Storm Runners (20 page)

Stromsoe assured his boss that Frankie was fine, everyone had performed well, and that Birch had been smart to assign the extra manpower. They’d probably saved her life.

Then Stromsoe asked Birch to get a jacket on Ariel Lejas of Riverside, California. He read Lejas’s numbers off the driver’s license in the wallet. He saw some cash, not much.

“And I want a list of all visitors seen by Mike Tavarez at Pelican Bay Prison over the last two weeks,” he said.

Birch paused. “A little time and I can do that. Who are we hoping to find on it?”

“John Cedros or Marcus Ampostela.”

“Our stalker and our gangster.”

“I’m smelling Mike Tavarez, Dan. He’s all over this.”

Again Birch paused a beat. “Let’s see what we get. If this was Tavarez, it’ll happen again. And again, until he gets what he wants. He’s got endless time and plenty of money.”

“I’m pretty damned clear on that, Dan.”

Stromsoe went back to the island of lights, worked the wallet back into Lejas’s pants, then joined Frankie leaning against her Mustang.

He put his arm around her and felt her body stiff and trembling under her clothes. He held her firmly but not too tight.

“Stand up straight and take a deep breath,” he said quietly. “Don’t want to scratch the paint.”

“No,” she whispered. “Not that.”

She stood straight and took a deep breath but the shivers didn’t stop and her eyes looked glassy and empty.

“I see Lacerta, Pegasus, and Delphinus,” he said. “And Capricornus, Fomalhaut, and Lyra.”

“I don’t see anything but that.”

He followed her gaze to the big revolver lying on Trumpet Vine.

B
ack at Frankie’s house the cops separated them. Frankie got her living room and Stromsoe the dining room. Alex took a bedroom and Janet the room containing Frankie’s bottled rivers.

Stromsoe’s interviewer was Davis, a stocky young detective, early thirties, with doubtful lines in his face and thinning dark hair combed straight back. Davis didn’t show the usual cop disrespect for private detectives. He told Stromsoe he had been fortunate. He also didn’t place Stromsoe as the narcotics deputy whose family was killed by the bomb two years ago in Newport Beach.

Stromsoe said nothing about that or Mike Tavarez. He would cross that bridge when he knew more about Ariel Lejas and had seen the Pelican Bay visitors’ log.

Lead Detective White told Frankie how much he enjoyed her weather reports although he usually watched a different channel. He declined coffee and pointed her to a living-room couch.

Stromsoe watched a uniformed sergeant broodingly shuttle back and forth between Alex and Janet, his holster and cuff case squeaking on his Sam Browne, eyes down, notebook in hand. He seemed preoccupied with something thousands of miles away.

Ace and Sadie wandered from interview to interview with airs of good-natured obligation.

By two o’clock everyone was gone but Frankie and Stromsoe, who sat not close together on one of her living-room couches. The dogs slept at their feet.

“La Eme?” asked Frankie. “Tavarez?”

“I think so.”

“In league with Choat? Impossible.”

“Don’t be naive, Frankie.”

“But why would Tavarez help Choat?”

He looked at her a moment before he spoke. “If it’s Tavarez, it’s personal. It’s about me.”

She looked back at Stromsoe, shaking her head in gathering disbelief. “So he’ll try again and again. He can just sit back in prison and send people here until one of them manages to kill me.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“It already happened. I was lucky. So were you.”

She was right. Stromsoe could barely stand the sound of his own voice as he spoke those words.
I won’t let that happen
. How could he promise to her what he hadn’t been able to provide for his own wife and son?

How could he not?

He stood and went to the big sliding-glass door, saw the stars in the storm-cleared sky, the tops of the avocado trees tilting silver in the breeze.

“What are my options, Matt?”

“I’ll make him see the light.”

“What power do you have over a man doing life without parole in the worst prison in the country? In the weirdest of ways, he’s totally free. What can you take from him? What can you offer him? He didn’t do this because he wants something. He did this because he hates you.”

Stromsoe, a man with nothing to offer his enemy and nothing to hurt him with, looked out at the faintly glistening orchard. There were no colors in the night, only black and white and shades of gray. Then the trees gave way to Frankie’s reflection and he watched her without her knowing. She sat on the couch with her knees apart and her elbows on them, leaning forward, looking at her hands. Her hair fell down around her face so that only the curve of her forehead and the tips of her nose and chin caught any light.

He remembered the night the kids had thrown the rocks at the marching band and Mike had helped him chase them down. Back then Stromsoe had felt a great affection for skinny Mike Tavarez—clarinetist, ally, compadre, friend. Now Stromsoe felt the same sense of altered time that he’d experienced five nights ago when he had shown Frankie the pictures of Hallie and Billy. In this new version of time—basic time, pure time, time without watches or calendars or the movements of a solar system upon which watches and calendars are based—one moment Mike was fighting beside him and in the next El Jefe was trying to kill an innocent woman because he hated Stromsoe. And in the new time, Matt Stromsoe, the soft-eyed
drum major who had befriended a bandmate and hung out at his house riding bikes and shooting pool and eating his mother’s chile verde, hated Mike Tavarez back.

“Matt,” she said. “I’m not going to back down. I’m not going on a long vacation. I’m not changing my name, my home, or so much as my hair color for that man. I’m going to keep broadcasting. I’m going to make rain. You’ve got to figure something out.”

“I will.”

STROMSOE WAS ASLEEP in the guest room when Frankie woke him up. She stood in the doorway looking uncertain of whether she was staying or going. She was backlit by the hall light but he could see her hair was down and she was wearing a pink satin robe over something black.

When she offered her hand he smelled complexities of skin and lotion and perfume, and saw the glitter in her eyes.

She led him to her bedroom and locked the door. The windows framed the grainy first light of morning.

“This is a first, Matt.”

It took him just a second to get it.

“Don’t ask now,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”

“I’m wordless.”

“I bought this getup for you, the day after we danced and you showed me Hallie and Billy and the flowers at night.”

“I’m extra wordless.”

“Then show me the steps to this one too, if you’d like.”

B
irch handed Stromsoe a faxed copy of the Pelican Bay Prison visitors’ log for October 18, one week ago.

“Cedros spent thirty-five minutes with Mike Tavarez that afternoon,” said Birch. “They talked privately, in the presence of an attorney—no listeners, no recordings.”

The worst of Stromsoe’s fears brushed up against him like something in deep water: Mike had tried to have Frankie Hatfield murdered. It was outrageously logical. It was how he did his business.

But with Frankie now tossed into this violent river—a psychopath’s notion of poetic vengeance—Stromsoe replaced the word “business” with the word “evil.” Tavarez was evil. Stromsoe hoped this knowledge
might be reassuring but it wasn’t. It put Mike in a dark league and gave him invisible allies and powers, as if the tangible legions of La Eme weren’t enough.

“We have to tell the cops,” said Birch. “It will take them weeks to get to this. They’re not looking at Pelican Bay.”

Stromsoe thought. “Let me talk to Cedros first. I want to hear what he’s got to say.”

Birch nodded.

“How come the lawyer isn’t on this list?” asked Stromsoe.

“Different list. Here.”

Birch pushed another sheet toward Stromsoe,
Professional Visits
. Halfway down the page was the only professional visitor that Mike Tavarez had that day, Taylor Hite of Taylor Hite, LLC, Laguna Beach, California.

“He’s a dope lawyer,” said Birch. “Doing okay for himself. He’s twenty-eight, lives in a modest three-million-dollar home in Three Arch Bay. I’ve got nothing on him. He’ll send us packing.”

“Did Marcus Ampostela show up at Pelican Bay too?”

“No Ampostela. My guess is he’s Tavarez’s bagman. They probably communicate through e-mail or kites. And maybe even through Hite. Stranger things have happened.”

Stromsoe thought for a moment. “Cedros must have offered Tavarez something substantial. Wouldn’t you love to find a pile of DWP cash in one of El Jefe’s accounts?”

Birch shrugged. “I’d love to find anything at all in an El Jefe account. Remember?”

“Yeah—El Jefe gets busted with a total of six grand in a checking account at B of A. Everything else was Miriam’s and even that wasn’t much. He hid the rest.”

Birch tapped on his keyboard and a printer started to whir. “When the cops grill Cedros about the attempted murder of the woman he’s charged with stalking, he might be ready to cooperate with them.”

Something caught in Stromsoe’s mind. “Tavarez will see it that way too. He knows we can get these logs. That might put Cedros in a ditch off the freeway with a couple of bullets in his head.”

Birch considered. “Naw, Cedros isn’t worth it. He’s just the messenger. His visit to Tavarez proves nothing and Tavarez knows that. There’s no recording, no witness. They’ve already agreed on a bullshit line if they’re questioned—you can be sure of that. Mike can’t…well, he can’t kill everybody who breathes the same air he does.”

Stromsoe wondered about that. “I think it was Cedros’s wife, Marianna, who warned us. Maybe he put her up to it. Either way, I couldn’t come up with anyone who knew both sides of this—DWP and Tavarez—until now.”

“Warn him, then. Return the favor.”

Stromsoe used his cell and dialed the Cedros home number. He pictured the pregnant young woman in the Mexican restaurant uniform loading her boy out of the battered old car. He got a recording and hung up. An idea came to him.

“Can you cue up that warning call, Dan?”

Birch fiddled with his keyboard and mouse, then played the call to Birch Security from the unidentified female.

They’re going to get the weather lady and the PI.

Stromsoe pulled Birch’s desk phone over, redialed the Cedros number, then punched on the speaker mode.

You have reached the Cedros family—John, Marianna, and Anthony. If you leave your number we’ll call you back.

Birch played the warning again.

Stromsoe dialed the Cedros number for the third time and they both listened.

Birch was smiling.

Stromsoe nodded.

“You should have been one of the good guys,” said Birch.

“You too.”

“How is Lejas?” asked Stromsoe.

“He’s serious, but stable—broken bones in his face. How’s your mirror?”

Stromsoe smiled, looked out the window at the clear morning. Saddleback Peak, the highest point in Orange County, sat in perfect clarity, its top bristling with antennas and communications clutter.

“Frankie won’t back down,” he said. “She won’t hide out or move away.”

Birch rolled back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “I didn’t think so. A woman who photographs her stalker has some courage. Got a little something for her, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look like that guy who sat here two weeks ago. She’s lovely.”

“I’m trying to keep her that way.”

Birch nodded briefly but said nothing and Stromsoe understood that Birch had wanted this to happen.

“How long do you think it will take Tavarez to organize another try?” Birch asked.

“A day or two,” said Stromsoe.

“Then you’ve got a day or two to find a way to change his mind.”

“I need a way into his head, Dan.”

“Personally, I don’t want to go there, but I know what you mean.”

Years ago Stromsoe had searched for a way to manipulate El Jefe Tavarez, and he had found it.

Ofelia had died, but he had found it.

Who does he love now? Stromsoe wondered. What does he fear now? What does he want?

CEDROS MET HIM at Olvera Street, a tourist
mercado
not far from the DWP headquarters. He looked smaller than Stromsoe had remembered, and more nervous.

They walked past the bright serapes and the leather sandals, the colorful pots and plates, the hats and maracas and marionettes.

Stromsoe told him about Lejas, the fake cop car, the tattooed arm of La Eme. Cedros stared ahead as they walked but Stromsoe could tell he was listening to every word.

“So I decided to work from the top down and guess what?”

“What?”

“You talked to Mike Tavarez at Pelican Bay Prison on October eighteenth. For over half an hour.”

“We’re relatives. Goddamned distant relatives is all we are.” Cedros spit out the words but didn’t look at Stromsoe.

“What did you talk about?”

“Family.”

“I wondered if you might have taken Tavarez an offer from Choat. It makes sense—you got popped by me, and Choat sends you to make a deal with El Jefe.”

Cedros looked at him now, anger in his eyes. “Family is all we talked about.”

“You’re beginning to make sense to me,” said Stromsoe. “If you wouldn’t roll over on Choat, you won’t roll over on Mike. The trouble for you is, Lejas almost killed Frankie, so it looks like someone contracted with Tavarez for murder. Who’s the link between El Jefe and Frankie? You.”

Cedros glared at him as they rounded one of the Olvera Street alleys and started down the next. He reminded Stromsoe of a cat he used to have as a boy, a big tom named Deerfoot who used to look at him as if to say,
If I were a little bit bigger I’d kill and eat you.
Same thing now with Cedros, his little man’s rage boiling inside.

“I have to give the cops the visitors’ log for October eighteenth,” said Stromsoe.

“It was just family stuff, man. I’m telling you.”

“Tell the cops that.”

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“You can try.”

“Get the rain lady to drop the stalking charges and I’ll tell you what Tavarez and I talked about.”

Stromsoe saw that Cedros was in much hotter water than stalking charges, though he wasn’t sure that Cedros saw it.

“I think she’ll go for that,” he said. He didn’t say that the D.A. might prosecute Cedros anyway.

Cedros sped up his walk, out of Olvera Street and onto Cesar Chavez Avenue. Stromsoe was a step behind when Cedros wheeled and grabbed his arm.

“Choat wanted Frankie to stop making rain, and he wanted you off the case. He wanted her formula. That was the whole deal. I presented it to Tavarez. Nobody was supposed to get killed, Stromsoe. Ever. I swear to God. That was not the deal.”

“I believe you.”

“
Fuck.
Shit. Man, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Did you tell Tavarez that I was Frankie’s bodyguard?”

Cedros looked up at Stromsoe, squinting in the midday sun. “No. Choat said it was important that he see the pictures of Frankie with you in them.”

“I thought they confiscated those down at the Sheriff ’s station.”

“I had more.”

So Choat knew, thought Stromsoe. He’d probably read the articles and seen the pictures. He knew Tavarez would jump at the chance to mess with me again.

“You’re a good employee, John. You just choose the wrong bosses.”

“Don’t I know it, man.”

“How much did Choat offer for the intimidation?”

Cedros slowly shook his head. “Two hundred Gs.”

“Christ Almighty. Next time tell him to offer about a quarter of that. You gave it to the big guy, Ampostela, right?”

Cedros looked at the ground, then slowly nodded.

“Now that the job is botched, Tavarez will try to kill you,” said Stromsoe. “You’re the only one who can finger him for Frankie. He’ll probably use Marcus. It could be tonight. It could be next week or next month. It might be good to leave town for a while.”

“Yeah? Quit my job and run away? Go where? Do what? Change my name and get plastic surgery? I got a thousand dollars in the bank and a baby on the way.”

“Get a motel up in Ventura or something. Your life is worth sixty bucks a day, isn’t it?”

“I’ll just be dead in Ventura. He’s the Jefe. He’s a fuckin’ killer.”

Stromsoe knew that Cedros had the score one hundred percent correct. In his years of war against Mike Tavarez and La Eme he had seen the innocent killed and the guilty walk away. He’d seen the good die and the evil flourish. The cops couldn’t protect; they could only sweep up.

Hadn’t he promised protection to Frankie just a few hours ago?

I’m going to keep broadcasting. I’m going to make rain. You’ve got to figure something out.

It angered Stromsoe that he couldn’t offer this decent man any protection at all. It was an old anger but it was still alive and fresh as when he’d been young. It came from the same conviction that had brought him to this life in the beginning—that you had the law and the scoffers, us and them, good and bad.

“Do you have a gun?” he asked.

Cedros, walking fast again, looked straight ahead and didn’t answer.

“Did you have your wife make that call to Birch Security? About them coming to get us?”

“So what if I did?”

“Thanks. Look, Cedros—I can’t stop Tavarez or Ampostela. But I can protect you from Choat. Interested?”

Cedros stopped and glared at Stromsoe. “Hell yes.”

“Let’s walk through the bazaar one more time. I’ve got an idea.”

AN HOUR LATER, Stromsoe was driving back down to Fallbrook when he asked himself again the important questions about Mike Tavarez: Who does he love? What does he want? What does he fear?

And this time an answer came to him from El Jefe himself, delivered across the years in his own clear and reasonable voice.

God put them there for reasons we don’t understand.

You’ll burn in hell for them.

Hell would be better than this. It’s bad, isn’t it, living without the ones you love?

He called Birch, who called his California assemblyman, to whom he had donated generously for reelection. Later, Birch said they had had a long talk. The assemblyman called a state senator who had recently enlisted his support in getting a gun-control bill into committee to die. The senator was a friend of Warden Gerry Gyle of Pelican Bay State Prison and a big fan of Frankie Hatfield on Fox.

Warden Gyle took Stromsoe’s call just before one o’clock.

SEVEN HOURS LATER Stromsoe met Pelican Bay investigator Ken McCann in the Denny’s restaurant near his Crescent City Travelodge room. The night was cold and the lights of the city blurred intermittently in gusts of fog and slanting drizzle. The restaurant smelled of pine-based cleansers and flat-grilled beef. It was almost empty.

McCann had the V shape of a weight lifter, a small head with flat silver hair, and small eyes set in bursts of wrinkles. He said he was sixty. He’d seen action in Hue, buried one wife and married another, loved his grandchildren, and thought Mike Tavarez was the scum of the earth. He bit into his sandwich, chewed with one side of his mouth, and spoke out the other. He told Stromsoe about the ’Nam, about coming back in ’70 and feeling so jumpy and weird. Doctors called him hypervigilant, which was a pretty darned
good word for sleeping with a carbine in the bed next to you and a pistol under the pillow, if you could even call it sleeping. So nervous even the dogs got tired of him and ran off. His wife had a heart attack at the age of thirty, which McCann believed was a direct transfer of his own monstrous fears and worries. He met up with Ellen ten years later, when most of the vigilance had worked its way out, and he finished the psychology degree first in his class and went to work for Corrections.

He described his children and grandchildren.

He ate every bit of food on his plate and ordered peach pie with ice cream.

Stromsoe listened with all of his considerable patience and empathy, then told him what he needed: a way to call Tavarez off a murder-for-hire contract that Stromsoe could not prove he was a part of.

“You can’t prove anything with guys like that,” said McCann, swallowing. “I read two hundred letters a week, either by him or to him—and I don’t know a damn thing about what he’s doing. Little bits of English. Little bits of Spanish. Little bits of Nahuatl. Whole bunches of bullshit lines and coded instructions. Sentences that mean nothing. Sentences that mean something different than what they say. Numbers and more numbers. They won’t talk. You finally get somebody to talk and they torture him, murder him, and post the pictures on the Web. Tavarez? He’s calling shots. I promise you that.”