When The Bough Breaks

17

The first time I called, at 8 a.m." nobody answered. A half-hour later the University of Oregon was open for business.

"Good morning, Education."

"Good morning. This is Dr. Gene Adler calling from Los Angeles. I'm with the Department of Psychiatry at Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles. We're currently recruiting for a counseling position. One of our applicants has listed on his resume the fact that he received a master's degree in counseling education from your department. As part of our routine credentials check I was wondering if you could verify that for me."

"I'll switch you to Marianne, in transcripts."

Marianne had a warm, friendly voice but when I repeated my story for her she told me, firmly, that a written request would be necessary.

"That's fine with me," I said, "but that will take time. The job for which this individual has applied is being competitively sought by many people. We were planning to make a decision within twenty-four hours. It's just a formality — verification of records — but our liability insurance stipulates that we have to do it. If you'd like I can have the applicant call you to release the information. It's in his best interests."

"Well… I suppose it'll be all right. All you want to know is if this person received a degree, right? Nothing more personal than that?"

"That's correct."

"Who's the applicant?"

"A gentleman named Timothy Kruger. His records list an MA four years ago."

"One moment."

She was gone for ten minutes, and when she returned to the phone she sounded upset.

"Well, Doctor, your formality has turned out to be of some value. There is no record of a degree being granted to a person of that name in the last ten years. We do have record of a Timothy Jay Kruger attending one semester of graduate school four years ago, but his major wasn't in counseling, it was in secondary teaching, and he left after that single semester."

"I see. That's quite disturbing. Any indication of why he left?"

"None. Does that really matter now?"

"No, I suppose not — you're absolutely certain about this? I wouldn't want to jeopardize Mr. Kruger's career—"

"There's no doubt whatsoever." She sounded offended. "I checked and double-checked, Doctor, and then I asked the head of the department, Dr. Gowdy, and he was positive no Timothy Kruger graduated from here."

"Well, that settles it, doesn't it? And it certainly casts a new light on Mr. Kruger. Could you check one more thing?"

"What's that?"

"Mr. Kruger also listed a BA in psychology from Jedson College in Washington State. Would your records contain that kind of information as well?"

"It would be on his application to graduate school. We should have transcripts, but I don't see why you need to—"

"Marianne, I'm going to have to report this to the State Board of Behavioral Science examiners, because state licensure is involved. I want to know all the facts."

"I see. Let me check."

This time she was back in a moment.

"I've got his transcript from Jedson here, Doctor. He did receive a BA but it wasn't in psychology."

"What was it in?"

She laughed.

"Dramatic arts. Acting."

I called the school where Raquel Ochoa taught and had her pulled out of class. Despite that, she seemed pleased to hear from me.

"Hi. How's the investigation going?"

"We're getting closer," I lied. "That's what I called you about. Did Elena keep a diary or any kind of records around the apartment?"

"No. Neither of us were diary writers. Never had been."

"No notebooks, tapes, anything?"

"The only tapes I saw were music — she had a tape deck in her new car — and some cassettes Handler gave her to help her relax. For sleep. Why?"

I ignored the question.

"Where are her personal effects?"

"You should know that. The police had them. I suppose they gave them back to her mother. What's going on? Have you found out something?"

"Nothing definite. Nothing I can talk about. We're trying to fit things together."

"I don't care how you do it, just catch him and punish him. The monster."

I dredged up a rancid lump of false confidence and smeared it all over my voice. "We will."

"I know you will."

Her faith made me uneasy.

"Raquel, I'm away from the files. Do you have her mother's home address handy?"

"Sure." She gave it to me.

"Thanks."

"Are you planning on visiting Elena's family?"

"I thought it would be helpful to talk to them in person."

There was silence on the other end. Then she spoke.

"They're good people. But they may shut you out."

"It's happened before."

She laughed.

"I think you'd do better if I went with you. I'm like a member of the family."

"It's no hassle for you?"

"No. I want to help. When do you want to go?"

"This afternoon."

"Fine. I'll get off early. Tell them I'm not feeling well. Pick me up at two-thirty. Here's my address."

She lived in a modest West L.A. neighborhood not far from where the Santa Monica and San Diego Freeways merged in blissful union, an area of cracker box apartment buildings populated by singles who couldn't afford the Marina.

She was visible a block away, waiting by the curb, dressed in a pigeon-blood crepe blouse, blue denim skirt and tooled western boots.

She got in the car, crossed a pair of unstockinged brown legs and smiled.

"Hi."

"Hi. Thanks for doing this."

"I told you, this is something I want to do. I want to feel useful."

I drove north, toward Sunset. There was jazz on the radio, something free form and atonal, with saxophone solos that sounded like police sirens and drums like a heart in arrest.

"Change it, if you'd like."

She pushed some buttons, fiddled with the dial, and found a mellow rock station. Someone was singing about lost love and old movies and tying it all together.

"What do you want to know from them?" she asked, settling back.

"If Elena told them anything about her work — specifically the child who died. Anything about Handler."

There were lots of questions in her eyes but she kept them there.

"Talking about Handler will be especially touchy. The family didn't like the idea of her going out with a man who was so much older. And—" she hesitated, — "an Anglo, to boot. In situations like that the tendency is to deny the whole thing, not even to acknowledge it. It's cultural."

"To some extent it's human."

"To some extent, maybe. We Hispanics do it more. Part of it is Catholicism. The rest is our Indian blood. How can you survive in some of the desolate regions we've lived in without denying reality? You smile, and pretend it's lush and fertile and there's plenty of water and food, and the desert doesn't seem so bad."

"Any suggestions how I might get around the denial?"

"I don't know." She sat with her hands folded in her lap, a proper schoolgirl. "I think I'd better start the talking. Cruz — Elena's mom — always liked me. Maybe I can get through. But don't expect miracles."

She had little to worry about on that account.

Echo Park is a chunk of Latin America transported to the dusty, hilly streets that, buttressed by crumbling concrete embankments on either side of Sunset Boulevard, rise between Hollywood and downtown. The streets have names like Macbeth and Macduff, Bonnybrae and Laguna, but are anything but poetic. They climb to the south and dip down into the Union District ghetto. To the north they climb, feeding into the tiny lake-centered park that gives the area its name, continue through arid trails, get lost in an incongruous wilderness that looks down upon Dodger Stadium, and Elysian Park, home of the Los Angeles Police Academy.

Sunset changes when it leaves Hollywood and enters Echo Park. The porno theaters and by-the-hour motels yield to botdnicas and bode gas outlets for Discos Latinos, an infinite array of food stands — taco joints, Peruvian seafood parlors, fast-food franchises — and first-rate Latino restaurants, beauty shops with windows guarded by Styrofoam skulls wearing blond Dynel wigs, Cuban bakeries, storefront medical and legal clinics, bars and social clubs. Like many poor areas, the Echo Park part of Sunset is continually clogged with foot traffic.

The Seville cut a slow swath through the afternoon mob. There was a mood on the boulevard as urgent and sizzling as the molten lard spitting forth from the fryers of the food stands. There were home boys sporting homemade tattoos, fifteen-year-old mothers wheeling fat babies in rickety strollers that threatened to fall apart at every curb, rummies, pushers, starched collared immigration lawyers, cleaning women on shore leave, grandmothers, flower vendors, a never ending stream of brown-eyed children.

"It's very weird," said Raquel, "coming back here. In a fancy car."

"How long have you been gone?"

"A thousand years."

She didn't seem to want to say more so I dropped it. At Fairbanks Place she told me to turn left. The Gutierrez home was at the end of an alley — sized twister that peaked, then turned into a dirt road just above the foothills. A quarter mile further and we'd have been the only humans in the world.

I'd noticed that she had a habit of biting herself — lips, fingers, knuckles — when she was nervous. And she was gnawing at her thumb right now. I wondered what kind of hunger it satisfied.

I drove cautiously — there was scarcely room for a single vehicle — passing young men in T-shirts working on old cars with the dedication of priests before a shrine, children sucking candy-coated fingers. Long ago, the street had been planted with elms that had grown huge. Their roots buckled the sidewalk and weeds grew in the cracks. Branches scraped the roof of the car. An old woman with inflamed legs wrapped in rags pushed a shopping cart full of memories up an incline worthy of San Francisco. Graffiti scarred every free inch of space, proclaiming the immortality of Little Willie Chacon, the Echo Parque Skulls, Los Conquistadores the Lemoyne Boys and the tongue of Maria Paula Bonilla.

"There." She pointed to a cottage like frame house painted light green and roofed with brown tarpaper. The front yard was dry and brown but rimmed with hopeful beds of red geraniums and clusters of orange and yellow poppies that looked like all-day suckers. There was rock trim at the base of the house and a portico over the entry that shadowed a sagging wooden porch upon which a man sat.

"That's Rafael, the older brother. On the porch."

I found a parking space next to a Chevy on blocks. I turned the wheels to the curb and locked them in place. We got out of the car, dust spiraling at our heels.

"Rafael!" she called and waved. The man on the porch took a moment to lift his gaze, then he raised his hand — feebly, it seemed.

"I used to live right around the corner," she said, making it sound like a confession. She led me up a dozen steps and through an open iron gate.

The man on the porch hadn't risen. He stared at us with apprehension and curiosity and something else that I couldn't identify. He was pale and thin to the point of being gaunt, with the same curious mixture of Hispanic features and fair coloring as his dead sister. His lips were bloodless, his eyes heavily lidded. He looked like the victim of some systemic disease. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbows. It bloused out around his waist, several sizes too large. His trousers were black and looked as if they'd once belonged to a fat man's suit. His shoes were bubble-toed oxfords, cracked at the tips, worn unlaced with the tongues protruding and revealing thick white socks. His hair was short and combed straight back.

He was in his mid-twenties but he had an old man's face, a weary, wary mask.

Raquel went to him and kissed him lightly on the top of his head. He looked up at her but was unmoved.

"H'lo, Rocky."

"Rafael, how are you?"

"O.K." He nodded his head and it looked for a moment as if it would roll off his neck. He let his eyes settle on me; he was having trouble focusing.

Raquel bit her lip.

"We came by to see you and Andy and your mom. This is Alex Delaware. He works with the police. He's involved in investigating Elena's case."

His face registered alarm, his hands tightened around the arm of the chair. Then, as if responding to a stage direction to relax, he grinned at me, slumped lower, winked.

"Yeah," he said.

I held out my hand. He looked at it, puzzled, recognized it as a long-lost friend, and extended his own thin claw.

His arm was pitifully undernourished, a bundle of sticks held together by a sallow paper wrapper. As our fingers touched his sleeve rode up and I saw the track marks. There were lots of them. Most looked old — lumpy charcoal smudges — but a few were freshly pink. One, in particular, was no antique, sporting a pinpoint of blood at its center.

His handshake was moist and tenuous. I let go and the arm fell limply to his side.

"Hey, man," he said, barely audible. "Good to meetja." He turned away, lost in his own timeless dream-hell. For the first time I heard the oldies music coming from a cheap transistor radio on the floor beside his chair. The puny plastic box crackled with static. The sound reproduction was atrocious, the music had the chalky quality of notes filtered through a mile of mud. Rafael had his head thrown back, enraptured. To him it was the Celestial Choir transmitting directly to his temporal lobes.

"Rafael," she smiled.

He looked at her, smiled, nodded off and was gone.

She stared at him, tears in her eyes. I moved toward her and she turned away in shame and rage.

"Goddammit."

"How long has he been shooting up?"

"Years. But I thought he'd quit. The last I'd heard he'd quit." She raised her hand to her mouth, swayed, as if ready to fall. I got in position to catch her but she righted herself. "He got hooked in Viet Nam. Came home with a heavy habit. Elena spent lots of time and money trying to help him get off. A dozen times he tried, and each time he slipped back. But he'd been off it for over a year. Elena was so happy about it. He got a job as a box boy at the Lucky's on Alvarado."

She faced me, nostrils flaring, eyes floating like black lilies in a salty pond, lips quivering like harp strings.

"Everything is falling apart."

She grasped the newel post on the porch rail for support. I came behind her.

"I'm sorry."

"He was always the sensitive one. Quiet, never dating, no friends. He got beat up a lot. When their dad died he tried to take over, to be the man of the house. Tradition says the oldest son should do that. But it didn't work. Nobody took him seriously. They laughed. We all did. So he gave up, as if he'd failed some final test. He dropped out of school, stayed home and read comic books and watched TV all day — just stared at the screen. When the army said they wanted him he seemed glad. Cruz cried to see him go, but he was happy…"

I looked at him, sitting so low he was almost parallel with the ground. Swallowed up by junkie-slumber. His mouth was open and he snored loudly. The radio played "Daddy's Home."

Raquel hazarded another look at him, men whipped her head away, disgusted. She wore an expression of noble suffering, an Aztec virgin steeling herself for the ultimate sacrifice.

I put my hands on her shoulders and she leaned back in my arms. She stayed there, tense and unyielding, allowing herself a miser's ration of tears.

"This is a hell of a start," she said. Inhaling deeply, she let out her breath in a breeze of wintergreen. She wiped her eyes and turned around. "You must think all I do is weep. Come on, let's go inside."

She pulled the screen door open and it slapped sharply against the wood siding of the house.

We stepped into a small front room furnished with old but cared — for relics. It was warm and dark, the windows shut tight and masked by yellowing parchment shades — a room unaccustomed to visitors. Faded lace curtains were tied back from the window frames and matching lace coverlets shielded the arms of the chairs — a sofa and love seat set upholstered in dark green crushed velvet, the worn spots shiny and the color of jungle parrots, two wicker rockers. A painting of the two dead Kennedy brothers in black velvet hung over the mantel. Carvings in wood and Mexican onyx sat atop lace-covered end tables. There were two floor lamps with beaded shades, a plaster Jesus in agony hanging on the whitewashed wall next to a still life of a straw basket of oranges. Family portraits in ornate frames covered another wall and there was a large graduation picture of Elena suspended high above those. A spider crawled in the space where wall met ceiling.

A door to the right revealed a sliver of white tile. Raquel walked to the sliver and peeked in.

"Senora Cruz?"

The doorway widened and a small, heavy woman appeared, dishtowel in hand. She wore a blue print dress, unbelted and her gray-black hair was tied back in a bun, held in place by a mock tortoiseshell comb. Silver earrings dangled from her ears and salmon spots of rouge punctuated her cheekbones. Her skin had the delicate, baby-soft look common in old women who had once been beautiful.

"Raquelita!"

She put her towel down, came out, and the two women embraced for a long moment.

When she saw me over Raquel's shoulder, she smiled. But her face closed up as tight as a pawnbroker's safe. She pulled away and gave a small bow.

"Senor," she said, with too much deference, and looked at Raquel, arching one eyebrow.

"Senora Gutierrez."

Raquel spoke to her in rapid Spanish. I caught the words "Elena," "policia," and "doctor." She ended it with a question.

The older woman listened politely, then shook her head.

"No." Some things are the same in any language.

Raquel turned to me. "She says she knows nothing more than what she told the police the first time."

"Can you ask her about the Nemeth boy? They didn't ask her about that."

She turned to speak, then stopped.

"Why don't we take it slowly? It would help if we ate. Let her be a hostess, let her give to us."

I was genuinely hungry and told her so. She relayed the message to Mrs. Gutierrez, who nodded and returned to her kitchen.

"Let's sit down," Raquel said.

I took the love seat She tucked herself into a corner of the sofa.

The senora came back with cookies and fruit and hot coffee. She asked Raquel something.

"She'd like to know if this is substantial enough to would you like some homemade chorizo?"

"Please tell her this is wonderful. However if you think my accepting chorizo would help things along, I'll oblige."

Raquel spoke again. A few moments later I was facing a platter of the spicy sausage, rice, refried beans and salad with lemon-oil dressing.

"Muchas gracias, senora." I dug in.

I couldn't understand much of what they were saying, but it sounded and looked like small talk. The two women touched each other a lot, patting hands, stroking cheeks. They smiled, and seemed to forget my presence.

Then suddenly the wind shifted and the laughter turned to tears. Mrs. Gutierrez ran out of the room, seeking the refuge of her kitchen.

Raquel shook her head.

"We were talking about the old times, when Elena and I were little girls. How we used to play secretary in the bushes, pretend we had typewriters and desks out there. It became difficult for her."

I pushed my plate aside.

"Do you think we should go?" I asked.

"Let's wait a while." She poured me more coffee and filled a cup for herself. "It would be more respectful."

Through the screen door I could see the top of Rafael's fair head above the rim of the chair. His arm had fallen, so that the fingernails scraped the ground. He was beyond pleasure or pain.

"Did she talk about him?" I asked.

"No. As I told you, it's easier to deny."

"But how can he sit there, shooting up, right in front of her, with no pretense?"

"She used to cry a lot about it. After a while you accept the fact that things aren't going to turn out the way you want them to. She's had plenty of training in it, believe me. If you asked her about him she'd say he was sick. Just as if he had a cold, or the measles. It's just a matter of finding the right cure. Have you heard of the curanderos?"

"The folk doctors? Yes. Lots of the Hispanic patients at the hospital used them along with conventional medicine."

"Do you know how they operate? By caring. In our culture the cold, distant professional is regarded as someone who simply doesn't care, who is just as likely to deliver the mal ojo — the evil eye — as he is to cure. The curandero, on the other hand has little training or technology at his disposal — a few snake powders, maybe. But he cares. He lives in the community, he is warm, and familiar, has tremendous rapport. In a way, he's a folk psychologist more than a folk doctor. That's why I suggested you eat — to establish a personal link. I told her you were a caring person. Otherwise she'd say nothing. She'd be polite, ladylike — Cruz is from the old school — but she'd shut you out just the same." She sipped at her coffee.

"That's why the police learned nothing when they came here, why they seldom do in Echo Park, or East L.A. or San Fernando. They're too professional. No matter how well-meaning they may be, we see them as Anglo robots. You do care, Alex, don't you?"

"I do."

She touched my knee.

"Cruz took Rafael to a curandero years ago, when he first started dropping out. The man looked into his eyes and said they were empty. He told her it was an illness of the soul, not of the body. That the boy should be given to the church, as a priest or monk, so that he could find a useful role for himself."

"Not bad advice."

She sipped her coffee. "No. Some of them are very sophisticated. They live by their wits. Maybe it would have prevented the addiction if she'd followed through. Who knows? But she couldn't give him up. I wouldn't be surprised if she blames herself for what he's become. For everything."

The door to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Gutierrez came out wearing a black band around her arm and a new face that was more than just fresh makeup. A face hardened to withstand the acid bath of interrogation.

She sat down next to Raquel and whispered to her in Spanish.

"She says you may ask any questions you'd like."

I nodded with what I hoped was obvious gratitude.

"Please tell the senora that I express my sorrow at her tragic loss and also let her knew that I greatly appreciate her taking the time during her period of grief to talk to me."

The older woman listened to the translation and acknowledged me with a quick movement of her head.

"Ask her, Raquel, if Elena ever talked about her work. Especially during the last year."

As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman's face.

"She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long and the children could get difficult."

"Any particular children?"

A whispered conference.

"No child in particular. The senora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties."

I wondered to myself if there'd been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl's choice of specialty.

"Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?"

Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.

"She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy," Raquel translated.

"Nothing else?"

"It would be rude to pursue it, Alex."

"Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?"

"No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute." She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. "This wasn't always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud."

I prepared myself for more tears, but there were none. The grieving mother looked at me with a cold, dark expression of challenge. I dare you, she was saying, to besmirch the memory of my little girl.

I looked away.

"Do you think I can ask her about Handler now?"

Before Raquel could answer, Mrs. Gutierrez spit. She gesticulated with both hands, raised her voice and uttered what had to be a string of curses. She ended the diatribe by spitting again.

"Need I translate?" asked Raquel.

"Don't bother." I made a mental search for a new line of questioning. Normally, my approach would have been to start off with small talk, casual banter, and subtly switch to direct questions. I was dissatisfied with the crude way I was handling this interview, but working with a translator was like doing surgery wearing garden gloves.

"Ask her if there is anything else she can tell me that might help us find the man who — you phrase it."

The old woman listened and answered vehemently.

"She says there is nothing. That the world has become a crazy place, full of demons. That a demon must have done this to Elena."

"Muchas gracias, senora. Ask her if I might have a look at Elena's personal effects."

Raquel asked her and the mother deliberated. She looked me over from head to toe, sighed, and got up.

"Venga," she said, and led me to the rear of the house.

The flotsam and jetsam of Elena Gutierrez's twenty-eight years had been stored in cardboard boxes and stuck in a corner of what passed, in the tiny house, as a service porch. There was a windowed door with a view of the backyard. An apricot tree grew there, gnarled and deformed, spreading its fruit-laden branches across the rotting roof of a single car garage.

Across the hall was a small bedroom with two beds, the domicile of the brothers. From where I knelt I could see a maple dresser and shelves constructed of unfinished planks resting on cinder blocks. The shelves held a cheap stereo and a modest record collection. A carton of Marlboros and a pile of paperbacks shared the top of the dresser. One of the beds was neatly made, the other a jumble of tangled sheets. Between them was a single pine end table holding a lamp with a plastic base, an ashtray, and a copy of a Spanish girlie magazine.

Feeling like a Peeping Tom, I pulled the first box close and began my excursion in pop archaeology.

By the time I'd gone through three boxes I'd succumbed to an indigo mood. My hands were filthy with dust, my mind filled with images of the dead girl. There'd been nothing of substance, just the broken shards that surface at any prolonged dig. Clothing smelling of girl, half-empty bottles of cosmetics — reminders that someone had once tried to make her eyelashes look thick and lush, to give her hair that Clairol shine, to cover her blemishes and gloss her lips and smell good in all the right places. Scraps of paper with reminders to pick up eggs at Vons and wine at Vendome and other cryptograms laundry receipts, gasoline credit-card stubs, books — lots of them, mostly biographies and poetry, souvenirs — a miniature ukulele from Hawaii, an ashtray from a hotel in Palm Springs, ski boots, an almost-full disc of birth control pills, old lesson plans, memos from the principal, children's drawings — none by a boy named Nemeth.

It was too much like grave robbing for my taste. I understood, more than ever, why Milo drank too much.

There were two boxes to go. I went at them, working faster, and was almost done when the roar of a motorcycle filled the air, then died. The back door opened, footsteps sounded in the foyer.

"What the fuck—"

He was nineteen or twenty, short and powerfully built, wearing a sweat-soaked brown tank top that showed every muscle, grease-stained khaki pants and work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant. It dropped over his lips and glistened like sable fur. The beard was a skimpy triangle of down on his chin. He looked like a kid playing Pancho Villa in the school play.

There was a ring of keys hanging from his belt and the keys jingled when he came toward me. His hands were balled up into grimy fists and he smelled of motor oil.

I showed him my L.A.P.D. badge. He swore, but stopped.

"Listen man, you guys were here last week. We told you we had nothin'—" He stopped and looked down at the contents of the cardboard box strewn on the floor. "Shit, you went through all that stuff already. I just packed it up, man, getting' it ready for the Goodwill."

"Just a recheck," I said amiably.

"Yeah, man, why don't you dudes learn to get it right in the first fuckin' place, okay?"

"I'll be through in a moment."

"You're through now, man. Out." I stood.

"Give me a few minutes to wrap it up."

"Out man." He crooked his thumb toward the back door.

"I'm trying to investigate the death of your sister, Andy. It wouldn't hurt you to cooperate."

He took a step closer. There were grease smudges on his forehead, and under his eyes.

"Don't "Andy' me, dude. This is my place and it's Mr. Gutierrez. And don't give me that shit about investigating. You guys aren't never gonna catch the dude who did it to Elena 'cause you don't really give a fuck. Come bustin' into a home and going through personal stuff and treatin' us like peasants, man. You go out on the street and find the dude, man. This was Beverly Hills, he'd already 'a' been caught, he do this to some rich guy's daughter."

His voice broke and he shut up to hide it.

"Mr. Gutierrez," I said softly, "cooperation from family can be very helpful in these—"

"Hey, man, I told you, this family don't know nothing about this. You think we know what kind of crazy asshole do something like that? You think people around here act like that, man?"

He squinted at my badge, reading it with effort, moving his lips. He mouthed the word 'consultant' a couple of times before getting it.

"Aw, man, I don't believe it. You're not even a real cop. Fucking consultant, they send around here. What's Ph.D." man?"

"Doctorate in psychology."

"You a shrink, man — fuckin' headshrinker they send aroun' here, think someone's crazy here! You think someone in this family is crazy, man? Do you?"

He was breathing on me now. His eyes were soft and brown, long lashed and dreamy as a girl's. Eyes like that could make you doubt yourself, could lead a guy to get into some heavy macho posturing.

I thought the family had plenty of problems but I didn't answer his question.

"What the fuck you doin' here, psychin' us out, man?"

He sprayed me with spittle as he spoke. A balloon of anger expanded in my gut. Automatically my body assumed a defensive karate stance.

"It's not like that, I can explain. Or are you determined to be pigheaded?"

I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.

"Pig — goddammit man, you're the pig!" His voice rose an octave and he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

I was ready but I didn't move. He's in mourning, I kept telling myself. He's not responsible.

I met his gaze and he backed off. Both of us would have welcomed an excuse to duke it out. So much for civilization.

"Get out, man. Now!"

"Antonio!"

Mrs. Gutierrez had come into the hallway. Raquel was visible behind her. Seeing her I felt suddenly ashamed. I'd done a great job of screwing up a sensitive situation. The brilliant psychologist…

"Mom, did you let this dude in?"

Mrs. Gutierrez apologized to me with her eyes and spoke to her son in Spanish. He seemed to wilt under mama's wagging finger and dark looks.

"Mom, I told you before, they don't give a—" She stopped, continued in Spanish. It sounded like he was defending himself, the machismo slowly rendered impotent.

They were back and forth for a while. Then he started in on Raquel. She gave it right back to him: "The man is trying to help you, Andy. Why don't you help him instead of chasing him away?"

"I don't need nobody's help. We're gonna take care of ourselves the way we always did."

She sighed.

"Shit!" He went into his room, came out with a pack of Marlboros and made a big deal out of lighting one and jamming it into his mouth. He disappeared, momentarily, behind a blue cloud, then the eyes flashed once again, moving from me to his mother, to Raquel, and back to me. He pulled his key ring from his belt and held the keys sandwiched between his fingers, impromptu brass knuckles.

"I'm leaving now, dude. But when I get back you fucking well better be gone."

He kicked the door open and jogged out. We heard the thunder of the motorcycle starting and the diminishing scream of the machine as it sped away.

Mrs. Gutierrez hung her head and said something to Raquel.

"She asks your forgiveness for Andy's rudeness. He's been very upset since Elena's death. He's working two jobs and under a lot of pressure."

I held a hand up to stop the apology.

"There's no need to explain. I only hope I haven't caused the senora needless troubles."

Translation was superfluous. The look on the mother's face was eloquent.

I rummaged through the last two boxes with little enthusiasm and came up with no new insights. The sour taste of the confrontation with Andy lingered. I experienced the kind of shame you feel upon digging too deep, seeing and hearing more than you need or want to. Like a child walking in on his parents lovemaking or a hiker kicking aside a rock only to catch a glimpse of something slimy on the underside.

I'd seen families like the Gutierrezes' before; I'd known scores of Rafaels and Andys. It was a pattern: the slob and the super kid playing out their roles with depressing predictability. One unable to cope, the other trying to take charge of everything. The slob, getting others to take care of him, shirking his responsibilities, coasting through life but feeling like — a slob. The super kid competent, compulsive, working two jobs, even three when the situation called for it, making up for the slob's lack of accomplishment, earning the admiration of the family, refusing to stoop under the weight of his burden, keeping his rage under wraps — but not always.

I wondered what role Elena had played when she was alive. Had she been the peacemaker, the go between? Getting caught in the crossfire between slob and super kid could be hazardous to one's health.

I repacked her things as neatly as I could.

When we stepped onto the porch Rafael was still stuporous. The sound of the Seville starting up jolted him awake, and he blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a bad dream, stood with effort, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He looked in our direction, puzzled. Raquel turned away from him, a tourist avoiding a leprous beggar. As I pulled away I saw a spark of recognition brighten his doped-up countenance, then more bewilderment.

The approaching darkness had dimmed the activity level on Sunset but there was still plenty of life on the streets. Car horns honked, raucous laughter rose above the exhaust fumes and mariachi music blared from the open doors of the bars. Traces of neon appeared and lights flickered in the foothills.

"I really blew it," I said.

"No, you can't blame yourself." In the mood she was in, boosting me took effort. I appreciated that effort and told her so.

"I mean it, Alex. You were very sensitive with Cruz — I can see why you were a successful psychologist. She liked you."

"It obviously doesn't run in the family."

She was silent for a few blocks.

"Andy's a nice boy — he never joined the gangs, took lots of punishment because of it. He expects a lot out of himself. Everything's on his shoulders, now."

"With all that weight why add a two-ton chip?"

"You're right. He makes more problems for himself — don't we all? He's only eighteen. Maybe he'll grow up."

"I keep wondering if there was some way I could have handled it better." I recounted the details of my exchange with the boy.

"The pigheaded crack didn't help things, but it didn't make a difference. He came in ready to fight. When Latin men get that way there's little you can do. Add alcohol to that and you can see why we pack the emergency rooms with knifing victims every Saturday night."

I thought of Elena Gutierrez and Morton Handler. They'd never made it to the emergency room. I allowed myself a short ride on that train of thought, then skidded to a stop and dumped the thoughts in a dark depot somewhere in the south of my subconscious.

I looked over at Raquel. She sat stiffly in the soft leather, refusing to give herself over to comfort. Her body was still but her hands played nervously with the fabric of her skirt.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. When in doubt, stick to basics.

"No. If you want you can stop for yourself."

"I can still taste the chorizo."

"You can take me home, then."

When I got to her apartment it was dark and the streets were empty.

"Thanks for coming with me."

"I hope it was helpful."

"Without you it would have been disastrous."

"Thank you." She smiled and leaned over. It started out as a kiss on the cheek but one or both of us moved and it turned into a kiss on the lips. Then a tentative nibble, nurtured with heat and want, that matured quickly into a gasping, ravenous adult bite. We moved closer simultaneously, her arms easing around my neck, my hands in her hair, on her face, at the small of her back. Our mouths opened and our tongues danced a slow waltz. We breathed heavily, squirming, struggling to get closer.

We necked like two teenagers for endless minutes. I undid a button of her blouse. She made a throaty sound, caught my lower lip between her teeth, licked my ear. My hand slithered around to the hot silk of her back, working with a mind of its own, undoing the clasp of her brassiere, cupping around her breast. The nipple, pebble-hard and moist, nestled against my palm. She lowered one hand, slender fingers tugging at my fly.

I was the one who stopped it.

"What's the matter?"

There's nothing you can say in a situation like that that doesn't sound like a cliche or totally idiotic, or both. I opted for both.

"I'm sorry. Don't take it personally."

She threw herself upright, busied herself with buttoning, fastening, smoothing her hair.

"How else should I take it?"

"You're very desirable."

"Very."

"I'm attracted to you, dammit. I'd love to make love to you."

"What is it, then?"

"A commitment."

"You're not married, are you? You don't act married."

"There are other commitments besides marriage."

"I see." She gathered up her purse and put her hand on the door handle. "The person you're committed to, it would matter to her?"

"Yes. More important, it would matter to me."

She burst out laughing, verging on hysteria.

"I'm sorry," she said, catching her breath. "It's so damned ironic. You think I do this often? This is the first time I've been interested in a guy in a long time. The nun cuts loose and comes face to face with a saint."

She giggled. It sounded feverish, fragile, made me uneasy. I was weary of being on the receiving end of someone's — anyone's — frustration but I supposed she was entitled to her moment of cathartic stardom.

"I'm no saint, believe me."

She touched my cheek with her fingers. It was like being raked with hot coals.

"No, you're just a nice guy, Delaware."

"I don't feel like that, either."

"I'm going to kiss you again," she said, "but it's going to stay chaste this time. The way it should have been in the first place."

And she did.