Spiral (28 page)

For whatever reasons, Cordero was definitely a conduit for finances. Haydon suspected that much of that money was funneled to Executive Limousines, or to Valverde personally. There was nothing he could do about the files there, since Dystal had secured them the night of the shooting. But he could try the next best thing. He only hoped that Celia Moreno would talk to him, and that once again he would be second in line, not first.

She lived in a condominium on Woodway not far from the West Loop. It was in the heart of high-dollar life, about $60,000 per annum above what she should be able to afford being the secretary to Jimmy Valverde. Her roommate answered the door wearing a pair of loose-fitting shorts that looked like a tailor had spent two hours on them and a shorty top that stopped an inch below her breasts. Her streaked blond hair was held out of her eyes with a white sweatband, and pink leather weights were strapped to her wrists and ankles. Giorgio perfume floated out to him on a stream of cool air and the throbbing beat of exercise music.

Celia, it seemed, had gone to her brother's funeral at ten o'clock that morning, and was over at her mother's house with the family. Haydon asked if she knew the address. Raising her arms, the roommate stretched to the beat of the music behind her and exposed the soft curve of the bottoms of her breasts. Sure, she said, did he want to come in while she got it? Haydon said he would wait where he was. She grinned at him, stretched higher, and told him the address. As he walked down the tiers of steps banked with wisteria and Algerian ivy, he wondered how close the relationship was between Celia Moreno and her roommate.

The Moreno family lived north of downtown in the Latin neighborhoods around Quitman and North Main. Haydon found the street, but didn't have to hunt for the address. The cars of family and friends were parked under the trees on either side of the quiet residential street, and when Haydon got out of the Jaguar he could hear the crowd of people talking in the backyard of the pale blue house on the corner. He could smell the pecan trees in the midday heat.

As he walked along the pavement he passed half a dozen little kids, still in their funeral dress clothes, playing tag between the bumpers of the cars. He spoke to them in Spanish, but they simply stared at him as he went by. He heard one little girl ask another in English what the man had said.

Haydon stepped between the cars and entered the side yard. He walked by a stand of plastic sunflower windmills sticking out of the grass, their yellow petals motionless in the mottled shade. The low chain-link fence that enclosed the backyard was hidden under a solid bank of honeysuckle. The gate was already open, and Haydon entered the placid confusion of a large family gathering. Tables covered with cloths surrounded the outer edges of the yard, laden with dishes of homemade food which the women had sensibly organized by meats, casseroles, vegetables, salads, breads, desserts, and an assortment of drinks. A washtub of beer sat on the ground at the end of the last table.

They were already eating, a few people milling around the tables getting seconds. Several women stood behind the tables fanning flies off the dishes, while others occasionally came in and out through the screen door at the back of the house with additional dishes or fresh batches of iced tea or red punch. People were sitting on anything they could find. Most of the men were making do by squatting, or getting comfortable on the grass with the children.

Two young Chicanos spotted Haydon immediately and rose from the grass and came toward him with their paper plates in their hands and scowls on their faces.

They spoke to him in Spanish, and then immediately in English.

"You lookin' for somebody?" the larger one said, cocking his head back. He had a healthy girth, and it looked like one more slice of barbecue would split his britches.

"I'm looking for Celia," Haydon said.

"Which one?"

"Esteban's sister." This had an unpleasant effect on the two
vatos
, who acted as if Haydon had made a questionable comment about Celia's virginity.

"Youafren' or what?"

"We've met, but I don't think she would remember my name."

"What
iss
you name?"

"Stuart Haydon."

"We got a family thing here," the other one said. He looked as if he limited his suit wearing to weddings and funerals. The dress pants he had on now were too large, with the crotch halfway to his knees.

"Maybe you better come back some other time, huh?" The chunky inquisitor shifted his weight.

"I really need to see her now," Haydon said. "If you would just tell her—"

"Hey," the big man said forcefully. "I said later."

This was loud, and the conversation at their end of the yard came to a halt as everyone looked around to size up the situation. Haydon didn't see a single pair of eyes that weren't glaring at him.

Just then the screen door opened and Celia came out helping an old woman negotiate the porch steps. Haydon assumed it was her mother. As soon as they got down the steps, Celia looked up to continue across the yard and noticed the quiet. She followed the eyes of the crowd to the yard gate and saw Haydon looking back at her. She stared at him for a lot longer than he would have liked before she gave her mother to another woman who had come up beside them. The inquisitors had been watching her since the door opened, and when she flicked her head they turned and walked away from Haydon without saying a word.

As she approached him, Haydon was surprised to see her smile. She laced her arm through his and turned him with an adroit maneuver as together they walked out the backyard gate to the side yard between the cars and the wall of honeysuckle. She didn't say anything until they came to the large trunk of a pecan tree near the cars, then she let go of his arm abruptly and squared around to face him.

"How did you know I hadn't told them I was a detective?" he asked.

"I relied on it," she said coldly. "This is a hell of a time to try to talk to me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I felt it couldn't wait." She was smaller than he remembered, but no less pretty. The black linen looked even better on her than the pink silk. The pale gray pearls were perfect.

"Why weren't you with the detectives who came by this morning? That's what I expected."

Haydon was relieved. "It just didn't work out that way," he said. "I'm sorry about your brother."

She looked at him as if she couldn't believe he had had the bad manners to say it. "Jesus!" She shook her head, looked toward the backyard, and then back at him. "What the hell do you want?"

He was surprised to see tears in her eyes, and decided on the spot that he wouldn't try to finesse her. He didn't have the time or the patience right now, and besides, she was too savvy for it.

"First," he said, "let's agree that we'll play straight with each other from the start, and get it over with. Okay?"

She looked at him, waiting. Haydon would have to take his chances.

"I'm going to assume you told them you didn't know what they were talking about when they asked you about the
tecos
." He paused, looking at her, trying to see something. "I'm also going to assume you are far more intelligent than you were pretending to be the other afternoon in Valverde's office, and that you will recognize an opportunity when you see it."

Her expression didn't change.

"I'm willing to stick my neck out," Haydon said. "But I want you to know ahead of time that if you take advantage of this, I will be in a position to respond and will not hesitate to do so. All I want is honest answers, and in exchange I'll agree to help you in any way I can, if you want it."

She still wasn't saying anything, but the stubborn stance was gone, and she was listening. He could see she was trying to think ahead.

"You've seen the papers about Valverde?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw it." Her expression softened a little, but there was more on her mind than compassion, or even grief, for that matter.

"I'm on temporary suspension. It's almost mandatory in an officer-involved shooting," he said, bending the truth. "But I'm continuing the investigation independently." He let her sort out the implications in that. "There are three reasons I think you should tell me what you know," he continued. "One, because I'm going to find out later anyway. Two, because helping me now will buy you leverage later, when you're going to need it. Three, because I believe you did not know your brother was going to be killed along with the rest of them and you are now beginning to have second thoughts about your involvement."

"You're a confident prick, aren't you?" she said.

"I told you I didn't want to waste a lot of time, and I've got a long way to go. Those are my hunches. You tell me where I'm wrong."

"One question. If you're on 'temporary suspension' working 'independently' on this thing, explain to me why your word will be good back in the real world. If you're not legitimate, neither are your promises."

"I didn't say I wasn't legitimate," Haydon answered. "I've been given off-the-record liberties. You can't expect me to explain the details."

"Why not? That's what you want from me, isn't it?"

"You're failing to recognize a small distinction between us. I wasn't involved in an assassination. I'm not going to need any help trying to avoid spending the rest of my life in a federal prison because I've been involved in a political assassination."

She looked at him without expression, and then a slow, cynical smile changed her face.

"Christ, if you only knew," she said. She gave a humorless little laugh and looked away.

Haydon studied her as she started fighting back tears again. He tried to remember the face of the girl who had brazenly smiled at him behind the back of her lecherous boss as she walked out of the room leaving behind her pink panty hose. She had known quite well her tryst with Valverde was apparent to him, but she had shown absolutely no embarrassment. Either she had been truly unaffected by being caught, or she had covered admirably, playing the part to the hilt. In either case she was going to be interesting to deal with.

Haydon glanced toward the gate and saw the two
vatos
sipping beer and looking at them. She saw them too, and turned back to him.

"You'd better go," she said, wiping the corners of her eyes. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car."

As he turned, she played the part again, putting her left arm casually around his back at his waist. He felt her hand pause a fraction of a second on the Beretta in the small of his back, and they both stiffened. In an instant Haydon's mind flashed back to the two
vatos,
and just as quickly her hand was off the gun, but stayed on his back as they approached the Vanden Plas.

He unlocked the car and opened the door, letting out the pent-up hot air as he reached into his pocket and took out another card. Using Celia as a blind from her two cousins, he wrote his telephone number on the back of the card and handed it to her.

"This is my home number," he said. "If you want to talk."

She slipped the card between the buttons in the linen dress. She didn't say anything.

Haydon looked at her. "I'm not going to be sitting still," he said. "The offer's not open-ended."

Celia Moreno said nothing, but backed away from the car. Haydon got inside and slammed the door. He started the motor and pulled away from the rows of cars. He didn't look back at her in the rearview mirror, and wondered later if she had stood in the street watching him leave, or if she had immediately turned and walked back to the mourning family behind the honeysuckle fence.

Chapter 29

DRIVING
home, Haydon thought about the John Doe and the tethered ant. The investigation had gone so far so quickly that he was no longer important. And it was not likely that he would become important again. When it was all over he probably would be buried as John Doe and the enigma of the ant would be buried with him. Haydon wondered what would have happened if another team of detectives had caught the case. What if he and Mooney had not been first out? He would never have seen the motorcycle tracks in the dust, would never have forgotten them and then remembered them, would never have gone back with Mooney to double-check, would never have had to sit on the dark sidewalk with Mooney's head in his lap, watching the black rivulet of Mooney going over the curb and into the dusty gutter. Jesus Christ. It was such an incredible thing that it kept forcing its way back into his thoughts. The finality of it; Mooney's complete and irrevocable absence.

He drove through the gates onto the brick drive, and into a spray of water that covered the windshield, melting the world beyond the glass. He turned on the wipers and let them pump a couple of times as he drove out of the reach of the sprinklers and pulled up to the front of the house. As he got out of the car he looked back at the curve of the drive and saw steam rising from the dampened bricks. The sprinklers on either side of the gates had obscured the wrought-iron grilles in a heavy mist that billowed and fell in the still heat.