T Parker - L. A. Outlaws

“I have a cell number for you. It’s all I know.”

Hood handed her a pen and his notebook, and she wrote down a number from memory then set the notebook and the pen on the couch between them.

“What’s the deal with Joaquin Murrieta?” he asked.

“There is no consensus that such a man ever existed, outside of the stories about him. Some historians say he was only legend, a product of Anglo fear. Some say he was a real man. Of those, some claim he was born in Chile, others in Mexico. For every story about him, such as the ones that Suzanne tells on TV, there is a contradictory story about him, too.”

“She doesn’t have his head in a jar?”

“No, she does not.” Madeline looked down.

Hood wondered if the positive identification of a person wearing a mask-even by the suspect’s mother-would be enough to get a warrant for arrest.

“Why is she doing this?” he asked.

“Because it’s profitable and exciting. Because it stimulates and arouses. Because it makes the routine of work and family responsibility tolerable. Because she becomes famous and infamous.”

Hood doubted that Suzanne Jones had sat down in her kitchen one day and asked herself how to make teaching and being a mother more fun, and come up with the idea of armed robbery and grand theft auto.

“Because she wants to please you?” he asked.

“How does this please me?”

“She makes history instead of just teaching it.”

Madeline looked at one of the soap opera posters, then back at Hood. “Perhaps. Perhaps it’s competition, too. I was a bright star in a small universe. Briefly. I gambled with my ambitions and failed. I saw myself in Suzanne until I saw Allison. Then I knew she’d moved beyond me. Far beyond me. She possesses the courage that I never had and always wanted. I’ll confess to you, Mr. Hood-I’m very proud of her and very sad for her.”

“You do understand how this is going to end,” said Hood.

“She’ll almost assuredly be killed.”

“Someone will.”

“I doubt that she could pull the trigger of that silly little gun.”

“There’s nothing silly about a forty-caliber bullet.”

“Find her, Mr. Hood. Stop her.”

Hood pocketed his notebook and pen, stood and went to the window. Outside, the breeze was now a wind, and he watched a swirl of dust scratch against the window with the sound of a snake passing over a sheet of paper.

“I don’t understand,” said Hood. “Of all the people who know Suzanne, and all the people who’ve seen Allison on TV, why hasn’t anyone stepped forward and identified her? She started making the news months ago. Just a little at first, then more and more. Now she’s telling the world about herself. But we haven’t gotten a single call, a single suggestion that we consider Suzanne. Her students, the parents of her students, her coworkers, her friends and acquaintances-what are they seeing? Why did I recognize her in two seconds but they still haven’t?”

She looked at him with mild surprise. “People are busy and inattentive and absorbed, Mr. Hood. Truly seeing is an inconvenience the mind will avoid. It’s possible you saw her because you’re a good detective. It’s also possible that you saw her because your hearts have touched.”

After the Hotel Laguna Hood had the same irrational idea, this touching-of-hearts thing, because he wanted Suzanne Jones like he’d never wanted anything or anyone. He barely knew her but was famished to know more. She fired his imagination. He wanted to be great for her. He started slotting her into his future like the last gleaming plank of a ship he’d been building all his life.

“She denies being Allison,” said Madeline.

Hood figured she would.

“When I told her I knew, she laughed at me. She said Allison Murrieta was an attention-starved child and obviously three inches shorter and ten pounds heavier than her. I reminded her that television adds ten pounds to any actor and she reminded me that I was getting old. She said that she’d have me committed if I continued to degenerate at such a rapid pace. She laughed. She finished eating the ice cream from my freezer straight from the tub like she did when she was a girl, then kissed me on the forehead as if I were a child. Like I used to kiss her. Her lips were still cold. Then she sped down the driveway like the bandit she is, the tires of her car smoking.”

Madeline smiled. It was the first smile he’d seen on her, and he saw Suzanne in it in a way that gave him desire and dread. “As a concession, and because something inside told me to, I admitted to Suzanne that I could be wrong.”

“But you’re not?”

“I am not wrong.”

“Does Ernest know?”

“I would find it frightening if he didn’t, but possible. She doesn’t let him be the man in her life because of his high intelligence.”

Again Hood thought of Lupercio. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Suzanne’s address book could lead him to this place, just as the telephone bill had led Hood to it. It wasn’t hard to imagine what Lupercio would do when he got here. If Marlon petitioned nicely, Bakersfield PD might step up patrol of this area, but that would almost certainly not be enough to deter Lupercio. Hood had a bad feeling about this day and he believed he should act on it.

“Have you had any calls recently about Suzanne?” he asked.

“Just yours.”

“Any vague or unusual calls from a man with a Hispanic accent?”

“No.”

“Any unusual visitors or solicitors?”

“I would have told you immediately.”

“Can you leave this house? Go stay with someone who doesn’t know Suzanne? You’d need to take your mother. Say five days. Maybe less. Hopefully less.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Mary, Mother of Jesus.”

Madeline left the room and Hood heard voices from the alcove. They spoke in Spanish and Hood caught only some of it. It went from a discussion to an argument back to a discussion. A moment later Madeline was back.

“I’ll pack.”

“There’s one more thing.” Hood took out his notebook and pen again. “Every place she might go. Every place she likes. Hotels or resorts she’s mentioned. Vacation spots. Favorite restaurants, bars, clubs. Friends. Relatives.”

Madeline talked and Hood wrote. It took some time. Later, while she packed, Hood called the first five places on Madeline’s list. No one had seen Suzanne; she was not a recent guest. When Madeline was packed, he put her bags and her mother’s bags into a dark blue Durango.

Outside the vehicle Madeline took his hands in hers. They were warm and strong. Her eyes were wet and Hood saw the tremble in her chin.

“Don’t let them kill her, Mr. Hood. That’s really what everyone wants, because that’s how outlaws are supposed to end. And it’s such good entertainment-a real person dying a real death. Maybe she’ll listen to you. Maybe she’ll stop. Maybe she won’t.”

“I’ll do all I can.”

“I’m not expecting a promise. I don’t require theater. I used to but now I do not.”

“Don’t tell her that you told me. Tell her you sent me the wrong way. It might leave us something to work with.”

“Of course.” She climbed into the SUV and started it up. “Are you going to wait for him here? For this collector?”

“For a while, yes.”

Madeline hoisted her purse from the console and produced a house key, which she handed to Hood.

“Eat the food and drink the coffee.”

“Thank you. Call here when you get where you’re going. Don’t leave your location on the machine. If you find out where she is-”

“I know.”

Hood watched the Durango lumber down the drive then turn toward Bakersfield. In the dusty windblown distance he saw it join a line of traffic. Standing in the heat he dialed Suzanne on the new number and no one answered so he left a message. He said he was just leaving her mother’s house and she was a nice woman but she wouldn’t tell him where Suzanne had gone or much of anything about her. All she’d conceded was this number. He tried Ernest again but Ernest didn’t answer. He got his.25-caliber autoloader, ankle holster and big flashlight from the trunk of his Camaro.