– You murdered them and took my money.
– We arrested the murderer and he’ll be convicted in a court of law.
“Herredia nods. I note a thin shaving of white around El Tigre’s big black irises. I wonder what it means. He raises his right hand and points at us, then circles the finger in the air.
“We turn clockwise, in the direction of Herredia’s finger. I listen for the sound of the Desert Eagle being lifted and aimed, and know that if I hear it, it will be the last sound I’ll ever hear. I keep turning-walls, windows, the old man with the stub of the cigar in his mouth and both hands on the shotgun. When I come full circle I meet El Tigre’s eyes again and I see something light and new in them.
– I will pay you four points, says Herredia. You will deal only with Avalos in Los Angeles. I will calculate the points and pay you here, in Mexico. Avalos will always know exactly what you have when you leave L.A. If you are ever short or late, your lives are over. If you bring someone else into my world, your lives are over. If you ever speak my name to anyone but Avalos, your lives are over.
“I take a deep breath and nod solemnly. I’ve just closed a deal that will earn each of us around seven-plus grand a week for eight hours of work. That’s thirty grand a month, tax free, month after month after month. And if things go the way I figure, if Herredia’s bloody cartel continues to prevail in the wars, and its market share of the U.S. craving for drugs continues to rise, the paycheck will only get bigger and bigger. I look at Laws. He’s pale, but he’s smiling.
“Then Herredia stands, and in one motion he tosses the Daiwa power-assist reel into the air over my head and shoots it with the Desert Eagle. The sound wave alone almost knocks me over. Bits of metal rain down on my head. There are holes in the ceiling. My ears are roaring but through it I can hear Herredia laughing, and the old man laughing behind him.
– You bring me a reel for fags! yells Herredia.
“Laws’s face is bruised and his eyes are wide but I can see that he’s deliriously relieved, almost happy. Herredia slides the fifty-caliber automatic into a holster on his belt, and points to the door.”
The boy looks at me with a skeptical frown. He says nothing for a few moments, then he shakes his head and the frown melts into a smile.
“Sweet,” he says. “Thirty a month for a Mexican holiday once a week.”
“Depending on what you consider a holiday.”
“You’ve got rocks, Coleman. And luck.”
“We stayed for dinner that night,” I say. “Herredia insisted. The old man joined us. His name was Felipe. The dining room in the house was nothing like Herredia’s office. The walls were adobe brick, with exposed beams of Douglas fir running the span of the ceiling. The floor was walnut, spar-varnished to a thick resinous glow. The window casements were walnut, too, and during the dinner they stood open for the warm Baja air. It was the best Mexican food I’ve ever had-ceviche tostados and chile rellenos and carnitas and bowls of pico de gallo.
“We drank California wine and Mexican tequilas. After dinner we went to the poolside cabana where four young women were waiting. They were beautiful and expensively dressed, relaxed and eager for conversation.
“When I woke up late the next morning, my companion brought me strong cafe con leche and a copy of the Los Angeles Times. Her name was Meghan, a California girl. She missed Redondo Beach. My ears were still ringing from the Desert Eagle. But I saw that I had died and gone to heaven, and I couldn’t wait to do it again and again and again.”
8
Laurel Laws opened the door of her San Fernando home that morning and Hood held up his shield. She looked at it while Hood looked at her: a twenty-something blonde in a black satin robe over long black pajamas tucked into shearling boots against the cold. She held a big mug of coffee. Her fingers were slender and her diamond was large. Standing beside her was a black pit bull with a dinged face.
Hood followed her down the foyer, past a living room and a dining room. The home was ranch-style, open and light, with cool olive walls, trimmed with crisp white moldings, and pale maple floors. The paint and flooring looked new. There were paintings on the walls and wooden shutters on the windows. The dog stayed on her left, nails clicking on the hardwood floors. Laurel said the dog had been rescued by Terry, and his name was Blanco.
The kitchen itself was a darker green, and the appliances were all new and white. An interior wall was partially demolished, the drywall stripped off and the studs exposed.
“Remodels never end,” she said.
She pushed a button on an elaborate contraption that ground and brewed and dispensed for Hood a cup of very good coffee.
They sat in a sunny breakfast room. She said Terry was a beautiful man, inside and out, and that her heart was fully broken. They’d been introduced by friends. At that time, she’d been divorced for two years from an abusive producer. Terry and his first wife had divorced four years before she met him.
“You know why divorce is so expensive, don’t you?” she asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Because it’s worth it.”
Now, after eighteen months of married happiness with Terry, and finally closing on this little piece of paradise, she had to start over.
“The house is just the house,” she said. “Come out here.”
She and Blanco led Hood outside and Laurel showed him the stable and the barn and the arena and the hot walker. It wasn’t a large property, she said, just over a half acre, but it was zoned for horses and horses were what she needed. They’d lived here for only six months. It was a foreclosure. They had purchased it for nine hundred thousand dollars and it had already been appraised at a million one. Thank God, Terry had taken out a mortgage protection policy that would pay off 100 percent of the loan now that he was dead. She said that although she worked part-time at the Valley Equestrian Center, she didn’t make enough to pay the mortgage and live on.
Hood saw that there were two horses, a mare and a gelding. Laurel gave them carrots and kissed them. “My children,” she said to them. Hood felt invisible. Laurel took a call on her cell phone and walked away and Hood looked at the horses and remembered riding with his father through the rough Bakersfield farmland-the heat and the dust, the oil pumpers and dirt roads, the spring surrounded by willows and cottonwoods-and the happiness that often gave him. Laurel snapped her phone shut and walked back over and told Hood she had to go.
He followed her back toward the house and asked her if Terry had been afraid or worried, if he had had threats or money problems. No, she said, Terry was a simple man, and a good one. He asked her if Terry had been drinking more than usual and she said he never had more than two drinks a night-he was so into fitness. Hood asked her if Terry was happy and Laurel stopped and looked at him.
“He was happy.”
“Did he mention the name Londell Dwayne?”
“Yes, of course. Terry arrested him then tried to take care of the man’s dog while he was in jail. The dog bit Terry and got away and Londell blamed him for the dog getting lost.”
“Did Terry say that Londell had threatened him?”
“Londell did threaten him.”
She gave Hood the names and numbers of Terry’s banker and doctor, and the last three months of telephone bills for their home number and for Terry’s cell.
Driving out, Hood noted the late-model Range Rover and the silver Mercedes Kompressor convertible and the red F-250 extended cab with the camper shell.
He thought it was odd that Laurel had not asked any questions about Terry. Not one.
Adam Grimm was the personal banking consultant who had worked with Mr. and Mrs. Laws. The branch was on San Fernando Boulevard. Hood identified himself and offered Grimm an LASD department number to verify his assignment to the murder of Deputy Laws. Grimm made the call and asked a few questions, hung up. Then he tapped at his computer keyboard, adjusted the monitor, and looked at Hood.