Lifeblood (18 page)

“What’s the figure for pharmacists?”

Gabe raised his eyebrows and dipped his chin. “About the same, I guess.” He gave the toothpick a few quick bites.

“Thanks for letting me know you don’t believe I took that bottle. That means a lot to me.”

“I don’t see how you could have. Unless someone left it on the counter. I can’t say that’s never happened—a class two left on a counter—but it’s unlikely. We’re pretty careful. I’ve never seen that happen at Jefferson.” Gabe bit down hard on the toothpick.

Rachel thought he looked sweet and didn’t like thinking so.

“Who could have taken that bottle? Who has access?”

“All the pharmacists. Some of the techs.”

“Doctors?”

“Some, yes. Maybe. But access isn’t necessarily the whole point. The main question is who would want to plant something like that on you, and why?”

Rachel had opened her mouth to say she had some thoughts on the why if not the who, when Irene appeared at the garage entrance and pushed her cart up to the booth.

“Hello, dear girl. I got your message and thought I would just reply in person. No sense running up the cell bill when I’ve got two perfectly good feet.”

“Good.” Rachel turned to Gabe. “I guess I should get back to work.”

He gave her an affable nod.

Rachel watched him stroll up the ramp toward his parking place. She’d have to wait to ask his take on her suspicions about whether someone would plant that bottle of pills on her because of her nosing around about those boys or that ward.

Chapter Thirty-four

Chez Chic restaurant was in a one-story, cleverly artificially aged building on a pedestrian-only street of shops in Valencia. Marty had told her to ask the hostess for E.J.

Rachel wished she had changed out of her jeans when she saw the white tablecloths and cobalt blue napkins. She’d expected something like a bistro, hadn’t realized a restaurant in Valencia might be this upscale. Especially one that apparently was a front for a gangster.

The time was 1:20. Nine diners were finishing their meals at tables near the windows. The hostess wore a blue dress that matched the napkins, gold helix earrings, and a hairdo that rose in a swirl on top of her head.

Rachel asked to see E.J.

“Ah…yes,” the hostess eyed Rachel up and down as if appraising her for purchase.

“You will please be seated.” The accent didn’t sound French, but the woman was certainly exotic. She showed Rachel to a table at the back of the room, away from the other diners, and beckoned a waiter, who brought a stemmed glass containing ice and a slice of lemon.

He poured water over the ice, causing the lemon to swim, and when Rachel didn’t take her napkin, he unfurled it with a flourish, handed it to her and asked, “Madame is alone today?” He wore a single earring, and a big-sleeved shirt of soft, white fabric.

“Yes,” Rachel said, feeling grubbier by the minute. “I won’t be eating…dining. I’m just here to see E.J.”

She assumed E.J. was in fact El Jefe. But El Jefe in a French restaurant? Mexican maybe, or Spanish. Indian. Moorish. American steak house. But French?

The waiter turned to look at the woman in blue and some signal passed between them. He turned back to Rachel. “It will be a few minutes. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait? We have a very good Cabernet.”

“No, thanks. The water’s fine.”

The waiter dipped his pointed chin. “Good.” He swept up the other three napkins on the table and disappeared into a hall opposite the door. Apparently, even if one wasn’t going to dine, the table must be properly adorned.

Making a mental note never to eat there, Rachel examined the mural on the wall—a copy of Monet’s painting of his garden in Giverny. She remembered it from her art history class at Stanford. In those days, she didn’t exactly hunt out snobby restaurants, but when she found herself in one, she didn’t feel like a peasant at a grand banquet.

Wondering if paintings were protected by something like a copyright or whether anyone could copy at whim brought her to the realization that if El Jefe owned this place, copied paintings, even if illegal, would be the least of it.

What was she doing here? Was she that desperate?

She was.

If she didn’t get a loan with a decent interest rate soon…. Well, she didn’t want to think about that.

The waiter reappeared. “You will come with me.”

No more Madame. Wondering what that subtle change meant, Rachel got up and followed him past the other diners, past the entrance, into a short hall where an elevator stood open.

An elevator? The waiter entered the car with her and the door closed.

Rachel pushed down sudden panic. Where was he taking her in an elevator in a one-story building? If she went missing, how long it would it be before someone noticed?

There was only one button on the panel. He touched it. The car descended, slid to a silent stop and opened its doors without another move from the waiter. He gestured for her to leave the elevator and the doors closed behind her.

The room was long, with ceiling and brick walls painted white; the floor was chalky white stone tile. There were no windows but all the white made the space seem airy.

A hulking figure sat at a large desk at the end of the room. There were low flood lights in the corners that made it hard to see anything but a silhouette, and Rachel remembered El Jefe’s penchant for that kind of lighting.

An arm motioned. A raspy voice, not exactly menacing, but clearly as much in charge as any storm trooper ever was, “Come. Sit.”

It seemed like a long walk to the desk. She perched gingerly on the edge of the large padded white leather chair that faced it. The desk was bare. A computer, on a matching teak credenza behind the desk, looked pristine, little if ever used.

El Jefe leaned forward. “And how is your papa?”

Rachel cleared her throat. “He’s okay. He’s fine.”

“He tells me that you need some money.”

“A loan,” Rachel said quickly. “I have collateral.”

“A parking garage,” El Jefe said solemnly. “How much? The borrowing. How much?”

She took a deep breath. “I guess about fifteen thousand dollars.”

“For what do you need this money?”

Rachel brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. Apparently Marty had left the explanation to her. She swallowed. “I was arrested for something I didn’t do. I need the money to pay the bail bondsman and to help with the attorney’s fees. I had to put up the deed to the garage and…and….”

“You are not happy with that.”

“No. I don’t really understand how it works and I don’t trust this guy. The bondsman.”

“What is his name?”

She told him.

El Jefe nodded three times, pausing to eye her steadily each time he brought his chin up. A look passed over his face. “You let me know if he does anything he should not.”

The look was not unlike that of a junkyard dog. Rachel didn’t know whether to be comforted or threatened. Or both.

He took a pad of paper from a drawer, wrote something on it, tore off the page, folded it into quarters and handed it to her. “You do not need an appointment. He expects you this afternoon, after three, before six.”

“Thank you.”

“De nada. Is nothing. Poquito. Your papa was very kind to Emilio. My son is now wanting to become an abogado. A lawyer. Your papa give Emilio back the money he win from him. He let Emilio have his face. In that way, he maybe even save his life.”

Did he mean he might have killed his son for taking his college money and playing poker? Rachel decided she didn’t want to know the answer. She rose from her chair.

“No,” the big man said. “Sit.”

She obeyed, like a well trained spaniel, and hoped he would not command her to fetch something or roll over.

“Almuerzo?”

“I’m sorry…?”

“Did you eat?”

She shook her head, hoping the failure to eat was not a punishable offense.

He punched a button on the phone and barked into it, “Coq au vin. Dos,” then said to Rachel, “I do not like eating alone. The coq au vin is very good. It is Provence.” His French accent seemed better than his English one.

The waiter appeared almost immediately, as if by magic. Had he been waiting in the closed elevator?

He opened a nearly invisible door in the white wall and withdrew a handsome wooden folding table, which he set up in front of Rachel, then disappeared. This time she heard the faint whirring of the elevator.

“This is very kind of you.” Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the words.

El Jefe’s eyes were on her face. He said nothing, but his eyes softened.

“Could I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he said, seeming to almost smile.

“Why a French restaurant?”

“Because French is the food of importancia. Of importante people. And who would expect to find such as I am here?” Now he did smile. A broad smile that flashed even white teeth.

Charmed against her will, Rachel ventured another question: “Why do you need an elevator to go only one floor?”

“Because an elevator can be stopped.”

Suddenly she understood the degree to which he controlled entry and exit. Among other things, he probably didn’t have to worry about hidden microphones.

When they finished eating she said, “That was the best meal I’ve had in years, maybe ever.”

He beamed.

The waiter cleared the table and again disappeared.

She rose to go. “I have to be somewhere between three and six.”

“Yes.” El Jefe nodded. “You tell Abe to treat you good.”

The elevator doors opened and she realized he must have a control at the desk.

Chapter Thirty-five

Rachel didn’t open the paper he had given her until she got back to her car. It was white with blue lines. On it was written Abraham Junipera, followed by Senior Vice President, and the name of a large, well-known bank. The address was on Hill Street, downtown.

She got there at four. She had gone back to her apartment, changed clothes and taken a cab. Parking in that area was impossible.

A receptionist with hair blond to the point of white and wearing a dress as tight as it was short showed her to an office, then disappeared.

Abraham Junipera was a tall thin man, probably fifty-something, but already one could see how he would look at eighty. Eyes that seemed to have been gouged into his face darted from Rachel to somewhere behind her, as if he expected someone else to join them, or was afraid someone might.

He spoke her name in a deep, sonorous voice. When she agreed the name was hers, he picked up his phone and murmured something into it she couldn’t hear, then suggested she close the door.

Rachel pushed the knob a little too hard and it slammed.

Junipera’s eyes widened with something that almost looked like fear. He gestured to two chairs that resembled the leather seats in a Bentley or Rolls Royce.

She chose one and sat. Her eyes took in the huge window behind him. “Nice view,” she said to break the silence, although she sensed he was as nervous as she. What favor could a man like this owe El Jefe?

He brushed his broad pale blue tie as if feeling for stray cookie crumbs.

Rachel decided to just wade in. “I assume you know why I’m here?”

“Of course.” He sat up very straight and handed her a piece of paper. It was a check, complete with stub, made out to her, for twenty-five thousand dollars.

She stared at it, then looked up. Junipera was rising from his chair. She hastened to rise from hers. “This is more than I need.”

“You can’t be sure of that. It’s best if you don’t have to come back.”

“Don’t you want me to sign something?”

“That isn’t necessary. You have a guarantor.”

“Oh. I guess I do.”

He moved toward the door as if he were leaving instead of she.

“But what are the terms? And where do I send the payments?”

He shook his head. “No payments.” He handed her another, smaller piece of paper with a telephone number written on it. “If and when you have the entire balance, telephone that number and we can arrange for you to bring me a check.”

“But I don’t know how much interest….”

“No interest.”

“But…how long…?”

His narrow shoulders swallowed most of his neck in a shrug. “Let us say three years. If you need an extension, call that number.”

“Okay.” Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, she wondered if she might step out into the hall and disappear forever.

Junipera’s smile lit the caverns in his long face. He opened the door as he might for someone who couldn’t be expected to find the doorknob herself.

“Thank you.” She held out her hand.

The limp way he took it made her think he would probably go down the hall to wash up before returning to his desk.

999

“So that’s all?” Goldie asked.

Rachel had closed the garage at ten, then crossed the street to InterUrban Water headquarters and waited on the front steps for Goldie. Now they sat in the Merry Maids van eating some of the Oreos that Goldie always kept there, and drinking raspberry iced tea from a thermos.

“What do you mean, all? I’ve got a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. It’s probably hot.”

“How can it be hot? It’s from a bank.”

“But I didn’t sign anything. You ever hear of getting a loan from a bank without signing any papers?”

“Nope. Lucky you.”

Rachel helped herself to another cookie. “It can’t be on the up and up. Stuff like this isn’t done by verbal agreement. I’ve been filling out loan application papers. I keep expecting them to demand a hair sample, a spit sample, and maybe an MRI scan to be sure I’ll live long enough to pay everything back.”

“No urine sample?”

“Very funny.”

Goldie handed Rachel a paper towel to use for a napkin. “I wish somebody would just hand me a check for twenty-five grand.”

“I’m going to pay it back.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“You think I should add interest?”

“I think I would do exactly like he told you, no more, no less.”

“I could skip the country.”

“They know your father. At least one of them does.”