The Spinoza Trilogy (10 page)

“
So why was the body exhumed?” I asked.

“
There’s a paternity case going on. Apparently, a son has appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be an heir. I’m assuming it’s the same son who hired you.”

“
An heir to what?” I asked.

“
A significant fortune. The family was loaded. The loving couple left behind boat loads to two legitimate kids.”

“
And now there’s an illegitimate kid.”

Hammer nodded as our food arrived. He immediately shoved three fat steak fries under his mustache into what I assumed was his mouth. His rat-like mustache twitched once, twice, and the fries disappeared.

I ate my fries as well, but I ate them one at a time, and I didn’t have a rat-like mustache.

Hammer nodded. “You guessed it. A legitimate kid who wants in on the family’s money.”

“Was there a will?”

“
Of course. And it did indeed name a son whom she offered up for adoption years ago.”

“
So he might the one.”

“
Or not. Lots of scams out there, Spinoza. You know that. Anyway, the kid, your client, goes through the proper channels and next thing I hear they’re digging up mamma. Only she’s not where she’s supposed to be.”

“
Curiouser and curiouser,” I said.

“
Fucking sick, if you ask me.” But not so sick as to stop him from sinking his teeth deep into the burger.

“
Any leads?” I asked.

“
Nope,” he said, chewing furiously. “But if you see a corpse lying around, lemme know. I’m trying like hell to pawn this case off on the robbery division, since they deal with human trafficking, too.”

“
A loophole in the LAPD divisions,” I said.

“
Yeah, but it’s not shaking out the way I’d hoped. So far, Chief wants me in on it because I’m familiar with the case. Like I’ve got nothing better to do then look for a stolen fucking body.”

“
A waste of your considerable talents,” I said.

“
Don’t fuck with me, Spinoza. I got two new homicides in the last 24 hours alone. Last thing I need to be doing is looking for a bunch of bones.”

“
Sounds like you might need my help, too,” I said.

“
Not likely, but if you want to poke around, feel free.”

“
I’ll need a copy of your file,” I said.

“
It’s illegal for me to give you a copy of my file.”

“
It’s never stopped you before.”

“
I know,” said Hammer, polishing off the burger. “I just needed to officially say it before I accidentally email you a copy of the electronic file.”

I grinned. “Accidents do happen.”

Chapter Three

I was in my office when, a short while later, Detective Hammer “accidentally” sent me an email containing the entire contents of his investigation into the murder of Evelyn Drake. He followed his mistake by sending me an email stating that he had fucked up and sent the email incorrectly, and that I was, by law, to delete it immediately.

Which I did, after I had “accidentally” printed out the entire contents. And with my feet propped up on my desk during a quiet afternoon, when my phone neither rang nor clients stepped in, I read the file, glued to the pages. Hammer was a helluva homicide detective, I give him that, although I would never tell him in person. Actually, Hammer reminded me of another detective I’d recently had the pleasure of working with, an ex-football player out of Orange County. Cocky as hell, but meticulous and driven. Like Hammer.

Anyway, Hammer had made detailed file notes and reports, and it was all riveting stuff. From phone calls to interviews, to eyewitness testimonies and crime scene reports, it told a compelling story of heartbreak and murder, and I was glued to the pages until the sun went down.

During the course of the investigation, Hammer had had his hands full. The husband had tried his damnedest to cover his tracks and set up a fake alibi. Through dogged investigative work and following hunch after hunch, Hammer had cracked the case and nailed the murderous husband, who was now currently rotting in San Quentin, awaiting execution.

For good reason. Within these pages was a very sad tale of an abused woman and her worthless husband. She had spent decades being abused and tormented, only to finally find escape in death.

She left behind two teenage children and, according to the will, a third. Apparently, she had given up a boy for adoption when she had been very young. No other information was known or mentioned about the boy, just the small notation in the will...and a sizable trust fund.

I turned in my swivel chair and looked out my second-story window. My office sat on a small hillock above some shabbier homes in Echo Park, a burrow of Los Angeles made famous in movies and film.

For now the street below was quiet and the far horizon shimmered with more beauty than Los Angeles deserved. For all the smog that it pumped into its skies, the horizon should have been gray and black and dead, instead alive with nearly every color of the rainbow.

A corpse, at some point, had been dug up from the grave and removed. I knew there were body snatches out there. Folks who sold cadavers illegally for reasons known only to them. I suspected for illegal research projects. But such cases were damn rare.

But, as the pawn shop guy on TV says, “You never know what’s going to come in through your door next.”

In this case, it had been a phone call from an orphaned teenage boy presently seeking a DNA maternity test from a murdered mother he’d never met.

I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. Behind me, through my open window, I heard a bum singing drunkenly. Unremarkably, he was singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” except he was so drunk that he was
adding
bottles. He was currently at 132 bottles of beer on the wall, although he occasionally skipped three or four bottles ahead.

Myself, I hadn’t had anything to drink in two years
, not
since the night my son lost his life.

I took in some air and didn’t fight the pain that overcame me all over again, perhaps for the fiftieth time that day. I let the pain run its course and when I was done weeping again, I stood up from my desk, grabbed my light jacket off the back of my chair, and headed out to meet the orphaned son for the first time.

Chapter Four

We were in Echo Park, sitting on a park bench before a man-made lake. Years ago, the lake had been filled with lotus plants—more lotus plants than I had ever seen. But the plants had slowly died off and now they were gone and it saddened the heart.

There was a stigma about the park. Some thought it was dangerous, and maybe it was, at times. But for the most part, it was a little piece of green and blue in a city of concrete and graffiti. Joggers mixed with bums mixed with lovers mixed with God-only-knew-what-their story was. A melting pot of physical fitness, homelessness and drugs.

And one curious private investigator and a very lost sixteen-year-old boy.

We were sitting side by side, although his backpack was tucked between us. The evening sky was mostly clear, with only a small patch of something gauzy and amorphous high above. The trees around us rustled in the breeze. The breeze carried the smell of pond decay. Across the street, boys played basketball at a park. Most were shirtless, and most were covered in tattoos. As I watched, a fight nearly broke out, but only a few choice words seemed to be the extent of it.

His name was David and he was shy. I was shy, too, and the two didn’t combine for a lot of random chit-chat. We had said our greetings and were now sitting quietly on the bench.

I finally started things off. “Hot day.”

“Yeah.”

“
The nights aren’t any better.”

He nodded.

“How long have you been in L.A.?” I asked.

“
A few months now.”

“
Where did you live before?”

“
San Francisco.”

I nodded. Funny how life was often serendipitous. My last major case had taken me to San Francisco.

“What brought you down here?”

“
My birth mom.”

“
Who are you staying with?”

“
My aunt and uncle.”

“
Who were you living with before coming down?”

He looked away. “My father.”

“Your adopted father?”

“
Yes.”

“
What about your adopted mother?”

“
She died when I was four.”

“
Do you like your adopted father?”

“
No.”

“
Why?”

“
You ask a lot of questions,” he said.

“
I get paid to ask a lot of questions.”

“
But I’m only paying you two tacos.”

“
Payment is payment.”

David looked at me, squinting against the last of the sun that was hovering somewhere over my right shoulder. David had a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheekbones. I predicted in two years the freckles would be gone. My son had freckles, too.

Shit. I took in a lot of air. When I had some control over myself, I said, “Why don’t you like your father?”

“
Because he’s lazy and says shitty things.”

“
Did he ever hit you?”

“
No.”

“
But he was psychologically abusive.”

David nodded. “Yeah, that.”

“How was he lazy?”

He shrugged. “He never worked. We usually lived with his girlfriends, until they kicked us out. He made me start working at fourteen, at a girlfriend’s cookie shop. Then he took most of the money I made.”

“He put you to work and then took your money?”

“
Basically.”

“
What do you think about that?”

“
I hate him.”

I asked him some more questions and I did my best to piece together his often stunted, one-word answers. The kid had known at a young age that he was adopted. His father, apparently, liked to throw his adoption in his face. No doubt to be cruel. Apparently his father had not taken his wife’s death too well. In the years after, the man had spent much of his time drinking and man-whoring.

David, at about age fifteen, began looking for his birth mother, until he quickly discovered that he couldn’t request birth parent records in the state of California until he, the adoptee, was twenty-one. But the kid was dogged and industrious, and soon he had the help of a sympathetic superior court judge, who happened to be the mother of a close friend. The judge stepped in and was able to convince the Department of Social Services to release David’s birth mother’s records. She cited extenuating, extraordinary circumstances, the only reason the state would release such information.

David didn’t know what the extenuating, extraordinary circumstance were, but I suspected the judge had simply pulled a few strings.

Now with her help, he was able to track down his mother all the way to Los Angeles, only to discover that she had been slain two years earlier. A mother who had left behind two children and a vast fortune. Those two children were being raised by grandparents; the father, of course, was currently awaiting execution at San Quentin.

The superior court judge next got hold of the will. In the will, Evelyn Drake, his birth mother, in an extreme act of generosity, had set up a significant trust fund for him, should he ever come looking for her.

David, who was already making arrangements to live with his adopted mother’s sister here in southern California, was set to inherit a good deal of money.

But state law insists on a DNA test. So one was set, and when it came time to administer the test; meaning, extracting DNA from his mother’s corpse, the body had been discovered missing.

Which is where I came in.

“
That’s a helluva story, kid,” I said.

He looked away, nodded.

A shapely rollerblader came blading by. She was followed immediately by a stumbling bum, either drunk or high. The bum was followed, in turn, by a limping golden retriever. The retriever stayed close to the bum and I was briefly touched by the creature’s loyalty. I suspected the dog was the only thing keeping the man alive through sheer love, devotion and protection.

There were tears in David’s eyes. It’s bad enough losing one mother, but this kid had lost two.