When the Bough Breaks (25 page)

As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman’s face.

“She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long and the children could get difficult.”

“Any particular children?”

A whispered conference.

“No child in particular. The señora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties.”

I wondered to myself if there’d been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl’s choice of specialty.

“Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?”

Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.

“She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy,” Raquel translated.

“Nothing else?”

“It would be rude to pursue it, Alex.”

“Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?”

“No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute.” She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. “This wasn’t always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud.”

I prepared myself for more tears, but there were none. The grieving mother looked at me with a cold, dark expression of challenge. I dare you, she was saying, to besmirch the memory of my little girl.

I looked away.

“Do you think I can ask her about Handler now?”

Before Raquel could answer, Mrs. Gutierrez spit. She gesticulated with both hands, raised her voice and uttered what had to be a string of curses. She ended the diatribe by spitting again.

“Need I translate?” asked Raquel.

“Don’t bother.” I made a mental search for a new line of questioning. Normally, my approach would have been to start off with small talk, casual banter, and subtly switch to direct questions. I was dissatisfied with the crude way I was handling this interview, but working with a translator was like doing surgery wearing garden gloves.

“Ask her if there is anything else she can tell me that might help us find the man who—you phrase it.”

The old woman listened and answered vehemently.

“She says there is nothing. That the world has become a crazy place, full of demons. That a demon must have done this to Elena.”

“Muchas gracias, señora
. Ask her if I might have a look at Elena’s personal effects.”

Raquel asked her and the mother deliberated. She looked me over from head to toe, sighed, and got up.

“Venga,”
she said, and led me to the rear of the house.

The flotsam and jetsam of Elena Gutierrez’s twenty-eight years had been stored in cardboard boxes and stuck in a corner of what passed, in the tiny house, as a service porch. There was a windowed door with a view of the backyard. An apricot tree grew there, gnarled and deformed, spreading its fruit-laden branches across the rotting roof of a single car garage.

Across the hall was a small bedroom with two beds, the domicile of the brothers. From where I knelt I could see a maple dresser and shelves constructed of unfinished planks resting on cinder blocks. The shelves held a cheap stereo and a modest record collection. A carton of Marlboros and a pile of paperbacks shared the top of the dresser. One of the beds was neatly made, the other a jumble of tangled sheets. Between them was a single pine end table holding a lamp with a plastic base, an ashtray, and a copy of a Spanish girlie magazine.

Feeling like a Peeping Tom, I pulled the first box close and began my excursion in pop archaeology.

By the time I’d gone through three boxes I’d succumbed to an indigo mood. My hands were filthy with dust, my mind filled with images of the dead girl. There’d been nothing of substance, just the broken shards that surface at any prolonged dig. Clothing smelling of girl, half-empty bottles of cosmetics—reminders that someone had once tried to make her eyelashes look thick and lush, to give her hair that Clairol shine, to cover her blemishes and gloss her lips and smell good in all the right places. Scraps of paper with reminders to pick up eggs at Vons and wine at Vendôme and other cryptograms, laundry receipts, gasoline credit-card stubs, books—lots of them, mostly biographies and poetry, souvenirs—a miniature ukulele from Hawaii, an ashtray from a hotel in Palm Springs, ski boots, an almost-full disc of birth control pills, old lesson plans, memos from the principal, children’s drawings—none by a boy named Nemeth.

It was too much like graverobbing for my taste. I understood, more than ever, why Milo drank too much.

There were two boxes to go. I went at them, working faster, and was almost done when the roar of a motorcycle filled the air, then died. The back door opened, footsteps sounded in the foyer.

“What the fuck—”

He was nineteen or twenty, short and powerfully built, wearing a sweat-soaked brown tank top that showed every muscle, grease-stained khaki pants and work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he’d tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant. It dropped over his lips and glistened like sable
fur. The beard was a skimpy triangle of down on his chin. He looked like a kid playing Pancho Villa in the school play.

There was a ring of keys hanging from his belt and the keys jingled when he came toward me. His hands were balled up into grimy fists and he smelled of motor oil.

I showed him my L.A.P.D. badge. He swore, but stopped.

“Listen man, you guys were here last week. We told you we had nothin’—” He stopped and looked down at the contents of the cardboard box strewn on the floor. “Shit, you went through all that stuff already. I just packed it up, man, gettin’ it ready for the Goodwill.”

“Just a recheck,” I said amiably.

“Yeah, man, why don’t you dudes learn to get it right in the first fuckin’ place, okay?”

“I’ll be through in a moment.”

“You’re through now, man. Out.”

I stood.

“Give me a few minutes to wrap it up.”

“Out, man.” He crooked his thumb toward the back door.

“I’m trying to investigate the death of your sister, Andy. It wouldn’t hurt you to cooperate.”

He took a step closer. There were grease smudges on his forehead, and under his eyes.

“Don’t ‘Andy’ me, dude. This is my place and it’s
Mr
. Gutierrez. And don’t give me that shit about investigating. You guys aren’t never gonna catch the dude who did it to Elena ‘cause you don’t really give a fuck. Come bustin’ into a home and going through personal stuff and treatin’ us like peasants, man. You go out on the street and find the dude, man. This was Beverly Hills, he’d already ‘a’ been caught, he do this to some rich guy’s daughter.”

His voice broke and he shut up to hide it.

“Mr. Gutierrez,” I said softly, “cooperation from family can be very helpful in these—”

“Hey, man, I told you, this family don’t know nothing about this. You think we know what kind of crazy asshole do something like that? You think people around here act like that, man?”

He squinted at my badge, reading it with effort, moving his lips. He mouthed the word ‘consultant’ a couple of times before getting it.

“Aw, man, I don’t believe it. You’re not even a real cop. Fucking consultant, they send around here. What’s Ph.D., man?”

“Doctorate in psychology.”

“You a shrink, man—fuckin’ headshrinker they send aroun’ here, think someone’s crazy here! You think someone in this family is crazy, man? Do you?”

He was breathing on me now. His eyes were soft and brown, long-lashed and dreamy as a girl’s. Eyes like that could make you doubt yourself, could lead a guy to get into some heavy macho posturing.

I thought the family had plenty of problems but I didn’t answer his question.

“What the fuck you doin’ here, psychin’ us out, man?”

He sprayed me with spittle as he spoke. A balloon of anger expanded in my gut. Automatically my body assumed a defensive karate stance.

“It’s not like that, I can explain. Or are you determined to be pigheaded?”

I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.

“Pig—goddammit man, you’re the pig!” His voice rose an octave and he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

I was ready but I didn’t move. He’s in mourning, I kept telling myself. He’s not responsible.

I met his gaze and he backed off. Both of us would have welcomed an excuse to duke it out. So much for civilization.

“Get out, man. Now!”

“Antonio!”

Mrs. Gutierrez had come into the hallway. Raquel was visible behind her. Seeing her I felt suddenly ashamed. I’d done a great job of screwing up a sensitive situation. The brilliant psychologist …

“Mom, did you let this dude in?”

Mrs. Gutierrez apologized to me with her eyes and spoke to her son in Spanish. He seemed to wilt under mama’s wagging finger and dark looks.

“Mom, I told you before, they don’t give a—” He stopped, continued in Spanish. It sounded like he was defending himself, the machismo slowly rendered impotent.

They went back and forth for a while. Then he started in on Raquel. She gave it right back to him: “The man is trying to help you, Andy. Why don’t you help him instead of chasing him away?”

“I don’t need nobody’s help. We’re gonna take care of ourselves the way we always did.”

She sighed.

“Shit!” He went into his room, came out with a pack of Marlboros and made a big deal out of lighting one and jamming it into his mouth. He disappeared, momentarily, behind a blue cloud, then the eyes flashed once again, moving from me to his mother, to Raquel, and back to me. He pulled his key ring from his belt and held the keys sandwiched between his fingers, impromptu brass knuckles.

“I’m leaving now, dude. But when I get back you fucking well better be gone.”

He kicked the door open and jogged out. We heard the thunder of the motorcycle starting and the diminishing scream of the machine as it sped away.

Mrs. Gutierrez hung her head and said something to Raquel.

“She asks your forgiveness for Andy’s rudeness. He’s been very upset since Elena’s death. He’s working two jobs and under a lot of pressure.”

I held a hand up to stop the apology.

“There’s no need to explain. I only hope I haven’t caused the señora needless troubles.”

Translation was superfluous. The look on the mother’s face was eloquent.

I rummaged through the last two boxes with little enthusiasm and came up with no new insights. The sour taste of the confrontation with Andy lingered. I experienced the kind of shame you feel upon digging too deep, seeing and hearing more than you need or want to. Like a child walking in on his parents lovemaking or a hiker kicking aside a rock only to catch a glimpse of something slimy on the underside.

I’d seen families like the Gutierrezes’ before; I’d known scores of Rafaels and Andys. It was a pattern: the slob and the superkid, playing out their roles with depressing predictability. One unable to cope, the other trying to take charge of everything. The slob, getting others to take care of him, shirking his responsibilities, coasting through life but feeling like—a slob. The superkid, competent, compulsive, working two jobs, even three when the situation called for it, making up for the slob’s lack of accomplishment, earning the admiration of the family, refusing to stoop under the weight of his burden, keeping his rage under wraps—but not always.

I wondered what role Elena had played when she was alive. Had she been the peacemaker, the go-between? Getting caught in the crossfire between slob and superkid could be hazardous to one’s health.

I repacked her things as neatly as I could.

When we stepped onto the porch Rafael was still stuporous. The sound of the Seville starting up jolted him awake, and he blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a bad dream, stood with effort, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He looked in our direction, puzzled. Raquel turned away from him, a tourist avoiding a leprous beggar. As I pulled away I saw a spark of recognition brighten his doped-up countenance, then more bewilderment.

The approaching darkness had dimmed the activity level on Sunset but there was still plenty of life on the streets. Car horns honked, raucous laughter rose above the exhaust fumes and mariachi music blared from the open doors of the bars. Traces of neon appeared and lights flickered in the foothills.

“I really blew it,” I said.

“No, you can’t blame yourself.” In the mood she was in, boosting me took effort. I appreciated that effort and told her so.

“I mean it, Alex. You were very sensitive with Cruz—I can see why you were a successful psychologist. She liked you.”

“It obviously doesn’t run in the family.”

She was silent for a few blocks.

“Andy’s a nice boy—he never joined the gangs, took lots of punishment because of it. He expects a lot out of himself. Everything’s on his shoulders, now.”

“With all that weight why add a two-ton chip?”

“You’re right. He makes more problems for himself—don’t we all? He’s only eighteen. Maybe he’ll grow up.”

“I keep wondering if there was some way I could have handled it better.” I recounted the details of my exchange with the boy.

“The pigheaded crack didn’t help things, but it didn’t make a difference. He came in ready to fight. When Latin men get that way there’s little you can do. Add alcohol to that and you can see why we pack the emergency rooms with knifing victims every Saturday night.”

I thought of Elena Gutierrez and Morton Handler. They’d never made it to the emergency room. I allowed myself a short ride on that train of thought then skidded to a stop and dumped the thoughts in a dark depot somewhere in the south of my subconscious.