Part 11 (2/2)

”Why didn't you tell me this sooner?”

”To be frank, I must confess your request caught me off guard. We're not often asked to liquidate an estate of this size. In fact, I've never done anything remotely like this, and I don't know anyone who has. So after you mentioned what you want me to do, I wasn't thinking as clearly as I would have hoped. I mean, you were clear enough when we last spoke, but ever since then I've been thinking maybe I misunderstood your wishes.”

Sitting there in Haley's Escalade, looking out through her monumental gates, I said, ”You probably understood all right. Sell it all. Everything. Don't worry about getting the best price. Just sell it as fast as you can, and split the proceeds among Haley's charities. I'll want to keep fifty thousand for myself. And don't let anybody know I'm the one doing the selling.”

”I see. Yes. Well, that's exactly what I thought you said before. And of course it's none of my business, but would you mind explaining why you want to do this?”

”I'm a generous guy.”

”Generous? Yes. I see.”

”Can it be done or not? Can you keep my name out of it?”

”Undoubtedly, Mr. Cutter. If that is what you really wish.”

”It is.”

”All right, then. Ah, I do hope you won't take offense at what I am about to say. It is meant to protect your interests, I a.s.sure you, but under the circ.u.mstances I'm afraid we'll need to meet in person. Your instructions are, ah, extremely unusual, and of course the a.s.sets involved are so extensive, I just really feel I have a fiduciary responsibility to meet with you and verify your wishes personally. I'm sure you'll understand.”

I understood, all right. I said, ”Don't hem and haw so much, Mr. Williams. I know you're only doing your job. Would you also like to meet with a couple of my doctors too, so you can be sure I'm not crazy?”

I heard him clear his throat. ”I appreciate the offer, Mr. Cutter.”

”So that's a yes?”

”If it wouldn't be too much trouble.”

”How soon can you get out here?”

”Unfortunately I'm in the middle of some litigation on my end. It looks like the trial may go on for another week or two. Maybe even three. It's not possible for me to leave New York until it's over, and of course, given your request to remain anonymous I didn't think you'd want me to send a partner or a.s.sociate...”

”No, you're right. How about if my doctor and I come out there?”

”Ah, well, this is indelicate, but you see, we've never met, and I, ah, I just think it would be best if I verified your wishes there, on your own property.”

I said, ”Harder for a con man to fake it here, where I've got friends, and I've been living most of the time.”

”Exactly so.”

”We could meet at Haley's penthouse there in the city. Except you know Haley and I haven't spent much time in New York, so the only people who could vouch for me would be people I brought along. And there would be no evidence of me being in residence at the penthouse. No photos on the mantle, letters in the desk, that kind of thing. Anyone could meet you there and claim to be me.”

”I'm truly sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Cutter. And I'm so glad you understand.”

”You're a smart guy, Mr. Williams. Don't worry about it. Just get out here as soon as you can.”

I hung up and rolled forward far enough to activate the gates. After they swung open, I drove out onto the street. There, I paused to wait for the gates to swing shut behind me before I headed for the highway.

The address Harper had provided turned out to be a brown-s.h.i.+ngle-style building at the northeast corner of Fourteenth and Constance, about a block from Pico. It had been a large, attractive single-family residence at one time, probably the home of a wealthy Jewish family, since the Pico-Union neighborhood had first been inhabited by a predominantly Jewish population. But that was before the Los Angeles City Council had seen fit to designate LA as a sanctuary city. Now about fifty percent of the neighborhood was occupied by people who had come to America illegally, and with them had come street gangs that preyed upon the poor.

The chain-link fence along the sidewalk made the proud old house look more like a prison. I opened the gate and crossed the front yard, which was mostly light-brown dirt and dark-brown weeds. Beside the front door was a row of mailboxes. It seemed the house had long ago been subdivided into apartments. The box that matched the apartment number Harper had given me had no name attached. The other boxes were marked with names like Lopez, Soto, and Ramirez.

There was a good chance none of these people had lived there seven years before, when Delarosa was a resident, and an even better chance they wouldn't talk to me. Of course, the police had already covered this territory years before. But I had no other ideas. Sometimes, especially when you have no other options, the only thing to do is to make your presence known and hope the enemy will take a shot and reveal his own position.

I entered the building. What had once been a generously sized foyer was now a lobby, with worn sheet vinyl on the floor and a battered set of stairs with a wooden handrail rising on the left. A tricycle stood in one corner. Every vertical surface, the original plaster walls and wainscoting, more recent Sheetrock, and the doors, had been covered with spray painted graffiti. The number 18 figured prominently in the graffiti, the 18th Street Gang's tag.

I could still see signs of ornate moldings, which had trimmed cased openings on the left and right. The openings had probably once led to a parlor on one side and perhaps a dining room on the other. Both openings had been filled in with Sheetrock, which surrounded plain wooden doors. On the door to my right was the number 101, and on the left was 102. I wanted 202, so I took the stairs.

The woman who opened the door was under five feet tall and very wide. I put her at about a hundred and fifty pounds. She had hair so black it looked almost midnight blue, and sleepy eyes with the color and sheen of french roast coffee beans.

She looked up at me, brow creased and lips turned down. ”Jes?”

”Do not worry,” I said in Spanish. ”I am not La Migra.” It was what most Latino illegal immigrants called the Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. I handed her my business card, which said simply ”Malcolm Cutter, Personal Transportation and Security,” with my cell phone number. I told her I was looking for a woman who used to occupy that apartment, named Alejandra Delarosa.

Her frown didn't change, but now she was also shaking her head. ”She does not live here.”

”Yes, I know. She lived here about seven years ago. I was hoping you knew her then? Or possibly someone in her family? A friend?”

She was still shaking her head.

After a few more words, I thanked her and she closed the door. I moved on to try the next apartment. There were three more on the second floor and four below. Out of those, four people answered when I knocked. None of them knew anything about Alejandra Delarosa, or none of them would admit to knowing anything. I left the building.

As I walked across the front yard toward the Escalade, a woman about forty years of age approached the chain-link gate holding two nearly overflowing paper grocery sacks. She wore a rolled blue bandana as a hair band and a billowing white blouse with colorful embroidery around the collar like those I'd seen on Mayans in Mexico and Central America. She also wore a pair of faded blue jeans, which she filled out very nicely. She tried to open the gate without setting down the groceries, but it was clearly a challenge.

Still speaking Spanish, I hurried toward the gate. ”Let me help.”

”Thank you, senor,” she replied.

I lifted the latch and pulled the gate in toward myself. As she stepped into the yard, one of the two bags burst open, spilling oranges, bananas, and a half-gallon plastic milk bottle onto the ground. The woman uttered a mild curse.

I knelt at her feet and began to pick up the fruit. There were too many pieces, so I stretched out the bottom hem of my T-s.h.i.+rt and started dropping them onto the fabric, using the s.h.i.+rtfront as a kind of bag.

”You do not need to do that,” she said, standing over me with the other grocery sack still in her hands.

I stood up, one hand holding the hem of my s.h.i.+rt and the other holding the milk bottle. My s.h.i.+rtfront bulged with fruit. I said, ”It is my pleasure.”

She smiled. ”In that case, my apartment is just here, if you do not mind.”

I followed her back into the building and through the lobby to the last apartment in back on the left. She pulled a single key out of a pocket, opened the door, and then turned to me. ”I do not wish to be rude, but if you do not mind waiting here?”

”No problem,” I said.

With a nod she disappeared inside and closed the door. Soon she was back with an empty sack in her hand. As I stood in the hall holding out my T-s.h.i.+rt's hem, she transferred the fruit into the bag.

I said, ”Your accent... You are Guatemalan?”

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