January Justice (21 page)

“Do you know if she donated money to repair the sanctuary roof?”

The woman said, “I’ve heard that.”

“It seems strange that a fugitive would attract attention to herself that way. Do you think it’s true?”

“I’m just a secretary here. They don’t tell me where the money comes from.”

On the table was a stack of church bulletins, probably waiting to be distributed in mass on the coming Sunday. I picked one up and looked it over. “I see you have a fund drive going.”

“For the after-school program, yes.”

“That’s a worthy cause. How do most people give money to the church?”

“They usually leave it in the offering box in the sanctuary.”

“Really? With all the gangs around here, don’t you worry about thieves?”

She stared at me a moment. “The people here would never steal from us. They fear God too much.”

I smiled. “They’d better.”

She offered a little smile in return.

Still examining the bulletin, I said, “If I wanted to leave money for something in particular, like the after-school program, how would the monsignor know it was for that?”

“We leave special envelopes beside the offering box. If you put your offering in the envelope, we’ll know it’s in addition to the usual tithes, for a special purpose.”

“Do people put their names on the envelopes?”

“Sometimes. That way they get a tax deduction.”

I nodded. “That’s good to know. Thank you.”

I put the bulletin back on the stack on her desk, then walked to the door and opened it. Just as I was about to step outside, I looked back and said, “Excuse me. Do you remember when they repaired the sanctuary roof?”

“Several years ago, maybe four.”

That would have been three years after Alejandra Delarosa murdered Toledo and disappeared with his money. It seemed like a long time for the woman to remain in the neighborhood after committing such a high-profile crime.

I said, “Do you mind telling me who’s responsible for opening the box and reviewing the envelopes?”

“Well, back then that would have been Monsignor Malone.”

“Could I talk to him?”

“He passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“He was a good man.”

“I’m sure he was. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I stepped outside and closed the door. I stood there a moment, then opened it again and leaned into the room. “I’m sorry. Could I ask one more thing?”

She looked up from her computer.

I said, “I don’t suppose you keep the offering envelopes?”

“We throw them away after the donations are recorded.”

I thanked her again and left. If Alejandra Delarosa had given some of the Toledo ransom to the church, it seemed there was no way to prove it.

I decided to visit Delarosa’s former landlord next. He turned out to be a bald Latino about fifty years of age, who kept an office on Sepulveda Boulevard in Van Nuys.

I took a set of stairs from the parking lot in back up to the two-room office, which was located above a strip shopping center. The place smelled of cigars. The outer room contained a desk, a chair, and four filing cabinets. There was nothing but a phone on the desk. The landlord sat behind another desk in the inner room. Piles of paper lined the edges of the desk.

Sweat had stained the armpits of the man’s guayabera shirt and stood in little droplets on his scalp. But the window beside him was closed.

I greeted him and asked if he remembered renting to the Delarosa family. He said he remembered them vaguely, but only because of the publicity after the kidnapping and murder. “I only met them once when they signed the lease, you understand.”

“What happened to the husband and daughter afterward?”

“They broke the lease is all I know.”

“I heard they were deported.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“What kind of man was Mr. Delarosa?”

“I just told you I don’t know.”

“You must have formed some impression.”

“Just an average kind of guy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m pretty busy here.”

I moved on, doggedly tracking down every contact I could find in the file, hoping something I asked would stir up a new memory in someone, or else the mere fact that I had come asking might spook someone into doing something that might crack the case. After so much time gone by, I had no other choice. But it didn’t seem to be working. A few of the people on the list were dead or gone, and the rest either didn’t remember, or what they did remember wasn’t useful.

I couldn’t help noticing they were all Latinos. So they had those two things in common. They were all from the same Latino background as Alejandra Delarosa, and none of them had told me anything I might use to track her down. I wondered whether they had been more helpful to Delarosa herself after the kidnapping and murder. I wondered if she might have had a little network going, people who would watch her back in case of trouble. I wondered if that might explain how she’d managed to elude the law while remaining in her neighborhood, if that was what she’d done.

I decided I needed to think some more about that, so I went into a little Cuban café on Venice Boulevard. The coffee came in a tiny white demitasse. It was the color of used motor oil and about as thick. I felt the caffeine kick in before I had finished the third sip, but it didn’t help my thought process. Somehow, Alejandra Delarosa had managed to vanish into the mass of Latino humanity in Pico-Union without a trace, while simultaneously maintaining a high profile in the community as a benefactor verging on sainthood. I knew the police had gang informants in the neighborhood. How was it possible they had never found her?

After finishing the coffee, I paid and went outside. Standing by the car were two heavily tattooed Latinos, one wearing a plaid shirt and the other a white undershirt, both in baggy shorts worn low, with bandanas rolled up like headbands over their foreheads.

I didn’t pause in my approach to the car. As I neared it, I said, “Excuse me, please,” to the one leaning against the door.

Neither of them moved.

One said, “You been asking
ʼ
bout La Alejandra.”

“That’s true,” I said.

I noticed several other gangbangers approaching us from where they had been standing in front of a liquor store.

The one who had already spoken said, “You need to stop.”

I said, “Or what?”

One of the newcomers had circled around behind me. He drove a fist into my kidneys. I turned just in time to catch another fist on the jaw. The blows felt like hammers. The guy was wearing brass knuckles. I managed to deflect a third jab and landed a punch that sent him staggering away, clutching at his throat and gasping for air.

Two others moved in. I kicked the first one in the groin, which dropped him to the pavement. The other one had a knife. He didn’t know how to use it. After he took a clumsy swipe at my midsection, I moved in tight before he could pull back and broke his arm just above the wrist. Then the rest of them got smart. They all came at once. I tried to reach my gun, but they were already too close. Two of them grabbed my arms from behind and pinned me while several others took turns landing blows. After a while they let me fall to the sidewalk, where I curled into a fetal position and tried to protect my head as they circled me and landed kick after kick.

All I could do was take it and pray for help.

23

When they stopped kicking me,
I opened my eyes to see two cops emerging from a squad car. As the cops hustled over to where I lay, one of them spoke into a microphone clipped to his uniform blouse and the other watched the last of my assailants as they disappeared down the block.

“Sir, are you all right?” said the first one to reach me, a Latino about thirty years old.

I said, “Don’t worry about me. Go get those guys.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just go get them.”

“We called an ambulance for you. Don’t move.”

The Latino and his white partner ran down the block.”

I rolled onto my back. I winced as my holster pressed against my kidneys. It was a miracle that the gangbangers hadn’t noticed the gun. If they had, maybe one of them would have tried it out on me.

A woman carrying a Chihuahua passed me on the sidewalk without a glance. The Chihuahua growled. Two old men walked past in the other direction a minute later. Neither of them looked down at me as I lay there, staring up at the cloudless blue above the city. I had a fleeting sense of disappointment. For a moment it had seemed I might be on my way to Haley, but there I was, still alive.

I rolled onto my right side, pushed myself into a seated position, and then rose unsteadily to my feet. I prodded my ribs a little, and while it felt as if at least one of them was broken, I decided it was more likely they were only cracked a little.

Moving gingerly, I made it to Haley’s Escalade. I got in. I locked the door and sat there staring through the windshield. All around me were people going about their business, shopping in bodegas, dining at the Cuban café, talking on the corner by the liquor store, leaning against stucco walls covered with graffiti. Although I was sitting in the middle of it all, nobody seemed to see me there.

I gave my head a little shake to clear it. I checked my watch. Since I was alive, I would continue. There was time for at least one more interview that day.

I started the engine and pulled away from the curb. I drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then found a parking spot in the shade of a sycamore on Wilshire where it crosses MacArthur Park. I decided I might have better luck if I tried talking to some people who were playing for the other team. I drug my cell phone out of my pocket, wincing at a sharp spike of pain from my ribs. I called Congressman Montes and left a message with a man who said he was the congressman’s personal assistant. I leaned my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and waited.

Time passed. I fell asleep.

The phone rang. I woke up and answered, and the congressman’s assistant said he had scheduled an appointment with someone at the US Citizenship and Immigration Services field office in the Federal Building. I thanked him, then started the Escalade and drove out of Pico-Union.

Over at the Federal Building, a woman came into the waiting room and invited me to follow her. I stood up slowly and trailed along a hallway after her. The woman said her name was Elizabeth Peterson. She was large-boned, pushing sixty, with straw-colored hair as short as mine, that pallid look you get when you spend too much time under fluorescent lights, and a brown suit that looked as if it came off the rack at a men’s big-and-tall shop.

She led me into a small conference room. Before I could sit at the table, she looked me up and down and said, “What happened to you?”

“A little accident,” I said, settling slowly into a chair.

“You look half-dead.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “The other half is fine.”

She didn’t smile. “Normally I don’t liaise with the general public, Mr. Cutter.”

“I’m sure Congressman Montes appreciates it.”

“Yes. And what exactly is your connection with the congressman?”

“Tenuous, at best.”

In spite of my witty banter, her lack of amusement seemed to deepen. “I’m very busy,” she said. “What can we do for you?”

“I need a copy of everything you have on Alejandra Delarosa; her husband, Emilio; and their daughter.”

“I’m sorry. Who?”

“The woman who kidnapped the congressman’s wife, Doña Elena Montes. I’m especially interested in the woman’s family.”

“I see. If you would wait just a few minutes, I’ll see what we can do.”

She left the room. I remained seated. I swung left and right in the swivel chair while I waited, flexing my midsection to explore the way the motion caused me pain. I took a few deep breaths, just to make sure I still could. I thought of what was excellent and true.

In about ten minutes, Elizabeth Peterson returned with a few pieces of paper in her hand. She sat, slid the papers across the table toward me, then said, “I’m afraid we are confused.”

I started looking through the papers. “We are?”

“We are. The congressman’s office requested this same information just a few days ago. It seems strange that he would send you here for it again.”

I said, “He gave me a copy of that file. There was nothing in it about Delarosa’s husband or daughter.”

“That is incorrect. We were asked for everything related to the woman, and that is what we sent, because that is all we have.”

“Are you sure? Maybe there was a mistake.”

“That is unlikely.”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it is.”

I flipped through the little stack of paper. In addition to the information I had already seen about Alejandra Delarosa, there were a few pages on Emilio Delarosa and their daughter, including two photos, both of which looked like mug shots. The quality of the images was no better than the one I already had of Alejandra, extremely vague and grainy. Photocopies of photocopies of faxes, most likely. With such poor resolution, the man could have been any of a thousand Latinos I had seen before, and the girl any of a thousand children.