Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (21 page)

Joselyn and I cross over the Coronado Bridge and head north up I-5. Three miles on and my mind is turning over with all the options. “What if it isn’t a man?” I say.

“What?” Joselyn looks at me.

“What if it was a woman who got her the letters? It is a possibility.”

She thinks about it for a moment and then says, “No. It’s not. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“If it was a woman, why would she be hiding?”

“Who’s hiding?”

“We know one thing, whoever it was, they were not at the memorial service on Saturday. Otherwise we would have met him. He would have come up and introduced himself.”

“What? You mean, ‘Hi, I’m John. I was Sofia’s lover’?”

“Laugh if you want. But I met almost everyone who was there. And I didn’t see anybody who fits this bill.”

“What bill is that?”

“You know.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Older, dashing, tall, perhaps a touch of gray at the temples. I’ll let you know the second I see him.”

“You have to remember there were two other letters of recommendation. They weren’t there either. I checked the list of names in the guest book.”

“And for good reason. They didn’t know her. Remember? They never met Sofia. Why show up at a memorial service for a perfect stranger? But the person who got her the letters . . . he knew her. He was her lover, her friend, or he was posing. Maybe he was trying to show off. Show her how important he was, that he could get her endorsements. He had important friends. Young women are impressed by that, and she was a child in so many ways,” says Joselyn.

“If that’s the case, why was Lang there? He didn’t know her, either.”

“It was his house.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t have to be there. And he had to know he was taking a chance. Lying about knowing her.”

“How could he possibly know that Sofia would tell you the truth? But then, of course, she didn’t,” says Joselyn.

“What do you mean? About the letters? No, she told me right up front that she never met any of them.”

“Yes, because she was protecting someone.”

“No, I don’t think that was it at all. I think she was just being honest.”

“That’s what you’d like to think,” says Joselyn. “Let me ask you a question. You wanted to hire her, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When she first walked into your office. When she sat down. When you started talking to her. How long before you decided you wanted to hire her? And if you tell me it took more than two minutes, I’ll tell you you’re lying.”

“OK, so she made a good impression.”

“Why?”

“She was smart,” I tell her.

“Smarter than you realize,” says Joselyn. “And pretty.”

“OK, fine. She was both. What’s your point?”

“What a smart girl always knows,” says Joselyn. “That a pretty smile, a flash of thigh will usually get what she wants, and if it doesn’t, a quick display of honesty is sure to close the deal.”

“You’re saying she played me?”

“Like a harp.”

“You’re wrong.”

“What you construed as honesty, the reason you hired her, was, in fact, manipulation,” says Joselyn. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved her. You know I did. But if I had to guess, I’d say she was probably afraid that you might call the people who signed those letters. Talk to them to draw them out. It would have been the natural thing to do. You saw those letters,” she says. “They were all so generic and vague. It would have been the height of incompetence not to check them. What if you called and one of them slipped up? What if they mentioned the man’s name, the one who got her the letters? Wouldn’t you wonder why he hadn’t given her a letter himself?”

She has a point. “I probably would have.”

“Sofia wasn’t going to take that chance. Instead she gave it all up, knowing that with the truth, the fact that the letters were worthless, you wouldn’t pursue it further. Her lover was safe. I’m guessing that by that time in the interview, she already knew she had you on the hook.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Ask yourself the question,” she says. “Did you rely on those letters when you hired her?”

“No, of course not. I just told you . . .”

“Oh, but you did.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that Sofia found a better way to use them.”

Son of a bitch, she’s right. I am a piece of cellophane. Maybe it’s something only a woman could see. At least I hope so.

“Child she may have been,” says Joselyn. “Sofia was one smart cookie.”

This time we don’t park a block away and walk. Instead we pull into the driveway, the big house overlooking the ocean in La Jolla. “Do me a favor,” I tell her. “Let’s not go in there angry. If we do, he may not let us in at all. Or he may call the police and have us tossed out. We need to get him talking.”

“I’ll let you take the lead,” she says. “But if he starts to lie I’m not going to sit there and listen to it.”

“All right.”

We step out of the car and walk toward the house. I ring the bell. It takes a while, maybe half a minute, before someone comes to the door. When it opens there’s a man dressed in dark livery, Asian, tall, powerfully built with an angular face. I don’t remember seeing him at the memorial service on Saturday. “Yes?” he says.

“Is Mr. Lang in, by any chance?”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but he knows us . . .”

“We’re friends,” says Joselyn. “We were here on Saturday for the memorial service.”

“Who is it, Chin?” I hear Lang’s voice somewhere off in the distance.

“I don’t know, sir. What is your name?”

“It’s Paul Madriani, Mr. Lang, and Joselyn. We met on Saturday at the service.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Show them in,” he says.

“This way.” The heavy door swings open.

We step in and the footman closes it behind us. We follow him down the hall. He doesn’t take us toward the living room. Instead we turn toward the study, the room where Frank Leon sat recovering in one of the large chairs Saturday morning. Suddenly it dawns on me. Who is going to tell Frank about the autopsy report, the fact that Sofia was pregnant with their grandchild? It would be cruel to allow him and his wife to find out by reading it. I make a mental note to call Harry and get their number from the office, to call them as soon as I can. Another crushing blow. They will be left to wonder, when will it stop?

When we reach Lang’s study the old man is already seated in one of the overstuffed club chairs waiting for us. “What can I do for you? Come in and sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“No. We’re fine,” I tell him.

“Please sit. Come join me.”

We do.

The servant waits by the open door. I glance at him over my shoulder and Lang says, “It’s all right, Chin. You can go.”

“Call me if you need anything,” says Chin.

“I will.” As soon as he disappears down the hall, Lang says, “Chin has been with me for years. At times I think perhaps he’s a little too protective.”

“I understand entirely,” says Joselyn. “One can never be too careful. Especially living in a big house like this on the beach. There’re a lot of bad people around. We know.” She smiles at him. “Paul’s practice is full of them,” she says.

Lang looks at her, gives her a half-baked paternal smile as if he’s not sure whether to laugh or hide. Then he says, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s a simple matter,” I tell him. “We’d like to know who the middleman was.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“You wrote a letter of recommendation for Sofia.”

“You know I did. We talked about it the other day.”

“We’d like to know who obtained it for her,” I tell him.

“I don’t know what you mean. She was a lovely girl, a hard worker, a good student . . .”

“How would you know? You never met her,” says Joselyn. “You didn’t know her.”

“I think you should go,” says Lang.

“She told me the day she interviewed with me that she never met any of the three people who wrote the letters recommending her. They were obtained by a friend,” I tell him. “It’s a simple question. We want to know who that friend is.”

“So obviously she didn’t tell you.”

“If she had we wouldn’t be here,” says Joselyn.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more to talk about,” says Lang. “If you’ll excuse me I have some things to take care of.” He starts to get up.

Before he can do it Joselyn reaches over and grabs his walking cane, which is hooked on the arm of his chair. “You’re going to talk to us whether you like it or not,” she says. “I can understand why the man who asked for those letters might be in hiding. But you’re going to give us his name. You may as well accept that fact.”

Lang struggles to get out of the chair. She puts the point of the cane against his stomach and pins him there. It doesn’t take much.

“Joselyn, don’t.”

“Don’t try to get up,” she says. “You might fall and break something. Old people sometimes do.” Joselyn bounces the rubber tip of his cane on the hardwood floor as if to emphasize the point.

He settles back into the chair and looks at the open door. Lang is about to call for Chin.

“Did you know she was pregnant when she was killed?”

This distracts him. He looks at me wide-eyed. He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell from his stark expression, this comes as a surprise. He finally says, “No. I didn’t. How do you know this?”

“The autopsy report,” I tell him. “We received it earlier today. She was two months pregnant. Eight weeks along. That means the medical examiner has an embryo. A budding fetus probably not much bigger than a kidney bean, but large enough to extract a sample of DNA for a profile. The police are going to want to know who the father is.”

“I see,” he says.

“Can you think of a better motive for murder?” says Joselyn.

“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?” he says.

“You wrote the letter as a favor to the man she loved,” says Joselyn. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Young woman, older man, married, I presume?”

He doesn’t say it but he nods, just enough so that there is no doubt.

“Let me guess,” she says. “He came to you for the letter telling you he wanted to break it off.”

He takes a deep breath and sighs. “How did you know?”

“It’s a classic tale. What was the problem? Was she getting too clingy?” asks Joselyn.

“He wanted to tell her but he didn’t know how. He thought if he helped to find her a job . . . Well, you know.”

“She might disappear.” Joselyn finishes the thought for him.

“I don’t think that was it at all. I think he was hoping she might make a life for herself, perhaps find someone else her own age. He’s not a bad man. I know what you’re thinking. But he didn’t kill her. I know that.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I just don’t think he could do something like that. He’s not the type.”

“Who is he?” says Joselyn.

“If I were to tell you, what purpose would it serve?” says Lang. “She’s dead. My telling you is not going to bring her back. It will only serve to cause more pain. The man has a wife and a family, children,” he says.

“Are his children older or younger than Sofia?” Joselyn puts it to him like a knife.

“You think he’s my age. He’s not. He’s a much younger man.”

“I’m not looking to date him,” says Joselyn. “I merely want to introduce him to the police.”

“You’re a hard woman,” he says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she tells him. “You can talk to us or you can talk to the cops.”

He looks at her, lips drawn tight.

“You should remember there are two other people who wrote letters for Sofia. They are strangers as well. She never met them. She told me as much. We can go to them,” I say, “put the same question to them. I’m guessing that one of them is probably going to be smart enough to avoid a possible indictment.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Accessory after the fact of murder. If the police find out that your friend killed Sofia and you covered for him, acted to conceal his identity, what do you think they’re going to do?”

“Tell him, Theo.” It’s a woman’s voice, feeble and subdued. It comes from the doorway behind us. I turn and see his wife, frail and bent standing there in a nightgown. “I heard your voices,” she says. “So I came to see. We both knew that sooner or later someone was going to come knocking. Now you’re here, and it’s time. So tell him.”

I look back at Lang. He’s slumped in the chair, all ninety-eight pounds of him, his face etched with lines of grief. “I warned him. I told him not to get involved. It was foolish. He asked me, he came to me and asked if I would have the memorial service here,” says Lang.

“That was big of him,” says Joselyn. “What was the problem? Was his place too small?”

“You can make fun of it if you like, but he was shattered. I never saw a man look that bad.”

“Juggling women will do that to some men,” she says. “Tell me, did he attend the memorial service, was he there?”

“How could he?” Lang looks at her, eyes pleading.

“Told you.” Joselyn looks at me. “Of course not. How could he explain the outing to the wife and kids? I understand.”

“Did he know she was pregnant?” I ask.

“I don’t know. If he did, he never told me. Still, he looked like death warmed over,” says the old man.

“He couldn’t possibly have looked worse than Sofia,” says Joselyn. “So what is this saint’s name?”

“Ricardo Menard,” he says.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I
t is just after noon when Harry, Herman, and I meet in the conference room to talk about the latest information gathered by Herman’s small army of investigators. A photo lab has managed to enlarge and enhance the cell phone shot taken by Emma’s neighbor of the car seen loitering in the neighborhood the night before Sofia’s murder. It was the old rusted-out car the elderly couple described.

The digitally enhanced photo allowed Herman’s people to make out that the car carried a California plate. It also captured enough of the letters and numbers on the rear plate that the investigators have now been able to reduce the number of variables to three possible combinations. Herman assigned investigators to run license checks with the DMV on all three.