Bad Country: A Novel (35 page)

Rodeo continued as if the woman had not spoken.

You obviously didn’t care about Samuel. You thought your grandson was a piece of trash. And I’m not sure anybody cared about the kid but one man.

You don’t know anything! You’re an idiot. Just like your mother. And no account. Just like your father.

You know Ronald Rocha, Mrs. Rocha?

He’s crazy! She spat the word. That man is Corruption!

I wouldn’t argue with you on either count about that estimation, said Rodeo. He waited a few seconds before continuing. But Ronald did love Samuel. And he still does. He grieves for the boy when no one else does.

You don’t know anything … The old woman’s voice was now very weak.

And Ronald, more than anything in the world, wants to know who is responsible for Samuel’s death, said Rodeo.

You know who! The old woman practically yelled this. You found out, didn’t you? She was his child and so Carlos did it out of revenge! It’s over. The police just got Carlos Monjano. No thanks to you.

No, Mrs. Rocha. Rodeo spoke quietly. The police have in custody the man who shot Samuel and caused his death. Though you’d have no way to know that but unless you just guessed it.

The old woman said nothing.

But Carlos Monjano, Farrah’s biological father, is not the one
most responsible
for Samuel Rocha’s death. You are.

The woman sat still like a stone. Rodeo waited, but Katherine Rocha did not move, seemed scarcely to breathe. He continued.

You and Samuel had an arrangement, Mrs. Rocha. Your grandson was supposed to pick you up from the Casino after you had spent the afternoon playing slots and getting drunk. He would walk all the way out there and then drive you home.

He was worthless. She whispered this as if she did not want to be heard.

You called Samuel that late afternoon or early evening in May, May the third, but he didn’t answer. He was at a party and he didn’t answer your call. He stayed at the party and there are plenty of witnesses to that. Maybe you waited but then you got impatient. You should have just called a taxi or gotten a ride from someone else but you were too cheap to do that and I doubt you have a friend in the world. So you just drove yourself home that night, even drunk as you were.

The woman sat, stared at her hands on the table.

You ran over Farrah, Rodeo said. You didn’t mean to of course but you did. She was probably walking the couple of blocks to your house, her abuela’s house where she knew she would be doted on because she was the favored child. Maybe her parents were drunk at home or out partying and not paying any attention to her. Neighbors said the kids play outside in this neighborhood at night, in the dark. Or maybe for some reason you just turned left on Mark Street toward your son’s house instead of turning right toward your own house. You were drunk and confused. And Farrah was playing in the street as she often did and you hit her with your car.

The old woman remained frozen.

And you knew you did this, Mrs. Rocha, said Rodeo. You knew you had run over her as soon as you did it, didn’t you? But you didn’t want to take responsibility for that so you didn’t even stop. You just drove back to your house. Nobody much in that neighborhood notices anything anyway and you know that. And you tried to forget it, what you’d done. Because somehow in your mind it wasn’t your fault, was it? It was not your fault because nothing bad that’s ever happened to you in your whole life has ever been your fault.

The woman said nothing.

I don’t know how you hid the car from the police. I don’t know why they didn’t question you more thoroughly, said Rodeo. The man in charge of the investigation was just not doing his job properly. That detective from Tucson Police assigned to Farrah’s death was just not doing his job. And you’re just an old woman no one would suspect. So you got away with it.

Rodeo waited, but his scenario earned no reaction from the old woman at all.

The next day you told Samuel to drive your car somewhere, not in Tucson, and get it fixed, maybe even before the police had arrived. You didn’t tell him what had happened, you just sent him on this errand for you. Samuel knew of a shop in Bisbee maybe because Carlos Monjano had talked about this place to Samuel’s father, Alonzo, or someone local around here. Or maybe it was just bad luck for Samuel to wind up at C-23 Auto Body where Carlos Monjano was known to frequent.

The old woman still did not move.

You have lots of cash on hand so you gave Samuel some cash and told him to clean the car up and get the damage to your car repaired, even if it was slight, and then to destroy the receipt once the work was done. But Samuel knew what had really happened. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out just by the circumstances and your nervousness about the deal. So he didn’t destroy the receipt. I don’t know why he kept it. Maybe he would use it against you later for blackmail or maybe he was going to give it to the police or maybe it was just a memento. Maybe he just forgot about it. But for whatever reason he kept it and that receipt was the clue that led me to Carlos Monjano. Rodeo wiped his face. Samuel probably died with that receipt in his pocket. And he had not told anyone about what had happened. But I’m sure he had figured out who was responsible for his sister’s death. You.

The old woman shook her head.

His half sister, she said. She was just his half sister. The old woman’s voice was scarcely audible.

Rodeo waited but Katherine Rocha said no more.

Your hit-and-run was not discovered but Carlos Monjano started snooping around, looking for the person who had killed his biological child, Farrah. He told me he knew you and he was always around you and Alonzo’s family, taking Farrah to Little Miss Pageants, playing his godfather role. So in passing one day you might have even hinted to him that it was Samuel who was driving around in your car that night, that Samuel might have been driving over that night to see his parents a few blocks from your own house. That’s what you did, isn’t it?

The woman did not deny or confirm anything.

So Carlos Monjano killed Samuel because he thought that Samuel had run over Farrah. Monjano shot Samuel in a drive-by just based on this idea that you put in his brain and without any real evidence. Rodeo closed and opened his eyes slowly, but the old woman remained still as a statue in front of him.

I don’t know what your motivations in all this are, Mrs. Rocha, Rodeo said. Maybe you did this because you knew Carlos Monjano and knew how mean he was and knew he was seeking revenge, so once Carlos Monjano had put the blame on Samuel then you felt somehow like you would be in the clear for what you’d done. The cops didn’t care about the hit-and-run, the cops didn’t care about the drive-by. So once Carlos Monjano was satisfied he had identified his child’s killer then you were safe. You probably didn’t think he would kill Samuel but I’m not sure you cared that much.

The old woman began to rub her knotted and mottled hands together as if she were washing them.

But it’s been gnawing at you, hadn’t it, Mrs. Rocha? The guilt has gotten to you, hasn’t it?

The woman bowed her head.

Or else you just couldn’t rest easy thinking someone would find out what you did? asked Rodeo. And that’s why you hired me. Just to put your mind completely at rest. Because if a private investigator could not connect you to your granddaughter’s hit-and-run then you were really home free. You just had to know if you were ever going to be a suspect. It was gnawing at you that you might be. Not knowing was driving you crazy.

The old woman’s breathing became labored.

Or else you really did want someone to know about what you did, Rodeo said. You wanted at least one person in the world to know what you did. You couldn’t tell anyone else because you had no one else—no priest, no friend or family to confess to. So you hired me to be your confessor.

You’re stupid, the old woman said. You are just guessing at things you don’t know about.

That may be, Mrs. Rocha. But I figured out your crime and I think Samuel had figured it out too and whether you felt guilt or not, he did. He was racked with guilt about his little sister’s death, Rodeo said. Maybe he was guilty because he didn’t come to pick you up when you were drunk at the Casino. Or maybe he was guilty because he knew what had happened but couldn’t or wouldn’t tell anybody. Maybe he was just a guilty kid in general. I didn’t know Samuel. But the boy kept your secret, Mrs. Rocha. I don’t know why Samuel didn’t rat you out, but he didn’t. He died with your secret.

I didn’t do anything, the old woman said.

Carlos Monjano killed the wrong person, Rodeo said. He should have killed you, Mrs. Rocha.

You’re stupid trash. The old woman’s voice was weak but she looked directly at Rodeo until he looked away. And a thief. Just like your mother.

Rodeo pushed himself away from the wall. I came here today to let you know that your deeds are coming back on you, Mrs. Rocha. Because now Samuel’s only friend in the world, Ronald Rocha, knows your part in this, in Samuel’s killing. And you know Ronald Rocha, so you know how he is. Rodeo’s legs began to shake slightly. Ronald Rocha means to avenge his Sammy’s death and kill the person most responsible for that boy’s death, said Rodeo. And that person is you, Mrs. Rocha.

He doesn’t know anything, she said. You’re lying.

Rodeo did not confirm or deny this.

How does he know? the old woman asked.

He knows because I told him.

*   *   *

Rodeo steered his beat-up old truck down a long, winding gravel driveway and parked behind a Hummer in front of the Southwestern-style McMansion in the northern Foothills area of Tucson that his GPS had led him to. The house door opened before he could ring the bell and Sisely Miller stood in the doorway with little twin boys clinging to her tailored pants legs. Rodeo exited the truck and started toward the house, staring at the children. It was impossible to tell who they looked like since both children had Down’s syndrome. She pushed them away from her, back through the open door where the nanny swept them away.

You said on the phone you found it, Sisely Miller said. The woman was flushed and seemed tightly wound. You found what I was looking for?

I have the hard copy of your brother’s memoir, Mrs. Miller. I think
Running in the Dark
is what you don’t want people to read.

Sisely Miller squinted at Rodeo and crossed her arms. She didn’t say anything for several long seconds.

Where is it then?

It’s safe.

Safe? The woman now glared at Rodeo. Are you extorting me?

No ma’am, Rodeo said. It’s just that I incurred some equipment losses and personal injuries during the investigation so my charges are somewhat over just my day rate and regular expenses.

The woman tilted her head like a bird ready for flight or fight.

How much more do you want?

Three thousand, Rodeo said.

Three thousand! The relief was evident on the woman’s face. She uncrossed her arms and laughed at Rodeo. When she put her hand politely over her mouth the ring on her finger refracted light on his face. Forgive me, Mr. Garnet. I forgot what sort of socioeconomic level you are in.

Rodeo blushed.

I have three thousand in my purse upstairs. She turned toward the house and spoke over her shoulder. I assume you’d prefer cash, wouldn’t you?

I assume you would too, Mrs. Miller.

The woman disappeared into the house. Rodeo leaned against his truck for ten minutes until Randy Miller strode through the open front door of the small mansion and down the marble stairs, extending his hand before he even reached the bottom.

Randy Miller appeared to be in his late fifties, fat in the body but with tight neck and face skin, a sprayed-on tan and dyed hair that was almost maroon.

Randy Miller, the man said. My friends call me Judge Junior.

Rodeo Grace Garnet, sir. Rodeo sniffed orange blossom aftershave and cigarette smoke.

Pleasure, friend. The politician gripped Rodeo’s hand in a hard vice. Rodeo flinched but Miller did not let go of Rodeo’s hand as he surveyed Rodeo’s face. My Sissy said you incurred some losses and personal injuries during your investigation for her. Did I get that right?

Yessir. A Colt .357, a pair of Leica binoculars, a custom Schrade knife and my backpack. Rodeo named the objects lost by Ronald Rocha. Plus some face and tooth damage.

Randy Miller shook his head as he let go of Rodeo’s hand.

All that to find what? Randy Miller asked.

That’d be for your wife to tell you, Mr. Miller.

I’m asking you to tell me. The judge’s voice was polite but steely.

Rodeo shook his head.

The way it works in my business, Mr. Miller, is that I make a deal with a specific person and then I report to that person. That’s why they call them “private” investigations.

The judge assessed Rodeo for a long moment.

In my experience, the way it works out is that weak people desire the power and the money of the strong people, said Judge Miller. Just as you are doing now, friend. The judge tilted his head and looked directly into Rodeo’s blackened brown eyes. The strong thrive in the Foothills while the weak live in the barrios and shacks out in the middle of the desert. And that’s the way the world works around here, isn’t it, friend?

Mostly it is, said Rodeo.

Well, now that the assumptions of our mutually shared paradigm are established, where exactly is this thing you have recovered that my Sissy is so worried about?

In the truck. But it goes to Mrs. Miller.

Randy Miller jerked his head toward the door of his big house and Sisely Miller appeared there. She looked crestfallen, even smaller than a size zero, fearful. When Rodeo lifted an eyebrow and inclined his hat toward her she nodded her permission at him then folded her arms across her chest again and backed into the shadows of her home.

Rodeo unlocked the various locks on the strongbox in the bed of his truck and then extracted the manuscript and handed it to Randy Miller, who looked at it cursorily and nodded.

This is it? This is what all the fuss is about?