Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [74]
“What kind of soil do you think these houses were built on?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You grew up on a farm.”
“We’re not in Kansas anymore.”
I laughed. Jason reddened at his own joke.
“Dr. Arnie says a paint chip found in Juliana’s clothing indicates she was taken to an older house on loamy soil. It had floral wallpaper.”
We were sitting in the Crown Vic across from the Santos residence, a vintage stucco apartment building with green fiberglass balconies and giant birds-of-paradise. It was about six inches away from the adjoining structure, a shoe box on legs.
“No old flowered wallpaper in there,” said Jason restlessly.
“Mylar,” I suggested, but I don’t think he knew what that was. I observed his squirming. “Let’s get something to eat.”
A neighbor had told us the Santos family was on a church retreat up in Lake Arrowhead and would be back that night. We had been on surveillance more than four hours by then, endlessly circling the sights: a mustard-colored strip mall, junk shops, plumbing outfits and used car lots, up Overland and down Pico. We must have passed that pile of lime green and zebra-striped beanbag chairs in front of a futon store twenty-five times.
But we had located a Jack in the Box, with a Plexiglas security window through which you inserted your money and received your grub like a hamburger bank. It put another attitude on the ’hood.
“Is this where you want to be?” Jason asked.
“Jack in the Box?”
He grinned and crunched some fries. “The C-1 squad.”
“I worked my butt off to make C-1.”
“Really?”
He sounded surprised, like those broad-shouldered college kids in the fast lane who swim the fifty in less than thirty seconds. What’s the big deal?
“When I was coming up, the hottest assignment in the country was the Los Angeles bank robbery squad. I was lucky enough to start from there, but it was still a long haul.”
“I really admire the way you do your job.”
He said it forthrightly.
“Thank you.”
“I mean, you know how to negotiate the bullshit.”
“Bullshit makes the world go round.”
“When you started out, how did you prove yourself?”
“Well.” I had never considered it quite like this. “Made sure I was first through the door.”
He nodded.
“You can’t show weakness.”
“I got that.”
“Never once, or it will come back to haunt you for your whole career.”
“That’s not what they say when they talk about the Bureau family.”
“We are a Bureau family, but let it come out one time that you’re weak and see what happens. Male or female, doesn’t matter. Once it’s out there, they start looking for a pattern. Do you volunteer to go to the back door, or the front? Do you put yourself in a situation where you’re less responsible than the others? If your assignment is to be in charge of putting stuff in the evidence log—and if you say, I don’t know if I could do that—you’re finished.”
I did not tell Jason, but that is what happened to Barbara Sullivan. Why they took her off the street.
His eyes were narrow behind the mirrored sunglasses.
“You spend your life in an office,” he said bitterly. “When do you get the chance?”
“Looking for a chance?”
“Looking for something,” he sighed.
I smiled empathetically and glanced at my watch. This was working out well. I had not thought about Andrew in twenty minutes.
“What do you think that thing you are looking for might be, Jason?”
At 10:48 p.m. an older green Dodge van pulled up to the apartment building. It had a dent on the left side.
“Did Juliana say the van was damaged?”
“Don’t know,” said Jason.
I was sitting up straight now, trying to get comfortable as the last of the codeine pills wore off. My eyes hurt and my back was sore, as if I had the flu.
The van sat there a minute and then a dark-complected woman got out the driver’s side. She had a skinny black ponytail and was wearing running pants and a sweatshirt. She looked like a cannonball, big in the bust with