that made me remember her visit. Most of the time people buy one color or the other, but she bought both.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I wish I could. I’ve been trying to remember anything that might help you, but I’m afraid our encounter was brief and not very memorable.”

“Let’s start with a description.”

“I am fairly certain she was Latina, but she didn’t speak with any accent. She had a dark complexion and had brown eyes and black hair. As far as I recall she was of average height, but on the heavy side. She was shy, but after we talked a little I saw that she had a beautiful smile with very white teeth.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I commented on the bootees. I think I said something like, ‘Are you buying for twins?’ And then the girl said they were for her aunt, who wasn’t sure if she was having a boy or a girl. After she told me that I said, ‘You’re smart to not take any chances.’ And then I said that she could return one pair of the bootees if she brought the receipt back with her.”