Dream a Little Death, page 18
“You are one lucky man.” The judge flipped through some papers. “Not too smart for a two-time felon to be waving firearms around a crowded bar. Third strike would’ve gotten you twenty to life.”
The younger woman grabbed the older woman’s hand.
“But,” the judge said, glaring at the A.D.A., “due to a series of police and prosecutorial missteps, let’s call them, I have no choice but to dismiss this case.”
The two women threw their arms around each other.
“I don’t want to see you in my courtroom again,” said the judge. “Next time I won’t be in a such a good mood.”
“You have my word, your honor,” said the defendant.
“In which case,” said the judge, slamming her gavel on the desk, “Lucius Ramsay, you are free to go.”
Lucius Ramsay.
Lucius Ramsay.
No wonder Uncle Ray didn’t want me anywhere near him.
Lucius Ramsay was the person Ray was supposed to testify against. He was also a friend of the man who’d raped Carmen Luz, and an employee of a man whose gun had almost killed Maya Duran. And now, because Ray wasn’t here, Lucius Ramsay was going free.
The A.D.A. zipped up his briefcase, and stormed out, stony-faced.
“Have a nice life!” Lucius cried. Then he turned to his attorney and pumped the man’s hand several times before embracing his mother and sister.
“Son of a bitch,” the sister said with a grin.
“Watch your tongue, young lady,” the mother said.
I bent down, pretending to look for something I’d dropped, as the three of them exited the courtroom. Then I stepped out into the hallway and hid my face behind a discarded take-out menu while they waited for the elevator, laughing and joking so loudly one of the security guards asked them to please tone it down. At that point, Lucius got so pissed-off I half expected him to pull out a gun, since that was his M.O., apparently, but before he had a chance to do anyone any bodily harm, the elevator doors opened and his mother grabbed him by the collar and yanked him inside. I waited for the doors to close, then flew down five flights, just in time to catch them stepping out of the elevator and traversing the bustling lobby to the rear exit, where they parted ways, the ladies heading toward the parking garage, Lucius going south on Broadway.
It’s not like I planned on following him.
It just kind of worked out that way.
I stayed on the opposite side of the street, keeping pace as Lucius made his way through the thicket of working people, hipsters, tourists, and homeless individuals that constituted the midday downtown crowd.
“Excuse me,” I said, ducking around a bearded man who’d stopped to study a mouthwatering display of seashell-shaped conchas, buttery mantecaditos, and crispy, cinnamon-dusted buñuelos.
“Coming through,” I said, pushing past a family of four who were picking through piles of sweat socks displayed outside a discount store.
And then, without warning, Lucius was darting across the street and heading my way. Running wasn’t an option, so I spun around, put my hands up on either side of my face, and peered into the Guadalupe Wedding Chapel, a marvelous locale where, it turns out, you can not only get married, you can get divorced, buy gold jewelry, straighten out your immigration issues, and file a tax return. I stood there, motionless, my shallow breath fogging up the window, until the very moment Lucius marched past me.
Time to get serious.
I flipped up my collar and put on my red Ray-Bans.
Camouflage is the soul of surveillance.
Now Lucius was at the corner of 3rd Street, waiting for the light. Opposite him was the Bradbury Building, its undistinguished brick exterior concealing a light-flooded, steampunk marvel, with birdcage elevators and neo-Victorian wrought iron, familiar from countless film noirs. What most people don’t know is that the Bradbury Building is also the headquarters of L.A.P.D.’s Internal Affairs Division. I wondered if Lieutenant Hepworth was holed up in there right now, plotting against somebody else’s family. Or maybe he was still too busy trying to destroy mine.
The light turned green.
Lucius looked both ways before crossing, then swung left into Grand Central Market. I checked my phone. 11:45 a.m. Guess we were having lunch.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to savor the myriad smells wafting through the sprawling, hundred-year-old food hall—Mexican limes, fresh coffee, handmade tortillas—because Lucius was practically sprinting now. Past Las Morelianas, known for its Michoacán-style carnitas, made up of fourteen slowly roasted nose-to-tail pig parts. Past Ana Maria’s, which specialized in gorditas the size of a baby’s head. Past Sarita’s, where you go for old school pupusas. Finally, he slowed down. Something had caught his eye at one of the produce stands. Plantains. Delicious, fried, sautéed, or baked. Lucius starting squeezing them, one by one.
“No touching the frutas,” cautioned the proprietress.
“Fuck that,” he said.
I planted myself in front of the persimmons while he mauled the avocados.
“These are hard as rocks,” he complained. “Comprendo?”
The woman dug around until she found a ripe one, then weighed it. “Ninety-two cents.”
Avocado in hand, Lucius continued down the middle aisle. I thought he might be leaving, but just before hitting the Hill Street exit, he checked his phone, then circled back to the China Cafe, which looked straight out of the 1940s, with a U-shaped red counter, spinning ceiling fans, and what was probably the original neon “CHOP SUEY, CHOW MEIN” sign. While Lucius parked himself on one of the green vinyl stools, I found a spot maybe twenty feet away, belly up to a coffee bar, which offered an unobstructed, 180-degree view of the erstwhile felon. Now he was flirting with the pretty waitress. She was blushing and playing with her hair, which is kind of unappetizing around food, but whatever. After she went to place his order, Lucius took off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Ahem.” The barista planted himself directly in my line of sight. “What can I get you?”
I peered at him from behind my sunglasses. “Coffee, please.”
He looked disappointed. He was wearing a lab coat and holding a beaker. It was that kind of place. And he wasn’t budging.
“Fine.” I glanced up at the menu. “Make it an iced macadamia nut cappuccino.”
“Good choice.”
“In a to-go cup.” In case I had to move quickly.
Once the barista was out of the way, I saw the waitress ferrying a steaming bowl of wonton soup over to Lucius. He took out the avocado he’d bought, sliced it into his bowl, doused the whole thing in Cholula, and slurped it up. When he was done, he made the pretty waitress laugh and smile until she stopped laughing and smiling as another woman approached the counter and slid in next to Lucius, who didn’t look particularly happy to see her.
The woman was covered up in a blue coat and matching scarf, so I couldn’t make out her face, but I could tell she was yelling at Lucius. After a minute or two, he passed her something, which she put into her purse. Then they put their heads together and started whispering, at which point Lucius signaled for the check.
“Almost ready, miss.” The barista poured some coffee beans onto a scale.
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks, but—” I craned my neck. They were paying. The woman was slinging her purse over her shoulder. Lucius was checking his phone. I leapt to my feet, fished a ten-dollar bill out of my basket, handed it to the barista. “Keep the change.” This investigation was really costing me.
“But your beverage—”
They were standing up now. The woman was taking Lucius’s arm. And as she turned her head, the scarf slipped and I caught a glimpse of her hair.
Unbelievable.
“Forget it,” I said to the barista. “I have to go.”
“Your beverage,” he insisted, “comes to eleven dollars. No tipping. It’s a growing national movement.”
Cursing gentrification, I rummaged around until I found another dollar, which I threw onto the counter. Then I plunged into the crowd. It was chaos—kids running underfoot, people juggling trays. But I kept sight of them up until the very moment an elderly man pushing a shopping cart bent down to tie his shoe, blocking the aisle. By the time I’d dodged his cart, detoured in and around a spice stand, then elbowed my way back out to Broadway, it was too late.
I stood there like a fool, clutching my overpriced iced macadamia nut cappuccino—which tasted like feet, by the way—as Lucius Ramsay and Pee Chee Lowenstein slipped into a yellow cab and sped away.
Chapter 34
Lucius Ramsay and Pee Chee Lowenstein.
Talk about strange bedfellows.
But then this had been the strangest two weeks of my entire life.
Back at home, I put some coffee on and paced the living room, ruing the day I’d snapped up those floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at Ikea because if I’d just had some wall space I could’ve obsessively arranged and rearranged my documents and print-outs until they magically revealed what was going on, and how I was supposed to fix it.
Hey, it worked for Carrie Mathison.
But maybe it was the CIA training.
Also, I didn’t have documents or print-outs.
I did, however, have Post-it notes, a perfectly serviceable kitchen table, and—according to the woman who was not Madame Anna, nor, in fact, a psychic—a desire for truth and justice.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and uncapped my pen.
Post-it #1. That was easy. Post-it #1 was going to be Miles McCoy. I stuck him onto the middle of the table. All trails began with Miles McCoy.
Post-it #2 was Carmen Luz. Miles’s ex-girlfriend. Rape survivor. Current whereabouts unknown. I gave her pride of place on Miles’s right.
Post-it #3 was Freddy Sims, a.k.a. Big Fatty. Not, in fact, a rapist. A rapper. Current whereabouts likewise unknown. I positioned him directly to Carmen’s right.
Post-it #4 was Maya Duran, yet another person in Miles’s orbit who’d disappeared off the face of the earth. She went on the man’s other side.
Post-it #5 was Pee Chee Lowenstein. She went below Miles, right next to a smear of cherry jam I’d left behind a few days earlier, when I’d consumed three English muffins before 8 a.m. (a personal best).
Post-it #6 was Pee Chee’s unlikely confidant, would-be three-time loser Lucius Ramsay, who was probably out celebrating the fact that Post-it #7 was a no-show today. Lucius I put to Pee Chee’s right.
Post-it #7 was, of course, my uncle Ray, suspended from the force, accused of corruption, inexplicably involved with the ill-fated Post-it #8. He went on Lucius’s other side.
Post-it #8 was the late Lizeth Pimentel, former neighbor and friend of Post-it #2. Lizeth went on Ray’s other side.
Post-it #9 was Charlie “Chick” Churchill, another old friend of Post-it #2, obsessed with Post-it #4, bent on destroying Post-it #1, and guilty of stalking yours truly in his white van. I had no idea where to put Charlie. At first I gave him some prime real estate next to Carmen, but then I moved him directly above Miles. Since he had a God complex and all.
I would have been Post-it #10, but apparently I’d run out of Post-its. Which was kind of a shame, really, because no matter how many times I shifted those babies around, I was at dead center—me, Dreama Black, and the $40,000 that I’d lost not once, but twice.
Let’s consider that $40,000.
It was the exact sum Miles had promised to pay me for the star-crossed noir tour, as well as the exact sum that was ruining Ray’s life. The conclusion was inescapable. Somebody wanted it to look like Ray was dirty, and using me to launder his money. But here’s where it starts to get interesting.
Perhaps you are familiar with the concept of cui bono, which is Latin for “who benefits?” Cui bono, as I learned years ago from an especially compelling episode of Monk, is the key forensic question in all police investigations. So who benefitted most immediately and most directly from Ray’s fall from grace? That would be Lucius Ramsay, whom I’d now linked to Pee Chee Lowenstein, who, in turn, lived to serve Miles McCoy. Taking it one step further, why would Pee Chee and/or Miles want to hand Lucius Ramsay a get-out-of-jail-free card? And what lengths would they go to in order to do so?
Just as I was trying to wrap my head around that one, the doorbell rang.
Teddy.
Please let it be Teddy.
But it wasn’t exactly my lucky day.
“What are you doing here, Mother?” I let her in, then hightailed it back into the kitchen, yanked off a length of paper towels, and camouflaged my Post-it note flowchart. The woman asks too many questions. “You know I hate surprises.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You adored your thirteenth birthday.”
I poked my head out. “Really? You mean when your boyfriend showed up at my school and serenaded me with his latest power ballad?”
“That song made the Billboard Top Ten,” she said defensively.
“It was about your private parts.” I grabbed a box of graham crackers. “Listen, I need lunch. And then I have to get back to what I was doing.”
“Would you please come out here?” she asked. “We have to talk about something.”
She had a look on her face I didn’t recognize. “Gravitas” came closest to describing it. All of a sudden, I was terrified.
“Okay.” I sat down next to her. “What is it?”
“You’re a good and loyal person.” She stopped, searched my face. “I’m really proud of you, Dreama. Do you know that?”
“Yeah,” I said warily.
“So here’s the thing.” My mother stood up, interlaced her fingers. “You came over the other day and asked me about your uncle Ray.”
I stopped her right there. “Ray didn’t show up in court today, and the judge dismissed the case. This hardened criminal just walked out of there, free as a bird. I don’t get it. Ray would never let something like that happen.”
“Not under normal circumstances,” she said.
“Which these are not,” I supplied.
She nodded.
“Because under normal circumstances,” I went on, “if somebody told Uncle Ray not to testify, you know, tried to intimidate him or whatever, he would never back off. Right?” I don’t know why I was asking, but I was asking.
“Dreama. You know him. No.” She tried to smile. “Ray would never back off.”
“So what is it then? Is he sick?”
My mother took my hands. “He’s gone.”
My stomach lurched. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? As in dead?”
“There’s no reason to believe that at the moment,” she said grimly.
I got up, grabbed my phone out of my purse.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Gram.”
“Put the phone down. I’m not finished.”
I put the phone down and looked at my mother. She had left the house without makeup or her water bottle fanny pack. It had to be bad.
“There’s no easy way to say it so I’m just going to come out and say it,” she said. “A warrant has just been issued for your uncle’s arrest. Which makes him not just missing, but a fugitive.”
I wanted to speak, but no words came out.
She closed her eyes for a second. “I know. I’m in shock.”
My mother had been through a lot in her life—alcohol abuse, drug abuse, domestic abuse, depression. Despite everything, she’d always been weirdly indomitable. But this thing with Ray had thrown her. She was devastated. Not just for me and for Gram, but for herself. Ray had been like a father to her, too.
She opened her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
I shook my head. “You know you can’t do that in here.”
“Fine.” She stomped into the kitchen and came back with the graham crackers, which she started stuffing in her mouth two at a time. “What are these things? They’re delicious.”
“Hand them over,” I said. “They’re poison. Full of preservatives and GMOs.” I shoveled several into my mouth.
“There’s more, by the way.” My mother wrestled the box back from me. “A pair of cops came banging on Gram’s door at 6 a.m. this morning, then grilled her for three solid hours.”
“Is she okay?”
My mother nodded. “She’s at my house now. I gave her a Xanax and she went to sleep.”
“Xanax? I thought you weren’t supposed to keep that kind of thing around,” I said.
“Let me live vicariously, okay?”
“Whatever.” I couldn’t deal with her stuff right now. If I could just stay focused I might be able to figure out where Ray had gone.
“Look,” my mother said. “I don’t want to bicker.”
“Me neither.”
“All I wanted was to be here for you, in case you needed me. I know how much you care about Ray.”
Leaning in for a hug, I whispered into her shoulder, “I love you.”
“What was that?” she asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Don’t push it,” I said.
“Hey.” She pulled back to look at me. “Whatever happened with your neighbor, Teddy?”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but something you said actually resonated with me.”
“Something I said? Impossible.”
“Okay, it was something Gram said. After she and I hung up, I called Teddy and left a message.”
“Saying?”
“That I was sorry for behaving so stupidly, and asking for another chance. I don’t know if you noticed when you came in, but there’s a “For Rent” sign on his front lawn. I wanted to be sure he knew how I felt, I mean, considering he might be moving.”
My mother said, “You were never exactly good with timing.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The ‘For Rent’ sign is gone.” She cocked her head. “And did you not see the U-Haul?”
“What U-Haul?”
I ran over to the front window and pulled back the curtains.
The U-Haul was latched onto the back of Teddy’s car. And pulling away from the curb. Which meant nothing I’d said on that message had changed his mind.
