Bruja Brouhaha Page 2

  “Wiggle your hips, Liz. The salsa comes from here.” Paco pounded his heart. “And from there.” He smacked my behind. “Follow me. Quick-quick-slow, and five-six-seven, and . . .” He gripped my right hand and guided me across the floor. His forehead glistened under wisps of white hair as we moved together.

  Nick and Lucia clapped to the rhythm, calling out, “Salsa!”

  I loosened my body to fall into the beat, laughing as Paco guided me back and forth and then turned me under his arm. In the middle of the song, a buzzer sounded near the door.

  Paco bowed then passed my hand to Nick. He went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Hola.”

  A hearty female voice sounded through the speaker. “Paco, it’s Teresa. I’m outside. Will you unlatch the door?”

  “Coming down,” Paco said.

  As he left the apartment, Lucia called behind him, “Tell Teresa we saved tamales for her dinner.”

  Nick slipped his hand around my waist and pulled me close while the music played. He touched his forehead to mine. We swayed, our bodies pressed together. He whispered in my ear, “Do you know how sexy you are?”

  The sound of a distant gun blast outside echoed through the doorway.

  Then a scream.

  Chapter Two

  The scream cut through the music. I pulled at Nick as he started toward the door. “That sounded like gunfire, Nick. You can’t—”

  “Paco’s out there. Stay inside. Call the police.” He flew into the hall with Victor behind him.

  I darted for my purse and phone. Dialing 911, I dashed behind Carmen and Lucia into the bedroom. As we looked out the window overlooking the street, my stomach clenched. Nick and Victor knelt on the sidewalk beside Paco, his pale yellow shirt steeped in blood, and the still body of a dark-haired youth.

  My heart hammering, I related the details to the emergency operator. “I heard one gunshot but I see two victims on the ground.” I gave her the address then rushed through the apartment, out to the corridor, and into the stairwell leading to the vestibule and the street.

  Carmen preceded me down the stairs and she ran out the door faster than I believed a woman in her sixties could move. Lucia took the steps slowly, clutching the rail. Below us, a woman in a black sweater, yellow uniform pants, and sneakers cowered in the vestibule.

  “Teresa, what happened?” Lucia said.

  Teresa’s chest heaved as she gulped for air. Her words came in sobs: “A drive-by. They shot Paco and José.”

  We hastened past Teresa and went outside. Lucia clawed Victor out of the way and crumpled to her knees next to Paco. Her keen anguish sliced through my heart like a razor.

  Sirens wailed. Within seconds an ambulance and fire truck stopped at the curb. EMTs and firemen filled the sidewalk. Two LAPD patrol cars pulled up, blocking traffic. A small crowd gathered across the street. Carmen pulled Lucia away from Paco and cradled her as the EMTs set to work.

  Medical technicians checked the wounds, pulse, and airways of both men. Paco’s eyes were open and rolled back. José’s chest was a massive open wound.

  The EMT with Paco said to his partner, “Jesus. I think this is a shotgun wound. Brutal.”

  Teresa hovered beside me, fixated on the technicians bent over Paco and José. I touched her shoulder. She didn’t budge.

  “Your friend. José? Is there someone we can call to be with him?” I said.

  “I only met him a few days ago.” A tear rolled down her check. “He’s just a kid. A nice kid.”

  “Do you know his last name?” I said.

  “Saldivar. His name is José Saldivar. He ate at the Chicken Shack the last few nights, came in right before closing. He told me he worked nearby.”

  “Where?” I said, hoping we could locate family or a friend. Paco had us. José was alone. I couldn’t stand that he was alone.

  Teresa shrugged ignorance. “All I know is that he takes the train to Boyle Heights. He walked me home on his way to the MTA station.” She pointed toward the station, two blocks west.

  “Did he tell you anything about his family? Who he lives with?” I said.

  “The Chicken Shack is a couple blocks from here.” She thumbed to the east. “We talked about nothing. The weather, the Lakers. He’s just a kid . . .”

  As the EMTs worked over Paco, I hoped against logic to see him sit up, move, or speak. Their frantic efforts seemed to move in surrealistic slow motion with only Lucia’s muffled sobs cutting through the rapt silence. Agonizing moments later, Paco and José were pronounced dead at the scene. Lucia let out an agonizing wail. Carmen and Victor folded her into a protective embrace. I watched, stunned, as blue tarps were placed over the bodies.

  Teresa backed up against the window of Botanica Rojas. Nick came to my side and we held each other tight until a young LAPD officer approached the three of us.

  “Did any of you witness the shooting?”

  “I did,” Teresa said, her eyes focused on the covered bodies a few feet away.

  He took her name. “Tell me what happened.”

  “José and I were talking on the sidewalk,” she said, looking up. “Paco came out and started to say something to us. A car came around that corner.” Teresa pointed up the block. “I saw a shotgun barrel come out the back window. I heard a shot. Paco and José fell. I thought they were gonna shoot me, too. I screamed and ran inside.”

  “What was the make and color of the car?” the policeman said.

  She hesitated.

  “Ma’am?”

  “The car was black,” Teresa said. “One of those big black SUVs. The windows were tinted black.”

  “Follow me,” he said. “I need you to wait over there for a detective.”

  * * *

  Carmen and I took Lucia upstairs to the apartment. She knelt at the Santeria altar under the window, rocking back and forth with her hands folded to her forehead. Nick followed and turned off the salsa music still playing on the turntable. Carmen fell into an armchair with her arms wrapped around her stomach, watching Lucia. Victor, his hands and shirt bloody, came in and went straight into the kitchen.

  We sat or wandered around the room in shocked silence. I kept my eyes on Lucia. As a psychologist, I was trained in emotional trauma and knew there was nothing immediate I could do or say to erase her pain. All I could do was be there for her.

  The door buzzer jolted the stillness. Nick answered the intercom and waited until a tall, fortyish detective in a rumpled gray sport coat appeared at the apartment door.

  “I’m Detective Matt Bailey, LAPD,” he said, showing his badge. “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to Mrs. Rojas.”

  Carmen rose from the armchair. “She’s in shock, Detective.”

  “I understand. I won’t take long,” he said.

  Bailey, lanky with dirty blond hair, approached Lucia with a gentle and apologetic manner. He crouched at her side. “Mrs. Rojas, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Lucia didn’t move. “Leave me alone. Go talk to my husband. He’s outside with Teresa.”

  “Mrs. Rojas, I—” Bailey said.

  Victor came out of the kitchen and set his hands on Lucia’s shoulders. “I’m Mrs. Rojas’s physician, Detective. Do you have to do this now? It’s not a good time.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry, Mrs. Rojas.” Bailey straightened. “Where can the rest of us talk?”

  We filed into the dimly lit corridor. Victor leaned against the doorjamb with an eye on Lucia inside.

  Bailey jotted our names in his notebook. “I know how difficult this is, but I need statements from you while your memory is fresh. My partner took Teresa Suarez to the station to go through photographs. I’d like your account of what happened tonight, and some background. Where were you when the shooting took place?”

  Nick summarized the evening up to the point the buzzer rang, then said, “Paco went downstairs to unbolt the door for Teresa.”

  “After Paco left, we heard the shot,” I said.

  “And Tere
sa’s scream,” Carmen said.

  “Teresa. Are you talking about Teresa Suarez, the witness?” Bailey said.

  “Yes. She lives in the apartment at the end of the hall,” Carmen said.

  Bailey glanced down the corridor. “There’s only one other door down there. How many tenants occupy the building?”

  “There are only two apartments,” Carmen said. “Mr. and Mrs. Rojas live in front. Teresa lives alone in the back.”

  “Teresa doesn’t have a key to the door downstairs?” Bailey said.

  “The lock was broken a few days ago,” Victor said. “Paco installed a temporary slide bolt.”

  “Who broke the lock?” Bailey said, writing in his notebook.

  “Vandals.” Victor folded his arms.

  Bailey lifted his eyes. “Was the break-in reported to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Did Mr. Rojas have any enemies?” Bailey said.

  “Of course not. Paco was an old man,” Victor said through clenched teeth. “Why the hell would anyone shoot him? Why are you asking us this? Obviously they were after the kid. Who was he? What do you know about him?”

  Bailey flipped through his notes. “José Saldivar. Did any of you know him?”

  Nick and I shook our heads.

  “I don’t—didn’t,” Carmen said.

  “No,” Victor said. “I’ve never seen him before. And I know most of the boys from this neighborhood.”

  “What about Teresa Suarez?” Bailey said. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She waitresses at the Chicken Shack during the week and works part-time for Dr. Morales and me at Park Clinic on Saturdays,” Carmen said. “She’s a good girl. Does her job. Efficient. Doesn’t complain. Always on time.”

  “Does Mrs. Suarez have any gang affiliations?” Bailey said.

  Carmen and Victor exchanged glances.

  “Teresa’s husband is in jail,” Victor said.

  Bailey stopped writing. “For what?”

  “Murder,” Carmen said, glancing at Victor again. “He was sentenced for fifteen years to life for knifing a man in a bar fight five years ago.”

  “You mentioned vandalism on the door lock,” Bailey said. “Did Mr. Rojas suspect anyone?”

  Victor narrowed his eyes. “The gangs, of course. They intimidate everyone.”

  “I assure you, the gang unit will do a full investigation, Dr. Morales.” Bailey closed his notepad. “I’ll be back to talk to Mrs. Rojas in the morning. If any of you think of anything that could help, call me. I’m sorry for your loss.” He gave each of us a card.

  As Bailey turned to leave, I stopped him. “Why do you think they were shot, Detective?”

  “I don’t like to comment before I have facts,” he said.

  “I come from a family of police detectives. I know you have an initial theory or a guess.”

  Bailey shook his head. “You know as much as I do right now. The obvious theory would be the shooter was after either José Saldivar or Teresa Suarez or both, and Mr. Rojas got in the way. I need more information to sort out the details, so if you’ll excuse me?”

  Nick followed Bailey downstairs. I went inside and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. I needed to do something normal. Coffee was normal. As I filled the pot with tap water, Lucia walked in.

  “My mind. How could we forget dessert, Liz?” She reached to the overhead cabinet and took out a platter. Then she went to the refrigerator and removed a metal mold. She took off the cover and flipped a flan onto the platter.

  I turned off the faucet, stunned. Carmen had followed her in. We gaped as Lucia pulled a knife from the drawer.

  “Don’t just stand there with your mouths open, ladies. Take some plates and forks out to the table. Tell Paco to come in here and help me,” Lucia said. “Where is that man?”

  I gently took the knife out of her hand. “I’m sorry.” I pressed my lips together, knowing I couldn’t avoid the truth, even to ease her pain. “Paco’s gone.”

  Lucia shook her head. “He’s downstairs. He’ll be back.”

  Carmen slipped an arm around her. “Paco’s not coming back, sweetie. Leave the flan. Come. I want you to lie down.” As she guided Lucia out of the kitchen, she turned to me. “Liz, there’s a prescription bottle in my purse. Get it, will you? I want to give her a sedative to help her rest.”

  I brought the pills and a glass of water into the bedroom. Lucia lay on the bed, propped up by pillows, with Carmen at her side. Across the room, Paco’s old burgundy sweater hung over the back of a chair. His slippers waited under the nightstand. My eyes roamed to each small reminder that Paco wouldn’t be coming home. I pulled down the window shade. Below on the street, the police and EMTs waited for the coroner to arrive to take the covered bodies to the morgue.

  “How is Lucia?” Nick said when I returned to the living room.

  “Resting,” I said. The word felt inadequate. Devastated came to mind. Shocked, hurt, and numb magnified beyond comprehension. I had no personal reference for what Lucia was going through. I studied the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief in school, along with follow-up workshops with colleagues. But my shock over Paco’s death and the resulting emotional toll on Lucia and the rest of his friends felt raw and unnerving.

  I sat down at the dining table. “We can’t leave Lucia here alone. Certainly not this week, and probably a lot longer.”

  Victor paced the room. “I’ll stay with her. I know she needs us. Grief takes time to work through the body and, at her age, the shock and stress could be debilitating. I have her medical power of attorney. I promised Paco I would take care of her if anything should ever happen to him. I didn’t think . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “I’ll talk to her about hiring a live-in, someone to stay here with her.”

  Carmen came out of the bedroom. “She’s asleep.”

  The four of us organized a schedule to stay with Lucia in shifts until Victor interviewed and hired a satisfactory live-in caretaker. Victor would sleep in the guest bedroom. Carmen would come mornings. Nick and I agreed to alternate afternoons.

  Victor made a list of what needed to be done for Paco’s funeral. The rest of us put the apartment back in order. Carmen washed the dishes. Nick moved the furniture back into place. I finished straightening the living room, and stopped in front of the Santeria altar. The four pieces of coconut were in the dish of water where Paco tossed them.

  Obi cannot lie.

  Chapter Three

  When Nick and I left the apartment, a lone squad car was parked in front. Someone had left two hurricane candles burning on the bloodstained sidewalk. We climbed into Nick’s SUV, drove west, and then north and onto the 101 Freeway toward our homes in the San Fernando Valley. Nick kept one hand on the steering wheel and held mine with the other. Exhausted, neither one of us spoke until we passed the Hollywood Boulevard exit.

  Nick pounded his fist on the wheel. “I don’t get it. There were three people on that sidewalk. Who was the target? José? Teresa? Paco? All three of them? From what Teresa said, Paco and José didn’t know each other.”

  “Neither did Teresa and José, really.”

  “I want to know all about José Saldivar. I’m calling Dave in the morning,” Nick said, referring to my brother Dave, a detective in RHD, the elite LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division. They became best friends over twenty years ago as roommates at the University of Illinois.

  I followed two years behind them at school, too young and too smitten with Jarret Cooper, the star pitcher on the U of I baseball team, to notice what a catch Nick was back then. Nick disappeared off my radar after he graduated. Two years later, I married my baseball star and spent over a decade moving from town to town, following his pro-baseball career while I studied for my PhD. My travels and marriage ended soon after Jarret was traded to the L.A. Dodgers four years ago.

  By then Nick had moved to Los Angeles. He took a position teaching Religious Philosophy at NoHo Community College. I saw Nick occasionally when Dave dragged h
im to one of Mom’s give-me-a-reason-to-throw-a-party soirées. We were friendly acquaintances until a psycho used voodoo to intimidate my friend Robin last year, and I asked Nick, an occult specialist, to help her. Together, Nick and I caught the psycho and fell in love. Like. Infatuation. To be confirmed.

  Nick eased his car into the far right lane and took the Ventura Boulevard exit into Studio City. Pale lavender peeked at the base of the eastern horizon. He parked in front of my leased town house on Carpenter Avenue and walked me up the small flight of steps to my front door. “Get some sleep, Liz. It’s going to be a long, rough week.”

  “None of it seems real, Nick. I’m devastated about Paco. My heart is breaking for Lucia. She doesn’t have family to turn to.”

  “She has Victor and Carmen. And us. We’ll take care of her. We’ll get Lucia through this.” Nick kissed me lightly. “I’m sorry the weekend turned out this way. Would you like to spend next weekend together at my house?”

  “I’d like that,” I said. My kitten, Erzulie, mewed from behind the door. Her tiny radar ears could hear Nick from miles away. “Your little taupe friend with the whiskers will like it, too.”

  * * *

  Late Monday morning, traffic zipped by on 7th Street as I rang the buzzer to Lucia’s apartment. The two hurricane candles left on the sidewalk the night of the shooting were surrounded by flowers, more candles, and photographs of Paco, forming a makeshift memorial.

  Carmen came downstairs and unlocked the door for me. She almost knocked the bag out of my hand as she enveloped me in a fierce hug. “I’m so glad you came early, sweetie. I promised Victor I wouldn’t miss my ultrasound appointment at the hospital.”

  “How is your stomach?” I said.

  “Let’s not talk about it. I’m sure it’s the stress.”

  I followed the familiar aroma of Carmen’s vanilla-scented perfume upstairs. “How is Lucia?”

  Carmen paused before we walked into the apartment. “Honestly? Hard to say.”