I thought about that. “Not exactly, but my partner Bill always says that most crimes can be found hunkered behind one of two motives: love or money. Since I truly doubt you’re Nehemiah’s type, I’m choosing money.”
“Okay,” John D said, “but what’s the payoff? Setting aside the hundred bucks I withdrew.”
“Eighty acres,” I said. “The payoff is eighty acres of land. John D, who besides you knows about your plan to donate the land to the Conservancy?”
John D shook his head. “Nobody. I mean, one of their lawyers is helping me set up the trust, but nobody else …” An odd look crossed his face.
“What?”
“Well, the Conservancy sent out a young man, one of them notaries, a few weeks ago, with some preliminary papers for me to sign. He told me I needed a witness, and could I think of anybody to ask, a neighbor or someone. Only one handy was Brother Nehemiah.”
“God will provide.”
John D put his head in his hands.
So now we had a ticking clock, and a hog farm and cult looking to expand their operations at the expense of the Conservancy. Not to mention John D’s sole surviving heir, though I had a hard time believing that Norman would resort to violence against his father. He struck me as just a basic run-of-the-mill loser: more grown-up brat than criminal mastermind. Still, I couldn’t completely rule him out.
“Well, at least we know the how of it,” I said. “And maybe some of the who.”
John D’s face had gone a little gray. He protested, but I sent him to bed. I’m sure watching those two men beat the living daylights out of him in slow motion didn’t help his mood much.
As for me, I needed to review my options. I sat on the porch and rocked and thought, and rocked some more. The obvious move was to hand over the surveillance DVD to Dardon, along with my suspicions as regards the perps. But I didn’t want to do that, for two reasons. One: this was my case, and two: this was my case.
My eyes drifted to the torn-up pot patch. I walked over and squatted to inspect the ruins. One corner of roiled earth offered up the clear impression of a partial soleprint, a distinctive series of diagonal chevrons. I snapped a picture of it. Then, researching rubber work boots, I quickly matched the print to that of a neoprene Servus steel-toe-the same muck-brown color, same toes dipped in cream, as the boots Barsotti’s lackey was wearing in the hog yard.
I felt a prickle across the nape of my neck. I urged my Toyota to the top of the hill where I’d begun this long day. First I scanned my photographs and zoomed in on the car washer’s pickup. I pulled up my little notepad and added the license plate number to my growing laundry list of clues.
I felt like a modern gunslinger, camera in one hand, phone in the other. I stashed the camera, and picked up my binoculars, sweeping them from one corner of the lot to the other. No pickup. No Mercedes either.
Barsotti was probably back in Condo Heaven, happy as a pig in slop. Given his place of work, he would know.
As for Neoprene Boot Man, my immediate guess was he’d successfully completed his extracurricular activities-rolling John D, then ripping off his weed-and been given the rest of the week off. I suspected he was lying low and enjoying the plunder.
I caught Bill on his way out the door, leaving work a little early. He grumbled, but he ran the plates for me anyway. I sweetened the deal with the promise of a six-pack when I got back into the city. He was back with an answer quickly.
“Jose Gutierrez, ex-felon, and don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“I never have and I never will.”
“I suppose you want the address as well.”
A minute later, Jose Gutierrez’s name, address, and phone number were in my digital directory.
Maybe I should friend him, as well.
With the aid of my phone’s GPS, I was at his street in under ten minutes. I had a brief flash of guilt over trumping Sherlock’s meticulous tracking methods, then I thought, screw it, he’d be thrilled to have a toy like this. Dr. Watson could be a real downer sometimes.
I heard the cavernous thump thump of a massive subwoofer before I even turned onto Jose’s block. I would have parked, but for the motley assortment of cars and pickups jammed every which way in his driveway, and up and down both sides of the street. My ears adapted slightly, and I was able to separate the bass-thump of sound into the brass, wind, percussion, and high-pitched acoustic guitar of Jalisco mariachi.
The front door opened and a man staggered out, propelled by a chorus of ululating falsetto yells from his compatriots. He reeled to the side of the house and puked into a potted succulent. Swells of raucous laughter ebbed and flowed inside. A major celebration was under way, and I had a pretty good idea what was fueling it.
I was undermanned for a commando raid; the first significant disadvantage I could see to partnering with a phone. Plus, stealing mota from a mariachi party wasn’t my idea of a worthy goal. So I did the next best thing: I called Deputy Sheriff Dardon.
“Am I catching you at an okay time?”
“Make it quick. I’m just about to turn into my driveway, where I got a bowl of my wife’s chili waiting for me.”
I told him about the missing mason jar and homegrown plants, the telltale neoprene boot print, and the all-points bulletin bash going on at Jose’s place.
“You’re a regular one-man neighborhood watch, aren’t you?” Dardon said.
“I just think it would be good for Jose’s karma if he got busted.”
“Karma, eh?” Dardon sounded amused. “That’s rich. I’ll be sure to tell Jose when I send the party car over to collar him that what’s bad for his police record is good for his karma.”
“Just trying to be a good citizen,” I said.
“Right. Well, I’d better go in and explain to the wife why I’m missing dinner again. See how that works out for me, karma-wise.”
He had a point there. I called Bill to tell him I was on my way, and stopped by a minimart for beer. I had Mexico on my mind, but there was no Noche Buena to be found. Where was the Cerveza Fairy when you needed her? I settled for a six-pack of Corona and a couple of rock-hard limes.
I pushed the Toyota to a bone-rattling 55 all the way back to Los Angeles.
Two hours later, matching redheads, bounded by plumped-up pillows, contemplated me across a king-size bed like two baby Buddhas. My pulse was racing. This was the first time I’d ever been left completely alone with one infant, much less two. Give me a dangerous stakeout anytime.
Bill and I had only managed one Corona each before the bedtime clock started ticking and Martha corralled me into their bedroom, a baby balanced on each hip, and set the three of us up.
“They won’t break, I promise. Just try not to let them roll off the bed,” Martha tossed over her shoulder. “Thanks.” Then she and Bill drove off to pick up the Thai takeout she’d ordered for their dinner. Parking’s a nightmare on Larchmont Boulevard, and this way they could halve the time between ordering and actually eating-when you have twins, every minute counts. I’d of course offered to get the food for them, but Martha admitted they loved any opportunity to finish a sentence with each other before exhaustion took over.
Lola/Maude stared. Maude/Lola stared. Now what?
“How’s it going, girls?” I said.
Lola’s mouth was an immovable line.
“That good, hunh,” I said. “I can relate.” I switched my attention to Maude and her eyes met mine. Then the bottom half of her jaw opened like a drawbridge, and she flashed a gaping, gummy smile that took up most of her face.
Up until recently, Lola was the grinner and Maude the baby with the unblinking stare. Now they appeared to have switched personalities.
“So what happened? You swap souls or something?” Lola lifted one dimpled starfish hand and started to suck on the middle two fingers. Her eyes glazed over with pleasure. Maude chortled and reached in my direction, causing her to tip onto the mattress in a perfect face-plant.