Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [72]
When she rounded the final turn before the Sandoval casa, I stayed behind. I waited five minutes, then left the car and walked around the corner. Sure enough, Red’s Mercedes was pulled up in the Sandoval driveway. She had to return my way; Felicia Terraco dead-ended a quarter mile in the opposite direction. I waited nervously, discarding my fish-permeated shirt and tilting back the driver’s seat so I could prop my feet on the dashboard.
Red skidded around the corner a few minutes later, narrowly missing the divider. I caught a glimpse of her fear-flushed face. She looked anguished and disoriented. I counted to ten and began pursuit. We were back in Ensenada in half the time it took us to make the trip up. Red Top was driving fast and erratically, sending up clouds of dust that kept me hidden behind her as she tore through the sandy area outside of town. I was getting frightened for her; she was distraught, self-destructive, and in imminent danger of totaling her car.
When she hit the busy Ensenada streets she cleaned up her act, slowing down and driving with restraint through town to a quiet residential block on its east side. This was a side of Ensenada I hadn’t seen: tree-lined streets and up-to-date condo-convenience apartments that reminded me of L.A.’s better suburbs. She pulled up to the curb in front of an elegant, pseudo-French chateau apartment house, and I pulled up directly behind her. I was throwing caution to the wind, because there was no possible ploy I could use in confronting her. It would have to be direct, and that scared me. This was not my country.
She had not yet noticed me, I was sure of that. She was in some nether world of fear and self-obsession, staring up at the building as if debating the risk of entering. Then she bolted, slamming the car door and running into the large vestibule. I tucked my gun into my pocket and ran after her, entering the foyer just in time to catch sight of her going up a flight of carpeted stairs off to my left. I followed, taking the stairs three at a time. My rubber-soled work shoes made my approach soundless and I caught her in the fourth floor hallway, nervously unlocking an apartment door.
I waited until she was almost inside, then shoved the door open and grabbed her just as she began to scream, putting a hand over her mouth and wrestling her to a couch in the middle of the room. She was straining hard in my grip, with the unnatural strength of the very scared. As I sat her down, my hand still clamped over her mouth, I spoke as gently as I could: I’m not going to hurt you. Please believe me. I know you’re in trouble. I’m going to mention some names. You nod if you believe I want to help you, okay? Then I’ll let go of you and we can talk, okay?” She nodded, the terror in her eyes lessening slightly. “Fat Dog Baker, Richard Ralston, Omar Gonzalez, Reyes Sandoval, Henry Cruz.” At the mention of the last two names she began nodding vigorously and squirming in my grasp. I let her go and sat back on the couch holding my breath.
She started to cry, and I made no effort to stop her. “Who are you?” she finally got out between sobs.
“My name is Brown. I’m a private investigator,” I said. “The people I mentioned are all involved in a case I’m working on. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Are Henry and Reyes all right?”
“I don’t know. Is this your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I followed you here from the cannery. I could tell you were scared. What is it? What’s frightening you?”
“Henry and Reyes are gone. They’ve been gone for a week. I know they’re in trouble.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. They were supposed to do this job for this rich man. This guy Henry used to play baseball with fixed it up. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was dangerous. I told Henry that, but he wouldn’t believe me. He wanted the stuff too bad.”
“What stuff?”
“You know. Stuff. Smack. This rich guy