Fair Trade Page 7

  Seated at the small circular table with her are three men, all in sharp suits, all at least a decade older than her. Each pauses to watch her go, looks bordering on incredulous etched into their features.

  As if they are the only damn clients she has.

  Or are anywhere near the most important, now or ever.

  Turning without another word, Teller exits the office and steps out into the hallway. Accepting the call, she marches past the receptionist’s desk and through the front lobby, waiting until she is out on the sidewalk before pressing the phone to her ear.

  “Teller.”

  “Hello, Miss Elsa,” the familiar voice she had met with just that morning opens, “this is-“

  “I know who it is,” Teller says, the words coming out a bit harsher than intended but having the desired effect all the same. Just like no names appear in the phone, as few as possible are exchanged over the phone.

  One would be amazed at the listening capabilities in the world today.

  “How are you?” Teller asks, a tiny move to smooth over the prior comment, not caring in the slightest about the answer.

  “I’m sorry to call so soon,” Carmella Benitez says, “but I wanted to let you know about that thing you asked on this morning.”

  It takes no more than a fraction of a second for Teller to register what she is referring to. Taking another step from the door, she glances over a shoulder, making sure none of the men have dared to follow her outside, before saying only, “Ogo.”

  “Yes, her,” Carmella replies.

  “She came by?” Teller asks. Her voice inflection remains completely neutral as she asks. Having done this job as long as she has, she knows better than to ever get too hopeful, the number of possible pitfalls between a first sighting and final capture too many to count.

  “No,” Carmella replies, “but somebody else did asking about her.”

  Out of pure reflex, Teller again turns and looks over a shoulder. Seeing she is the sole person outside the building, she keeps her shoulders square, careful not to appear too cautious to anybody that might be watching.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmella replies. “Bigger guy, white, fit. He came to the front door – which nobody does – so I don’t think he’d been here before.”

  Even without the description, Teller already had a pretty good idea of who it was. The physical dimensions only confirm it.

  “What did he ask about?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmella replies. “He waited a couple minutes, then Dr. Hoke came and got him, took him upstairs.”

  Falling silent for a moment, Teller considers the information. It isn’t terribly surprising, though it does confirm that while Clady eliminated Lincoln, he doesn’t seem content to stop there.

  A problem that is likely going to end with more people being killed.

  “Where is he now?” Teller asks.

  “He left just a few minutes ago,” Benitez replies. “I was with a patient, stepped out back as soon as I could.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The place looks like a shit box, even by San Diego standards. The sort of the place where a person pays in cash on a month-to-month basis, brings in a handful of personal possessions, leaves shortly after arriving, a mountain of garbage in their wake.

  A single story tall, the exterior had been painted tan an indeterminate number of years before. Not bothering to outline the trim or windows in a different shade, the entire place is the color of sand, a monochromatic scheme that blends perfectly with the front yard and driveway of little more than dirt packed tight.

  Blinds shut tight cover all the windows. No cars sit in the driveway. Not even a single tire track denoting anyone has been by recently.

  Standing outside the front door, Detective Malcolm Marsh inventories all of this in short order. None of it really surprises him, matching exactly with what he would expect from someone like Lincoln.

  And perfectly fitting with everything about the Clady case thus far, not one aspect of it coming easily, for a variety of reasons.

  “What do you think?” Tinley asks, the echo of his second round of knocking having faded away. In response, not a single sound has emanated from the house, the place as lifeless as the exterior denotes.

  Giving the place once last glance, Marsh shifts his focus to the front door. He raises his voice and calls, “Mr. Lincoln, we have a warrant to search the premises. If you don’t open up, we will be forced to enter.”

  Remaining where he stands, he waits thirty seconds for any form of a response.

  When one finally does arrive, though, it isn’t from within the house.

  “I don’t think he lives here anymore,” a voice says, drawing the attention of both detectives toward the curb. Standing there is a woman that looks to be every bit of seventy, her short stature stooped forward, shoulders pinched inward. On her head is a hat with a brim as wide as her shoulders, obscuring all but the bottom half of her face.

  Wearing a matching pink jogging set, she has a leash in her hand, a chihuahua at least as old as she is sitting on the ground by her feet.

  “Haven’t seen him in about a week.”

  Leaving Tinley by the door, Marsh steps down off the concrete block serving as a front porch. The sunbaked dirt of the front lawn feels like concrete beneath his feet as he closes the gap between them. Reaching to his hip, he extracts his shield, holding it up for her to see.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Detective Malcolm Marsh.” He gestures with the badge over his shoulder, adding, “My partner, Detective Mark Tinley. Do you know Mike Lincoln? We were hoping to speak to him about an incident that took place last weekend.”

  The details he leaves purposefully vague, not wanting the woman to begin asking questions, about the case or Lincoln in general. More than once, Marsh has found that while neighbors – especially aging ones – can be good for noticing helpful tidbits, their curiosity can become equally burdensome.

  “No,” the woman says, “didn’t even know Mike Lincoln was his name.”

  “But you know he hasn’t been here?” Marsh asks, his brows coming together slightly.

  “Oh, sure,” the woman replies, “we all do. Been a nice break too, if you ask me.”

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Marsh makes no effort to hide his continued confusion. He takes another step forward, closing the gap between them, and asks, “How do you mean?”

  Using her free hand, the woman motions to the garage door standing closed on one end of the home. “Well, I mean all those darn motorcycles. So loud, coming and going at all hours. Drives poor Kiki here crazy.”

  At the sound of its name, the dog looks up to the woman, blinking twice before lying flat on the sidewalk, already losing interest in the conversation.

  “All those motorcycles?” Marsh asks, seizing on the first half of the woman’s statement.

  “Bunches of them,” the woman replies, “four, five, six at a time. Great big guys, all on motorcycles, wearing leather vests. You’d think they’d get cold like that all the time, but they never seem to.”

  There had been no mention in Lincoln’s file of him being affiliated with a motorcycle gang of any sort, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Some guys took pride in sporting their colors at all times, while others made sure to shed them if they were being pinched by the police, a means of protection for other members of the outfit.

  “What about Lincoln himself?” Marsh asks. “Did he wear a vest too?”

  Scrunching her face slightly, the woman tilted the top of her head an inch to the side. “Sometimes, but not always.”

  Casting a quick glance to his partner, Marsh can see the young man is still rooted on the front porch, careful not to disrupt the balance of the impromptu interview taking place on the sidewalk.

  Shifting back, Marsh considers what he’s just found out, how it might fit into things moving forward.

  In no way can he imagine Mira Clady or her husban
d being involved with a motorcycle gang in any way. What reason one of their members might have for shooting her in cold blood, or for even being in Balboa Park, is a mystery for the time being.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Marsh asks.

  “Saw him?” the woman replies. “Oh, wow, maybe a month ago?”

  Recalling what she had said just a moment before, Marsh circles back, silently cursing himself for the oversight. “How about hearing him? When was the last time his motorcycle was at home?”

  “Today is, what, Wednesday?” she replies. “So maybe, last Friday?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have one more stop to make before heading over to pick up Ross. As much as getting out to Lincoln’s sits in the front of my mind, swirling with everything I just learned from Dr. Hoke, I can’t push this part aside. I cannot let my overwhelming desire to figure out what happened to my Mira cloud the fact that I have other responsibilities as well.

  Including looking out for what little family I have remaining.

  The day has turned into standard spring fare in San Diego, the sun bright, the sky a cloudless blue. Despite the harsh glare thrown across my windshield, the air is actually not as warm as it appears, settling in the upper sixties.

  Around me, the traffic is still somewhat thin, the afternoon rush still an hour or so into the future. Because of that, I would like to get through this stop as quickly as possible, but there is no way to rush things. Not with what I know now, with everything that still lies on the horizon.

  The drive from Dr. Hoke’s in National City up to the Paradise Valley Hospital is no more than a few miles. Dropping on and off the freeway, I make it in less than ten minutes. Little of it even registers with me, my mind still back in the house doubling as a medical clinic, chewing through everything that was just shared.

  Which wasn’t a huge amount of information, but it was a start.

  Bypassing the parking garage on the edge of the grounds, I slide into a one-hour visitor stall closer to the front and kill the engine. Stepping out, I move in a quickened stride across the driveway separating the lot from the building, ignoring any painted crosswalks and heading straight for the front door.

  Ditto for the front desk as I step inside. Averting my gaze to keep the overly perky orderly sitting behind it from even trying to offer assistance, I hook a quick right, operating on muscle memory, walking the same halls I had been in just eight hours earlier.

  Underfoot, my sneakers squeak out an even rhythm against the buffed tile floors, the sound keeping pace with the thinking in my head, trying to put things into a coherent order. Locked in such a place, I don’t hear Angelique if she tries to call my name. I don’t even register her presence until I feel her hand on my elbow, thumb and forefinger locked around my ulnar bone. Pinching slightly, it is enough to jerk me back into the moment, my head snapping to the side.

  “Hey there,” she says. Releasing my elbow, she returns her hand to the cup of coffee clasped in the opposite one, both hands seeming to try and draw warmth from the steaming beverage.

  In the time since I left, it doesn’t appear that she has gotten a minute’s rest. Still dressed in the same outfit, circles underscore each of her eyes, the skin of her face sagging just slightly.

  Not that I can blame her. Losing one child and being called to the hospital for the other one is a hell of a stretch to endure.

  Doing it without rest, doubly so.

  “Hey,” I reply. Walking parallel to her, I contemplate a hug for a moment, my hands rising a few inches from my sides, before thinking better of it. Laying one hand on her back instead, I ask, “How is he?”

  Waiting until we make the corner, turning onto Hiram’s hallway, Angelique nods slightly, “He still had a bit of arrhythmia this morning, so they want to keep him one more day. Doctor says it isn’t that uncommon for someone that endured a major scare, especially one who, um...”

  She glances down, not finishing the sentence. Not that she needs to. Hiram is a big guy, someone that Mira used to affectionately refer to as squishy.

  He knows it. There is no shame in admitting it, no point in pretending otherwise.

  “Right,” I say, saving her from having to make the statement.

  Halfway down the hall, we come to a stop in front of the same trio of chairs we had first sat in fourteen hours earlier, alone in the middle of the night. Around us, the ward has come to life, daylight hours bringing out nurses and staff, physicians and family members, though still nobody seems to so much as glance our way.

  Like the eye of a storm, we are a point of calm, everybody else swirling around us.

  The irony of that, given all that has happened in the last week, isn’t lost on me.

  “But they still say he’ll be just fine?” I ask.

  Angelique lowers herself into the seat I used the night before. With the cup of coffee in her lap, her entire posture seems to lean inward, using it as a focal point. In such a position, she looks the smallest I have ever noticed, like the weight of things is finally getting to her, diminishing the woman before my eyes.

  With the possible exception of my own mother, she is without question the strongest, most resolute woman I have ever known. Seeing how heavy things are beginning to sit on her only presses home just how bad they are, how much change has been wrought upon us.

  Sliding into the seat next to her, I stare across the hall at Hiram’s closed door. I focus on the plain blonde wood, pulling in air through my nose.

  It’s been five days since my Mira passed, and still I have no way of identifying what the triggers will be. When those moments will arrive that threaten to destroy the walls I have put up, letting the emotion I carry come spilling down.

  Seeing her mother like this would crush Mira. Absolutely destroy her.

  And the mere thought of that threatens to destroy me.

  For a moment, the world goes blurry. Blinking fast, I can feel the moisture lining my eyelashes, my pulse throbbing through my temples.

  “You okay?” Angelique whispers, having the grace not to look over, no doubt knowing full well exactly what I’m going through.

  Not trusting myself to speak, I nod, waiting almost a full moment as it passes, tamped back into place. Raising my left hand to my face, I pinch my thumb and forefinger over my eyes before wiping the moisture across the leg of my jeans.

  Only once I can trust my voice not to break do I say, “I just came from Dr. Hoke’s.”

  “The one the Ogo’s mentioned this morning,” she replies, as if jogging her own memory of the prior discussion. “What did he have to say?”

  Not sure where to begin, or how to best package things, I start simply with the first thing he said to me. “He didn’t know Mira. Never even met her.”

  In my periphery, I see her face flash my way, her eyes wide. Holding the pose for an instant, she slowly turns back to face forward, saying nothing.

  “But he knows the Ogo’s,” I continue, “namely, Fran.”

  Taking a breath, I pause as a pair of women walk past. Moving fast, they go in tandem, each clutching the hands of the other, neither saying a word.

  “You heard mention of the word COFA this morning, right?” I ask, lowering my voice to almost a whisper.

  Beside me, Angelique nods slightly, her chin rising no more than an inch.

  “That’s an acronym for the Compacts of Free Association,” I say, “which is a kind of treaty that exists between the United States and the islands of Guam, Palau, and Micronesia. It’s supposed to be an equal exchange agreement that lets the U.S. maintain military installations out there in the Pacific in exchange for giving their people access to free health and education services.”

  Prior to being stationed in Guam, I had never heard of such a thing. Kept well beneath the radar, it was the sort of thing the country entered into in case anybody came to wonder about their presence out there, but didn’t really want broadcast to the masses.

  Especially when it involved th
em actually having to make good.

  “Or, as your daughter used to say, it was more of a flimsy apology for using their islands as target practice back when we were trying to develop nuclear bombs.”

  I can hear a small grunt beside me, a sound that is almost a snort, letting me know that Angelique is more than familiar with how the government handles such things.

  As a first-generation immigrant, I have no doubt.

  “As you can imagine, the fallout from all that testing rendered some of those islands uninhabitable, but there were other unintended consequences too. Radiation seeped into the oceans, affected sea life, was pushed into the airstream and breathed in. Nobody in the region was safe from it.

  “Especially children.”

  Reciting the words almost verbatim from Dr. Hoke, I keep my gaze on the far wall. All thought of Mike Lincoln or going to pick up Ross have faded, now replaced by relaying the conversation from an hour before.

  Which is as it should be. I’m not going through this alone. Others have the right to everything I know.

  Not to mention, it’s better for me to go slower, to take my time and ensure I don’t do something foolish.

  “When was this?” she asks.

  “Back in the forties,” I reply. “During World War II, right before we dropped them on Japan.”

  “So right about the time Fran was born,” Angelique says.

  One corner of my mouth ticks upward, a wan smile borne of appreciation and admiration. Even in the face of everything, she is able to immerse herself into the narrative, following my every word.

  “She was two,” I say. “And to jump ahead, she now has thyroid cancer and has come here to get the care that was promised her and many others under the Compact.”

  “And they don’t want to provide it, which is why she went to go see...”

  Again, she pulls up short of using her daughter’s name, though that isn’t the part I focus on right now. Instead, I winnow down to what she was saying, the conclusion she’s drawn not entirely accurate, but pretty close.