Cool Cache (16 page)

“Would you like a cocktail?” Jordan said. “Or should I order a bottle of wine?”

“Wine. I don’t drink the hard stuff.”

He caught the attention of the waiter and ordered Bordeaux, the most expensive bottle on the list.

“Venus tells me you’re one of medicine’s superstars,” I said.

Jordan looked down at his hands and smiled. “I prefer to think I’m a good physician who cares passionately about his patients.”

“What do thoracic surgeons do, anyway?”

He reached for a breadstick in the blue plastic cup on the table. “I’ll give you the short version. We fix everything between the neck and the diaphragm.”

“Venus says you travel all over Central America for Air Health.”

“I’ve been involved for several years now. It’s a wonderful organization.”

A breeze fluttered the paper tablecloth. I anchored the corners with the salt and pepper shakers and the blue plastic cup filled with breadsticks. I held down the fourth corner with my hand. Traffic from the nearby freeway and tumbling water from the fountain created an urban symphony.

“So, tell me about Guatemala,” I said.

He unwrapped the breadstick and broke it in half. “It’s a beautiful country with many problems.”

“Like what?”

“Poverty. Drugs. Pollution. The aftermath of a civil war that only ended in 1996.”

He was the second person that day who had mentioned the war. I vaguely remembered reading about it in a college history class, but I couldn’t recall any of the details except for one.

“Wasn’t the CIA involved?” I said.

Jordan laid the breadstick down untouched. He leaned toward me. His expression was somber, his gaze intense. In the background, strings of small white lights glimmered like fireflies in trees shaped like monster broccoli.

“The conflict started in the 1950s during the peak of the McCarthy hysteria. A few wealthy Guatemalan land-owners objected to President Jacobo Arbenz Guzman’s land reforms, which they felt favored the poor. They sent representatives to Washington and whispered
communists
in the right ears. The U.S. government panicked and sent the CIA to Guatemala with a hit list.”

The details were coming back to me now. “Wasn’t there a coup?”

He nodded slowly, as if the movement took some effort. “Our CIA armed, trained, and funded a group of military dissidents that overthrew the legitimate president and installed a dictator in his place. What followed was a thirty-six-year political genocide carried out by the Guatemalan National Police. Hundreds of Mayan villages were destroyed and two hundred thousand people were murdered, or ‘disappeared, ’ mostly poor, indigenous farmers.”

The waiter arrived with our wine and went through the ceremony of showing the label, opening the bottle, and pouring a splash into the bottom of Jordan’s glass for his approval. He ignored the ritual and told the waiter to pour the wine.

“Once our government realized what was happening,” I said, “didn’t they try to stop it?”

“Unfortunately not. The U.S. continued providing military aid and intelligence to death squads. The massacre is often called the Silent Holocaust.”

I glanced at the table next to ours, where a well-dressed couple was seated. The woman had pushed the plump croutons from her Caesar salad to the edge of the plate, too many calories perhaps. She leaned over and spoke to her companion, who checked his Rolex watch, maybe to monitor how long before curtain time.

“What happened to the National Police when the war was over?” I said.

“Its legacy was so tainted it had to be disbanded and replaced with a new police force.”

“Was anybody prosecuted?”

“Both sides agreed to an amnesty. Most of the officers melted into the population. Some came to the U.S., including Los Angeles.”

Jordan seemed to sense how troubling this news was to me, but he couldn’t have fully understood why. It was because of Eugene and the trouble he may have found looking beyond a long, iridescent green feather.

Jordan sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to turn the evening into a political rant.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I’m interested in anything you can tell me.”

“Why this fascination with Guatemala?” he said.

I gave him a brief account of Eugene’s disappearance and my search for anything that might help me find him.

“I’m not sure how history will help you find your friend,” he said, “but I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

“Have you ever heard of the MayaBoyz?”

“I’ve not only heard of them, I’ve operated on their victims in the ER. More gunshot wounds than I care to remember.”

A pall settled over the table, caused by too much talk about war and death. The simple ritual of upper-middle-class Angelenos sipping wine at a trendy outdoor café seemed sacrilegious in light of the events Dr. Rich had just described. I averted my gaze toward the Lipchitz sculpture with its tangle of figures reaching up toward what looked like a dove perched on a gigantic tear. At the base was a caption I hadn’t noticed before. It read PEACE ON EARTH.

The musical was lighthearted, but watching it didn’t lift my spirits. I kept thinking about all those murdered Guatemalans, Lupe Ortiz, and the families destroyed by drugs and gang violence. And I thought about Eugene and where he might be. Even though he’d grown emotionally stronger, I still couldn’t shake my urge to protect him. Not knowing where he was made me feel as if I was fleeing a tormentor without the benefit of legs.

When the show was over, Jordan and I walked toward the escalator that led to the parking garage. A man was sitting on a blanket, torturing the reed of his saxophone, playing a melody meaningful only to him. Jordan stopped to listen. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in the velvet lining of the instrument’s case. The musician tipped his horn in appreciation.

Jordan walked with me to my car, steering our conversation toward lighter subjects. We chatted about the Lakers and Jordan’s first run in the L.A. Marathon the previous March. When we reached the Boxster, he watched as I slid into the front seat.

“I’d like to see you again, Tucker. What about this weekend? A patient of mine has a vineyard in Santa Ynez. He’s always trying to entice me to come for a tour. We could leave Saturday morning, spend the day.”

Most people would have said Jordan Rich was a catch. He seemed to be an intelligent, compassionate person, a humanitarian. I considered both his offer and Venus’s warning about traveling with a man. She claimed it destroyed a relationship. Jordan Rich and I didn’t have a relationship to destroy, maybe we never would, but it was too soon to leave town with him.

“I can’t go,” I said.

He lowered his gaze as if searching for guidance from the parking-garage floor. “And why not?”

“I’m busy on Saturday.”

He looked up, studying my expression. “I must have misunderstood. Venus told me you weren’t involved at the moment.”

“I’m not. I have to work, that’s all.”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Look, Tucker, I’m not going to pretend I don’t find you attractive. The truth is you’re a delightful woman, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

His directness was both refreshing and intimidating. The easy way out would have been to say yes, and then send him an e-mail in a day or so telling him how truly sorry I was that my schedule didn’t permit a wine-tasting trip to Santa Ynez. Except, I couldn’t do that. It was dishonest. I just wasn’t ready to plunge into another relationship. It was too much effort.

“It was a fun evening,” I said. “I hope we can do it again sometime. But just so you know, I’m not looking for anything beyond friendship.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m willing to work with that.”

I was leaving the parking garage when Charley called. He was just going to bed—on the couch, he wanted me to know. He’d been listening to the news when he heard Roberto Ortiz had been released from county jail.

My breathing became shallow. “I didn’t think murder suspects were eligible for bail.”

“He didn’t make bail. They cut him loose by mistake. Confused him with another prisoner with a similar name. I don’t think he’s a threat to you, but just in case, watch yourself. Okay?”

I told Charley about the chocolate pot and the receipt for the cell phone charger from Radio Shack I’d found in Eugene’s desk. He said he’d check it out.

After we ended the call, I couldn’t stop wondering what Roberto Ortiz would do next. He was a sixteen-year-old kid. His family lived in East L.A. He couldn’t leave town without money and a place to stay. I wasn’t sure if he posed any threat to Helen, but I had to warn her he was in the wind.

There was no answer at her condo. Either she had unplugged the telephone because of all those late-night calls, or she’d gone to Dale Ewing’s place in Simi Valley to spend the night. The information operator informed me that Ewing’s number was unlisted. If Helen was in Simi Valley, she was probably safe. There was nothing else I could do at the moment. Besides, it was late. I wanted to go home to see if Eugene had left me another message.

Chapter 19

There was no call from Eugene that night or the next morning, so I called Nerine Barstok to see if she’d heard from him. She hadn’t. I told her not to worry. Charley and I were on the case. I kept my voice breezy so she wouldn’t detect my concern, but her only focus seemed to be on Eugene’s lack of foresight, which had left her stranded in L.A. without a car.

When I arrived at the office, I found Riley Deegan sitting at the top of the staircase, looking listless and forlorn.

“What’s up?” I said.

“I have a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Can we talk inside?”

I unlocked the door and walked across the lobby to my office. Riley followed. On my desk was a vase filled with a dozen red roses. The card in the plastic pitchfork read
I had a wonderful time last night. Hope you did, too.
It was signed Jordan Rich.

Riley took a seat on a guest chair. “Wow. Somebody did something right.”

I ignored her comment and moved the flowers to the top of the file cabinet. “So tell me what happened.”

“I’m giving up Luv Bugs,” she said. “My family thinks I should get a real job.”

“Even your brother?”

“Joe and I aren’t speaking. He told me to get a life and stop interfering in his. He thinks I’m wasting my time trying to run a dating service. He’s probably right. I’m a failure. My party was a dud. Nobody connected on any sort of emotional level.”

“Sex on a bathroom floor sounds emotional to me.”

“You know what I mean, Tucker. Nobody made a soul connection. People drank my booze and ate my food and somebody went home with a spare roll of toilet paper from Claudia’s bathroom. I mean, what kind of person would steal toilet paper at a singles’ party?”

“Probably not somebody looking for love.”

“Exactly my point.”

“Look, Riley, you can’t give up. Businesses take time to grow.”

Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. She reached up with her index finger to stop one from dropping onto her cheek. I handed her a tissue from a box in my desk drawer.

“I’m just no good at this,” she said. “I can’t even save my own brother from a bad relationship. He doesn’t love Carly. He just feels he has to defend her.”

Nerine Barstok had given up her dream of becoming a teacher to have kids, and Mrs. Domanski had axed a budding singing career for marriage and martinis. Even my mother left her acting career to help Bruce open his yoga studio. True, she hadn’t exactly been an A-lister, but she’d had a decent career playing ingénues, then young moms, and finally the ditzy neighbor next door, until her forties, when the acting jobs started to dry up. It had been a life of struggle, but she seemed to enjoy it until she met Bruce. Riley Deegan was too young to give up so early just because a man told her to do so. There was plenty of time to consider sacrifice when she was older and wiser.

“Look, Riley. You hired me to create a business strategy for Luv Bugs. At least give me time to do my job. These parties are okay, but they’re not the best bang for your buck. I think you need to focus on Internet dating. You can reach more people and reduce your overhead. Plow all of the profits back into the business for a while. It’ll work. You’ll see.”

She dabbed at another tear. “I don’t know.”

“Trust me. You can’t give up before you even begin.”

“The problem is my mom loaned me money to get started. If Joe tells her Luv Bugs is a loser, she’ll cut me off.”

“Let me talk to your brother. I’ll make him understand how important this is to you.”

She looked up. “You’d do that? Really?”

I smiled. “For you? Yes, I would.”

I wanted to grab Joe Deegan by the lapels and shake him until he understood that loving somebody meant standing by her even when times got tough, even when you disagreed. It didn’t take much insight to understand that I wasn’t angry with Deegan because of Riley. I was angry with him because of me, the way he’d dumped me with no explanation. If I was ever to move on, I had to tell him how I felt, and this time he was going to listen even if I had to chain him to a chair with his own handcuffs. I just had to find the right moment.

Shortly after Riley left, Charley walked through the front door. “How about taking a ride?”

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To meet with Helen’s ex-husband.”

“We’re driving to Connecticut?”

“To Orange County. Brad Taggart’s company just opened a branch office in Irvine, and he’s been flying into John Wayne Airport every couple of weeks to supervise the operation.”

I felt a tingling sensation on the back of my neck. “I don’t suppose he was in town the night Lupe Ortiz was killed?”

“How did you guess?”