Mystery (26 page)

“That’s why it’s called a gene pool,” I said. “We dive in, never know what’s going to surface.”

She studied me. “I like your way with words. Words are my thing, I teach English. This is going to be a nightmare, but we’ll pull through, right? One way or the other.”

“We’ll do our best. Is there anything you want to tell me about Chad?”

“Actually …” She thumbed her lower lip. “This time he’s being a little standoffish. Almost like … I think I know the problem. Gretchen asked me to tell him she was going to die, she couldn’t bear dealing with it. So I did. After reading a couple of books. At his age, they said, he’d be concerned with separation from Gretchen. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d never see her again, so I just used the word. Death, I mean. He seemed to get it. Was that wrong?”

“How’d he react?”

“He didn’t react at all. Just stared at me as if I was talking in tongues.”

“You got through,” I said. “He told me.”

“Does he hate me? Killing the messenger?”

“Not at all.”

“He seems to be shutting me out.”

“Maybe he needs to concentrate on his mother.”

“Yes. Of course, I’m thinking like—I’m being self-centered. I guess I’m just concerned about laying a good foundation now, so when the time comes …”

“It’ll work itself out.”

“I suppose it will. In the end,” she said. Shuddering. “What a repulsively profound word.”

A harsh “Hey!” drew our attention to the condo door.

Gretchen, hooked up to her portable oxygen tank and bracing herself against the doorpost, flipped a flamboyant bird and shot a rotten-toothed grin.

“Hey, you two! Cut the chitchat, this is all about
me
!”

Bunny tried to support Gretchen but Gretchen shook her off. “I’m not a cripple, go stay with Chad, he’s waking up, you know how slow he does that. If he wants milk or juice give it to him, but no fucking soda.”

Bunny complied.

Gretchen laughed. “She’s older but I could always push her around.”

“How’s Chad doing?”

“What if I want to talk about that instead of him? Manipulating Bunny. What if that’s what’s floating my boat today?”

“Talk about whatever you want until Chad’s up.”

“Ooh,” she crooned. “Tough guy. So tell me, did Sturgis appreciate my
ahem ahem
anonymous tip?” A phony throat clear led to coughing, then to the real thing, then a series of nasty-sounding barks topped by a paroxysm that doubled her over.

When she finally was able to breathe smoothly, she wagged a finger. “Poor cancer patient nearly asphyxiates and you just stand there?”

“Last I heard you weren’t a cripple.”

“Oh, man, you are—you must be hell in a relationship. Got a wife?”

“How’s Chad doing?”

“Shine me on? Sure, why the hell not, I’ll be dead and you’ll be watching
Jeopardy!
or whatever you brainy types like.”

I waited.

She said, “Chad’s fine. Did you tell Sturgis the tip came from me?”

“Has Chad—”

“Blah
-blah
, blah
-blah
, blah
-blah
.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. Pressing down, but diminished strength made it feel like a butterfly alighting between nectar gulps. “First the website, then Stefan. So what do you think, should I give him even more?”

“Up to you.”

“Like you don’t give a shit.”

“Let’s talk about Chad.”

The hand on my shoulder clawed. Oversized, predatory moth digging in for takeoff. “Tell Sturgis little Ms. Mystery was no mystery back when she was turning tricks. Tell him she used to be just plain Tiara from the trailer park, had no clue how to dress, how to talk, how to walk. How to give a decent blow job. Tell him to feel free to call me for more and guess what? If he does, I’ll say fuck off, fatso. Because I’m not dancing to that rude fag’s beat. He could’ve treated me like a human being, instead he treated me like shit.”

The hand took flight. She stabbed air. “Lady G does not forget.”

I scoured my memory for something I’d missed about the meeting between her and Milo. Nothing.

People with personality disorders bruise easily.

For all the comic flaunting, it really
was
about her her her.

Tough way to live but I couldn’t help wondering if it might be a good way to die.

Defying the mortality odds because she was fueled by rage and high-octane egotism.

I said, “When you’re ready, we’ll talk about Chad.”

Her teeth drew back in a brown, fetid snarl. “You’re starting to really piss me off.”

She moved forward quickly. Kissed me hard, on the lips. Bruising me with the oxygen tube. Assaulting my nose with the reek of disease.

Pulling away, she took my arm and sang out, “Let’s have a nice civilized chat, God knows we could both use one.”

She sank into a chair with obvious pain, coughed some more, held out a protective palm when I approached her. “Leave me alone. Fine.” Gasp.

A few minutes later: “I should be nice to you. One session with Chad and he’s better.”

“Better …”

“Sleeping through the night.” Her chest heaved. She adjusted the oxygen. “Cuddly. I love when he’s cuddly. It’s like nothing’s wrong and we’re the way we used to be. Come here. Please.”

I sat down next to her.

“Closer. I promise I won’t bite.”

I shifted nearer. She took my hand. Kissed my knuckles. “Sorry for the other one. Kiss. That was gross.” Massaging my fingers. “This is a nice one. This is how I
really
feel: You’re a lovely man.”

She began to cry, reversed it abruptly when Chad bounced in announcing, “I’m thirsty, Aunt Bunny says I can have choco-milk if you say so.”

“Sure,” said Gretchen, grinning. “Look who came to visit.”

Chad’s eyes shifted to me.

“Say hello to Dr. Delaware, angel.”

“Kin I have choco-milk?”

“I said sure. Don’t you want to say hi to Dr. Delaware?”

Shrug.

Bunny Rodriguez came in. “I told him what you—”

“Chocolate milk’s milk so it’s healthy, go pour.”

Bunny trudged to the kitchen, filled a four-ounce glass. The boy drained it. “More.”

Bunny said, “Gretch?”

“Whatever.”

Glass number two disappeared just as quickly. So did three. Milo-in-training.

I walked over to Chad. “Feel like drawing again?”

“Guess.”

“Or we can do something else.”

“Draw.”

Gretchen said, “Have something healthy, too, on top of the chocolate milk. Everyone needs to be healthy.”

“No.”

“Whatever, angel.”

In his room, Chad said, “Mommy wakes up all the time. She’s wet.”

“Wet on her face?”

“All over. Her jammas.”

“She’s sweating.”

“I guess.”

“Know what sweat is?”

“It comes out of your body when you’re hot.”

“Exactly. Do you ever sweat?”

“When it’s hot.” Flicking the corner of a drawing pad. “She does it when it’s cold.”

“Even if it’s not cold, she may feel cold.”

“Why?”

“That happens sometimes when people are sick.”

“Her skin,” he said. “Then she coughs and I hug her. She like bounces.”

“From coughing.”

“I hug her.”

“You want to take care of her.”

He thought about that. “I don’t want her to fall.”

“Off the bed?”

“Anywhere.”

“That would be scary.”

“It would hurt.”

“Like falling on the floor.”

“I did it once,” he said. “It hurt. Mommy kept sleeping. I put myself back in the bed.”

“You’re good at taking care of yourself.”

“Let’s draw, I’m gonna win.”

Six bouts of frantic, page-ripping black circles later: “Mommy’s not gonna die.”

I said nothing.

He said, “That’s what I think.”

t took a couple of days but Darrell Two Moons came through.

The P.O.B. Tiara Grundy listed as her New Mexico address had been housed in a now defunct stationery store. Grundy had been arrested three times in Santa Fe, twice at eighteen, once at twenty. Misdemeanor possession of marijuana, two public intoxications. All charges dismissed, not an hour of jail time served.

I said, “Maybe another rehab candidate.”

Milo said, “Possibly, but the drunk busts could be less than they seem. Darrell says back then they were doing regular sweeps of the Plaza, basically vacuuming up kids because merchants were complaining about a bad atmosphere. So just hanging out could get you swept up and seeing as she never got arrested again, that might’ve been it.”

“Maybe she left Santa Fe and got in trouble elsewhere.”

“Listen to the pessimist. You don’t believe in personal redemption?”

“I do but she worked as a prostitute here in L.A. before she went cyber.”

He turned to me. “You know that because …”

“I’d check out people who were running high-priced call girls five to ten years ago.”

He wheeled back his chair. “You would, huh.”

I said, “It might also lead you to Muhrmann. He seems like the kind who’d hire out as muscle to a pimp.”

“A pimp who has to hire out muscle because of a lack of testosterone?” he said. “Maybe someone like Gretchen Stengel? Now that I think about it, she used to hire bodybuilders.”

“Like Gretchen, but I wouldn’t waste time with her.”

He pushed back some more, hit a wastebasket. As the receptacle spun and pinged the vinyl floor, he watched me.

I watched back.

“Okay,” he said, “what other bush do you want to beat around?”

“We can discuss the secret of eternal happiness.”

He laughed. I did the same but there wasn’t much joy in the air.

Tenting his hands, he studied a crack in the ceiling. “I’m thinking this connects to your mysterious appointment yesterday.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m thinking it could also connect to that tip about SukRose.”

I pretended to brush a crumb from my sleeve.

“Gotcha! There’s a reason they pay me the big bucks.” Gripping his desk, he drew himself back, ending up so tight against the rim that his gut overlapped. “You want me to go pimp hunting, I will defer to your superior judgment. Even though Vice has never heard of Tiara Grundy or Tara Sly or anyone calling herself Mystery. But first, I’m following a juicy lead of my own.”

Flipping the murder book open, he drew out a photocopied mug shot.

“Meet Maude Grundy aka Momsy.”

Maude Stella Grundy had been twenty-five at the time of her arrest, looked nearly twice that.

A New Mexico penal code I didn’t know.

Dark, stringy hair framed a thin but flabby face. Sunken cheeks and puffy addict eyes said her life had been ravaged by bad decisions. But lurking behind all that was the delicate bone structure and symmetry of a woman born pretty, and if I looked hard enough I could see Tiara’s lineage.

Or maybe I was looking too hard.

Maude Grundy’s birth date made her fifteen years older than Tiara.

I said, “She could be an older sister.”

“Could be but isn’t. Darrell found Tiara’s birth certificate. St. Vincent hospital, the main one in Santa Fe. Daddy unknown, Mommy the minor known as. Recommendations were made for adoption but it never happened. Nothing like pedigree, huh? On all Maude’s arrest forms, she listed an address in Española, which is a working-class town thirty miles out of Santa Fe. Darrell traced and it used to be a trailer park, is now a Walmart. Tiara may have avoided conviction but Maude wasn’t so lucky, has a whole bunch, some jail time, but no prison. Check kiting, dope, shoplifting, and, big shock, getting picked up on streetwalker stings.”

He took the paper back and stood.

I said, “Where to?”

“Hey, I’ve got secrets of my own.”

“Oh, boy.”

He slapped my back. “Nah, I’m lying. No confidentiality in my business. I learn nasty secrets, someone’s life changes big-time. C’mon, let’s go mommy hunting.”

One long stride propelled him out of the tiny office. He whistled his way up the hall.

“Maude lives in L.A.?”

“Pico near Hoover. No driver’s license but last year she got pulled in for shoplifting downtown. Trying to boost crapola from one of those stalls the Central Americans set up in the old theaters on Broadway. She pled to petty-t, got a thirty-day at County, was out in ten due to overcrowding. I couldn’t find any landline or cellular account and she doesn’t pay taxes, but I might as well give it a try. No matter what she is, she deserves to know.”