J is for JUDGMENT Read online

  I crossed to the edge of the balcony, swung my right leg over, secured my foot between the pales, swung the other leg over. I reached for the railing on the next balcony, crossing the distance just as the light in Wendell’s room came on. I was acutely aware of the adrenaline that had juiced my pulse rate up into training range, but at least I was safe on the adjacent balcony.

  Except for the guy standing out there smoking a cigarette. I don’t know which of us was more surprised. He was, no doubt, because I knew what I was doing there and he did not. I had an additional advantage in that fear had accelerated all my senses, giving me an exaggerated awareness of his persona. The truth about this man began to flash through the air at me like the subliminal messages suddenly made visible in a sports training film.

  The man was white. The man was in his sixties and balding. What hair he had was silver and combed straight back from his face. He wore glasses with the kind of dark frames that looked like they’d house hearing aids in the stems. The man smelled of alcohol, fumes pouring from his body in nearly radiant waves. He had blood pressure high enough to make his flushed face glow, and his pug nose had a ruby cast that gave him the kindly look of a K mart Santa Claus. He was shorter than I and therefore didn’t seem that threatening. In fact, he had a puzzled air about him that made me want to reach out and pat him on the head. I realized I’d seen the guy twice in my constant cruising of the hotel in search of Wendell and his lady friend. Both times I’d spotted him in the bar – once alone, his elbow propped up, his cigarette ember weaving as he orchestrated his own lengthy monologue, once in a party of bawdy guys his age, overweight, out of shape, smoking cigars, and telling the kinds of jokes that inspired sudden martini-generated guffaws.

  I had a decision to make. I slowed myself to a leisurely pace. I reached over and lifted his glasses gingerly from his face, folding the stems so I could tuck them into my shirt pocket. “Hey, stud. How are you? You’re lookin’ good tonight.”

  His hands came up in a helpless gesture of protest. I unbuttoned my right sleeve, while I gave him a look of lingering assessment.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  I smiled, blinking lazily as I unbuttoned my left sleeve. “Surprise, surprise. Where have you been all this time? I been lookin’ for you since six o’clock tonight.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Well, I’m sure you will, Jack. We’re going to have us a good old time tonight.”

  He shook his head. “I think you’ve made a mistake. My name’s not Jack.”

  “I call everybody Jack,” I said as I unbuttoned my blouse. I let the flaps hang open, revealing tantalizing glimpses of my maidenly flesh. Happily, I was wearing the one bra not held together with safety pins. In that light, how could he tell if it was faintly gray from the wash?

  “Can I have my glasses? I don’t see very well without them.”

  “You don’t? Well, now that’s too bad. What’s the deal here .. : you nearsighted, farsighted, astigmatism, what?”

  “‘Stigmatism,” he said apologetically. “I’m kind of nearsighted, too, and this one eye is lazy.” As if to demonstrate, the gaze in his one eye drifted outward, following the flight path of an unseen bug.

  “Well, don’t you worry none. I’ll stay real close so you can see me good. You ready to party?”

  “Party?” The one eye drifted back.

  “The boys sent me up. Those fellows you hang out with. Said today’s your birthday and everybody pitched in to buy you a present. I’m it. You’re a Cancer, is that right?”

  His frown was slow and his smile flickered on and off. He couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but he didn’t want to be unkind. He also didn’t want to make a fool of himself, just in case this was a joke. “It’s not my birthday today.”

  Lights were being flipped on in the room next door, and I could hear the woman’s voice rise in anger and distress.

  “Now it is,” I said. I pulled out my shirttail and peeled my blouse off like a stripper. He hadn’t taken a puff of his cigarette since I arrived. I took the lighted cigarette from his hand and tossed it over the railing, and then I moved closer, squeezing his mouth into a pout like I intended to kiss him. “You got something better to do?”

  He laughed uneasily. “I guess not,” he said in a little puff of cigarette breath. Yum yum.

  I kissed him right on the puss, using some slurpy lip-and-tongue stuff I’d seen in the movies. It didn’t seem any sexier when other people did it.

  I took his hand and drew him into his hotel room, trailing my blouse along the floor like a feather boa. As Wendell came out onto his balcony, I was in the process of closing the sliding glass door behind us. “Why don’t you relax while I clean myself up. Then I can bring a little soap and warm water and we’ll clean you up, too. Would you like that?”

  “You mean just lie down like this?”

  “You always make whoopee with your shoes on, honey bun? Why don’t you take them old Bermuda shorts off while you’re at it. I have to take care of a little something in the other room, and then I’ll be right out. I want you ready now, you hear? Then I’ll blowout that big old candle of yours.”

  The guy was unlacing one sturdy black business shoe, which he pulled off and tossed, peeling off a black nylon sock in haste. He looked like somebody’s nice, short, fat granddaddy. Also like a five-year-old, prepared to cooperate if there was a cookie in the offing. I could hear Renata, in the next room, begin to shriek. Then Wendell’s voice thundered, his words indistinguishable.

  I gave my friend a little finger wave. “Be right back,” I sang. I sashayed toward the bathroom, where I set his eyeglasses by the basin, then leaned over and turned on the faucet. Cold water gushed out with a vigorous splashing that masked all other sounds. I shrugged into, my blouse, eased over to the door, and went out into the hall, closing the door behind me with care. My heart was thudding, and I felt the cold air in the corridor wash across my bare skin. I moved swiftly to my room, pulled my key out of my pants pocket and jammed it in the keyhole, turned it, opened the door, and shut it be hind me. I slid the burglar chain into place and stood there for a moment, my back to the door, pulse racing while I rebuttoned my blouse as quickly as I could. I felt an involuntary shiver run down my frame from head to toe. I don’t know how hookers do it. Yuck.

  I crossed to the balcony and closed my sliding glass door, which I locked with a snap. I pulled the drapes and then I moved back to the door and looked out through the spyhole. The old drunk was now standing halfway out in the hallway. Mr. Magoo-like, he peered right, squinting without his glasses. He was still in his shorts, one sock off and one sock on. He’d begun to eye my door with interest. Suddenly I wondered if the man was as drunk as he’d first appeared. He glanced around casually, making sure he couldn’t be observed, and then he moved over to my fish-eye and tried to peer in. I pulled back instinctively and held my breath. I knew he couldn’t see me. From his side it must have been like looking down the wrong end of a telescope.

  He gave a shy little knock. “Miss? You in there?” He placed his eye against the spyhole again, blocking the little circle of light from the hallway. I swear I could smell his breath through the wood. I saw light in the fish-eye again, and I approached with care, pressing my eye to the tiny circle so I could peer out at him. He had backed up and was looking down the hall again with uncertainty. He moved to my left, and after a moment I heard his door close with a thunk.

  I tiptoed over to the sliding glass and took a position just to the left, my back against the wall as I peered out. Suddenly… slyly… the top portion of the old guy’s head appeared as he craned around the wall between his balcony and mine, trying to get a glimpse into my darkened room. “Ooo-whooo,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s me. Is it time to party yet?”

  This guy’s blood was up. It wouldn’t be long before he’d paw the ground and snort.

  I held myself motionless and waited him out. After a moment he withdrew. Ten seconds later my
telephone rang, a room-to-room call, if you really want my guess. I let it ring endlessly while I felt my way into the bathroom and brushed my teeth in the dark. I fumbled back toward the bed, peeled my clothes off, and laid them on the chair. I didn’t dare leave my room. I couldn’t read because I didn’t want to risk turning on the light. In the meantime, I was so wired I thought my hair might be standing straight up on end. I finally tiptoed to the minibar and extracted two small bottles of gin and some orange juice. I sat up in bed and sipped screwdrivers until I felt myself getting sleepy.

  When I emerged in the morning, the drunk’s door was shut with a DO NOT DISTURB tag hung over the knob. Wendell’s door was standing open and the room was empty. The same cart was parked in the corridor between rooms. I peered in and caught sight of the same maid patiently damp-mopping the tile floor. She set the mop aside, leaning it against the wall near the bathroom while she picked up the wastebasket and carried it into the hall.

  “¿Donde estan?” I said, hoping that I was saying “Where are they?”

  She must have known better than to pepper her response with lots of past participles and pluperfects. I wasn’t going to get it unless she kept the meaning down to a minimum.

  What I believe she said was, “Gone… they leave… not here.”

  “¿Permanente? Completely vamos?”

  “Sí, sí.” She nodded vigorously and repeated her original statement.

  “Mind if I take a look?” I didn’t really wait for her permission. I pushed my way into room 312, where I checked the dresser drawers, the night table, the desk, the minibar. Goddamn it. They hadn’t left me anything. Meanwhile, the maid was watching me with interest. She shrugged to herself and moved back into the bathroom, where she tucked the wastebasket under the sink again.

  “Gracias, ” I said to her, and backed out of the room. As I passed the cleaning cart, I caught sight of the plastic bag attached to one end, filled with newly accumulated trash. I snagged it off the hook and carried it back to my room, closing the door behind me. I moved over to the bed and dumped the contents on the spread. There was nothing of interest: yesterday’s papers, Q-Tips, used tissues, an empty can of hairspray. I picked through with distaste, hoping my tetanus shots were up to date. As I gathered the detritus and stuffed it all back in the bag, I caught sight of the front page, which was splashed with news of a crime spree. I unfolded the section, flattened the newsprint, and studied the Spanish.

  Living in Santa Teresa, I’ve learned it’s almost impossible not to pick up a smattering of the language whether you take a Spanish class or not. Many words have been borrowed, and many simply mirror their counterparts in English. Sentence construction is fairly straightforward and pronunciation is consistent. The story that was spread across page one of La Gaceta had something to do with a homicide (homicidio) in the Estados Unidos. I read aloud to myself in the halting style of a kindergartner, which helped me decipher some of the meaning of the text. A woman had been murdered, her body found on a deserted stretch of highway just north of Los Angeles. Four male inmates had escaped from the juvenile facility in Perdido County, California, fleeing south along the coast. Apparently, they’d flagged down the victim and commandeered her car, shooting her in the process. By the time the body was discovered, the escapees had reached the Mexican border, crossing into Mexicali, where they’d killed again. The federales had caught up with them, and in a wild exchange of gunfire, two youths were killed and another was severely wounded. Even in black and white, the photograph of the shooting scene seemed unnecessarily lurid, with ominous dark splotches on the shrouded bodies of the deceased. The four juveniles were pictured in a row of sullen mug shots. Three were Hispanic. The fourth was identified as a kid named Brian Jaffe.

  I booked the first flight back.

  On the plane coming home my sinuses seized up, and during our descent into Los Angeles, I thought my eardrums would burst. I arrived in Santa Teresa at 9:00, bearing with me all the symptoms of an old-fashioned cold. My throat was scratchy, my head ached, and my nasal passages stung like I’d sucked a pint of saltwater up my nose. I couldn’t help but rejoice, anticipating the use of NyQuil in fully authorized nightly doses.

  Once safely home, I locked the door behind me and hauled a stack of newspapers up my spiral stairs. I emptied my duffel into the dirty clothes hamper, stripped off my travel clothes, and added them to the mix. I donned my sweat socks and flannel nightie and tucked myself into the hand-stitched quilt Henry’s sister made for my birthday, settling in with the accounts of the jailbreak in the Santa Teresa paper. The story had already been moved to the second section, page three. I got to read it all again, only this time in English. Wendell Jaffe’s younger son, Brian, along with three confederates had made a daring daylight escape from the medium-security juvenile commitment facility called Connaught. The dead inmates were identified as Julio Rodriguez, sixteen, and Ernesto Padilla, whose age was fifteen. I wasn’t sure what extradition agreements the United States had with Mexico, but it looked like Brian Jaffe was being sent back to the States as soon as sheriff’s deputies could be dispatched. The fourth escapee, a fourteen-year-old, was still in critical condition in a hospital in Mexico. His name was being withheld from the local papers because of his age. The Spanish-language paper, as I recollected, had listed him as Ricardo Guevara. Both the murder victims had been Americans, and it was possible the federales were anxious to relinquish responsibility. It was also possible that a great whack of cash had been passed under the table. Whatever the circumstances, the escapees were lucky not to find themselves permanently incarcerated down there. According to the paper, Brian Jaffe had celebrated his eighteenth birthday shortly after his capture, which meant that once he was returned to the Perdido County Jail, he’d be kept and charged as an adult. I found a pair of scissors and. clipped all the articles, setting them aside to take with me for the office files. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was only 9:45. I picked up the phone and called Mac Voorhies at home found a pair of scissors and. clipped all the articles, setting them aside to take with me for the office files. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was only 9:45. I picked up the phone and called Mac Voorhies at home.

  Chapter 5

  *

  “Hi, it’s Kinsey,” I, said when Mac picked up on his end.

  “You don’t sound like yourself. Where’re you calling from?”

  “Here in town,” I said. “I just came down with a cold and I’m feeling like death.”

  “That’s too bad. Welcome home. I wasn’t sure when to expect you back.”

  “I walked in the door forty-five minutes ago,” I said.

  “I’ve been reading the papers and I see you had some excitement while I was gone.”

  “Can you believe it? I don’t know what the hell is going on. I haven’t heard a word about this family for the last two, three years. Now all the sudden the name’s cropping up everywhere.”

  “Yeah, well, here it comes again. We hit pay dirt on Wendell. I spotted him right where Dick Mills said he’d be.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Of course, I’m not sure, Mac. I never laid eyes on the man before, but judging from the photographs, this fellow comes damn close. For one thing, he’s American and he’s in the right age group. He’s not using the name Jaffe. It’s Dean DeWitt Huff, but the height’s on the money, and the weight seemed close enough. He’s somewhat heavier, but he probably would be in any event. He’s traveling with a woman, and the two kept themselves very isolated.”

  “Sounds pretty sketchy.”

  “Of course it’s sketchy. I could hardly walk up to him and introduce myself.”

  “How sure are you on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Let’s put it this way: adjusting for age and some surgical tampering, I’d say a nine. I tried to get some pictures, but he was very paranoid about attention. I had to maintain a very low profile,” I said. “By the way, what was Brian Jaffe in jail, for has anybody sai
d?”

  “As I understand it, some kind of burglary. Probably nothing sophisticated or he wouldn’t have been caught,” Mac said. What about Wendell. Where is he at this point?”

  “That’s a very good question.”

  “He got away,” Mac said flatly.

  “More or less. He and the woman took off in the dead of night, but don’t start screaming yet. You want to know what I found? This was in their room after they checked out. A Mexican newspaper featuring Brian Jaffe’s capture. Wendell must have spotted it in the late edition because the two of them went off to dinner at the regular time. Next thing I know, they’re hightailing it back, and they’re both upset. By this morning, they were gone. I found the newspaper in the trash.” Even as I played out my recital of the facts, I realized something 1 about the situation was bothering me. It was too, coincidental-Wendell Jaffe ensconced in that obscure, Mexican resort… Brian breaking out of jail and heading straight for the border. I could feel a spark of insight connect the two events. “Oh, wait a minute, Mac. I got a little flash here, catch this. You know what just occurred to me? From the moment I spotted Wendell, he was skimming through the papers, five or six altogether, and he was checking every page. What if he knew Brian would be making that escape? He could have been waiting for him. It’s possible Wendell even helped set it up.”

  Mac cleared his throat with a skeptical hum. “That’s pretty far-fetched. Let’s don’t jump to conclusions until we know what’s what.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re right, but it adds up in a way. I’ll table it for now, but I may check it out later.”