The pastor shrugged.
“Immigration problems?” I probed.
Another shrug.
“You don’t seem concerned by her disappearance.”
He gave me a cryptic smile.
“Can you tell me one thing?” I asked. “Are her children safe?”
“I believe they’re in school,” Gomez said.
“Oh.” I brightened. “Did Martina bring them in?”
“No.” Gomez frowned. “No, she didn’t. Her sister brought them in today. But that’s not unusual.”
“You haven’t seen Martina today?”
Gomez shook his head. I thought he was telling me the truth, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the woman was hiding from the INS. Still, after twelve years, you’d think she’d have applied for amnesty. And then there was the obvious alternative. Martina had taken the ring and was hiding out somewhere.
“Do you have Martina’s husband’s work number? I’d like to talk with him.”
“José works construction,” Gomez said. “I have no idea what crew he’s on or where he is.”
“What about Martina’s sister, Yolanda Flores?” I said. “Do you have her phone number?”
The pastor paused.
“I’m not from the INS.” I fished around inside my wallet and came up with my private investigator’s license.
He glanced at it. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” I put my ID back in my purse. “Just trying to gain some trust. Look, Pastor, my client is really worried about Martina. She doesn’t give a hoot about the ring. She specifically told me not to call the police, even if Martina took the ring-”
Gomez stiffened and said, “Martina wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay. Then help us both out, Pastor. Martina might be in some real trouble. Maybe her sister knows something.”
Silently, Gomez weighed the pros and cons of trusting me. I must have looked sincere, because he told me to wait a moment, then came back with Yolanda’s work number.
“You won’t regret this,” I assured him.
“I hope I don’t,” Gomez said.
I thanked him again, taking a final gander at those beautiful green eyes before I slipped out the door.
I found a phone booth around the corner, slipped a quarter in the slot, and waited. An accented voice whispered hello.
Using my workable Spanish, I asked for Yolanda Flores. Speaking English, the woman informed me that she was Yolanda. In the background I heard the wail of a baby.
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” I apologized. “I’m looking for your sister.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
Quickly, I said, “I’m not from inmigración. I was hired by Mrs. Deirdre Pollack to find Martina and was given your work number by Pastor Gomez. Martina hasn’t shown up for work in two days, and Mrs. Pollack is worried about her.”
More silence. If I hadn’t heard the baby crying, I would have thought Yolanda had hung up the phone.
“You work for Missy Deirdre?” Yolanda asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s very worried about your sister. Martina hasn’t shown up for work. Is your sister okay?”
Yolanda’s voice cracked. “Es no good. Monday, en la tarde, Martina husband call me. He tell me she don’ work for Missy Deirdre and she have new job. He tell me to pick up her girls ’cause Martina work late. So I pick up the girls from the school and take them with me.
“Later, I try to call her, she’s not home. I call and call, but no one answers. I don’ talk to José, I don’ talk to no one. I take the girls to school this morning. Then José, he call me again.”
“When?”
“About two hour. He ask me to take girls. I say jes, but where is Martina? He tell me she has to sleep in the house where she work. I don’ believe him.”
It was my turn not to answer right away. Yolanda must have been bouncing the baby or something, because the squalling had stopped.
“You took the children yesterday?” I asked.
“I take her children, jes. I no mind takin’ the kids, but I want to talk to Martina. And José… he don’ give me the new work number. I call Martina’s house, no one answer. I goin’ to call Missy Deirdre and ask if Martina don’ work there no more. Ahorita, you tell me Missy Deirdre call you. I… scared.”
“Yolanda, where can I find José?”
“He works construcción. I don’ know where. Mebbe he goes home after work and don’ answer the phone. You can go to Martina’s house tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” I said. “I’ll give you my phone number, you give me yours. If you find out anything, call me. If I find out something, I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We exchanged numbers, then said goodbye. My next call was to Deirdre Pollack. I told her about my conversation with Yolanda. Deirdre was sure that Martina hadn’t taken a new job. First of all, Martina would never just leave her flat. Second, Martina would never leave her children to work as a sleep-in housekeeper.
I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Martina had fled with the ring and was lying low in some private home. But I kept my thoughts private and told Deirdre my intention to check out Martina’s house tonight. She told me to be careful. I thanked her and said I’d watch my step.
At night Martina’s neighborhood was the mean streets, the sidewalks supporting pimps and prostitutes, pushers and buyers. Every half hour or so, the homeboys cruised by in souped-up lowriders, their ghetto blasters pumping out body-rattling bass vibrations. I was glad I had my Colt.38 with me, but at the same time I wished it were a Browning Pump.
I sat in my truck, waiting for some sign of life at Martina’s place, and my patience was rewarded two hours later. A Ford pickup parked in front of the frame house, and out came four dark-complexioned males dressed nearly identically: jeans, dark windbreakers zipped up to the neck, and hats. Three of them wore ratty baseball caps; the biggest and fattest wore a bright white painter’s cap. Big-and-Fat was shouting and singing. I couldn’t understand his Spanish-his speech was too rapid for my ear-but the words I could pick up seemed slurred. The other three men were holding six-packs of beer. From the way all of them acted, the six-packs were not their first of the evening.
They went inside. I slipped my gun into my purse and got out of my truck, walking up to the door. I knocked. My luck: Big-and-Fat answered. Up close he was nutmeg-brown, with fleshy cheeks and thick lips. His teeth were rotten, and he smelled of sweat and beer.
“I’m looking for Martina Cruz,” I said in Spanish.
Big-and-Fat stared at me-at my Anglo face. He told me in English that she wasn’t home.
“Can I speak to José?”
“He’s no home, too.”
“I saw him come in.” It wasn’t really a lie, more of an educated guess. Maybe one of the four men was José.
Big-and-Fat stared at me, then broke into a contemptuous grin. “I say he no home.”
I heard Spanish in the background, a male voice calling out the name José. I peered around Big-and-Fat’s shoulders, trying to peek inside, but he stepped forward, making me back up. His expression was becoming increasingly hostile, and I always make it a point not to provoke drunk men who outweigh me.
“I’m going,” I announced with a smile.
“Pasqual,” someone said. A thinner version of Big-and-Fat stepped onto the porch. “Pasqual, qué pasa?”
Opportunity knocked. I took advantage.
“I’m looking for José Cruz,” I said as I kept walking backward. “I’ve been hired to look for Martin-”
The thinner man blanched.
“Go away!” Pasqual thundered out. “Go or I kill you!”
I didn’t stick around to see if he’d make good on his threat.
The morning paper stated that Malibu Mike, having expired from natural causes, was still in deep freeze, waiting for a relative to claim his body. He’d died buried under tiers of clothing, his feet wrapped in three pairs of socks stuffed into size-twelve mismatched shoes. Two pairs of gloves had covered his hands, and three scarves had been wrapped around his neck. A Dodgers cap was perched atop a ski hat that encased Malibu ’s head. In all those layers, there was not one single piece of ID to let us know who he really was. After all these years, I thought he deserved a decent burial, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The locals were taking up a collection to have him cremated. Maybe a small service, too-a few words of remembrance, then his ashes would be mixed with the tides.