House of Smoke (27 page)

“That doesn’t matter. I can’t do it.” She forces herself to stare back at him with as much force as he’s using on her.

He stands up. “Then go.”

The other man, the one who said nothing but stared holes into her soul, stands also.

“Something you should remember,” the speaker tells her. “You have revealed yourself. We know who you are, and where you live.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, lady. That’s not our way. We’re telling you facts.”

“Thank you.” She turns away from them, ready to leave.

The sound of a different voice stops her: “One more thing.”

She turns back. The other man, the one who all this time had said nothing, has spoken.

“What?” She feels her throat constricting, she’s immediately dry, unable to breathe.

“You have two daughters,” he says to her. “And where they live, that we know also.”

The world is turning black, utterly dark. “If you lay a hand on my kids …”

“That’s not our style,” the first man says quickly, reading her fear, taking pains to try to obviate it in that regard. “But you should know what we know about you. Which is everything.”

There is an ominous finality to his last sentence.

“This is not your fight,” the second man cautions her. “Walk away from it.”

On the ride home time exists in a vacuum. No one says a word. The men who brought her stare straight ahead, their eyes glued to the road. Kate doesn’t know if they know what happened in the kitchen. She figures they think whatever their leaders wanted, that’s what happened.

The hooker hasn’t said anything, either. She casts a glance at Kate now and again, but she, too, keeps still.

The car pulls off the freeway at the Milpas off ramp. They drive up to Mason St. The man riding shotgun turns to the backseat.

“Get out,” he orders the hooker.

As she opens the door the woman stares at Kate. “Where’s that fancy reward you promised me?” she finds the courage to ask.

“Get the fuck out of here!” the man yells at her.

“She said …” A whimper, like a beaten dog.

“Don’t piss me off,” he warns her.

“It’s all right,” Kate cuts the man off. “I’ll take care of it. The men you brought me to see would want me to,” she adds.

She takes out her wallet, pulls out three twenties. Except for a couple of singles, it’s all she has on her

“Here, take this,” she says, thrusting the money into the woman’s hand.

The woman looks at the bills like Kate has handed her a bag of wet dog shit. “You said big money,” she sneers, too stupid to know to quit when she’s ahead.

Kate snaps: a five-dollar junkie whore jerking her chain is the last straw. Reaching across the seat, she grabs the door handle and yanks it shut, almost crushing the woman’s hand in the process.

“Go!” she orders the driver.

He stomps on the gas, fishtailing up the street.

“I have had enough shit for one night,” Kate says to no one in particular. “Take me to where you picked me up,” she demands of the men in the front seat.

The streets are deserted as she drives home. She feels like she’ll sleep until noon.

The
Santa Barbara News-Press
hits the doorstep outside her apartment. Kate rolls over, looks at the clock by her bedside: 5:45. With a groan she forces herself from her bed, pulls up the window shade, peers out. The sky is lightening to a shade of pale white, with not a hint of morning fog.

The street outside her apartment is quiet, empty. No ominous-looking cars are parked anywhere. Her paranoia, which she had thought she had washed away in the dark water of her secret place, is strong enough in the clear, harsh light of day that she is afraid there might be something out there, waiting for her.

She hasn’t slept—not for one moment, all night long, since she returned. The reference to her kids: that’s what got her, more than anything. She couldn’t have gotten that out of her mind if she’d swum to Catalina.

It was a bluff, she knows that: a scare tactic, a means to an end, the end being that she should pay attention to them. In her mind she knows that. Her mind must take control, over her emotions.

It
would
never happen, but it
could
. She has to deal with that distinction, make sure the two stay separate.

She throws on her robe, goes into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot. Her hands are doing their own private dance, independent of the rest of her. She puts the unfilled pot down, jams the uncooperative appendages into the pockets of her robe.

This is too much—she has to do something, right this minute.

She dials the number on the card, gets his answering machine, which gives his pager number. She calls it.

In less than five minutes her telephone rings. She snatches it up, realizing that she’s been pacing the floor the entire time.

“Hello?” she says. Her hand is shaking, holding the phone.

“Do you know what time it is?” the man on the other end of the line asks her.

“I have to talk to you. Right away.” She doesn’t try to hide the panic in her voice—she wants him to hear it, to motivate him to get his ass over to her place, pronto.

He gets her intention, clearly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I need to see you.”

“I can be there in half an hour,” he promises.

She hasn’t fired her weapon in six months. She needs to clean it, go out to the range, fire off a box of shells. Otherwise it could jam up when she needs it. She gets it out of the closet anyway, checks to see that it’s loaded, sits waiting on the couch, the heavy automatic clutched tightly in both hands in her lap.

She knows he’s coming but she jumps anyway when the doorbell rings. On tiptoes she crosses to the door.

“Is that you?” she asks, not opening the door, even on the chain.

“Yes,” he answers reassuringly.

She stashes the gun in a drawer, takes the chain off the latch, unlocks the door. She doesn’t want him to see her holding a gun; she doesn’t want him to know she’s scared that badly.

Juan Herrera stands on the threshold, wearing sweats. He hasn’t shaved or showered, but he looks good, she can’t help but notice. Strong, supportive. What you look for in a man in these circumstances. He has a McDonald’s take-out bag in his hand.

“I assume you can use this,” he says, handing her a cardboard cup of coffee.

“Thanks.” She closes the door behind him, locks it.

Now that he’s arrived, the tension, which has been what’s holding her together, sags from her body like air slowly leaking from a balloon.

They sit on her couch, drinking coffee. In a voice that becomes calmer as the telling unwinds she recounts what happened to her the night before. He listens attentively, carefully, sipping his coffee, not interrupting or asking questions. Only when she tells him about their references to knowing how to get to her at any time, and about her daughters and the covert threat against them, does she start to lose it again.

He moves close to her, a reassuring arm going around her shoulders. She sags against him, feeling his warmth, his solid musculature.

“They’re not going to get at you from that direction,” he assures her. “They want you to leave things alone, not get more involved.”

“I know that, but I can’t help being scared about it.”

“I understand. And I want you to understand that that’s an emotional reaction, not a logical one.”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

“People like this don’t work out of emotion, unless it’s something personal, which I don’t think this is.”

“Okay, good. I knew that, but it’s good to hear it from somebody else.”

She had been a cop. She knows what he says is true. But it’s happening to her right now, and thinking straight isn’t as easy when it’s this up-close and personal.

“It’s scary, I mean they were talking about my kids,” she continues, and she starts to shake again, it’s the last thing she wants, but she can’t help it.

She begins to cry. She’s been holding it in all night.

His hand is on the back of her neck, gently caressing her, she moves to him, her mouth finds his.

Kissing him. That’s all she’s doing. Kissing him, and being held. It feels so good.

His hand is on her thigh under the robe. She parts her legs so he can find her. She’s wet, even before he touches her there.

He’s more direct than Cecil, more forceful. They don’t say a word: he leads her into her bedroom, takes off her clothes, sheds his own—he has nothing on under the sweats—lays her on the bed, enters her.

She’s all nerves and emotion. He is in control, bringing her off several times before spending himself.

Her fear sloughs like an old unneeded skin. She can make a pot of coffee now, standing in her kitchen with her robe wrapped around her, pouring two cups, taking his into the bedroom where he sits up in her bed, his hirsute pelt glistening with her perspiration.

She hands him his cup. “Would you mind getting dressed?” she asks him.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t step out on my marriage,” he tells her. “You’re the only one.”

They’re both dressed, back on the living-room couch, a safe, discreet space between them.

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” he says.

“You’re married, I need to work with you, I can think of lots of other reasons we should not sleep together.”

He states the obvious: “It was hanging over our heads like a rain cloud. This way …” he shrugs. “It was an excuse to not feel as guilty as we would have otherwise. I’m human, I wanted you.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t sleep with you again and ask you for help.”

“I don’t equate the two.”

“But I do.”

He nods slowly. “I came here to help you. I still will.”

“Whether or not we sleep together. Because …” She hesitates.

“What?”

“It’s not about your being married. I just said that, for an excuse.”

He looks at her with a puzzled expression.

“I’m seeing another man,” she explains. “I don’t know if anything’s going to come of it, but I don’t want anything getting in the way. I want to give it a chance,” she adds.

He nods, drinks some coffee. “Why didn’t you call
him
?” he asks.

“He can’t help me with this,” she admits candidly.

Herrera has commandeered a small conference room at the station. Mug-shot books are stacked on the table. Kate leafs through the books page by page, carefully looking at each picture.

“Here,” she says, pointing excitedly to a stark black-and-white photo. “This was one of them. One of the two I talked to in the house.”

He looks over her shoulder; frowns, but doesn’t comment. “Go on. See if you can find any of the others.” He inserts a Post-It to mark the place.

She pages through, more quickly.

“This is the other one,” she declares, pointing to a picture of the other man who was inside, the one who had been silent until he spoke up about her daughters. “This one sent chills down my spine.”

“Well.” He looks at the mug shot. He flips to the first picture, then back to the second.

“Was I right?” she asks. “To be scared?”

He sits on the edge of the table. “Being scared was the healthy thing to be. This is major bad news here,” he says, staring hard at her, to make sure she’s hearing him good. “They’re in the Mexican Mafia, both of them, big time. Hard-core offenders, nothing sissy about any of their convictions.” He points to the second man’s picture. “Rafael here, he’s a major offender. He just got out of Lompoc about six months ago. Assault with intent. He’s killed three men we’re sure of, but we could never stick him with those. The Feds have been trying to RICO him for years so they can bury him in a federal pen, although now, with the three-strikes law, anything the state can pin on him will put him down forever. Believe me, we’re hoping and praying.”

“That’s comforting,” she says, beginning to shiver again.

“The other man, Orestes Marrano, he’s no Sunday walk in the park, either.”

“Shit.”

“Yep, that’s right, shit. You’re in a pile of it. Jesus,” he wonders aloud, “what are these guys doing in this?”

“Maybe it was their deal,” she says.

“That’s an obvious possibility. One the department is going to have to look into.”

“I don’t want to get involved in any of that,” she interjects immediately, her kids’ faces flashing before her eyes. “If there’s repercussions it could make things even worse for me.”

“I’ll see to it you’re completely covered,” he assures her.

“How can you do that?” she asks, not assured at all.

“If I can’t, I’ll let it slide.”

She knows how hard that is, for a cop not to pursue something he knows is dirty. “I appreciate that. I really do.”

“I don’t have a choice,” he answers. “Not after earlier.”

“I wish things were different for us, too.”

“They’re not. It’s okay.”

“What should I do in the meantime?” she asks. “What would you do?”

“I can’t tell you what to do with your life,” he says, “much as I’d like to. But if it were me, I’d be watching my ass. Day and night.”

“What about my client? I’ve got her to think about, too.”

“I don’t know about her. I don’t much care, either.” He takes her hand, a protective gesture. “You’re important to me, Kate. So when I tell you these men are not to be fucked with, at any cost, I mean exactly that.”

“That’s good advice,” Carl tells her. “Your friend the cop sounds like he’s got a brain in his head.”

They’re sitting outside again, in the same spot. This time she has his undivided attention, at least for the moment.

“What would you do?” she asks him. “If this was your case?”

“Are you going to ask the same questions to everyone you know until you get the answer you want to hear?”

“Sorry I bothered you,” she flares, standing up.

“Sit down, goddamnit!” He grabs her wrist, hard. “Don’t treat me like this.”

She drops back into her chair. “Sorry.”

He lets go. She rubs the wrist. It’s sore, he’s got a grip like iron on him.

“If this was my case …” He peters out, his mind drifting. He’s getting old, she realizes with a shudder. Wearing out.

“What?” she asks impatiently. It’s the game he plays, to keep her staying longer; normally she doesn’t mind, but her nerves are frayed down to the last strand, she needs an answer.