The Forgotten (26 page)

He was not sure what the altercation had been about next door the night before, and he really didn’t care.

He had, however, seen the other man fight. He was good. Excellent, in fact.

But he had allowed himself to be outflanked. He would have died if Mecho had not helped him.

And maybe I should have let him die.

This was not a flippant thought on Mecho’s part. The other man did not belong here. And people who did not belong somewhere usually had a good reason for being where they didn’t belong.

The man had had a gun.

A Sig P228. But it had been slightly altered. He could tell that even from a distance and in poor light.

The other man’s fitness, close-shaven hair, close-quarter combat skills, and the weapon were telling.

He was military. American military, judging by how he had spoken to Mecho last night.

There were many military bases around here. Which prompted the question of why the military man was staying in a place like the Sierra. And what had he done to anger the street punks.

Maybe nothing.

Mecho had done nothing to piss off the ones who had come after him that night on the streets. They were like hyenas looking for prey in all the right places, and occasionally running into someone who fought back. Then the hyenas would run away. They always did.

As he sat on his bed he forgot about Puller and reflected on the additional information gathered on the Lampert estate today.

After his brief conversation with Chrissy Murdoch he had continued to work the grounds. Over near a stand of trees he had seen one of the maids talking with the pool man. He had drifted over and listened. When the maid was done with her conversation, Mecho had edged still closer to her.

When she saw him she looked startled. But he spoke to her in Spanish and his smile was disarming. As he worked the lawn he spoke with her. Her reticence diminished. Her answers grew longer.

Her name was Beatriz. She was very beautiful. Her skin was light brown and smooth. Her hair was dark and luxurious and smelled of coconuts. It was clear that she took good care of her hair. She had not worked much outdoors, he could tell, from the condition of her skin and the smoothness of her hands. She was from El Salvador, she told him. She had been working here for two years. She looked healthy and well fed. Her uniform was spotless. She had not arrived on one of the boats, at least he didn’t think so. But he couldn’t be sure.

He asked her in Spanish about her coming here.

Then he had his answer.

She looked away and hurried off.

He wondered if she knew what her name represented in Spanish.

Voyager.

She had not come very far, geographically. But she had traveled the equivalent of a trip to the moon, he knew.

But now she lived in the big house and wore the spotless uniform and had enough to eat. Back in her native country he doubted this had been the case.

So she should be happy.

Only he knew she wasn’t.

One could not be happy when one was a slave, no matter how well you were treated.

You were still a slave.

He had knelt down and started collecting twigs and scraps of leaves. The Lamperts, he had been told, demanded a perfect lawn, with every blemish needing to be removed. They paid well for this. They probably spent more on landscaping services in a week than most people would earn in a year.

And perhaps Lampert wanted no blemishes on his fancy lawn to compensate for the ugly wounds he inflicted on others. Or perhaps he was not that complicated a man and gave no thought to this issue.

Mecho rose and put the debris in a trash bag he had carried with him.

He knew that security had been watching him more closely, but apparently talking to a mere maid for a bit did not amount to an actionable offense, as it had with one of the ladies of the manor.

He felt a presence nearby and turned to see Chrissy Murdoch come out of the main house with the man who had been with her in the Maserati.

The man had on a seersucker suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie with loafers and no socks. He looked like an ad in one of those magazines where everyone looked perfect and led perfect lives.

Is your life perfect, sir? Would you like a little imperfection in it? Would you like me to take your smug, perfect face and rip it in half?

Chrissy had on a long, flowing white cotton dress with a scalloped front. The harsh light made it pretty much transparent, allowing Mecho a long titillating look at her legs. A wide-brimmed hat protected her from the blazing sun. Her slender, tanned feet were encased in sandals that showed off her pink toenails.

Chrissy spotted him and actually waved. Mecho looked around to see if there was anyone else she could be possibly waving at, but there was no one. The man did not take note of this. He was apparently lost in his own little world to such a degree that he was unaware his woman was being screwed by Peter J. Lampert.

Mecho began to grow suspicious now. It was not natural that someone like her would pay attention to someone like him. There had to be another reason. He did not wave back but instead returned to his work.

They drove off in the Maserati and Mecho wondered if Chrissy had showered to remove the scent of sex, of Peter J. Lampert, from her body. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe her man didn’t care.

Life was perfect, after all.

He had walked through the front gate and busied himself in the bushes. Positioning himself where no one could see, he had snapped some pictures of the gate and surveillance apparatus with his cell phone. He was confident that he could find in the dark the exact positioning of the power and data transmission line. He had better be able to.

And then the long day had finally ended and now here he was in his room.

As he sat on his bed he thought back to Chrissy Murdoch. Something was definitely off there. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would have to reflect on it some more. There were many things that could go wrong, and some would. But there were certain things he could keep from going wrong. Chrissy Murdoch might be one of them.

He lay back on his bed in the sweltering heat. It didn’t bother him. He had trained his mind to ignore such physical discomforts. And when the mind did not pay attention to such things, neither did the body. The mind controlled pain. And the mind could make pain go away. He had survived much agony with that simple philosophy.

Tonight would be busy. He had two things to do.

The first surely would be problematic.

The second might be catastrophic.

But he had come here to take risks, not to avoid them.

C
HERYL
L
ANDRY WAS NOT
in uniform. She wore light blue capri pants, a yellow sleeveless blouse, and white sandals. Her hair, unconstrained by a police cap, was down around her shoulders.

Puller rose from the table at Darby’s as she approached.

He had taken a shower at a local YMCA for a daily fee and changed into fresh clothes—khaki pants, short-sleeved shirt, and loafers.

As she sat down, she looked, he thought, a little self-conscious, as though she preferred the uniform and clunky shoes to what she had on.

The waitress brought menus and Puller glanced over his while also checking out the folks at the other tables.

She caught him doing this.

“Scoping the place?” she asked.

“Always good to have alternate exits, just in case.”

“One behind the bar. Another left of the kitchen.”

“I take it you like scoping too.”

“Comes in handy.”

“What’s good on here?” he asked, indicating the menu.

“Scallops, swordfish, mussels. And the New York strip, if you’re into cows.”

They ordered drinks and their meals. Puller had opted for the swordfish over the cow.

They sat back and Landry finally seemed to focus on him.

“Something you want to say?” asked Puller.

“I don’t know. Should there be?”

“We could run that one in circles for days.”

“You invited me to dinner, not the other way around.”

“Fair enough.”

“But you do make people nervous, Puller.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“I’m sure you have. Eight guys beaten up. Nearly ramming another car. Doing your own investigation. And we found out you got a set of elimination prints from your aunt’s body. The chief was not happy about that.”

“No law against me visiting my aunt’s remains.”

“But there is a law against obstructing a police investigation.”

“I was under the impression that you weren’t conducting one, so what exactly am I obstructing?”

“It’s not that simple and you know it.”

“I do?”

Their drinks and appetizers came and they both plunged into them, perhaps as a way to avoid more conversation, at least until it became absolutely necessary. They didn’t return to the topic until their entrees were nearly done.

Landry took a sip of her Riesling and glanced at him.

“Ready to resume the War of the Roses?” he asked.

“Oh, I haven’t started to fight.”

“I think we should be on the same side. A house-divided thing, you know.”

“I’m in one kind of uniform. You’re in another.”

“Not that much of a difference, really.”

“Look, I’m not saying that your aunt wasn’t murdered.”

“And I’m not necessarily saying that she was. That’s why people investigate. So I’m really not seeing the problem.”

“You come here, do your thing, and let’s say you find out she was killed.”

“Okay.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Find the killer.”

“Wrong. That’s for the police to do. That’s my job.”

“So you want me to do all the grunt work and then hand off the arrest to you?”

“I don’t need you to help me look good,” she said heatedly.

“Never said you did. So where does that leave us?’

“I don’t know.”

“You could work with me.”

She glanced sharply at him.

“I usually work solo,” he added. “So it’s a remarkable offer. Shows I have great confidence in you.”

“And exactly how would that work? I do it on my off time, the little I have of it?”

“Yeah.”

“And then what? We crack the case and shove my boss’s face in it? How does that advance my career in law enforcement?”

“I’m not saying it does. And if that’s your only goal then your answer to my offer should be no.”

“What other goal should I have?” she asked.

“Bringing to justice somebody who killed an old lady.” He leaned forward, his look growing as dark as he suddenly felt right now. “I hoped that might be why you put on the badge in the first place.”

“Don’t read me the riot act. I don’t deserve that.”

“Twenty seconds ago I would have agreed with you.”

“Do you really want to go down that road? I can make your life miserable.”

“I think the police department has already done a good job of that.”

“Yeah, well I’m a lot more subtle than Hooper.”

“I’m not looking to make enemies, Cheryl. I’m just trying to find out the truth. If this had happened to your family I have to believe you wouldn’t just walk away.”

This comment seemed to pierce whatever wall Landry had built up during this exchange. She looked away and then down, all the classic signs of capitulation, Puller knew, from interviewing so many suspects.

She said, “I get how you’re feeling. I really do.”

“Okay. Then I guess it’s just a matter of where we go from here. But just to be up-front, I’m going to keep looking into this. It’s just how I’m built.”

He paused, searching Landry’s face for her reaction to this. When she said nothing, he continued. “If I find something substantial, I will bring it to you. Then we can determine what to do from there. Does that seem workable?”

“What do you define as substantial? If it’s a suspect or a body, I think that might be too late.”

“I will work really hard to keep you in the loop the whole way, how about that?”

“How about if I work with you on my own time?”

He studied her. “Is that what you want?”

“I think so, yeah. It’s what you originally suggested, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. I just never really expected you to bite on it. So why are you?”

“I don’t like people dying when they didn’t have to.”

“Then I think we have a deal.”

As they were leaving the restaurant Puller’s phone buzzed. It was a text from General Carson. She had run down the plate.

When Puller saw the information his eyes widened.

This case had just gone to a whole new level.