CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 5 page

I’m sure you had a firm policy against getting caught, at very least, thought Veronica.

“Have any other complaints against him surfaced?”

“None that I’ve heard. Then again, the entire service staff has clammed up since the raid. No one’s talking—the Sheriff’s Department has already been sniffing around trying to get information from them.”

“Nothing puts a disenfranchised group at ease quite like armed men in uniforms,” Veronica said. “Mind if I try my luck?”

“Sure. Gladys can give you a pass card to get you down to the service corridor.”

With that, their interview wound down to a close. Veronica shut her notebook and slid it into her purse. Then she paused, looking back at the woman on the other side of the oversized desk. A folded newspaper sat in front of her, Dan Lamb’s picture leering up from the photo. Veronica’s jaw tightened.

“Still voting for Sheriff Lamb in the election?”

Petra looked amused. “Who else is there?”

—

Outside the office, Veronica paused at the reception desk. The nameplate perched on the corner read Gladys Corrigan. The woman behind it was short and matronly, her red hair set in a stiff bob. She smiled up at Veronica over her monitor.

“Ms. Landros told me you’d like the guest roster from March sixth. Do you have a flash drive?”

Veronica didn’t have time to wonder what arcane bureaucratic magic had delivered the message so fast. She rummaged in her purse, found the stray flash drive she always kept handy, and handed it across. Veronica watched the woman’s fingers fly over the keyboard, entering her personal login information to access the database. A moment later the flash drive was back in Veronica’s hand.

“Thanks.” She slid the drive in her purse. “I was also wondering if you could look up who was working at the Eagle’s Nest that same night?”

“Sure.” Another flourish across the keyboard. She paused. “Looks like it was Alyssa Winchell that night.”

So that part of Grace’s story checks out, at least. “She doesn’t happen to be working right now, does she?”

“No, ma’am, but I can give you her number.”

Veronica wrote the digits down in her notebook, just in case. It would be better to come back and talk to her here, though, in the place where it happened. Memories were sometimes a little stronger at the scene of the crime.

“And you wanted to talk to the laundry employees as well?” Gladys cocked her head. “Is this about Miguel Ramirez?”

Veronica blinked. “Did you know him?”

Gladys gave a sad nod. “We both went to St. Mary’s. Sweet, sweet young man. I just don’t believe he could have done what…what they say he did.”

“Did you ever see him at work?”

She looked mildly scandalized. “Of course not. The laundry workers are in the basement. I don’t go down there.” She handed Veronica a white plastic pass card. “This will get you onto the service elevator. The laundry is straight down the hall from where you get off.”

If Miguel Ramirez were a rapist, he wouldn’t be the first one called a “sweet, sweet young man” by an acquaintance who refused to believe it. Still, Veronica made a mental note while she waited for the elevator. If nothing else, now she knew something else about him: Monster or not, he charmed the church ladies.

Instead of going straight down to laundry, she rode the elevator from the third floor administrative offices all the way up to the Eagle’s Nest. She paused to glance around the quiet bar—it was late afternoon, still too early for the happy hour customers—then went into the stairwell. She wanted to take the stairs from the roof to the basement, to retrace Grace’s steps as closely as possible. She descended the concrete stairs slowly, examining the walls and floors as she did. She didn’t expect to see any sign of a struggle—Bundrick and Foss had swept the stairs for blood evidence months ago to no avail—but it was worth keeping her eyes peeled, just in case.

The stairwell somehow felt both utilitarian and surreal—murky light, all the normal sounds of the hotel muted and far away while her own footsteps echoed up and down the deep vertical corridor. It was easy to imagine Grace Manning there with her, just a flight or two ahead, walking into unsuspected disaster. Veronica picked up her pace, anxious to reach the bottom.

She didn’t meet a soul until the fourth floor, when she caught a whiff of tobacco smoke. She looked over the edge of the railing to see two women in maid’s uniforms sharing a cigarette and speaking in Spanish a few flights below. Though they were talking in low voices, their speech reverberated strangely against the walls, creating an illusion that they were much closer. When they caught sight of her, they quickly stubbed out the smoke and went silent, though they didn’t leave their perch. She had to squeeze between them to get past.

No cameras in the stairwell. And the employees seem to know it.

Finally, she got to the bottom of the stairs. She swiped the card Gladys had given her and went through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

The service corridor was long and windowless. Fluorescent track lighting ran along the ceiling. There was a large employee lounge through one door, with vending machines and threadbare furniture. When Veronica poked her head in, the only occupant was a woman in a maid’s uniform, stretched out on a sofa with a newspaper over her face. A handful of workers, most of them Hispanic, passed her in the hallway, but none spared her more than a passing glance.

The laundry stood behind a pair of swinging double doors. As Veronica entered, a blast of hot air pushed against her. The machines’ roaring and whooshing sounds filled the cavernous space. There were five employees, all in red polo shirts with the Neptune Grand crest on the breast pocket. One broad-chested woman shoved an armful of sheets into a washing machine. At a large table, a man and a woman worked together to fold clean linens. Two more women stood at a station surrounded by garment bags, ironing clothes. Shelves full of clean sheets and towels covered most of one wall.

As she moved deeper into the room, she spotted a row of wheeled, fabric-sided linen bins. She paused to look them over. Definitely room for a body—especially one as small as Grace’s. But I still can’t see how he’d get her out of the building without the cameras picking it up.

The woman who’d been loading the machine was the first to notice Veronica. She was no taller than Veronica, but she was stocky, her body compact and muscular. She approached with a wary expression, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead.

“Hola,” Veronica said. “Mi nombre es Veronica Mars. ¿Hablas inglés?”

“A little,” said the woman. Her accent was heavy, but her words were carefully enunciated. She waited, her expression unreadable.

Quickly, Veronica considered her options. There weren’t many. Anyone who actually knew Miguel Ramirez wouldn’t want to discuss him with some perky blonde gringa they’d never seen before, particularly after an ICE raid. Deportations tended to get people scared, and scared people didn’t talk. But she had to try.

“I’m working for the Grand’s insurance company,” she said, consciously avoiding the word “investigator.” “I’m trying to find any information I can on a man named Miguel Ramirez. He worked here until a few months ago. Do you remember him?”

Something in the room changed at the mention of the name. The employees stopped what they were doing and looked up at her.

The woman shifted her weight. “I don’t remember.”

Veronica nodded. “Please, Señora, may I ask you how long you’ve worked for the Neptune Grand?”

“Six years,” she said. “All legal.”

“So you were here when Mr. Ramirez worked here?”

“I don’t remember,” she said again, her expression unchanging.

Veronica looked around the room helplessly. “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble. I just need to know more about him. Can anyone here help me?”

For a moment, the woman stared at her, unblinking.

“No one remembers him. He was not one of us.”

Veronica nodded slowly. It was obvious that the interview was over. “I see. Thanks so much for your time.” She turned and left, feeling their eyes on her. There was no point in continuing this line of questioning. If Ramirez’s coworkers knew anything about the attack, they weren’t about to share it with her. She’d have to find another way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Keith pushed open the door to Mane Attraction on Monday afternoon, a single bell hanging on the handle clattered against the glass. The little salon occupied a storefront in a strip mall just a few blocks from the Camelot Motel. The name of the shop was stenciled in pink tempera paint across the windows.

Someone had once made an effort to give the space a little flair, but now the pink walls were smudged gray with a decade’s worth of handprints. Faded photos of outdated hairstyles hung over the mirrors, along with dozens of glittery fake butterflies, their antennae bent and broken. There were three stations, but only one was currently in use. A middle-aged woman sat in the chair beneath a purple smock. Behind her stood a tall, wiry woman, her hair teased in an extravagant bouffant.

The hairdresser glanced up as she heard the door. “Be right with you, hon.” Her voice was soft and a little gravelly.

“Sure. Take your time.” Keith pretended to look at his phone while the woman in the chair resumed a story about her ex-husband’s new girlfriend.

“He tried sushi with her. Sushi. When he was with me he wouldn’t even try a new brand of cereal.”

The hairdresser made little tsk noises in response, shaking her head as she worked. Keith could see that she was younger than he’d first thought—maybe in her early thirties. Her face was caked with makeup, but it couldn’t quite cover up the pitted scars across her cheeks. Her fingers, though, were slender and clean, her nails sculpted and painted pearly blue.

She’s not using now, Keith thought. If she were, those nails would be bitten to the quick. But she still had the gaunt, hollowed-out look of a meth addict.

“All right, Carla, take a seat over here.” She patted the arm of an ancient-looking dryer chair just across from her beauty station. The older woman sat down, and the hairdresser adjusted the bowl of the dryer over her head. “I’m gonna see to this gentlemen. It doesn’t look like it’ll take too long. Just a little off the top?” She winked at Keith.

He chuckled, hands in his pockets, waiting for her to get the woman set up with the dryer full blast in her ears.

“So what can I do for you?” The woman picked up a broom and started sweeping hair away from her chair.

“Are you Casey Roarke?”

She froze for a split second. “Yeah, that’s me. And who’s asking?”

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. Glancing at Carla to make sure she was safely involved in her Cosmo, the dryer blasting in her ears, he spoke in a low, calm voice.

“Ms. Roarke, I’m Keith Mars. I’m a private investigator. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

Her expression turned cagey. “What about?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the lawsuit against the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department—the one that’s accusing them of planting evidence to boost their arrest numbers.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any of that.”

He looked down, shifting his weight slightly. He was a solidly built man, but over the years he’d learned to morph into a less imposing figure when he needed to put someone at ease. Shoulders and belly relaxed, thumbs hooked in front pockets, a hint of Andy Griffith in the voice, sans the overt rurality. “Well, if I’m not mistaken, in August 2012, you were pulled over for speeding. Deputy Douglas Harlon searched your vehicle and found three grams of crystal meth in your glove box. From what I heard, you denied it was yours for more than a week, before changing your story and pleading guilty to a misdemeanor drug charge.”

Casey’s face hardened. “Fine, I’m a tweaker. So what?”

“I don’t think that meth was yours,” he said evenly. “I think Deputy Harlon planted it in your car because you already had a record and because he needed an arrest that night.”

Her fingers tightened around the broom handle. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you put in a call to the ACLU on August twenty-first. You told the volunteer that you’d been clean for eight months when the cops found that eight ball.”

She shrugged. “I was looking for a way out of jail.” She leaned toward him. “Haven’t you ever met an addict before? We’re liars.”

Keith didn’t miss a beat. “Doug Harlon was the same deputy who arrived on the scene when my client was shot. He made sure there was a Glock in his hand when backup arrived. And you aren’t the only two with stories like that.”

“Yeah, but that’s all you’ve got. A bunch of stories.” She shook her head. “You know what I’ve got? Three kids I just got back from CPS. You have kids?”

“A daughter.”

“Well, imagine if someone could take her from you.” Her voice was like glass, sharp and clear. “Just for a second, imagine that you had a choice to make. That you could keep your mouth shut and maybe get your kids back, or that you could stir up shit and lose everything. Think about that before you come asking me about any more stories you’ve heard, all right?”

She knelt with a dustpan and deftly scooped up the scraps of hair. Then she stood and looked him in the eye.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got a lot of work to do.”

Back in the car, Keith collected his thoughts before starting it. Leading up to Eli’s criminal trial, he’d found dozens of people willing to testify about the planted evidence. But to strengthen the civil case, he wanted to make sure he could show that Deputy Harlon, the officer who’d signed off on Eli’s arrest, was a part of this pattern. So far he’d struck out; Casey Roarke had been his third interview of the morning, and they’d all gone about as well. Lawrence “Duck” Gibbs, a former heroin dealer and small-time thug, had let his two pit bulls out in the yard when he’d seen Keith at the gate; he’d shouted over their frenzied barking that he “wasn’t no kind of snitch.” And Benji Saroyan, one of Neptune’s itinerant homeless, had started to cry in the middle of Keith’s pitch and refused to answer any questions—though he’d taken Keith’s outstretched twenty eagerly enough.

It didn’t matter; there were plenty of witnesses. And they were trying to show institutionalized corruption, anyway—not just Deputy Harlon’s itchy evidence-planting finger. He thought they’d have enough with or without Harlon’s victims. But it troubled him to see how many people were still scared. It meant that even with all the press, the Sheriff’s Department was still squeezing the underclasses as hard as they dared.

He glanced up and down the street. So far, no oncoming trucks. And he had three more people to try to talk to before he gave up for the day. He turned the key in the ignition and glided back out into traffic.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Veronica’s alarm went off at seven on Sunday morning Logan was up, his side of the bed already empty. She sat up in the rumpled sheets, looking around.

Back in high school, the only thing that’d gotten him out of bed early was the promise of good surf conditions. Since his return from the Truman he’d been up before her almost every morning, sometimes hitting the beach with Dick Casablancas, but often just fixing breakfast or going for a jog. It’s like he’s a grown-up or something. Weird.

For a moment she considered nestling into the sheets and going back to sleep. She hadn’t slept well all that week, which was normal when she had a case with so many details and dead ends. Her brain just wouldn’t shut down.

Which is why you can’t go back to bed, remember? You’ve got work to do. And if you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late for church.

Gladys Corrigan had said she and Miguel Ramirez went to St. Mary’s. It was a long shot. She anticipated the same reaction she’d gotten in the laundry room. But if she were lucky, other parishioners might remember him. If she were very lucky, they would be willing to talk about him.

She showered, pinned her hair back, and donned a pink flowered skirt and a white peplum blouse. Then she opened the bedroom door and emerged.

An accented female voice spoke from the living room. Veronica stopped in the doorway, frowning.

“Motasharefon bema’refatek.” The voice paused. “Nice to meet you, masculine. Motasharefatun bema’refatek.” Another pause. “Nice to meet you, feminine.”

Veronica poked her head into the living room. Logan sat at the kitchen counter, a half-eaten bagel on a plate next to him. He was looking at his laptop. On the screen, a dark-haired woman spoke slowly and clearly as Arabic lettering appeared beneath her.

“Sabah al khayr. Good morning. Masa’a al khayr. Good evening.”

“Sabah al khayr,” Veronica repeated.

“Sabah an noor,” Logan said, giving her a sheepish grin and shutting his computer. He was already dressed in jeans and a PROPERTY OF THE US NAVY T-shirt. “Aren’t you wholesome this morning?”

“Gotta look good for Jesus,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “It’s not even eight. You’ve been up, out for bagels, and learning a foreign language with the sunrise? Who are you and where’s my boyfriend?”

“I’m practicing for when you finally get your way about that puppy you keep going on about,” he said. “We both know who’s going to be rolling out of bed and taking it out to do its business.” He went into the kitchen and grabbed a bag from the bread box. “I got blueberry, sesame, and plain. Pick your poison.”

Veronica shifted into a spot-on Yiddish accent. “Three years I lived in New York—three! I know from bagels, bubeleh. And now you want I should eat this Trader Joe’s chazzerei?”

“Sesame it is, extra schmear.” He picked up a heavy bread knife and sliced the bagel before popping it into the toaster.

She climbed up onto the stool he’d just vacated, opening his computer. The lesson had automatically paused midsentence when he shut it. “What’s with the Arabic? You didn’t experience any reprogramming in the Middle East that you haven’t shared with me? Any well-worn rugs I should avoid giving to Goodwill?”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “I harbor no feelings that should concern you or my native land, to which I remain fully loyal. But Allah willing, the Great Satan Hulu Plus will soon pay the price for blocking Archer Season 5 in Iraq.”

Logan grinned and shrugged. “I’m just messing around with it. My CO said I should think about taking some classes. Might be useful, you know?”

She frowned as he slid a cup of coffee in front of her. “That’s funny. I didn’t think they spoke a lot of Arabic in San Diego.”

“You don’t order a lot of shawarma, do you? I need my pita crusty but still moist inside; meat shaved thin; no eggplant. Plenty of skhug and fresh-cut lemons on the side.” He shrugged. “Tough to pantomime all that.”

She didn’t answer. Logan’s shore duty was supposed to last another year, and she’d been hoping that his fleet would be rotated out of the Persian Gulf by the time that was over. If he was trying to learn Arabic that meant he was planning—or at least expecting—to stay in a war zone.

And more upsetting than the news itself was the element of surprise. The possibility that she might have misread his intentions. That they might always have had starkly different visions for the future.

She opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it. Did she really want to start a fight on a peaceful Sunday morning? Or did she want to nibble on the truthfully-just-as-good-as-New-York bagel her boyfriend handed her. To enjoy the sight of him, lean and muscular in the kitchen’s sunlight?

“Thanks,” she said, sipping the coffee.

He smiled. “Al’afw.”

—

St. Mary’s was an imposing Romanesque cathedral in Neptune’s Old Town, next to Founder’s Park. Veronica arrived just as the nine o’clock bells rang out across the neighborhood. She joined the crowd making their way toward the double doors and did her best to blend.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the Catholic gloom. Patterns of red, blue, and green spilled over the cavernous nave from a massive rose window. Towering organ pipes jutted upward behind an altar draped with white cloth. She noticed most of the people in front of her dipping their fingertips into a shell-shaped font of holy water as they entered, but deemed it best to pass on that particular rite. Bursting into flame would definitely blow my cover.

She took a seat in one of the back pews and looked around at the milling parishioners. Young families herded children and soothed fussy babies. Three very old women, two with canes, walked tremulously to the front of the church, bowing to the altar before taking their seats. A man in an Argyle sweater laughed loudly, then was shushed by his wife.

She gave a little start as she caught sight of Liam Fitzpatrick, looking uncomfortable in a button-down shirt and tie. His face was pitted and scarred now—time, and the criminal life, had taken its toll. He was surrounded, as usual, by cousins and siblings. Veronica recognized Danny Boyd, Liam’s loutish cousin, and Ciaran Fitzpatrick, who’d been a third-year senior when she was a freshman at Neptune High. The Fighting Fitzpatricks were Neptune’s most notorious crime family, though their influence was fraying. They seemed almost quaint these days compared to the savagery just ninety miles south in Tijuana. According to Keith, Liam had managed to stay out of prison in the last decade only by throwing more and more of his underlings to the wolves. The PCHers weren’t even afraid of them anymore.

Veronica was distracted by the sound of a familiar voice. She glanced to the other side of the aisle. Halfway back she saw short red hair that she recognized as Gladys Corrigan’s. A younger woman with sandy-blonde curls sat close next to her—a daughter, maybe, or niece.

Without warning, the organ let out a few bombastic bars of music. The parishioners rose in one fluid motion, making it all but impossible for her to see anything. She stood too, a half second too late. Then they all started to sing.

“Immaculate Mary, your praises we sing. You reign now in splendor with Jesus our King. Ave, Ave, Ave Maria…”

Next to her, a tiny, wizened-looking woman in a pale pink suit leaned over, holding her hymnal so Veronica could see the words. Veronica gave her a grateful smile and joined in.

Father Patrick Fitzpatrick—yet another of Liam’s brothers—made his way down the aisle in vestments of emerald green. Bull-necked and florid, he looked more like he belonged on a bar stool at the River Stix than in the sacristy. But as far as Veronica knew, he really was on the straight and narrow. She wondered just what Ma Fitzpatrick had done differently with him.

The crowd sat down as he took the podium.

“The Lord be with you.” His voice boomed out over the nave.

“And also with you,” chorused the congregation in a practiced, rote manner.

“I invite all who are gathered here in worship to take a moment to contemplate our need for salvation.” Father Patrick’s eyes moved along the pews. It might have been Veronica’s imagination, but she thought his gaze lingered for an extra second or two on Liam and the other members of Clan Fitzpatrick. “Let us pray.”

Mass went on, punctuated with hymns, prayers, and recitations. Father Patrick read several passages from Scripture, including good old Matthew 19:24, which to Veronica’s mind bore witness that Neptune might actually be hell: “Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for one who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” There was a short homily about greed, followed by Communion. The whole thing took about an hour.

Finally, Father Patrick gave the final benediction. “May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” replied the crowd.

And then everyone was on their feet. Some people wandered to the statue of the Blessed Virgin standing over the bank of votive candles and lingered to pray; others gathered in the aisles, talking to friends. Veronica watched as Liam Fitzpatrick—followed by the bulk of his crew—made straight for the door. A few tweedy older women surrounded Father Patrick, fluttering their eyelashes and basking in his attention.

“Veronica?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. When she turned, it was to look into the face of Jade Navarro. She stood in front of Veronica with her little girl in her arms. Valentina had just turned four, and she peered at Veronica with enormous, shy eyes fringed with long lashes that were unmistakably her father’s.

“Hey, Jade. Hi, Valentina.” Veronica adjusted her purse over her shoulder and tried to look natural. Just another sinner on Sunday—nothing suspicious here.

The little girl hid her face against Jade’s neck. Veronica gave Jade an apologetic smile. Jade didn’t smile back.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you at St. Mary’s before.”

“No, I…I haven’t really been before.” Well, except for the one time I planted a hidden camera in the confessional. But that was a special case. “How are you? Is Weevil…I mean, Eli, here with you?”

The woman’s lips tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Eli doesn’t come to Mass anymore.”

Veronica wasn’t sure what to say. Jade’s expression was hard, accusatory.

“You know, Eli used to talk about you all the time. Hard-ass Veronica Mars who didn’t take any crap and who helped him out of more jams than he could count. I wonder if you think you helped him by getting him back on that bike.”

“I didn’t get him back on that bike,” Veronica said. “But let’s not kid ourselves. Becoming ‘old Weevil’ probably kept him out of prison.”

“For the moment.” Jade shrugged. A splotch of red from the stained-glass window fell across her dark hair, giving it a bloody cast. “But that won’t be much comfort if he gets busted for something he’s actually done. He’s back in the game now, Veronica. He thinks I don’t know, but I’m not stupid.”

A half-dozen rejoinders popped into Veronica’s head. What did you want, Jade? For him to sit back and let some lying opportunist deliver him to Lamb’s doorstep like a pizza? Sure, you’d be able to visit your morally upright husband in prison on the weekends. That’d be a real consolation.

Instead, she opted for diplomacy.

“Look, he’s trying to make things right. Has he told you about the lawsuit? If he wins, it’ll totally vindicate him. Lamb will look—”

“I don’t give a fuck how Lamb looks. And neither does Eli. That’s all you.” Her voice dipped to a hiss when she swore. She quickly crossed herself, and for a moment she seemed to be fighting for control. Then, shaking her head, she simply turned away and hurried toward the door, Valentina’s tiny face watching Veronica over her mother’s shoulder.

Veronica watched Jade go, fighting the urge to chase after her, to keep arguing. She’d never tried to frame herself as some quixotic warrior. She’d never claimed to be able to save anyone.

But don’t lie to yourself, Veronica—it really does please you to believe you wear the white hat here in Neptune. Just you and your dad. But it’s hard squaring that noble idea with taking money from people whose hats are so unmistakably gray.

She took a deep breath. Then she saw Gladys Corrigan disappearing out of sight into one arm of the transept.

If she was going to act, she had to do it now.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A stairway in the transept led Veronica down to the cathedral’s subterranean multipurpose room. It was a large space with linoleum floors and fluorescent lighting, more high school cafeteria than Gothic catacomb. A kitchen was visible through an open door at one end. Several people sat talking and laughing at the long folding tables. Children ran around the open space, playing a game with rules obvious only to themselves.

Gladys Corrigan came out of the kitchen balancing a silver tray heaped with Oreos. She placed it on a small table next to two large carafes of coffee, and was busily straightening the sugar packets when Veronica stepped up next to her.

“Hi, Ms. Corrigan. I don’t know if you remember me, but my name’s Veronica. I met you at the Neptune Grand a few days ago?”

The woman blinked rapidly, then took off her glasses and polished them on the edge of her blouse. “Veronica. Yes, I’m sorry, you startled me. Hello.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry to sneak up on you like this.” She smiled, doing her best impression of affable. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 567