The Blue Hour

Thirty-Four

Merci pulled up beside Hess’s car in the medical center parking lot. The sedan had collected dew in the cooling night and some comet-shaped leaves from a eucalyptus. She thought, what a lousy place to have to visit after working your ass off all day. And all night. Hess hadn’t said much since the shooting. She knew he was embarrassed for the Colesceau idea. Or maybe just pissed off, because she wouldn’t buy in. But it wasn’t the smart way to go and she knew it. She’d thought it through.

More to the point, Jerry Kirby’s death had spread through her spirits, spread through the night like an infection. She knew it had contaminated Hess too.

“I’m only about twenty minutes from here,” she said. “Come over and eat?”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“I know what time it is.”

“I’d like that, then.”

“It’s in the middle of an orange grove. Follow me.”

She waited while Hess got out and into his car. He looked uncertain opening the door, as if he didn’t know how much strength it might take and he used a little too much.

At home she opened the windows and turned on the TV and made two Scotch and sodas. She’d bought a big bottle of each because she’d enjoyed it that night at the beach with him. She changed out of her bloody pants and showered. She listened to the messages — Mike McNally, again, hoping she hadn’t “busted a gut” in the gym. Then the Bianchi rep saying they’d shipped the holster Federal Airborne, their compliments, no obligation whatsoever, hoped she’d use it. They’d sent it to her home because the offer was, again, only for “select law enforcement individuals.”

“Select, my ass,” she muttered. “Just send it.”

Then she searched her cupboards for something to heat up — it was either beef stew or noodles in a Styrofoam cup so she went with the stew. There were some crackers that weren’t quite stale. She tried to arrange them artfully on a fancy serving plate but they kept sliding down to the middle. There were always oranges, so she cut up two fat ones. Just two gulps of that drink and it went to her head.

Hess was watching CNB when she brought the plate in. She could smell the orange groves like they were growing through the screens. Hess looked at her, a cat on one of his thighs and another with its head on his lap. She shooed them away and put the plate on the coffee table. The cat on Hess’s leg was standing up but not gone, tail jumping defiantly, so Merci held an orange hunk out and shot it in the face with the juice. The cat fled.

“It’s okay,” Hess said.

“Vermin.”

“Why do you have so many, then?”

“I like them.”

They ate some crackers and oranges. They clinked their glasses together and drank but neither made a toast. There wasn’t anything to say if you were thinking about what happened to Jerry Kirby and there was nothing else to think about. She could see him, youthful and dead on the concrete. Merci called upon her inner power to banish thoughts of it from her mind right now. And the thoughts obeyed, hovering outside her mind, though she knew they’d have to get back in sometime.

There hadn’t been many times in her life that she had applied all of her considerable will to the task at hand and come up empty. Jerry Kirby was one of them, and it made Merci doubt herself, made her wonder if she wasn’t as strong as she believed. She’d done everything in her power to make him live and he had died. What was important now was to put it out of her mind so she could come back to it fresh, maybe see what she’d done wrong, how to do it right the next time.

So she sipped the drink and let the alcohol lead her away.

“It’s either canned stew or Styro noodles.”

“I like stew. It reminds me of hunting trips to Idaho. Look, Colesceau again.”

“The TV makes him look bigger.”

She watched him on his ten-fifteen appearance, padding around in his socks and robe, collecting the tray, talking to the tennis people. She took another couple of sips of her cocktail. When Colesceau suggested his testicles might make good earrings for Tennis Man’s wife, Merci scoffed, “I’d like to see those.”

Hess said nothing.

Then the CNB anchor said they’d be back in just a moment, with traffic, weather and the breaking story of a murder in nearby Lake Elsinore.

“Maybe the Purse Snatcher killed LaLonde because his device broke down,” said Hess.

It surprised her, that Hess would make a jump like that, so quick, no reason at all for it.

Then Merci realized that if by some stretch of the imagination the Purse Snatcher had killed LaLonde, it well might have happened while they were sitting there outside Colesceau’s apartment an hour or so ago. Or maybe just after they’d left. Either way, CNB had Colesceau, on video, at home, not in Lake Elsinore.

Maybe Hess would believe his own eyes, since he wouldn’t believe her.

And then it came. Just like Hess had willed it to. Just like he’d seen the picture before it got to the screen.

She sat there with a buzz of excitement running along with the Scotch as the CNB anchor reported the murder of “amateur inventor and convicted car thief” Lee LaLonde in his Lake Elsinore workshop. He was apparently killed by an unidentified intruder “earlier tonight.” Riverside Sheriffs said robbery was apparently the motive.

Merci looked at the video footage of the shop, its door open and crime scene tape flapping, the deputies trying to do their jobs.

Hess was already on the phone. He left a message and her number, clicked off and put the handset on the arm of the couch beside him. Then he pulled the small notepad from his pocket, flipped through and wrote something.

The phone rang less than a minute later and Hess, to her irritation, answered it. He listened for a moment, asked what time, listened again. He thanked someone and clicked off without saying good-bye.

“Nine, nine-thirty. Some other tenants saw the door halfway up, then the body. Gunshot to the head. They’re saying botched robbery.”

“Well, it wasn’t our man Colesceau.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looked at her and she could see the exhaustion and indecision in his eyes. He sat forward with effort, then stood. “We might be able to help, out there.”

“Riverside Sheriffs don’t need us tonight, Hess.”

“I know. But we could just...”

“Yeah, I know, too.”

She put her hand on his chest, lightly, and eased him back down to the couch. He didn’t resist, which she found sad and exciting.

They ate in near silence in front of the TV. Merci flipped to a sitcom rerun, one of those that bred so many future stars. Fun to see them with long hair. Hess didn’t seem to be looking at it, but he didn’t look at her, either. Most of the time he seemed to be staring out the dark open windows of the house. He kept his sport coat on, even though the night was warm.

She wondered if old people took tragedy harder — things like Ronnie Stevens or Jerry Kirby, things like being wrong about the suspect in an investigation. She continued to will Jerry Kirby out of her mind. And she willed Hess to feel better. She wondered if he was just sickened by what had gone down and had run out of things to say.

After dinner they walked the orange grove around the house. It was Merci’s idea to lift Hess’s spirits. She got fresh drinks and a couple of big flashlights they didn’t really need in the moonlight. She wanted Hess to smell an orange grove from the inside. And she wanted him to see something.

Now she stood astride a soft chocolate furrow and heard herself telling Hess to take a deep breath, a deeeep breath and see if he could feel the oranges going inside him.

“No, not exactly.”

“Try again.”

And he did, taking a long deep breath that made her wonder how much of his lung was gone — had he said half or two-thirds? — then she banished that thought from her mind too because it didn’t fit what she was trying to accomplish with regard to smells, oranges, being inside of things and improving the spirits of Hess.

“They’ll take up root inside you,” she said.

“I used to imagine that about ocean water. If it made you part ocean inside. Because sweat is salty.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted you to realize.” It really was exciting to educate an older person, if only a little..

“Mission accomplished, then.”

They came to one side of the grove, where it ended at a culvert. Merci could see the outline of the irrigation gate against the weeds. Past the culvert was a flood control channel lined with concrete. Overhead the moon was smudged by clouds. And just beyond the channel rose the tan stucco townhomes of some recent development, their backsides tall and flat and almost windowless. They reminded her of stuck-up people at a party, huddled together, looking away. When she came out of the trees the buildings always surprised her, how tall they were and unexpected, even when you knew they were coming.

“It’s like they can’t look at the grove behind them,” Merci said. “Because they’re too good.”

“The developers?”

“No, the buildings. Hardly any windows, like they don’t want to see. But that would go for developers, too, right? Not wanting to look behind, like at history and stuff.”

“Why look backward, when you’re driving to the bank?”

“All’s they do is pack in more people.”

“I never had much problem with that. People need places to live. I think if people don’t like it they should just leave.”

“Why not preserve some things? I never thought of that until I moved in here. And I only moved here because Dad knows the owner and the rent’s cheap. But some stuff, you just ought to save. Hess, check this.”

She led the way down the side of the culvert, shining her flashlight back every few steps to make sure he didn’t stumble. Then she cut diagonally across the grove, aiming toward the back of her house. The ice in her Scotch glass clinked and she heard Hess’s clink behind her and she drank more. Her ears felt warm but her lips tingled and there was a cool patch on her forehead.

“Okay back there?”

“Just plodding along.”

Approaching the last three rows Merci could see the back end of her house, the driveway that curved all the way around it, the ring of porch light active with cats, and the rat-happy garage dark against the trees.

She came out of the grove and started across the overgrown back lawn. The toes of her tennis shoes got damp. Hess had fallen back a few steps so she waited for him to catch up. When he did she heard the sharpness of his breathing and wondered if the chemo and radiation were getting it all. She banished that thought from her mind immediately. She rebanished Jerry Kirby from her mind, too. She felt strong again, in control. Probably the Scotch, she thought. So she turned and shined the flashlight at Hess’s chin — not quite into his eyes — laughed, and turned it off.

“Funny,” he said.

“Had to.”

“What’s the big attraction?”

“Over here.”

Behind the garage was a bare quarter acre of land that Merci had decided was once a vegetable garden. She had made the discovery digging there, trying to save money when the septic tank needed pumping. She was actually trying to sweat out a ferocious anger at Mike McNally and his diabolical little son for letting themselves in, eating her food, leaving the dishes unrinsed and letting the bloodhounds shit tremendously upon the lawn. For about the hundredth time.

She thought the digging might help. According to the owner’s drawing the tank lay about twenty yards south of the garage. The drawing was off by ten feet at least because she never did find the tank, or even a leach line. But the soil was soft and her anger diminished as her blisters grew. And she found what she found, proving to Merci that a will to locate the known could result in discovering the unknown. Her mother would call it serendipity, but she also called a vase a vawz.

She shined her light down through the dead tumbleweeds, saw the plywood. She’d secured the plywood with scrap cinder block, and tied the tumbleweeds to the wood with dental floss. The last thing she wanted was neighborhood kids or dogs into her discovery, or some eggheads from the university.

Hess was standing beside her now. She could hear the short precision of his breathing. He looked slightly forlorn as he stood there in his sport coat with his general’s haircut and stared down into the beam of his flashlight. But there was a good shine to his eyes when he looked at her.

“Nice tumbleweeds,” he said.

“Check it out.”

She set down her glass and flashlight and carried off the cinder blocks with both hands. The edges were sharp and dug into her fingers. She got under the plywood and slid it away. She pulled out the wadded newspapers.

Then she stood and aimed her light in.

“Meet Francisco. He’s real.”

He looked the same as last time, she thought, which was probably the same as he’d looked for about four centuries. The rusted, upswept horn of his conquistador helmet protruded out from the recessed skull like the prow of a ship. The bones were brown and, to Merci, disturbingly small. The skull still had some skin attached, which was black and thin as paper. The beauty of him was the way his old brown bones were still encased in the armor — the helmet and chest plate and belt buckle. He seemed to her a tiny man caught in the hard, oversized diapers of history. His sword with its deeply eroded blade lay to his side. It was the only part of him or his gear that didn’t seem small. In fact, it was gigantic compared to the frail, chest-crossed hands that had once wielded it.

“Is he cool or what?”

Hess was leaning forward at the waist, looking in, the light held out in front of him.

“I think he could have been some kind of law enforcement, but they took his harquebus because it was valuable.”

“No badge.”

“Maybe it rusted away.”

“Hmmm.”

“But he was probably just a soldier. Either way, four hundred years ago he came about halfway around the world and died right here in my backyard.”

She looked down at the small brown bones and pitted armature, feeling what she always felt when she looked at Francisco: that he was here on a mission far more perilous and important than any she would undertake, that there were many more important moments per year back then than there were now, that people had more courage. And they didn’t live very long, either.

Hess continued to stare in. “He looks awful... alone down there.”

“Not so alone, since I found him.”

“Well, whatever, Merci. He looks goddamned alone to me. Have you told anyone?”

“Who? Who are you going to trust with him? A scientist would take him. The health department would take him. A relative would probably say leave him right where he is, but where’s a relative?”

Hess had brought his hand to his face but was still looking down, thinking.

“I like everything about him,” said Merci. “Look at that helmet. And his hands, the way they fold over his ribs. And look at the way those ribs connect up around the back. I never knew the rib cage was so graceful. Plus, his teeth? Look how big and sharp they are, like he was used to eating wild animals.”

“Out here he probably did.”

“And check the belt buckle. I mean, that must have been one big belt he wore. I wish he had some boots on, but I’ll bet you he died with new ones and they took those along with the gun.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

Merci didn’t answer for a long time. She just looked down at Francisco and tried to let her mind retreat through the centuries. The things about him that really bugged her were height and weight, what color his hair and eyes had been, if he’d had a beard or not — the kind of stuff you’d need for a solid suspect description. Sometimes she wished she could think different than a cop, just once in a while.

“You find a conquistador in your backyard and you’d think about him, too.”