The Concrete Pearl (18 page)

My heart was pounding, palms sweaty, breathing labored. It was the first time in my life I’d ever defied Joel’s counsel. It felt a little like disobeying my dad.

“Have you been drinking, Spike?” Joel added after a beat.

“Jesus, Joel—”

“Okay, I’m sorry but I had to ask.” Pausing, he added, “There’s no changing that pigheaded brain of yours.” A question.

“What do you think?”

“At least give me time to check out Spain’s bonafides.”

“My mind’s made up Joel. Has been since you agreed for them to take my bid files without a fight. After all we’ve been through together. After all these years.”

He cleared his throat. Not out of necessity, but because I called him out on something.

He said, “I’ll call the DA’s office right away. You don’t hear back from me in an hour you can assume the summons you were just served is powerless. Which means no convening of the grand jury and that the county investigation is in fact taking a back seat to some highly questionable but secret county investigation.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I’m not sure I really meant it.

When I hung up, I pulled Spain’s card from my jeans pocket, dialed his cell.

“Spain,” he said.

“I’m in,” I said.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “’Bout time.”

“My lawyer says I could still be indicted by Santiago down the road.”

“Your lawyer is a construction lawyer. He’s probably never been inside a criminal court in his life. You won’t be indicted. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“My lawyer is also making a check on you. See if you are who you say you are. He called you a hooligan.”

“He won’t find a thing,” he said. “That’s the way hooligan’s work. You and he are just going to have to place your faith in me.”

“Faith,” I said. “What’s that?”

“It’s believing in something you can’t see, hear or feel.”

“Like Farrell,” I said.

“Like microscopic asbestos fibers,” Spain said. “Sit tight and lay low. I’ll be back in touch with you very soon.”

“Reassuring,” I said.

“Have faith,” he said.

I hung up.

Chapter 40

What’s a stubborn girl like me in way over her head to do?

I went into the bathroom, stood over the sink, turned on the cold water. Leaning over the basin, I cupped my hand under the flow, splashed the cold water onto my face. Repeated the process a second time.

Was I doing the right thing by agreeing to work with Spain to bring down a missing man? Maybe a dead missing man? If it was the right thing to do, then why did I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?

Maybe I was digging a deep hole in the sand that would only keep collapsing the more I shoveled.

Spain said that Farrell had operated in several towns and cities across the state. This was going to be a long and lengthy investigation. I knew it could take weeks, maybe months to resolve. But at least I wouldn’t be indicted by Santiago.

Or would I?

I turned off the water and dried my face with a towel. I hung the towel back up behind the door, looked at myself in the mirror. I gazed at the pale face, the dark hair that draped it, at the crow’s feet that accented my eyes. Running my hands through my hair I began to realize an exhaustion like I’ve never felt before. Just walking the short distance from the bathroom back into the living room seemed to take a terrific effort. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up drinking the night before. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken smoking back up.

I laid myself down on the couch, face first, left arm and leg dangling off the side.

I fell immediately to sleep.

I’m standing bedside inside a brightly lit ICU.

There are no rooms here. Only Plexiglas partitions and sea-green curtains.

Jordan is laid out on his back on the bed, a white blood-spotted sheet tucked up tight under his chin. Both his braced arms are extended out by his sides. There’s an intravenous line needled into his forearm. The I/V drips from a clear plastic bag that hangs from a portable metal post on wheels. An assortment of wires and pads have been attached to his chest. The wires are connected to a vital functions monitor. On the monitor I can see Jordan’s heartbeat in the form of a green line that moves across an electronic readout in a constantly interrupted, un-rhythmic up and down motion. I can also hear the heartbeat coming from the monitor. The pulse is rapid and uneven, as are his rattling breaths.

An alarm sounds.

The jagged up and down green line goes flat.

A nurse comes running in, pulls me out of the way. But that’s when Jordan does something unbelievable. He sits up, blood oozing out his eyes and ears. I feel myself backing away from him. I see him holding his arms out for me. He wants me to come to him; wants me to listen to him. He’s trying to tell me something. But he can’t speak and I am leaving him…

Chapter 41

The Blackberry woke me.

I opened my eyes, saw that the late afternoon sun was settling in over the lush green lawn located directly behind my apartment terrace.

How long had I been asleep?

I sat up, placed booted feet on the wood floor, rubbed the life back into my face with open hands. Standing, I waited to regain my sense of balance before I took a step towards the desk and my phone.

The ringing had stopped by then. But whoever called had left a message.

I checked the caller I.D.

Joel.

I punched in the numeric code to retrieve the message.

Joel’s voice.

“You got your wish, Spike. Santiago has agreed to postpone the indictments of you and Farrell. Pending whatever your boy Spain has up his sleeve.
Postpone
being the key word here. In any event, our illustrious county DA seems to know Spain pretty well. That’s one up on me. Listen, let’s hope Santiago doesn’t use the extra time putting his ADA’s to work digging up even more dirt on you and the asbestos fuckup at PS 20.”

That was it.

End of message. No goodbye. No thanks for doing business with Joel Clark, Esquire. Standing there in the quiet half-light of my apartment, I wondered if Joel would have hung up on my dad without saying goodbye.

I set the phone down, made my way over to the terrace door, set the deadbolt.

I was now secure. But I did not feel secure.

Back in the kitchen I found Diana’s cigarettes…what was left of them inside the crumpled up pack. I pulled one out. It was bent in the center but still okay. Thank God. I lit it up with Jordan’s old lighter, saw his face in the bright orange and yellow flame.

The nerve of Diana hanging onto one of my late husband’s mementos. I was the grieving wife. She was the wannabe.

I checked my watch. A little past five o’clock. I found a beer in the fridge, uncapped it, took a sip. I’d dodged the indictment bullets. But only for now.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter, I tried to figure out my next move.  

I was on my second beer when the doorbell rang.

I set the beer down on the counter, finger-combed my hair with an open hand, slapped some color into my cheeks. I couldn’t imagine who would knock on my door uninvited. But after the way my week was going, I should have been expecting anything.

In the living room, I stood by the intercom, depressed the speak button.

“Yes,” I said, the hint of trembling in my voice taking me by surprise.

“It’s Spain.” Behind the tinny voice I could make out the sound of crickets chirping and a truck rushing by on the main road. “Can I come in?”

I hit the second button below the speaker button. The one that unlocked the front door.

“Watch your step,” I said.

There was a loud buzz, the opening of the door. He was in.

I heard the building’s main door close behind him, the sound of heavy-soled boots descending the stairs, then a gentle knock. I opened the door to a face that was neither smiling nor frowning.

“Don’t mind the mess,” I said, heading back into the kitchen with my beating heart. I took out another cold beer from the fridge, uncapped it, brought it back into the living room. I gave it to him without asking permission first.

He took a generous swallow.

“Seven years of marriage and not once did my wife ever hand me a cold beer when I came through the door at night.”

It struck me as odd that Spain might actually have a personal life. Past or present.

“She married you didn’t she?”

“She also divorced me two and a half years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’d been coming for a long, long time. We were one of those couples who were great together unmarried. But married, a disaster.”

“Your work,” I surmised.

He nodded, pursed his lips, his narrow cheeks caving in on themselves.

“I’m not always able to be exactly forthright with those closest to me. Sometimes I’m required to…” He threw up his hands.

“Fib a little,” I finished for him.

Another nod, chuck full of guilt.

“Kids?”

He turned his eyes to the wood floor.

“A little boy,” he said. “Well, not so little anymore.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack,” he grinned. “Like Jack-O-Lantern…Born on Halloween morning.”

“Get to see him much?”

Spain’s grin dissolved into a sudden sadness. An emotion I sensed he wrestled with often.

“They both moved out to California a couple of years ago so that my ex could pursue her music.” Looking back up at me. “She’s really very good. A soprano with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

“Impressive,” I said. “But you should be aware of your rights as a father.”

He shrugged his shoulders sadly.

“What about you? You must have a skeleton or two. A bad past marriage. Or maybe something you’re afraid of.”

“My marriage was a good one. Maybe too good. My husband fell from a scaffolding tower and was killed. As for fears, I’m not afraid of anybody or anything. Except…”

“Except.”

“When I was seven years old, I visited a jobsite with my dad. I fell into a footing trench. The trench caved in. My dad pulled me out before I suffocated.”

“I can see how that would stick with you for a while.”

“The doctors said another minute trapped under the earth and I would have been brain dead. Or just plain dead. It’s something I’ll never forget.”

“Not the greatest fear to have for a construction pro,” Spain said, trying to work up a smile.

“We all carry our crosses. I deal with it.”

“Yeah. Sometimes you gotta deal with the shit.”

He meant what he said, I could tell. I could see the conviction in his clean shaven face, the way his dark grey eyes looked into the distance when he spoke, but then finally locking with my own. Spain knew what it was to be hurt; to suffer heartache. You live to be forty without surviving a broken heart or two you haven’t lived. And Spain had suffered and survived. You could see the pain hacked into the edges of his outer eyes as jagged crow’s feet. I guess we had that in common: crows feet, hurt and maybe…just maybe…more than a few regrets.

“When you decided to play detective yesterday morning up at Lake Desolation, did you find anything from the public fishing access site that shouldn’t be there? Anything from Farrell’s BMW?”

Spain, getting to the nitty-gritty after silently drinking some beer.

“You didn’t give the car the once over yourself?”

He nodded.

“All I found was a couple of buckets in the trunk. They were filled with a dark, bad smelling liquid. Had little insects or clams floating on top…Weird.”

I set my beer down, went into my bedroom, opened the desk drawer, retrieved everything I’d found—the stuff that Joel wanted. Then I went back into the living room, set it all down onto my late mother’s antique dinner table.

One spent .9mm shell casing.

One empty chewing tobacco tin.

One Thatcher Street Pub business card, the name Natalie scrawled on the back over lipstick red lips.

One sheet of paper, sketch side up.

Spain’s face took on a glow. He rested his drink on the table.

For a time he just stared at the objects, not touching them, as if he might contaminate them with his prints. But I broke the tension by revealing precisely where I’d found each item: the Skoll tin and shell casing by the stream bank; the business card inside the glove-box of Farrell’s black BMW; the misspelled “Closed Untill Further Notice” note with the odd sketch on the back outside the locked A-1 Environmental Solutions doors.

He gazed up at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this stuff yesterday?”

I’d expected the question and I already prepped a response.

“You and me are going to work together, Spain,” I said, “we gotta get one thing straight. This is my show, my ass on the line; my hard head on the chopping block. I decide not to show you something don’t take it personal. I had my reasons, the primary one being I didn’t know who the hell you were or if you could be trusted…Still don’t know in fact.”

He pursed his lips, bobbed his head.

“Let me put it another way,” he said after a beat. “I’d appreciate you letting me in on what you discover as soon as you see fit to let me in on it.”

He smiled.

So did I.

He said, “You have any large plastic freezer bags?”

I retrieved one from the storage cabinet above the refrigerator, handed it to him. He pulled a white hanky from his back pocket, placed everything inside the bag, then sealed it closed.

“What about prints?” I said.

“The lab will know enough to separate our prints from Farrell’s. That is, his prints are on any of this stuff at all.”

His comment took me by surprise.

“Who else could it belong to?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You just don’t assume anything in this business,” he said.

“Mine either,” I said.

He left one object out of the bag. The sketch scrawled on the back of the “Closed Untill Further Notice” note. He picked it up with both hands, examined the parallel lines and the letters S and C under them.