Not Forgotten Page 8

  “Exactly. No one knows anything about him. She didn’t tell her mom or, apparently, her best friend.”

  “What did the police say?” she asked.

  “Peterson was the detective involved. He didn’t even tell the mother. Said it didn’t change anything. He checked out two old boyfriends, but neither matched the fetal DNA.”

  She turned from the window, her brown eyes focused, one hand on her shapely hip and the other holding her Cross pen pointed at me. “You think it was the boyfriend. And you think the bracelet will help you track him down.” She paced a few steps back and forth in front of the window like she used to do while we were studying for tests together in law school. “She told the boyfriend about the baby. He buys her a bracelet and tells her to have an abortion. She says no because she’s a strict Catholic, or at least her mother is, and he throws her in the river.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I said.

  “If the bracelet’s hers, of course.” She tapped the pen on her white teeth. “Or,” she continued, “she couldn’t tell her Catholic mother or go through with an abortion. So she took her own life.”

  We looked at each other for a moment not speaking. I didn’t know which was more tragic, Marissa being murdered by her boyfriend or the thought of her taking her own life because she thought she had no other options.

  Sylvia whispered in my ear: “Don’t take the case. The firm will hire you. We need investigators. The work is safe, and you’d have time to go back to school.”

  I wrapped my arms around her, enjoying the warmth of her body and the faint scent of her expensive perfume. She melted against me. I wanted to lock the door and make love to her for the rest of the afternoon.

  “You don’t have to worry about money.” She ran her fingertips across my forehead and into my short-cropped hair.

  I needed her. Wanted her. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  “You know I could never work for Marcus Lopez.” The spell was broken.

  She let go and walked back to her desk. “It wouldn’t kill you to accept help from somebody. You act like it’s a sin or something. Do you think Marcus got where he is without help? You don’t always have to do everything on your own.” It was the first time she’d compared me to her boss.

  I followed her behind her desk, took her hand, hoping to recapture the moment before I left. I leaned in for a final kiss but was interrupted by a cold knock on the door.

  Marcus strolled in with a smile on his face. He saw me holding Sylvia, and his smile quickly faded. He stood in the open door like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, but when he surveyed the room, he seemed to claim everything: the carpet, the walls, the double-pane windows, and Sylvia.

  “Mr. Anker is in the conference room, Sylvia.” He said it like he expected her to jump, which she did.

  “I’m ready,” she said, and quickly unfolded herself from my arms and picked up the file and a legal pad. She seemed too eager. I knew she wanted to impress this guy to make partner, but jumping when someone gave the command was not the Sylvia I knew.

  Marcus’s smile returned when Sylvia stepped toward him. It reminded me of the look he gave her at the convention center. “Mr. Fischer. I heard about your trouble last night. Too bad about Javier Sosa. Do the police have any leads?”

  “Nothing that I know of. I’m sure they’ll know more when they can talk to Sosa.”

  “You didn’t hear? Javier died this morning.”

  I stared at him not quite understanding. I had talked to the intensive care nurse only a few hours ago. She had told me that his chances of recovery were good. I said nothing.

  “Unfortunate,” Marcus said. “And, I assume, not very good for your new business.” Marcus’s lighthearted smile vanished. Something harder and much colder took its place.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Nick, he didn’t mean anything,” Sylvia said.

  My eyes were locked on Marcus. He didn’t offer an apology. He didn’t flinch or blink. I remembered what Danny Allison had said about him being dangerous. That’s not why I let it go. I let it go because Sylvia aimed her big brown eyes at me.

  “I was just leaving,” I said. I kissed her on the cheek and headed for the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Skeeter Davis lived with his mother in a newer, middle-class housing development in far-south San Antonio near Mission San Juan Capistrano. Ask a dozen tourists, and even a few locals, and they couldn’t tell you that there were four other missions like the Alamo built by the Spanish during the 1700s, all within a twenty-mile radius of what is now downtown. Ask me as a teen, and I couldn’t have cared less. I knew about the history because Grandpa never stopped talking about it, but it wasn’t until I mustered out of the Marine Corps that I started paying attention. Studying history was part of my two-part rehabilitation—a recipe Grandpa cooked up that was equal parts work and study. He said history taught you that you’re not the only poor son of a bitch suffering in the world, and work kept your mind off the problems that you did have. It was an ongoing process.

  I called Skeeter and told him to meet me at Isabella’s Mexican restaurant across the street from the mission. Since Sylvia had turned down my lunch offer, I was hungry and craving enchiladas. This was a business meeting. Skeeter was my only employee, we had two cases to solve, and I needed his expertise. Marcus Lopez was right—Sosa’s death would hurt my reputation. San Antonio had a million and a half people, but it was a small town when it came to private investigators and security. This was worse than a bad Yelp review. It was the kind of thing that might have me searching for a more stable job unless I found the shooter.

  Isabella’s was painted bright orange and decorated with Christmas lights—the kind of place that reminded me how close San Antonio was to the Mexican border. I found a rusty chair on the concrete patio close to a large outdoor fan. The antihistamine had kicked in, and I was already feeling better despite the still-hazy sky. An older woman wearing a Spurs basketball T-shirt and jeans handed me a glass of ice water and a basket of tortilla chips. I recognized her as the owner and head chef, Isabella.

  “Buenas tardes, Mr. Nick,” she said.

  “No help today?” I asked. She had twin teenaged daughters who usually worked the tables and an older son who helped cook.

  “The twins went to college,” she said, exasperated. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do without them.”

  “You must be very proud,” I said.

  “I am, but I can’t find help. No one wants to work anymore.”

  I ordered a Shiner Bock and a plate of beef enchiladas from the lunch-special menu on the chalkboard and a hamburger for Skeeter with iced tea. He had quit drinking after his accident, and he didn’t like Mexican food. It was after one, but the place was doing big business on Saturday. Tejano music filled the parking lot. A group of young men in muddy boots and blue overalls fresh off an outdoor job were getting their weekend started with cold Corona longnecks.

  I was on my second beer and still waiting for my food when I spotted Skeeter crossing the parking lot. The young workers turned to gawk when he stepped on the patio and made his way toward my table. He wasn’t the kind of guy who could travel incognito. He stood six-foot-seven and weighed in at three hundred pounds, and his left arm from the elbow down was made of metal. He cut an imposing figure that sometimes worked to his advantage and sometimes, like when he was on trial for murder, worked against him. People had no trouble believing Skeeter could kill another man. He hadn’t always been an introverted computer wizard. Before the auto accident that took his arm, he had completed a stellar career on the gridiron for the University of Texas and had just been drafted by the Washington Redskins. One night of wild partying put him on a different career track.

  He pulled up a chair and placed his small black backpack on the table. It held his assortment of electronic gizmos that accompanied him everywhere. Swe
at dripped down his forehead and soaked his T-shirt. The workers turned to each other, eyes wide, holding their hands out to indicate Skeeter’s size and the prosthesis that extended from his elbow to a double metal hook for a hand.

  “You always make a grand entrance,” I said, smiling.

  “You think they’re watchin’ me ’cause I’m extra-large, but they’re really wondering if I’m stupid enough to sit next to a dude who looks like a psycho-killer.”

  “Psycho-killer?” I laughed.

  “I swear, sometimes you look like you’re ready to slice someone’s ear off.”

  “Fair enough. Lot on my mind. Busy twenty-four hours,” I said.

  “You were in the neighborhood, you should have come to the house.” He drank most of his tea in one gulp.

  “You know what happens when your mother sees me. I didn’t have time to spend the next three hours eating and listening to her.” I didn’t mind visiting his mother when I had a few hours to kill. Ever since I’d tracked down the guy who framed Skeeter for murder, I was the honored guest in the Davis household. Whenever I showed up, Skeeter’s mother would drop whatever she was doing and start cooking. She usually started with something deep-fried, then moved on to cake and cookies. By the time she finished, most of Skeeter’s extended family was seated around the small kitchen table listening to his mother tell his story again. She was the kind of woman I couldn’t say no to, whether she was asking me to investigate her son’s case or offering me another slice of my favorite German chocolate cake.

  Skeeter drained the last of his iced tea. I took a moment to scan the parking lot. A black Ford Super Duty pickup had pulled in when I arrived and backed into the far corner of the lot near the street. It was still in the same position with the engine running. The windows were too dark to see into the cab, but no one had gotten out.

  “You seem a little jumpy.”

  “Just being careful. Our client Javier Sosa took a bullet last night.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, alarmed.

  “There was nothing you could have done. This morning, Sosa died,” I said.

  “Any suspects?”

  “Yeah. Me. Detective Peterson’s on the case. He and his partner are chasing their tails around and the FBI is sniffing their butts. He warned me to stay away.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “What do you think? See what you can find out about Sosa’s business relationship with Marcus and Patrick Allison,” I said.

  “You think they took a shot at Sosa?”

  “I think both are capable. I wanna know which one had more to gain.”

  Isabella brought our food. While we ate, I brought Skeeter up to date on what I’d gotten from Detective Peterson about Marissa Luna. It didn’t take much to convince him that Peterson had bungled the investigation. He had an even lower opinion of the good detective than I did, having been on the receiving end of his crime-fighting work. I also told him about finding the bracelet and the peculiar answers Marissa’s friend gave me. When I finished the story and my enchiladas, I pushed my plate away and held up the bracelet.

  “Now, put that massive brain of yours to work and tell me how we can use this to get to the boyfriend.”

  He plucked the bracelet from me using his double hook like a tweezer. “It’s a Robert Byrd. The bands are gold. I’m going to say over three grand. Maybe four.” He pulled an Apple iPad Pro from his backpack and touched the screen. Moments later he brought up the jeweler’s catalog. “It’s called a Mother’s Love bangle.” He whistled through his teeth while staring at the screen. “You say her friend threw this in the river?”

  “That’s right. She kissed it and tossed in.”

  “The gold version retails for thirty-six hundred. I’ve heard of burying treasure with the dead. Was Marissa a Mayan princess?”

  “I doubt it. Can you trace who sold it?”

  He held the heart design in the air. “Try talking to the Byrd factory store in Kerrville. They might have a record of the engraving. The Kerrville store is open today till six,” he said, looking at the iPad screen.

  I checked my watch. It was close to two. I had plenty of time to visit Grandpa before closing.

  “Sylvia okay with this?” he asked. “She must have been pretty upset. You gettin’ shot at and all.”

  “Your job’s electronics, big guy.” I raised my voice. As soon as I did, I knew I was being overly sensitive. Sylvia had always been a delicate issue between us. He would never say it out loud, but I knew he didn’t like her.

  Skeeter raised his plate-sized hand in a sign of surrender. “Enough said,” he told me.

  Isabella arrived and handed me the check. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill, which covered two lunch specials and a five-dollar tip. That and the homemade tortillas were why I kept coming back.

  Skeeter followed me out to my pickup, put his giant hand on my shoulder. “The real reason I asked about Sylvia is I’m worried about you. You’re going after two killers. A rich guy who killed his pregnant girlfriend and a professional shooter with a long-range rifle. You always told me never to go into a dangerous situation thinking about something or someone else, ’cause you’re likely to get hurt.”

  We stood for a moment gazing at the brownish sky punctuated with the ever-present puffy cumulus clouds generated by moisture from the Gulf of Mexico. He was right. I was letting my personal life interfere with business.

  “Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow. By the way, how does your mother know Araceli Luna?”

  “She don’t. Mrs. Luna just showed up at the house a couple of days ago and started asking questions. You know how my mom is.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Araceli Luna lived in the working-class neighborhood on the west side. I found her house behind a dirt yard that was surrounded by a chain-link fence. An angry Chihuahua guarded the porch. Before I could knock, Mrs. Luna opened the front door and got her attack Chihuahua under control.

  “Mr. Fischer, come in,” she said.

  I hadn’t called ahead, but she seemed to be waiting by the door for my arrival. I followed her inside and found myself in a shrine to her late daughter. Pictures of Marissa covered the walls of her tiny front room. Baby pictures started at the door and went counterclockwise around the room depicting every stage of growth through college in a patchwork collage. Sadly, the growth stopped at college. Those final smiling pictures showed a Marissa full of life and expectations.

  Mrs. Luna offered me lemonade, which I gratefully accepted. Then she left me in the shrine room while she disappeared down a hallway. I knew what it was like to lose someone close and not know how they died. My father was killed when I was sixteen years old. He died serving the community, doing his duty. He had volunteered to put himself in danger and accepted the consequences. He was the elected sheriff, paid to confront the criminals who killed him.

  For Mrs. Luna it was different. Her daughter wasn’t a volunteer. Marissa wasn’t paid to protect and serve. She was a sweet innocent flower cut down before her life could bloom. Mrs. Luna had lost a daughter and a grandchild, and no one could tell her why. The police had told her it was a tragic accident brought on by too much alcohol. I wanted to find the truth.

  I could hear her filling glasses with ice in the kitchen while I examined the photos of Marissa. The window-unit air conditioner provided a constant mechanical hum and made the ancient wooden floors vibrate. The last photo was stamped with the date July 4, the day she died. Marissa wasn’t wearing a bracelet. If someone had given her an expensive bracelet, she would have been wearing it. That meant someone had given it to her after the picture was taken.

  “I’m sorry. I had to make fresh lemonade. My daughter and her friends drank the pitcher from this morning.” Mrs. Luna handed me a sweaty glass.

  “When was that picture taken?” I asked, pointing the Fourth of July picture.

  She didn’t have to think to answer. �
��At six o’clock. Her friend Beth came to pick her up. She took the picture.” Her lip quivered. “Beth had a print made and gave it to me for her birthday.”

  “You saw Beth today?” I asked.

  “This morning.”

  “Did she say anything about this?” I took out the bracelet and showed it to Mrs. Luna.

  She took it and examined it. “Is it real gold?”

  “I think so. Look at the engraving,” I said, pointing to the letters under the heart shape.

  “Where did you get it?” she asked.

  “Her friend Beth had it. I saw her today on the River Walk.”

  “I’ve never seen it before. Marissa would have shown it to me.” She handed me the bracelet, and I sat down on an orange threadbare couch that must have been in style before I was born. Mrs. Luna sat in the matching chair. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me with anticipation.

  “Did you know Marissa was pregnant?” I waited for the full meaning to sink in.

  She slowly dissolved into tears. I got up and found a box of tissues and brought them to her. She blew her nose. I waited a full five minutes for her shoulders to stop shaking. She would have made a wonderful grandmother.

  “I spoke with detective Peterson. He withheld the information. He said it didn’t change the case and he didn’t want to… well, to see you like this.”

  She took a deep breath and blew her nose again. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Now you see, the case is even more important.”

  “You had no idea? She never told you?”

  She shook her head. “No, she didn’t.”

  “I believe Marissa’s death was no accident,” I told her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that she was murdered. There is another possibility.”

  Mrs. Luna understood immediately what I meant. Her nostrils flared. “She didn’t take her own life. Not my Marissa. No.” She was emphatic. Her resistance to the idea that her daughter would commit suicide was evident, but I needed her to convince me.