She had, and I remembered it clearly. But I had mistaken the seeds of vengeance for a son’s grief for his father. As had Marah — at first.
I told her I’d gone to Ben’s apartment on Saturday afternoon, right after talking to her and Alan. Told her that Ben had moved out just hours earlier. “When you gave me that address, did you know he wouldn’t be there?”
“No.”
“Where would he go, Marah?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t answered.”
In silence, I let the seconds drag past. Conscience teasers. Memory prods.
“Help me help Ben, Marah,” I said. “Give me something. Something unusual. Unexpected. A pattern, or something out of pattern. Something he did that surprised you or made you see him differently. Or worried you. Or just made you mad at him.”
She pressed the wet wad of tissue against each eye. Looked out toward the street, shaking her head. “Mad at him? The maddest he ever made me was over, like, sixty-eight dollars. So, I wasn’t that mad, really.”
People remember little things for a reason. “Go on, though.”
“Months after he moved out of my house, I was still getting his mail. The junk mail I threw away and the rest I put in a box for him. One envelope was an overdue bill. It said ‘Urgent’ in red letters. I set it aside and tried to get in touch with him. He didn’t answer my calls, or texts or emails. Whatever. That was Ben. He was only nineteen. I forgot about the bill, found it days later under a stack of my own bills and opened it. Apparently, he’d used his old address — my address — to rent a storage unit. A storage unit for what, I wondered. When he lived with me, he barely had enough possessions to fill his truck. He was always proud that he needed so few material things. Which didn’t prevent his storage rent from getting overdue. Again, I tried to get in touch with him to see what he wanted me to do. No answer. So I got angry. Ben was always nickel-and-diming me and Alan. Letting us cover for his carelessness and immaturity. I called the number and they said the late payment was due the next day before five o’clock, without penalties, and could only be made with cash or check. The woman was rude.”
“But you went.”
“Alan and I went,” said Marah. “I paid what was overdue, and two months in advance, to help Ben. The office was a hot, stinky, run-down trailer with two cat-litter boxes that needed to be emptied. The wall calendar advertised beer and showed a woman wearing almost nothing. I remember standing at the counter and writing the checks and being very angry at Ben for making me do that. Alan was disgusted by everything he saw, and angry at Ben, too.”
I could tell from Marah’s face how ashamed she was for getting angry at her little brother. I remembered how she had first described him: He’s the baby. He’s golden Ben and he’s never hurt a living thing in his life.
Some of the early lunch folks had begun trailing into the patio with their trays and bags. The finch landed back on the table, gave us each in turn his keen attention. Hopped left and hopped right.
“Where was the storage facility?”
“Some confusing part of San Diego. Near the border.”
“What was it called?”
She eyed me skeptically, searching my face for a clue to my pointed interest. Not being a suspicious woman, Marah saw nothing unusual in storing things. Not having seen Hector O. Padilla loading thousands of rounds of ammunition into the back of golden Ben’s truck, Marah couldn’t share my passion for Ben’s storage unit.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.”
“What name did he use to rent it?”
“Ben Adams.”
A foursome took the table nearest ours. One of the men smiled at Marah and she put on a brave face, smiling faintly back.
Then the smile faded and her dark eyes searched my face, as if looking for shelter. “I wish you could have known Ben before Dad died. He was innocent and curious and happy. If what you say about him is true, then he’s gone. That Ben is gone. I should go, too.”
“You’ve done the right thing by helping me,” I said.
“Right for whom?”
“The mother I told you about, for one.”
“The woman who helped kill my father.”
“You may be helping others, too,” I said. “People neither of us know.”
Marah shook her head. Disbelief? Disgust?
“Will you call Alan and explain the situation and let me talk to him?” I asked.
“When?”
“Right now, Marah. We’re running out of time.”
Another searching look. She found her phone and dialed. Speaking softly and urgently, Marah explained what I had told her and what I needed. She asked him to help me, and to help Ben, and any others who might be in danger. She hunched her shoulders and her red-black hair fell forward to hide her face. She went silent for a long while and all I heard was Alan’s faint furious voice and the sharp intakes of Marah’s breath.
She handed me the phone.
“You Got It Storage,” he said. “San Ysidro.”
I thanked him and hung up.
“Let me walk you back,” I said to Marah.
“I would appreciate that.”
We stood and the finch hunkered down on the white plastic tabletop so we wouldn’t notice him. Red-breasted and dark-eyed and feet like pencil marks.
In the lobby I watched Marah disappear around a corner. I returned my guest badge to the guard and trotted across the parking lot for my truck.
37
The you got it office trailer was just how Marah had described it, stinky and run-down. The manager could have been the same rude woman she remembered. The litter boxes still needed cleaning and the beer calendar was now a tequila calendar.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Shall I tell the truth or make something up?”
“Make up something fun. The hours drag in here.”
I introduced myself truthfully, holding open my sport coat so she could see private investigator’s license clipped to an inside pocket and the gun attached to my side. She squinted at me. Early sixties and holding fast to her looks — lipstick and makeup, big red hair, a low-cut tank, tight jeans. Said her name was Laney Walska. I’m a sucker for a redhead.
“That license might be made up, but the gun isn’t,” she said. “And I can have the cops here in under three minutes. Last time, it was under two.”
“No need, Laney. The license and the gun are both true. So is what I’m about to say, so please listen carefully.”
I broke it off for her as fast and neat as I could: two beheaded American airmen, another under a death threat, a cache of ammunition, and a Syrian American suspect who was renting one of her units.
“A Middle Eastern terrorist,” she said.
I told her he was American born, a citizen — Benyamin Azmeh — but he rented by the name of Ben Adams. Told her I wanted to see his unit, maybe take some pictures. Then I’d go away and she’d never have to see me again.
“It’s against the contract for me to let you do that,” she said.
“It’s against the law for me to even ask.”
“Are you serious about all this, honey?”
“Every word I said is true.”
She gave me a look that said she’d seen some things. The phone on the counter rang and she ignored it. She blinked twice, quickly. Twisted a strand of her super-sized hair through some fingers.
“You can’t talk that lock off,” she said.
“I’ll find a way.”
“He’ll know.”
“Yes, he will.”
She raised her eyebrows and turned to the steel desk behind her. Sat down in front of a dirty white monitor, one of those bulbous things you can’t even buy anymore. The incoming phone call went to message and one Laney told the caller she was out of the office, please leave a message, while the other Laney began tapping on a smudged white keyboard.