“Did you call the police?”
She stiffened, and her face grew hard.
“Absolutely not. Krista has everything ahead of her—possibilities no one in my family would have even dreamed. I’m not going to ruin her future with nonsense like this. I’m not going to let her throw her life away by doing something stupid.”
“If what you believe is true, Berman might have her involved in something more serious.”
“This is why you’re going to find her. The man they wrote the article about, he would save this girl’s future.”
“If she’s married, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t force her back if she doesn’t want to come.”
“You don’t have to bring her back. Just find her, and tell me what’s going on. Will you help me, Mr. Cole?”
“It’s what I do.”
“I thought so. You aren’t the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing.”
She burst into a wide smile, went behind her desk, and held up a green checkbook.
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars if you find her. Is that fair?”
“I’ll charge you a thousand a day, and we’ll start with a two-thousand-dollar retainer. Expenses are mine. You’ll save money.”
She smiled even wider, and opened a pen.
“I’ll pay you ten thousand if you kill him.”
I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Neither of us moved, and neither spoke. Outside on the floor, the big stitching machines whined like howling coyotes as they sewed patches to baseball caps.
She bent to write a check.
“I was kidding. That was a joke.”
“Like me being the World’s Greatest Detective.”
“Exactly. When can you leave for Palm Springs?”
“I’ll start at her apartment. It’s closer.”
“You’re the detective. You know best.”
She wrote the check, tore it from the checkbook, then gave me a large manila envelope.
“I put some things together you might want. Krista’s address, her phone number, a picture, the receipt when I wired the money. Things like that.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“This will be fine. I’ll start with her roommate. Maybe you could call her, let her know I’m coming?”
“Oh, I can do better than that.”
She picked up a red leather purse, and went to the door.
“I have a key. I’ll let you into her apartment and introduce you.”
“Sorry, Ms. Morales. I’d rather go alone.”
Her eyes grew dark and hard.
“You might be the World’s Greatest Detective, but I’m the World’s Greatest Mother. Don’t forget your swag.”
She walked out without waiting.
2.
Loyola Marymount University was a Jesuit university with a tough academic reputation. Krista had a full-ride scholarship for all four years that covered her share of a two-bedroom apartment only seven blocks from the campus, which was as far from downtown L.A. as possible and still on land—a mile and a half from the beach at the edge of Marina del Rey.
The World’s Greatest Mother and I took separate cars, picked up the I-10, and caravanned west across the city. Nita had phoned Krista’s roommate from her car, so Mary Sue Osborne returned home early from class and was waiting when we arrived.
Mary Sue was pale and round, with a spray of freckles, blue eyes, and small, wire-framed glasses. She wore a blue top, tan cargo shorts, and flip-flops, and her light brown hair was braided.
She peered at me over the spectacles when she let us in.
“Hey.”
“Hey back.”
“Are you really the World’s Greatest Detective?”
“That was a joke.”
Nita had filled her in on the drive. Krista and Mary Sue had been roommates for two years, and had worked together on the student paper for four. This was obvious as soon as we entered. Long neat rows of front pages from the weekly student newspaper were push-pinned to the walls, along with a movie poster from
All the President’s Men
.
I made a big deal out of their wall.
“Man, this is amazing. Is this your paper?”
“I’m the managing editor. Kris is editor in chief. The capo-di-tutti-capi.”
This was called building rapport, but Nita steamrolled over the moment.
“He doesn’t have time for this, Mary. Have you heard from her?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet.”
“Tell him about that boy.”
Mary Sue made a kind of fish-eyed shrug at me.
“What do you want to know?”
Nita said, “Did that boy convince Krista to marry him? Is he mixed up in some kind of crime?”
I cleared my throat.
“Remember when I said I’d rather come alone?”
“Yes.”
“This is why. Maybe Mary Sue and I should talk in Krista’s room. Alone.”
Nita Morales fixed me with a glare as if she had second thoughts about me being the World’s Greatest Detective, but she abruptly went to the kitchen.
“I’ll be out here if you need me. Texting Kris, and praying she answers.”
I lowered my voice as I followed Mary Sue through a short hall to Krista’s room.
“She doesn’t like him.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Krista’s bedroom was small, but well furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers, and a well-worn George R.R. Martin paperback faceup on her pillow. An L-shaped desk arranged with a computer, printer, jars of pens and pencils, and neat stacks of printouts filled the opposite corner. Large foam-boards on the walls above her desk were push-pinned with pictures of her friends.
Mary Sue saw me clocking the pictures.
“The Wall of Infamy. That’s what we call it. This is me.”
She pointed at a picture of herself wearing an enormous floppy hat.
“Is Berman here?”
“Sure. Right here—”
She pointed out a close shot of a young man with short dark hair, thin face, and gray T-shirt. He stood with his hands in his back pockets, staring at the camera as if he didn’t like having his picture taken. All in all, Berman was in six pictures. In one of the shots, he was leaning against the rear of a silver, late-model Mustang. The license plate was blurry, but readable—6KNX421. When Mary Sue confirmed this was Berman’s car, I copied the plate, then took the close shot of Berman from the board.
“I’m going to borrow this.”
“I’ll blame Nita. Take what you want.”
“You think Nita is right?”
“About what?”
“Marriage.”
“No way. They’re definitely into each other, but she’s jazzed about moving to D.C. I’ve heard her talking with him about it on the phone. Lots of people do the long-distance thing.”
“So why isn’t she back?”
Mary Sue climbed onto Krista’s bed, and crossed her legs.
“Dude. The year’s essentially over. Yeah, Kris was due back Sunday, but she finished her classwork weeks ago. She was going to write a piece for the paper, but if they’re having a blast in Margaritaville, why not enjoy? That’s where I’d be if I had a hoochie boy to go with.”
“So you aren’t worried?”
She frowned as she thought about it.
“Not like Nita, but kinda. It’s weird she isn’t returning my texts, but they’re way out in Palm Springs. Maybe she can’t get a signal.”
I thought about it and decided the signal business was unlikely. You didn’t stay overdue and out of reach for a week because of bad cell service. I also considered telling her about the five-hundred-dollar ransom demand, but Nita had asked me to save Krista the embarrassment.
“Is Berman the kind of guy who would be involved in something sketchy?”
“I never met him. I don’t know, but I doubt it.”
I looked at her, surprised.
“Are you kidding?”
“If you knew Kris, you would doubt it, too. She’s the straightest person on earth.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant, how is it you’ve never met him? They’ve been together for over a year.”
She shrugged.
“He’s never been here when I’ve been here, and he never comes in.”
“Not even when he picks her up?”
“Parking here sucks. She goes out to his car.”
“He never hangs out?”
“She goes to his place. No roommates.”
Nita appeared in the doorway, looking tense and irritated.
“I can’t just sit out there doing nothing. I’m going to check her bathroom and closet. If she planned a longer stay, maybe I can tell by what she took.”
“Good idea.”
I didn’t really think it was a good idea, but it would keep her busy. She disappeared into the bathroom, and I turned back to Krista’s Wall of Infamy and considered the picture of Berman and his Mustang. Maybe they had returned on Sunday like she promised, only she had kept the party going by staying with him.
“You know where he lives?”
“Uh-uh. I think it’s in Brentwood or one of those canyon places, but I’m not sure.”
“Does Krista keep an address book?”
“Her phone, for sure. Nobody uses paper. She might have a contact list on her computer, but her computer’s locked. You need a password.”
“Okay. How about you help me search her stuff? An envelope saved with a birthday card might give us a home address. A handwritten note on a letterhead. Something like that.”
“Okay. Sure.”
Mary Sue started on the computer leg of Krista’s desk, and I started on the leg scattered with papers. I fingered through the printouts and clippings, looking for anything useful about Berman or their trip to Palm Springs. Most of the printouts were articles about illegal immigration, mass graves in Mexico, and the increasing power of the Mexican cartels. Several were interviews with immigration activists and political figures. Sections of text in almost every article were highlighted in yellow, but none of the notes I found were about Jack Berman, wedding chapels, or Vegas acts. Most appeared to be about the material at hand:
who makes the money?
where do they come from?
who is involved?
Mary Sue edged closer to see what I was doing.
“This is research for her editorial. You won’t find anything there.”
“You never know. People make notes on whatever’s handy.”
“Uh-huh. I guess.”
“Is this the piece she was going to finish Sunday night?”
“Yeah. It’s about illegal immigration and immigration policy. She got super into it a couple of weeks ago.”
Nita appeared in the doorway.
“What was she doing?”
Mary Sue repeated herself.
“Writing her editorial. It’s her last editorial. She’s been working on it for a couple of weeks.”
Nita came over and picked up the articles. Her face was lined so deeply as she read, she looked like a stack of folded towels.
I said, “Did she pack for a long trip or a weekend?”
Nita didn’t answer.
“Ms. Morales?”
She looked at me, but her eyes were vacant, as if she couldn’t quite see me. It took her another full second to answer.
“Everything’s fine.”
She backed away, blinked three times, then left. We only knew she had gone when we heard the front door.
Mary Sue said, “What’s wrong?”
I considered the articles Krista had highlighted, then looked at Mary Sue.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure. I live to serve.”
“Keep looking. Look for something that tells us where Krista went, or why, and where and how to find her boyfriend, okay?”
“Okay. Sure.”
I gave her my card, left her in Krista’s room, and found Nita Morales seated behind the wheel of her car. Her sunglasses were on, but she hadn’t started the engine. She was holding the wheel in the ten and two o’clock positions, and staring straight ahead.
I got into the passenger’s side, and made my voice gentle.
“You okay?”
She shook her head.
“Talk to me.”
Nita studied me from the far side of her car on that spring day, a distance too close to some clients and miles too far from others. She looked as if we were going a hundred miles an hour even though we weren’t moving.
“I am not a legal resident of the United States. My sister and I were sent here when I was seven years old and she was nine. We came to live with an uncle who was legally here on a work visa. I have been here illegally ever since. I am here illegally now.”
“May I ask why you told me?”
“What Mary Sue said. That Krista started all this two weeks ago.”
“You told her two weeks ago.”
“This isn’t something you tell a child, but she is almost twenty-one, and now she has this job in Washington. I thought she should know. So she can protect herself.”
“Did she react badly?”
“I didn’t think so, but she grew worried when we discussed what would happen if this became known.”
I wasn’t an expert on immigration, but anyone living in Southern California becomes conversant with the issue.
“Do you have a criminal record?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you involved in a criminal enterprise?”
“Please don’t make fun of this.”
“Nita, I’m not. I’m trying to tell you ICE isn’t going to knock down your door. Are you scared Krista is doing whatever she’s doing because you told her?”
“I’ve lied to her.”
“You said it yourself. This isn’t something you could have told her when she was a child.”
She closed her eyes as hard as she clenched the steering wheel.
“She must be ashamed. This girl earned a job with the Congress, and now her mother is a wetback.”
She tried to hold it together, but convulsed with a sob, and covered her face with her hands. I leaned across the console and held her. It was awkward to hold her like that, but I held her until she straightened herself.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I thought it would be. I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything. The World’s Greatest Detective takes it from here.”
A tiny smile flickered her lips.
“I thought you hated being called that.”
“I made an exception so you’ll feel better.”
She studied me for a moment, then picked up her purse and placed it in her lap.
“I didn’t hire you because of an article. I did my homework, but the picture caught my attention. I read the article because of the picture. The one with your clock.”
“Pinocchio.”
“The puppet who wanted to be a boy.”
Two pictures illustrated the article. One was a close shot of me on the phone at my desk. The second photograph was a full-page shot of me leaning against the wall. I was wearing a shoulder holster, sunglasses, and a lovely Jams World print shirt. The shoulder holster and sunglasses were the photographer’s idea. They made me look like a turd. But my Pinocchio clock was on the wall behind me, smiling at everyone who enters my office. Its eyes roll from side to side as it tocks. The photographer thought it was colorful.
Nita took something from the purse, but I could not see what she held.
“My uncle had a clock like yours. He told us about Pinocchio, the puppet who dreamed an impossible dream.”
“To be a flesh-and-blood boy.”
“To dream of a better life. It was why we were here.”
“Your uncle sounds like a good man.”
“The tocking rocked me to sleep. You know how people talk about the surf? The tocking was my surf in Boyle Heights when I was seven years old. I loved that clock. Every day and all night, Pinocchio reminded us to work for our dreams. Do you see?”