No Accident (19 page)

It wasn’t Beto.

“Damn it!”

Crash brought a fist down onto the table. He wanted to throttle the smirking young man in the booth, Beto’s decoy. But he wouldn’t. He would control his anger, just like Luke had taught him—
you don’t suppress your anger, you just save it up for when you really need it
. Crash ran back to his car, gunned the engine and raced toward the on-ramp of a freeway that would take him back to where the real Beto had left long ago.

Beto’s requests were conventional but heartfelt
—money and shelter. The poor man was terrified of this Crash person, and couldn’t safely return to the apartment where he had been staying. After a friend of Beto’s drove away in Beto’s car to mislead Crash, Alex and Del drove Beto across town and dropped him at a friend’s place.

What Beto offered was evidence that Luke had been behind the accident.

For that, Alex decided he could oblige Beto with a house, temporarily. It was Del’s idea, actually, to let Beto stay in Alex’s vacant house. Del was pretty sharp sometimes.

Beto also wanted fifty thousand dollars. To Alex, it might as well have been fifty million.

“You’re going to have to go back to Sheila,” Del said after they dropped Beto off.

“The woman who lied to me? No way.”

“It’s worse than that. You’re going to have to butter her up.”

Del was right, of course. Alex was relieved that Del mentioned calling her. So now he had a reason to call her, and it would be all business. Fine. When they got back to Alex’s house, that’s what he did.

“Alex,” she said. “I’d been hoping to hear from you.”

Sure you have
, Alex thought. “I found Beto.”

“Beto?”

Alex couldn’t stand her playing him for a fool. He ignored her question. “Beto confirmed there was a scam, he has evidence of who’s behind it, and he wants to sell it. Pretty great, huh? I wanted to share the exciting news.” Del was sitting across from Alex in Alex’s living room, and he looked earnestly at Alex and made a motion with his hands like he was spreading butter on toast.
Butter her up
. Alex forced himself to calm down.

“I see,” Sheila said. “Well, what is he offering and how much does he want?”

Sheila’s tone was all business, like the first time they spoke, with no hint of chagrin at having lied to Alex. Alex gave her points for audacity. “Beto says he has a piece of paper from Luke—Luke or someone named Crash, he was never quite clear, I don’t think he knows. He says if the trail leads to Crash, it’ll also lead to Luke. Does that sound right to you?”

“Probably.”

“I knew you’d know. Anyway, a piece of paper with the license plate number of the van and the date of the accident written on it by Luke or Crash. It supposedly has fingerprints from one of them on it.”

“Is that so
 . . .”

“That’s what Jorge Ramirez told Beto. Jorge was handed the paper when he was given his instructions on what van to use.”

“How did Beto get this slip of paper?”

“Says he stole it from Jorge’s locker at work after the accident.”

“Charming. That seems like pretty flimsy evidence, though.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Alex said eagerly. Del gave him a thumbs up. “But if the paper is genuine, it’s a good first step. The way I see it, we don’t need to prove that Luke murdered Jorge and the others.”

“We don’t?” Sheila said.

Alex enjoyed hearing genuine curiosity in her voice. Once she heard his plan, she’d front the money Beto wanted
—hopefully. “We just need evidence that Luke—or someone close to Luke, if it’s Crash—sent them out to go get into an accident. That’s conspiracy right there.”

“Interesting
 . . . So what does he want for this so-called evidence?”

“Something that I can give him, and something I can’t.”

“But that
I
can give, right? So what is it?”

“Some money.”

“How much, Alex?”

“Fifty grand.”

She sounded shocked. “Fifty grand! I’m surprised you have the balls to even ask me for that.”

“Sheila, I’m committing to this project, too, OK? The other thing he wanted is a place to stay. This Crash guy is after him, and he’s afraid to go home.”

“You’re bringing this Beto guy into your house? You really are a nut.”

“No, no. I’m putting him up in a vacant house I have.” Alex saw Del roll his eyes.

“Geez, I didn’t know I was teaming up with Donald Trump,” Sheila said. “Why don’t you pay him the fifty thousand yourself?”

Alex sighed and waved Del out of the room. “Well?” Sheila said.

“Because I’m upside down, Sheila. I’ve got no cash. I’ve got five mortgages and no job.”

Her tone turned incredulous. “Five mortgages? What other secrets are you keeping? And after all that carrying on in the library about wanting to find the truth
—you’re broke! Why should I trust you with a pile of cash?”

“I don’t know you either. I thought you’d have a good lead for me, given that you used to work at Liberty Industries. But that Ray-bear guy didn’t know anything. It’s almost like you sent me to the least useful person to talk to.” Sheila didn’t say anything. Alex would have loved to call her out on her lie about not knowing Beto, but he kept his cool.
Butter her up
. “The bottom line is, we have to trust each other,” he said. “Together, we have a chance to do something big here.”

“I’m not convinced.”

Alex knew why she was playing coy all of a sudden—she wanted Alex to take all the risk and to keep herself—and her cash—out of harm’s way. “Sheila, you know Luke would pay to keep this quiet. And I know you want money and, hey, I don’t judge, all right?”

“What do
you
want?”

“I’ll give you time to do whatever you want with the evidence
—”

“Luke would laugh in my face if I told him about this so-called evidence.”

“And after Luke pays you off, or whatever, then I get a chance to go to the police. That’s all. That’s not on you, and Luke can never say you went back on whatever deal you make with him.”

“Right,” Sheila said. “That is, if the fingerprints haven’t been rubbed off the paper by now, if Beto isn’t making this whole thing up
—how do you propose to find out whether his evidence is any good?”

“I’ve thought about that, too. We give Beto a taste of his own medicine. I tell him I’ll only pay a little up front, with the rest to come once we’ve verified the evidence. I tell him that if he’s scamming us
—and I’ve dealt with this guy before, there’s a good chance he is—then I’ll tell this Crash character where to find him.” Sheila was silent. Alex said, “Beto’s scared, Sheila. If we don’t move soon, he’ll skip town.”

“Fine,” she said. “I can have some money for you in a couple of days.”

“That’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I guess I should thank you for finding this guy.”

This guy
. As if she didn’t know who Beto was. Alex looked forward to seeing Sheila again just to see whether, in person, she would betray any more embarrassment over her lie than she did over the phone. “I’ll set up a meeting with Beto two days from now.”

Sheila didn’t say anything.

“Sheila? You said a couple of days. Two days, right?”

“Sure, that’s fine. If my lawyer is any good, that’ll be fine.”

Brad’s adversary looked nervous. Brad watched him, hunched over counsel’s table in the courtroom, as his eyes bobbed from page to page of his notes as if searching desperately for a comma that had slipped off and crawled back to bed. The judge hadn’t entered yet. Brad approached his opponent and touched him on the shoulder.

The man flinched but just as quickly regained his composure. He stood confidently and extended his hand. “Jacob Carter,” he said. He was Brad’s arrogant Harvard classmate, the one who silently sat through the meetings at Boswell & Baker’s offices.

“I know,” Brad said. “Brad Pitcher. We went to law school together.”

Jacob squinted at Brad as if trying to imagine him with eight years’ more hair. “HLS?” he said.

“That’s the only law school I went to. Look, we have some time before the hearing begins, and there are a couple points on the wrongful termination case I’d like to go over. But does it make sense to wait for Alan?”

“Mr. Matthews won’t be attending this hearing,” Jacob said. “Plus, I see no need to discuss that case now. Our interaction today will be confined to your motion for interim spousal support.”

With that, Jacob maneuvered awkwardly back into his chair. Brad rested his hands on his hips. Brad knew big firm lawyers like Jacob spent more time in the library than in the courtroom. Brad decided to have a little fun with him.

“So, Alan let you go without adult supervision on this one. Good for you. That means he either knows you’re going to win or knows you’re going to lose. Did he tell you which?”

Jacob screwed his face into a lopsided grimace. “You sound pretty confident for a guy who’s gone oh-for-everything on this case.”

“Have you argued before Judge Brewster before?”

“Plenty of lawyers in my firm have.”

“Have you argued before any judge before?”

Jacob gave Brad a wide-eyed look as if he had been caught relieving himself behind a tree. The bailiff’s booming voice filled the courtroom.

“All rise!”

Brad rushed over to the table on the other side of the aisle, and both lawyers stood at attention as the judge entered. Judge Brewster was youngish, in his early forties, with lively eyes and a thick beard that was starting to go gray. He had a fleshy face, and if he had a body to match, that fact was hidden by his black robe. He genially motioned for the lawyers to sit.

“Mr. Carter fr
om . . . Baker & Boswell,” the judge said, consulting the briefs in front of him. “Haven’t seen you before. Nice suit. Where’d you go to law school?”

Jacob stood up stiffly. “Harvard,” he said. “It’s Boswell & Baker,” he added softly.

The judge rocked his head back. “Harvard . . . I’ve heard of it. Expensive. Still paying off the tuition?”

“No, Your Honor. I was able to pay my loans off a couple years ago.”

“With a Baker & Boswell salary, I believe it. Golden State Law—my illustrious alma mater—isn’t quite as expensive as fair Hah-vahd, but I’ve still got a few years left yet to pay off mine. I should mail in the last check, let’s see . . . just about the time I mail the first college tuition check for my oldest. How about you, Mr. Pitcher? Did you go to Harvard, too?”

Brad rose. “I did, Your Honor. As a matter of fact, Mr. Carter and I were classmates there.” Brad quickly sat down again.

“No kidding,” the judge said. “How about that? Now I feel outclassed in my own courtroom.”

Brad rose and said, “You haven’t heard us speak yet, Your Honor.”

The judge laughed. “I’ve heard you speak here before, Mr. Pitcher, and I’m glad to see you’ve lost none of your wit.”

From there, the hearing only went further downhill for Jacob Carter. Jacob couldn’t give a reason for why Luke had fired Sheila during the divorce proceedings or for why Sheila, now unemployed, shouldn’t get alimony. At least, he couldn’t give any good reasons. His flimsy arguments annoyed the judge, and his arrogant manner offended the judge, who quickly turned from Gentle Ben to an angry bear.

In the end, Brad had his first little victory, an interim order for Luke to pay Sheila alimony every month until the conclusion of the divorce case. And with a flourish: the judge ordered Jacob to have Luke deliver a cashier’s check to Sheila by the end of the day, or else the judge would send a sheriff’s deputy to arrest him.

*
* *

Brad made a point of walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Jacob as they left the courtroom, though Jacob obviously wanted to get as far away as he could, as fast as he could. When they entered the corridor, Brad said, “Lesson number one for oral arguments
—don’t be an asshole.”

“Very funny,” Jacob said.

“Good luck breaking the news to Alan. Maybe he’ll let you tell the client on your own, too.” With that, Brad walked away before Jacob had a chance to do so himself. He pulled out his cell phone to call Sheila. She would be ecstatic.
Never mind that
, thought Brad,
I’m ecstatic
.

At first Sheila wanted to come to Alex’s house to give him the money, which made Del happy because he said he wanted to meet her. Del could be so immature. “She’s not my girlfriend,” Alex said. “Besides, you can’t meet her.” But then Sheila called and said she was running late, and told Alex to just come by her apartment on his way to meet Beto. Del told him to be careful.

“I’m not scared of Beto,” Alex said.

“I meant be careful with Sheila.”

Sheila lived in a luxury high-rise apartment on the West Side. She answered the door in a sweater and a dark skirt and wore diamond earrings and a string of pearls. She looked good that way, and Alex noticed that her clothes flattered the shape of her body, but not in the showy way that most of the women he knew dressed. It made him want to watch her more, which he did discreetly as she led him inside.

“I hope you didn’t get dressed up on my account,” he said. He meant it jocularly, but the words sounded wrong as soon as they left his lips.

“I have a charity event this afternoon,” she said over her shoulder.

Inside, she handed him five bound stacks of twenty-dollar bills. That’s the way Beto wanted it. It was only one-fifth of the fifty grand Beto asked for.

“You think that’ll be enough?” Sheila said.

“I’ll persuade him that it is,” Alex said. He told Sheila more about the meeting he had set up with Beto
—in a public place, neutral ground.

“He’ll think you’re trying to scam him,” she said. “He may get angry.”

“I’m not worried about little old Beto Capablanca,” Alex said. And he wasn’t. Nothing wrong with showing a little justified confidence.

“But he’s
—he’s a criminal. He may get violent.”

She didn’t know Alex had collared Beto all those years ago, right on the street. “I’ve seen Beto angry before. I think I can handle it.”

“Oh, I forgot—surfers are tough.”

“How about ‘good luck’?”

“Have you ever walked around with ten thousand dollars on you?”

Ah
, Alex thought,
so she’s concerned about the
money
staying safe
. “Have you?”

“Every time I step out of the house,” she said, and she slipped a manicured finger between her pearl necklace and her collarbone.

“So then what’s the big deal?”

“A bag full of cash is a little different than a necklace,” Sheila said. “People still respect jewelry.”

Alex felt like he should respond but didn’t know where to begin, and then she spoke again.

“You’ll call me as soon as it’s over?”

“I told you, we’re meeting at MacArthur Park. There are always hundreds of people around. It’ll go fine.”

She looked skeptical, then turned away from him. “So you have the money,” she said, like she was thinking about more than the money after all, “get out of here before I change my mind.”

* * *

MacArthur Park was named after a general, Alex recalled. It was the statue that reminded him. He took a relaxed stroll around the park to look for Beto. Even though it was cool out, there were plenty of people
—young lovers wasting time, street vendors, some cops, some kids. The park was in better shape than it used to be. Still, this was a part of town where you didn’t flaunt wealth. Alex had the ten grand bundled tightly inside a satchel strapped over his shoulder and across his body. As far as anyone knew, he could have been a bike messenger.

Alex’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Sheila. Have you found him yet?”

Alex couldn’t believe how impatient she was. For a moment, he felt a little for Luke. If she was this annoying with Alex after just meeting him, he didn’t want to imagine how high maintenance she must be after years of marriage. “No, Sheila, I just got here. I’ll call you when it’s over. Goodbye.”

Alex found Beto waiting for him on the other side of a fountain. Beto wore a windbreaker and stood hugging his arms, glancing from side to side and generally doing a poor job of looking casual. Alex boxed him playfully on the shoulder by way of greeting, and he jumped. They walked together toward the edge of the park.

“You brought the money?” Beto said.

“Absolutely. And a key to a house where you can stay for a while.”

“Let me see the money.”

Alex sighed. There were few things less suspicious the two of them could have done right there besides stop and look inside Alex’s bag. Plus, Beto might notice that Alex had not brought the full fifty thousand. But Beto had stopped in his tracks like a tired dog, so Alex grudgingly lifted the flap that covered his satchel. Doing so made him feel seedy, but no one around seemed to notice.

Beto started shivering. “That don’t look like no fifty grand.”

“Keep your voice down,” Alex said. “It’s a down payment—I’ll give you the rest when I know your evidence is the real thing. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Beto moved flush to Alex’s body to obscure the view of those around them and then pulled a gun from the pocket of his windbreaker. Alex didn’t know what it was for a moment. It was thin and silver and almost vanished inside Beto’s small hand.

“Oh, Beto, put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

Beto had pulled a gun on Alex once before, years ago. It was less shocking the second time
—though Alex admitted he liked it better when Beto had pointed the ashtray at him.

“I’m not playing around Alex,” Beto said. His wrist quivered alarmingly.

Alex leaned in to him and whispered in his ear. “Del is watching us right now. If you kill me, his next call will be to Crash. You won’t leave the ZIP code.”

Beto thought about that, then asked, “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Well, you’re a gambling man. If you feel lucky, you should just shoot me and see what happens. Or you could use your head for once, and get a lot more money in a couple days. Meantime, you’ll be staying in my house. If I stiff you, burn it down.”

Beto looked around and then dropped the sleek silver pistol into Alex’s bag like it was a rotting fish.

“Jesus, Beto, what’d you do that for? I’ve got to get you out of daylight.”

Alex led Beto to a tiny diner right off the park. They sat down at a booth in the corner. Beto slowly pulled a plastic bag from inside his jacket but shoved it back inside when the waitress clomped over.

“What’ll it be?” she said.

Beto scowled at her. “We’re not hungry.”

The waitress leaned up and back—she was tall—and planted her hands on her hips. “Sweethearts, we’re too busy in here to be giving out booths to people who aren’t hungry.”

Alex went into his bag and peeled out a twenty from one of the bundles. “Give us whatever the last guy had, but don’t bring it to us,” he said. She put the money in her pocket and left.

Beto pulled the plastic bag out again, his expression full of grave drama. “This is how I got it from Jorge,” he said, and he passed it across the table.

It looked the way it was supposed to look
—sealed inside a clear plastic bag was a slip of paper, like one from a desktop memo pad, that had a license plate number and a date written on it.

“Now the money,” Beto said.

Alex reached into his own bag, felt his way cautiously around Beto’s pistol and took out the bundles of cash. He passed them under the table to Beto. “Count them in your lap,” Alex said.

Beto glared at him. “I’m not stupid.”

Alex’s cell phone rang. It was Sheila again. He knew he should ignore it, but he was so annoyed that she was calling again that he couldn’t.

“It’s Crash,” Alex said to Beto. Beto hugged the bundles of money more closely into his belly. “Just kidding,” Alex said, “I’ll be right back.” Before Alex could rise, Beto snatched the plastic bag away from him.

“I’m not done counting,” he said.

Alex stood, his satchel still draped over his torso, and looked down at Beto. Beto sat hunched over the plastic bag and the bills that were stacked in his lap.

“You see how much I trust you, Beto? I’m going to leave you here with the money and the goods. I’ll be right back with your house key.”

Alex moved to the doorway to get away from the clatter of the diner, but all the way there Alex watched Beto, and Beto watched Alex.

“Hi Sheila,” Alex said in a hoarse whisper, “I’m still with Beto. I told you—”

At that moment a burly man barreled past Alex and out the door, his arms pumping in a dead sprint. The man brushed Alex as he went by and knocked Alex back on his heels.

A moment later Alex was knocked all the way to the ground by a greater force, an explosion that sent his cell phone flying out into the street and propelled his skull into a wall. The explosion did worse to many others, which Alex saw for himself after he gropingly rose from beneath a blanket of shattered glass. Strangely, he thought, he couldn’t hear any screaming. But he couldn’t hear anything. He saw agonized faces that he wouldn’t soon forget, but he didn’t see Beto’s. He followed his first impulse and ran out of the diner toward where he thought the burly man had gone.

Alex thought he spotted the man running a half a block ahead of him, but lots of people were running just then, and in all different directions. After a couple of minutes he admitted he had lost the man and stopped running. He tried instead to focus on the last moments at the diner, to recall anything that might be helpful. But once he stopped running, his memories wouldn’t fall into sequence. All he could retrieve were unconnected images: A waitress with a pencil stashed in her hair. A child joyfully drumming with a table knife while Alex hissed at Sheila over the phone. The thick arm of the man who raced past him just before the flash
—and the man’s hand, with a birthmark like wine running over a linoleum floor.

*
* *

Crash didn’t follow Alex. He stayed in his SUV, watching the diner.

The explosion started a fire, and the firemen came. They put it out quickly, and Crash joined the gathering crowd that drew in around the police line. Some seemed to be looking for loved ones. Others just seemed curious. Crash was tall and he let others stand up front. He watched until they had taken the last of the bodies out, then he got in his car and drove away. Beto was no longer a problem.