Beyond This Point Are Monsters

Chapter Sixteen

Catalpa street was in one of the city’s older sections, which Devon had never seen before. Turn-of-the-century frame houses alternated with recently constructed low-rent apartment buildings.

431 was of modern design in stucco and redwood and almost new, but it was already breaking down from overuse and neglect. Most of the units had wall-to-wall children. As ceiling plaster cracked and paint peeled and plumbing wore out, no one had the interest or money or capacity to repair them. With deterioration came contempt. Initials were carved in woodwork, epithets written on walls. Trees were broken off before they had a chance to grow. Outside taps leaked, forming mudholes, while a few feet away shrubs died from lack of water, shriveling in the morning sun. The whole area was landscaped with litter. Number 9, at the rear on the second story, had Carla’s name on a piece of cardboard taped to the door. C. Lopez printed in tiny letters in pale green ink indicated that Carla wasn’t particularly anxious to be found.

Devon pressed the doorbell. She couldn’t be sure whether or not it was ringing inside the apartment because there was so much noise coming from below. Though it wasn’t a holiday, half a dozen school-age children were playing in the service alley. Devon pressed the bell again, and when this failed to bring a response she rapped sharply with her knuckles.

“Carla? Are you in there, Carla?”

The door of the next apartment opened and a young black woman stepped out, carrying a child’s teddy bear. Her eyes were weary and swollen and she held her body as if it hurt. Like the building itself she seemed to be a victim of overuse and neglect.

She said, “No,” in a low-pitched hoarse voice.

Devon stared at her. “Pardon?”

“No, she ain’t there. You from Welfare?”

“No.”

“Lopez went off with some guy early this morning.”

“What about the baby?”

“She was gonna drop it off at her mother’s place and then she and the guy was gonna go away by themselves... You sure you ain’t from Welfare?”

“I’m a friend of Carla’s.”

“Then you know she lost her job.”

“Yes.”

“She was feeling real blue about it and on top of that she got some kind of court order. But last night I could hear her moving around in there, singing away to herself — like happy, you know? I figured she found a new job. But then she came over and told me how she was going on a vacation.”

“Where?”

“Some city up north. Like way up north, out of state.”

“Do you remember the name of it?”

“I never been out of state.”

“Would you remember if you heard it again?”

“Maybe so.”

“Seattle,” Devon said.

“Seattle.” The young woman passed her fingers across her mouth as though she were trying to feel the shape of the word. “Seattle, is that way, way up north?”

“About as far as you can get without leaving the country.”

“That sounds like the place.”

“Did you see Carla leave?”

“Couldn’t help it. I was standing right where I am this minute.”

“Was the man with her?”

“He waited down on the street beside the car.” Her eyes fired up for a moment like pieces of coal. “Maybe the car was stolen, eh?”

“Had you ever seen the man before?”

“No. But I kind of suspicioned from the way the two of them acted that he was a relative, not a boy friend. Her uncle, maybe.”

“Then he wasn’t a young man?”

“No. He moved heavy.”

“Uncles don’t ordinarily go on vacations with nieces.”

“Oh, he didn’t want to go, I could tell that. He kept leaning against the car, hungover maybe, or maybe just blue. Anyhow, it was a funny scene, her flying around like a bird and him dead on his feet.”

A girl flying happy like a bird, Devon thought, and a hungover uncle dead on his feet.

She said, “Thank you, Mrs.—”

“Harvey. Leandra Harvey.”

“Thanks very much, Mrs. Harvey.”

“Sure. Any time.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment as if they both knew there wouldn’t be another time.

Devon stopped at a gas station and put in a call to Ford’s office. She had to wait several minutes before Ford’s voice came on the line, soft and precise: “Yes, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No bother.”

“It’s about the girl who testified at the hearing yesterday morning, Carla Lopez. She has no phone and I wanted to ask her some questions, so I drove into the city to see her.”

“And did you?”

“No. That’s why I’m calling. The woman who lives next door told me Carla left this morning on a vacation with a man.”

“Nothing illegal about that.”

“I think I know who the man was and I’m pretty sure I know where they’re going. There’s something peculiar about it. I’m worried.”

“All right, come on over to the office. I was going to get in touch with you anyway — I’ve had a couple of queries from Judge Gallagher. You may be able to answer them. Where are you?”

“On Bewick Avenue about three blocks from Catalpa.”

“Keep heading south and you’ll hit the freeway. It should take you fifteen minutes.”

It took twenty. She wasn’t used to California freeways, and on the other occasions when she’d gone to consult Ford someone else had driven her and she hadn’t paid much attention to the route.

Everything in Ford’s office had been designed to shut out the city, as if its noise might shatter a thought and its polluted air suffocate an idea. The picture window with its view of the harbor was double-plate glass, the ceiling was cork, the walls and floors were covered with thick wool. The chairs and the top of the massive desk were made of leather and even the ashtrays were of a non-resonant material, myrtle wood. The only metal in the room was the gold wedding band Ford wore to protect himself against overeager clients. He wasn’t married.

“Good morning, Devon,” he said. “Please sit down.”

“Thanks.” She sat down, a little puzzled. It was the first time he’d called her Devon. She knew it hadn’t been done on impulse, that years in the practice of law had left Ford with a minimum of spontaneity. What he said and did, even the gestures he made, seemed planned for hidden judges and secluded juries.

“So Carla Lopez has gone on a vacation,” he said. “Why should that bother you?”

“I’m pretty sure she went to Seattle.”

“Seattle, Peoria, Walla Walla — what difference does it make?” He stopped suddenly, frowning. “Wait a minute. Someone referred to Seattle during the hearing. The Estivar boy.”

“Jaime.”

“As I recall, it was simply a casual remark to the effect that one of his brothers worked in Seattle and had sent him money for Christmas.”

“The brother’s name is Felipe and Carla had a crush on him. She still has.”

“Who told you?”

“Carla herself. So did Jaime when I met him last night at the reservoir. He said that during the summer Carla worked for his family she made a play for all the brothers. The two older ones didn’t pay much attention but Felipe really twitched.”

“Twitched?” His shock was genuine. “Where did you get—”

“That’s the expression Jaime used.”

“I see.”

“Felipe left the ranch, and the area in general, more than a year ago.”

“Before or after the girl got pregnant?”

“Oh, I think after. She’s apparently been trying for a long time to get in touch with Felipe and no one would give her any information about him.”

“Did Jaime tell you that, too?” Ford asked.

“No. I overheard a conversation in the hall yesterday afternoon when I went to phone Mrs. Osborne. The phone booth was stuffy and I kept the door open a little. There were two people talking just outside. One of them was Carla, the other was the policeman, Valenzuela.”

“Ex-policeman.”

“Ex-policeman. He said something like ‘not knowing a thing about it until a few minutes ago.’ But she claimed he was lying to her the way the Estivars had. He warned her to stay away from the ranch and she told him she wasn’t afraid of the Estivars or the Osbornes or anyone else because she had her brothers to protect her.”

“What made you jump to the conclusion that they were referring to Felipe?”

“It wasn’t a very long jump. Carla had a crush on Felipe and the chances are he’s the father of her child. She’d naturally be angry if someone knew where he was and refused to tell her.”

“So she found out where he was and now she’s going there?”

“Yes.”

“With another man? That seems a bit tactless.”

“Necessary, though. She doesn’t have money for a trip like that. She had to talk somebody into taking her.”

“And you’re pretty sure of that somebody’s identity?”

“Yes. It was Valenzuela.”

He leaned forward in his chair and the leather made a soft patient sighing sound. “Would you like to see my file on the girl?”

“Of course.”

He pressed the intercom. “Mrs. Rafael, please bring in the Carla Lopez file.”

It was brief: Carla Dolores Lopez, 431 Catalpa St., Ap’t. 9. Age 18. Waitress, currently unemployed. Uses her maiden name though not yet divorced. Married Ernest Valenzuela Nov. 2/67 in Boca de Rio. Gave birth, March 30/68, to male child registered as Gary Edward Valenzuela. Separated from husband July 13/68 and moved to present address in San Diego. Juvenile record for shoplifting, habitual truancy.

“The baby,” Ford said, “may or may not be Valenzuela’s. Under the law any child born to a married woman is presumed to have been fathered by her husband unless proven otherwise. Nobody’s tried to prove otherwise. Maybe there isn’t an otherwise.” He turned the file face down on his desk. “If the girl left town this morning with Valenzuela, it might simply indicate a reconciliation.”

“But they’re heading for Seattle, where Felipe is. She couldn’t very well ask her estranged husband to help her track down her former lover.”

“My dear Devon, many bargains are struck in this life that you wouldn’t understand or condone. The girl wanted to go to Seattle and one way or another was willing to pay for the trip.”

“So you think everything is just dandy.”

“I think practically nothing is just dandy. But—”

“I’m worried about Carla. She’s very young and emotional.”

“She’s also a married woman with a child, not a runaway kid who can be picked up and held in juvenile hall for her own protection. Besides, I have no reason to believe Valenzuela poses any threat to her, or to anyone else. As far as I know, his record with the sheriff’s department over the years was good.”

“Mrs. Osborne told me he was incompetent.”

“Mrs. Osborne thinks most people are incompetent,” Ford said dryly. “Including me.”

“She also told me that he didn’t resign, he was fired.”

“When he left the department various stories were heard around the courthouse. The official one was that he resigned to take a job with an insurance company — true as far as it went. Privately it was rumored that he’d begun to slip because of heavy drinking. His marriage didn’t improve the situation. The Lopez family is large and trouble-prone and Valenzuela’s connection with it was bound to cause friction in the department.” He frowned up at the ceiling like an astrologer looking for stars to read. “How he got involved with the girl in the first place I wouldn’t know. Affairs of the heart are not in my sphere of competence. Or interest.”

“Really? You asked me enough personal questions about my life with Robert.”

“Only because it was my business to present to Judge Gallagher the picture of Robert as a happily married young man.”

“You sound as if you doubt that he was.”

“My doubts, if any, are irrelevant. I think I’ve proved to the court’s satisfaction that Robert is dead. Of course I won’t be absolutely sure until Judge Gallagher announces his decision on the hearing.”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know yet. When he called me earlier this morning I expected him to set a time for the announcement. Instead, he asked me some questions.”

“What about?”

“First, the truck.”

“The old G.M. belonging to the migrant workers?”

“No. It was the pickup Jaime referred to at the end of his testimony yesterday afternoon. I didn’t pay much attention, since Jaime seemed to be merely making a passing remark. But Judge Gallagher’s a stickler for details. He read that section of the transcript to me over the phone. I’ll repeat it for you:

Q. Jaime, do you recall anything in particular about the crew?

A. Just the old truck they came in. It was painted dark red, I noticed that specially because it was the same color red as the pickup Felipe used to teach me to drive. It’s not there any more, so I guess Mr. Osborne sold it on account of its gears being stripped too often.”

Devon nodded. “I remember, but why is it important?”

“Judge Gallagher wants to know what happened to the truck and where it is now.”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Who can?”

“Estivar is responsible for all the vehicles used on the ranch. I’ll ask him about it when I get home. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation and that the truck had nothing to do with Robert’s death.”

“You’ll take Estivar’s word for it?”

“Of course.”

He watched her carefully for any signs of doubt. There were none, and after a moment or two he continued. “Judge Gallagher is also curious about the weapon, the butterfly knife. So am I. A great deal of effort went into the disposing of the body. The knife could have been disposed of at the same time and in the same place. Instead, it was tossed into a pumpkin field. The pumpkins had been gathered for market at the beginning of October and the field was due to be cleared and plowed. Any agricultural worker would have known this.”

“So the knife was meant to be found,” Devon said. “Or else whoever threw it into the field was not an agricultural worker. I’m inclined to believe the first theory.”

“Why?”

“Everyone in our area is connected with agriculture. Even the strangers passing through are ranch hands or migrant laborers.”

“Gallagher made a further point: no poor Mexican field worker would have discarded a knife like that. He would have washed it off and kept it, no matter what it had been used for.”

A sonic boom shook the building like an explosion. Ford got up and hurried over to the windows as though he hoped to catch a glimpse of the offending plane. Seeing none, he returned to his desk and made a note on his memo pad: report s. boom, 11:32. His report would be one of many, followed by an equal number of protestations of innocence from every air base within a thousand miles.

Ford said, “The real question is why the knife, if it was meant to be found, did not implicate anyone. Ownership was never proved, which would indicate either that something went wrong or that somebody did a cover-up.”

“Who?”

“Valenzuela was in charge of the case. Suppose he knew who owned or had access to the knife but kept quiet about it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Let’s ask him when he gets back from vacation.”

“That might not be for weeks,” Devon said. “Will we have to wait that long for Judge Gallagher to make his decision?”

“No. It’s already been made, unofficially — he’s convinced of Robert’s death, and the points he raised over the telephone aren’t going to affect that. But, as I told you previously, he’s a stickler for details. He’s also presided at a lot of murder trials, and if yesterday’s hearing had been a trial, any questions about the knife and the pickup truck would have had to be considered very carefully.”

“Were those the only points he brought up?”

“The only physical ones,” Ford said. “The other was psychological, having to do with Estivar’s testimony. You may recall that I asked Estivar how long he’d known Robert. He stated that he’d known him since birth, that as a boy Robert used to follow him around; that Robert spent a great deal of time at the Estivar house and this close relationship continued until Robert was sent away to a prep school in Arizona after the death of his father. When he returned to the ranch two years later a considerable change had occurred in him. He no longer went to the Estivar house for meals, he avoided the Estivar boys and his relationship with Estivar himself was strictly business. Estivar blamed the change on the school in Arizona, claiming it taught Robert prejudice. Judge Gallagher refuses to buy this. He contends that a boy of fifteen who’d been brought up among Mexicans, who spoke their language and shared their food, couldn’t be taught prejudice against them, certainly not at that particular school.”

“Why not that particular school?”

“Judge Gallagher knows a great deal about it,” Ford said. “He sent his own sons there, it’s a good liberal prep school. So whatever reason Robert had for avoiding the Estivars, it wasn’t prejudice he’d learned at school. Naturally Gallagher is curious about what the real reason was. So am I. The question arises whether Estivar believed the story he told on the witness stand or whether he was using it as a cover-up. You might want to ask him.”

“Why might I?”

“Well, you’re going to be asking him about the pickup truck anyway.”

“If he didn’t tell the truth in court, under oath, what makes you think he’ll tell it to me?”

“He probably won’t. But his reaction to the question should be interesting... I’m flying up to L.A. for a conference this afternoon and won’t be back in my office until tomorrow morning. Call me then, if you have anything interesting to report.”