“She know who it was?”
“She claims she doesn’t, but that may change if she looks at doing jail time for any part she had in Victor’s business.”
Michael looked slightly less miserable at the thought.
I said, “Harry thought Maureen had killed Victor. He helped her because he wanted to protect her from a murder rap. He made a fake ransom call so she could record it, and he took Victor’s body out and dumped it in the Venice inlet.”
“Poor stupid bastard.”
“He had plenty of direction. Maureen wrote out the words for him to say when he made the fake ransom call. I imagine it was her idea to dump Victor overboard.”
Michael grinned. “Too bad she didn’t tell him to use a shorter rope on the anchor.”
“It’s not funny, Michael!”
He got up to rinse his plate at the sink. “Yeah, it is.”
I didn’t tell him about the near-drowning incident at the marina. It was too long a story to go into right then, but I would tell him later. I wanted him to know that Harry had saved my life.
He put the plate in the dishwasher and turned to lean against the counter. “What about that what’s-her-name girl? Have they found her?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s Jaz. Not yet.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound good.”
I said, “If those gang members were waiting for her when she left the resort to go back to Hetty’s house, they could easily have grabbed her without anybody seeing. Even if she screamed, people are all shut up inside their houses with the air-conditioning on, so nobody would have heard her.”
Michael crossed his arms, probably thinking what he’d like to do to the gang guys.
I said, “I keep thinking about those boys, especially the one they called Paulie. He seemed like a pretty good kid. Or at least not as cynical as the other two.”
“Good kids don’t kill other kids.”
“Why didn’t his mother pay closer attention to him? How could he be peddling drugs or robbing houses without her knowing? She’d have to be awfully busy or stupid not to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care.”
Michael gave me a knowing look. “Why do you blame the mother? The kid had a father too.”
I didn’t answer because I knew it wasn’t a real question. Michael knew why I blamed the mother.
I said, “If our grandparents hadn’t taken us in, we might have ended up like Paulie.”
He gave me a long, level look. “One of the guys at work has a wife who’s close to nine months pregnant. He’s nervous, so she got him some Chinese worry balls. He’s supposed to rotate them in the palm of one hand to relax, but instead he’s more tense than ever.”
“Your point being?”
“You’re rotating all that crap around just like they’re worry balls, and it’s not doing you a bit of good. Not doing those kids any good either. It doesn’t matter why those guys turned bad. They killed another kid, and they’ll have to pay for it. Period. End of story. Quit hooking everything to our mother leaving us. And for God’s sake, stop wondering how we would have turned out if she hadn’t, or if our grandparents hadn’t taken us in. You can’t ever find an answer, so quit worrying it to death.”
That’s one of the best things about having a family. They’ll tell you when you’re doing something dumb. Michael was right. It was senseless to dwell on questions I couldn’t answer.
I said, “You’re right.”
“Damn straight I’m right. And I hope you’ve had your last conversation with Harry Henry and Maureen Rhinegold what’s her name now.”
“It’s Salazar, and I have.”
I thanked him for the pie, smooched the top of Ella’s head, and got back into my slicker. When I yanked the yellow hat down around my ears, Ella looked alarmed.
I said, “I’m going to leave early for afternoon rounds.”
Michael said, “We’ll have meatloaf for dinner. Mashed potatoes. Rain food.”
Too brightly, I said, “Great!”
Carnivore that I am, I love meatloaf, especially the kind Michael makes with tomato gravy. But Paco doesn’t eat much meat, so the fact that Michael was planning meatloaf for supper meant he didn’t expect Paco to be home.
I went upstairs to get my pet-sitting stuff and drove off through the soft rain. At least I didn’t have to wear the dumb hat in the car. The parakeets were still hiding in the trees and the lane was soggy under the shell. When I looked across the Gulf to the horizon, it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. The entire world was gray and dreary.
I wondered if Guidry had finished questioning Maureen and Harry. I wondered if they had posted bail and gone home. I wondered if Harry would ever forgive Maureen.
I caught myself thinking about them, and murmured, “Worry balls.”
It was none of my business what happened with Maureen and Harry. My part in their drama was over. Furthermore, no way, no how, no time would I ever again allow myself to get involved in somebody else’s problems. No matter how long I’d known them or how close we might once have been, people could just damn well take their problems to a nice therapist or a minister or a priest, because I was through.
That’s what I swore, and I really meant it.
I should have remembered that any time you take a stand on something and say you’ll never, no matter what, do that or go there or be involved in something, next thing you know you’ll be up to your eyebrows in it.
At the Sea Breeze, I wore the hat while Billy Elliot and I ran. Either because he was embarrassed to be seen with me or because of the rain, he was willing to confine his run to only one lap around the parking lot’s oval track. At the cats’ houses, the order of the day was lethargic drowsiness. They’d put themselves into lull-land from looking out at the rain, and none of them wanted to play any vigorous games. I felt the same way, so I promised them we’d play twice as long the next time I came.
I took off the hat before I went into Big Bubba’s house. The slicker was alarming enough, I didn’t want him to think a yellow giant from the jungle was after him. He was so subdued by the relentless rain that he hardly acknowledged my presence.
I said, “Your mom will be home in a few days.”
He said, “Get that man,” but he didn’t have his heart in it.
I left him with fresh fruit and a new millet strand and went out the front door. On the porch, I put the yellow rain hat back on and headed home. I didn’t stop at Hetty’s house. I couldn’t bear to talk about Jaz right then. I didn’t even pull the hat off inside the Bronco. All I could think of was going home and having comfort food with Michael.
At Old Stickney Point Road—so named after the city built a new Stickney Point approximately twenty-five feet from the old one—I hit the brakes to keep from broadsiding a khaki-colored Hummer that shot out in front of me and made a sharp turn onto Midnight Pass Road. The driver didn’t even see me. His wipers weren’t working, and he was bent over the steering wheel trying to locate the controls. The driver was Paulie, the kid who’d left fingerprints on Big Bubba’s seed jar.
I dug under my slicker and winkled my cellphone from my tight jeans pocket to call Guidry. I got his voice mail.
I gave him a description and the tag number of the Hummer, even though I was sure it was a rental. I said, “I’m following him. I’ll call you when I have an address.”
Then I put my cellphone back in my pocket and held the steering wheel with both hands, peering through the insistent rain to keep watch on the young killer who might lead me to Jaz.
30
A pale sun sat low on the horizon and cast a sickly yellow light through the rain. Instead of making it easier to see, the light acted as a lens that blurred visibility. Since I was in familiar territory, I was able to navigate by known landmarks, but the Hummer in front of me slowed to a crawl at every eastbound lane. Each time, Paulie’s head turned to look down the lane before he gunned the motor and sped off to the next intersection. All those lanes look alike and some of them don’t have street signs, so it wasn’t surprising that he had trouble finding the right one.