The Patrolman - 35

 

 

35.

 

 

 

Williams Ranch was bigger than Lacey expected. He'd anticipated a large house, some outbuildings, with a grain silo or two - like a decent John Ford Western. No, what they were coming up on was a small town. A barrio. A self-contained neighborhood tucked against the curve of the Los Angeles River, east of Maywood. It spanned what looked like two city blocks. This was a place people were born in, grew up in, and died in.

Slauson Avenue brought them over the river. Carruthers made the turn onto the property. Its boundary was marked by a strange quiet, a different rhythm from the city. Sure, there was a high school on the left and industrial buildings on both sides. A modern neighborhood, at first glance. But they drove across land that hadn't seen rain in weeks. They followed the line of the river. The Lincoln's whitewall tires kicked up grit as they approached a half dozen low-built homes. Small bungalows. A little better than the shacks you'd expect to find on land like this, but still twenty years behind. 

They caught a couple of kids hoop-rolling. It must be a nice enough place to grow up, Lacey thought. They cleared the road, waving. Carruthers revved the engine in return. The kids whooped. It was good to see a place where kids could be kids. They came to a fork in the dirt and took the right, where they could see a crescent with more houses.

One had a sign with "Foreman" nailed to a fence post. Carruthers pulled up. This house was the largest on the road, with no peeling paint, and a lacquered porch wrapped around the front. Lacey got out and knocked. A heavily pregnant woman answered.

'L.A.P.D.,' he said, showing the foreman's wife his badge.

'You looking for the Vasquez family?'

He said they were.

She told him the house was down the road, past the fork, and on the right. 'It's the one all to itself.' She said it with a hint of pride. The woman might've been involved in running the ranch with her husband. She asked him outright if they'd found Miranda. Lacey shrugged her off and thanked her for her help.

They parked out of view, knowing nothing good ever came from two men on a doorstep. This would be sensitive. The foreman's wife asked if they'd found her. Maybe the community accepted that she was dead, but the Vasquezes might still have hope. And hope like that didn’t take kindly to men like them. 'Let me do the talking,' Carruthers said to him. 'If I give you the nod, you take it from there.'

It seemed like a solid plan. Before they could knock, the door swung open. A squat woman in an apron, hair pulled tight, stared back at them. 'Policía?'

'Sí, señora,' Carruthers said. 'May we come in?'

The mother looked at them for a moment. 'You may,' she said, stepping back to let the strange white men in. She looked resigned, like she knew they weren't here to bring her good news. The house smelled like masa and strong coffee. She asked if they would join her family for lunch - tortillas.

He thought about the donuts. His stomach growled, but Carruthers declined the offer.

She led them through the parlor, where a few family photos were tucked on a narrow shelf above a side table. One showed a girl in a crisp blouse and skirt, her hair pinned back, standing in front of a schoolhouse. Miranda, maybe. They passed into the back of the house, where the smell of lunch grew. They stepped into a small kitchen. A large window backed onto the cornfields. From here, the family would have seen the Lincoln speeding toward them. There was a pot simmering on the stove, a screen door, and a scarred wooden table.

The father sat at it, wiping a tortilla around his bowl. He was in his forties and burly. His muscles and broad shoulders showed through his sweat-soaked shirt. He swallowed the tortilla and got to his feet. Being polite, he wiped his hands on his overalls before shaking hands. Lacey didn't like to shake hands, nor were the father's hands clean. But he thought about what his father would say. Those dirty hands meant honest work. And those dirty hands had helped build the country. He wondered if the family would still be this cordial once they broke the news to them.

'Are you working today?' Carruthers asked.

'Always,' the father said.

An attractive young woman hovered by the screen door. He recognized the mother's wide forehead and the father's long nose. Late teens. This was Miranda's little sister. The one left behind to pick up the pieces.

The mother fixed Lacey and Carruthers some coffee.

Carruthers laid it out. A girl was found at the top of Mulholland Dam carrying their missing daughter's Social Security card. He was polite enough, but spoke with urgency. He omitted that there were other girls. He omitted that time was running out for another girl out there. It was unlikely Miranda was still alive.

The mother didn't cry. She nodded, resigned. Like their visit had confirmed something she had long since known but refused to admit to herself. The father's hand closed around hers.

'You think Miranda was taken?'

'We don't think she went willingly,' Carruthers said.

Meanwhile, Lacey watched her little sister. She didn't move. Didn't give a thing away. The sister wasn't surprised. Maybe she had already come to terms with her sister being dead for a year. Her eyes flicked left when Carruthers said 'taken'. Lacey noted it. She was telling a story of her own.

Carruthers must've noticed. He turned a little toward Lacey and gave him a single nod. His turn.

'Tell us about Miranda, sir,' Lacey asked. 'What was she like?'

They talked for a half hour. The story was too clean and too simple. Miranda Vasquez had been a good girl, stayed home, and went to church. She was kind, respectful, and friends with everyone. It was the kind of story parents tell themselves so they can sleep at night.

Lacey could see the cracks. The parents knew nothing. The little sister disagreed with them. She didn't contradict a word they said, but her body did. Her jaw tightened at 'respectful'. She looked away when her mother said that Miranda always stayed home.

The mother fixed everyone with more coffee.

The little sister spoke for the first time and declined. She'd opened herself up to questioning. Carruthers asked her about the night she went missing.

'There was a birthday party,' she said. 'Some of the local kids. She went, I didn't.'

The father looked at her. The mother folded her hands in her lap. That confirmed it. They hadn't known.

'Was there any drinking?' Carruthers said.

'A little.'

'Anything else happen that night?' Lacey asked.

The discomfort in her eyes reminded him of the girl in the picture. She knew what happened. That same flicker in her eyes. But she didn't answer. She wasn't going to say anything in front of her parents.

They left. The whole talk lasted an hour and wasn't for nothing. The little sister was the key to this thing. Miranda was the golden child, and she was the forgotten daughter. They needed to talk to her away from her parents to get the truth. Lacey told Carruthers. They waited in the car.

Ten minutes later, she stepped outside and kissed her mother goodbye. She headed down the dirt track without looking back. She knew they were watching. But when she hit the field past her house, she veered right. Not toward any road, but into the corn. She was making sure they couldn't follow her.

'She's made us,' Carruthers said, shifting into drive.

They followed the road off Williams Ranch and looped around. They came out at 26^th Street. Chances were she'd be heading east from where she cut across. Lacey wanted to test that theory. He left the car and headed east and then south toward the plants. Eastern Avenue was an industrial area. A strange area. Factories lying between two separate farms. He walked.

Not far ahead was a hot rod, rumbling like a threat. He was thirty yards away from it when the corn split open. The sister ran out and jumped into the car. The hot rod peeled off, its tires spitting dust. Shooting past Lacey. He turned and sprinted back to the Lincoln. It made a sharp left on 26^th. Lacey ran after it, his chest burning. He jumped in the Lincoln, and they followed, heading west.

They caught up with the car on 38^th Street.

Outside a dive bar in a standalone wooden building. A patch of weedy gravel for parking, with two hot rods parked on it. Orange flames were painted over both wheel wells. The bar was dull with age. Some shingles had slipped off the roof. It was a Latino joint, with a Mexican flag displayed in one of the windows. It wasn’t their kind of place, but they climbed the porch steps anyway.

Lacey walked to the door of the bar. He pulled it open and stepped inside. The air was dark and hot with spilled beer. The bar was rectangular, with a full-length wooden counter on the left and tables on the right. There was an arch in the rear wall, with a narrow corridor beyond that. Likely restrooms and a fire escape. Four windows. Multiple exits.

He stepped in first, Carruthers right behind him.

The little sister stood in the center of the room with her arms crossed.

'You shouldn't have followed me,' she said.

The door slammed behind them. One large guy threw the bolt and stepped in front of it. From behind her, another three fellas came out from behind the arch in the rear wall. Nobody said a word.

Carruthers rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette. 'You ready?' he asked.

Lacey looked at the men in front of him. They were restless. One guy had brass knuckles. Another grabbed a pool cue. One cracked his neck, tattoos crawling up it like ivy. They were close now. The fourth one behind them moved in.

The gang had formed a semicircle around them.

'Always,' he said.

This was going to get ugly.