Grave Promise Read online

  “So many of these kids that come out here just leave their families behind. What for?”

  “It’s a continuing investigation into the murder of her grandmother.”

  “My, God! Her grandmother was murdered?”

  “Back in the mid-forties.”

  Agnes looked at him for a moment. “I assume that you are not in hot pursuit of the perpetrator.”

  Crockett laughed. “No,” he said. “The trail is pretty cold.”

  “So where you from? Not California.”

  “Kansas City.”

  “No kidding? Paul and Joanne did a picture there years ago. Two of my kids were in it.”

  Alice scurried over with a file folder, put in on the desk, blinked at Crockett, and went away.

  “Here we go,” Agnes said. “You sure you don’t want something to drink? I got cream soda.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She slid and 8x10 glossy across the desk.

  “Here’s a head shot of your girl.”

  “Can I keep this?”

  “Sure. I got lots. Here’s one in a swimsuit. She had a future, this kid. Wouldn’t be no star, didn’t have the attitude for it. But she got a couple of bit parts, and she picked up some commercial work and modeling. Not runway, too much meat on her bones. Bright, pretty, packin’ her own load. No silicone deposits on Marilee. She coulda made a decent living. Took good care of herself. Coulda earned well into her thirties. I don’t know what happened to her. Five, six months ago she just disappeared.”

  “Do you have a last address or phone number for her?”

  “Phone,” she said, reaching for a pad and pen.

  Crockett stood up. “Agnes,” he said, “thank you. If I don’t have any luck, I’ll call you in a couple of days to see if you remember anything that might be of help.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Agnes said. “You gotta nice voice. Ever consider off-camera commercial work?”

  “Only every time I look in a mirror.”

  “Ha! How come you gotta have that snake cane?”

  “I only have one leg.”

  Agnes grinned. “Stay away from ass kickin’ contests,” she said.

  Back in the car Crockett tried the phone number that Agnes had given him and got a generic, male-voiced, leave a message answer. He did.

  “No luck?” Ruby asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Now what?”

  “I’m hungry. Marcel?”

  “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Let’s go eat. It’s on me.”

  “Dog! Whacha want?”

  Ruby grinned and elbowed Crockett in the ribs. “Biscuits and gravy,” she said.

  Marcel glanced at Crockett in the rear view mirror.

  “Say, what?” he said.

  They stopped at a place dressed up to look like a log cabin with a sign that claimed it was the home of Southern California’s state champion bar-b-que. Back at the hotel two hours later, as Crockett ate is third antacid in twenty minutes, he contemplated the fact that bad brisket, covered in catsup, does not bar-b-que make.

  Ruby slouched in a chair. “The quiche was pretty good,” she said.

  The phone went off.

  “Daniel Beckett.”

  “Hi! I’m returning your call? My name’s Cheryl.” White female, young.

  “Thank you, Cheryl. As I mentioned in my message, I’m with the Department of Justice and I’m trying to locate Marilee Walker.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not with me. It has to do with her family. I was wondering if you might consent to talk with me.”

  “I guess so. When?”

  “That’s up to you, Cheryl. You tell me what would be most convenient. I could come to you, or, if you’d be more comfortable, I would be more than happy to meet you at a place and time of your choosing.”

  “Oh. Okay. You’re really with the government and stuff?”

  “I really am.”

  “How ‘bout you meet me in Malibu?”

  Crockett had no idea where Malibu was. “Malibu’s fine,” he said. “Where?”

  “Take the PCH to Cross Creek to the Malibu Country Mart. There’s a coffee shop at the end with some tables outside. Meetcha there at, like, four?”

  “Great. Thanks, Cheryl. How will I know you?”

  “I’m twenty-one, five-ten, blond with brown eyes, and I have very long legs. I’ll wear my little red shorts.”

  “That oughta do it.”

  “It has so far,” she said, and hung up.

  Ruby looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Cheryl is going to wear her little red shorts so I’ll recognize her,” Crockett said.

  “You’re going all the way to Malibu?”

  “Yeah. Is that far?”

  “Forty or fifty miles.”

  “What’s the PCH?”

  “Pacific Coast Highway.”

  “Probably be worth it for Cheryl and her little red shorts. She has blond hair, you know.”

  “I think I’ll come with you,” Ruby said.

  “And brown eyes.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be going along.”

  “And she’s tall.”

  “You could use the company.”

  “She told me she has very long legs.”

  “What time do we leave?”

  Crockett didn’t mention Cheryl’s age.

  They pulled into the Malibu Country Mart at about a quarter to four. Marcel stayed in the car. Crockett took him a cup of cappuccino and sat at a table with Ruby sipping some bad espresso. She had iced tea.

  Crockett watched a red Miata pull in at the far end of the parking lot and roll lazily their way.

  “I’m sick of suits,” he said. “Too hot for suits.”

  “Quit the Department of Justice,” Ruby said. “Then you can dress anyway you like. I’m fine.”

  She was wearing a canary-yellow cotton sundress with a short skirt, spaghetti straps, and sandals that would have given Sherpas a nose bleed.

  The Miata parked about thirty yards away and two young women got out without opening the doors. With the exception that one of them had dark hair and was wearing a black tube top and black shorts, while the other was blond with a white tube top and red shorts, they appeared to be identical. They smiled the same, they walked the same, they sold it the same. Forcefully sexual and consciously casual, they ambled in Crockett’s direction, all teeth and legs, tan and tight. Party time.

  Crockett stood up. “Ah, youth,” he said. “If you will excuse me, Ms. LaCost, I believe that would be Cheryl and a friend. I’ll go collect them.”

  “Don’t trip on your tongue,” Ruby said.

  “Same to you, Dear,” Crockett said, and headed toward the young ladies.

  “Cheryl,” he said, as he got within range. “I’m Dan Beckett. Good of you to come.”

  They both looked at him and appeared to be slightly disappointed. Oh, well. At least he gave good phone.

  Cheryl shook his hand. “Hi, Mister Beckett,” she said. “This is my roommate, Tasha.”

  Tasha declined to shake hands. Crockett didn’t press the issue. As he led them to the table, Ruby stood to her full sandaled height, took off her sun glasses, spread some dread their way from her beautiful Italian eyes, and spoke.

  “Hello, girls,” she said. “Pull up a chair.”

  They sat. Party time was over.

  When Crockett returned with their drinks, the two young women and Ruby were chatting amicably.

  “Tasha tells me that Marilee roomed with them for a while,” she said.

  “Really.”

  “Yes, Mister Beckett,” Tasha said.

  “Call me Dan. How long since you’ve seen her?”

  The girls looked at each other.

  “She moved out about six months ago,” Cheryl said, “but I saw her about a month after that. She and I did a swimsuit shoot together with about six other girls.”

  “So all you guys are models?”

&nbs
p; “Models, actresses, whatever. I’ve done some bit parts, some commercial work, catalog stuff. Sometimes I waitress if things are slow,” Cheryl said.

  “Me too,” Tasha said. “I dance now and then at a couple of the softer clubs if I need money. Not the all-nude places. No lap-dancing.”

  “How ‘bout Marilee? How’d she make a buck?”

  “She got commercial work and bit parts, more than either of us,” Tasha said. “She’s so pretty and has such a natural figure. Did stuff for magazines too. If things got slow for her, she could pick up an extra couple of hundred a week at the university.”

  “The university?”

  “Pepperdine,” Cheryl said. “She did modeling for some art classes over there. So did I, once or twice, but I didn’t like it. Sitting around nude with twenty or thirty people scratching away. Having to stay so still. Too boring.”

  “Really,” agreed Tasha.

  “Any idea where she is now?”

  “Oh, sure,” Cheryl said. “She’s with this guy.”

  “This guy?”

  “Yeah. This Latino guy. He saw her on the beach when she was doing some bit stuff for a TV spot. He asked her out and she went. A couple of weeks later she moved out. Gave us a phone number. I called her a couple of times but it never seemed like she wanted to talk, and she never phoned us, so I just stopped calling. This guy’s got a lot of money. I mean a lot of money. Drove a Ferrari. Marilee is really pretty.”

  “Must be,” Crockett said. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Castaneda,” Cheryl said. “Ricky Castaneda. He’s gorgeous.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Up in Ramirez Canyon someplace.”

  “Marilee said it was huge,” Tasha said. “Had a big fence and these security guys. Cheryl and me were never invited to stop by.”

  “Any idea what Castaneda does for a living?”

  The two girls looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Something expensive,” Cheryl said.

  They talked for another few minutes and Crockett got Marilee’s phone number before they thanked Cheryl and Tasha and went on their way. In the car Crockett phoned Cletus.

  “The only reason Texas hasn’t sunk into the gulf is because Oklahoma sucks.”

  “Ha! Eat shit and die, Crockett! What’s up?”

  “The name Ricky Castaneda mean anything to you?”

  “Ricky Castaneda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Little Ricky Castaneda?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Son of Ricardo Castaneda?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jesus Christ! Where the hell did you run into him?”

  “That’s the guy’s name that Marilee Walker was, and probably is, living with. Latino, lots of money, pretty, lives in someplace called Ramirez Canyon.”

  “Shit!”

  “I got a phone number. I”m gonna give it a call.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You are gonna sit on your hands, Crockett, and not do one goddammed thing until I check this out.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Does the word Columbia mean anything to you?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’ bout cocaine?”

  “Columbia’s national dish.”

  “Cartel?”

  “Columbia’s biggest employer.”

  “Put ‘em all together, they spell–”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh is right, partner. If this is the Ricky Castaneda, daddy is responsible for probably thirty to forty percent of all the coke that comes into the United States. That is a lot of fucking cocaine, Crockett. As we know, the turd don’t fall far from the bird. Like father like son. These hot-blooded Latin types’ll give your ass a Columbian necktie if they don’t like your aftershave! Let me do some digging and see what I can find out. If this Ricky Castaneda is who he probably is, you are in over your head. Hell, you’re in over my head! If he is the boy, I’ll be commin’ your way on the next big silver bird.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay is right! Cool your heels. Hang the hell up, Crockett.”

  Ruby looked at Crockett and wrinkled her brow. “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Clete may be coming out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t need a new necktie,” Crockett said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Opposition identified

  Ruby was unusually quiet through dinner. When they got back to the room she disappeared for a few moments, returned to the living area wearing her robe, sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. Crockett did as he was told. She swiveled on her butt, pulled her knees up until she was crosslegged, and stared at him.

  “Give,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, goddammit. I wanna know what’s going on and I want to know right now. If you’re trying to protect the ‘little woman,” the next time you’re in a coma, I swear I’ll walk away and let you fucking die. You and I specialize in being honest, Crockett. Now is not the time to stop.”

  Crockett sighed. “Well,” he said, “Clete seems to be a little concerned about who Marilee may be involved with.”

  “Ricky Castaneda.”

  “Yeah. Clete’s checking now to confirm who he thinks this guy is.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The son of a Columbian drug dealer.”

  “As in cocaine?”

  “As in cocaine.”

  “A drug dealer.”

  “A major supplier.”

  “Jesus,” Ruby said. “So that’s why Clete may come out.”

  “Yeah. He figures we might need a little help.”

  “You realize that if Cletus Marshal gets personally involved, this is a very serious situation.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Now, what’s all this about a necktie?”

  “Don’t ask if you don’t wanna know.”

  “What’s all this about a necktie?”

  Crockett looked at her. Ruby was serious.

  “Okay. If these fellas don’t like you very much, they slit your throat and pull your tongue down through the opening. It’s called a Columbian necktie.”

  Ruby sat very still for a moment, then got to her feet.

  “I’m going to bed now,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  Crockett didn’t get a lot of sleep. At about five the next morning he gave up, creaked out of bed, and phoned room service. They weren’t officially open, but he conned them out of some sweet rolls and coffee. The coffee was weak, the rolls stiff, the service slow. He was munching some cardboard covered in lemon-flavored sugar sludge when Ruby walked into the room, again wearing Crockett’s dirty shirt. She spotted him, rubbed an eye with the back of her hand, lurched over, sat on his lap, put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

  “Crockey?” she said, her voice muffled by the collar of his robe.

  “Yes?”

  “Snuggle me.”

  He put his arm around her back and she sagged into it, drawing up her right knee and leaning it against his chest.

  “I am such a shit,” she said. “I behaved badly yesterday evening. You just found out that the stakes in our little adventure had been highly raised, you were, no doubt, feeling a certain amount of apprehension, you were doing what you thought you should to spare me a portion of the possible brutality of the situation, and I called you names, issued threats, and just walked away.”

  “Yes, but I love to watch you walk away.”

  “I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry, Asshole.”

  “There you go, calling me names again.”

  Ruby leaned back and glared at him from under scrunched eyebrows. She didn’t have her contacts in yet. One hand tightened around the back of Crockett’s neck.

  “Do you, or do you not, accept my apology?” she said.

  Cro
ckett batted his eyes. “Of course I do, Honey,” he said. “You are the most wonderful woman on my entire lap.”

  “That’s better. Feed me.”

  He tore a small piece off an exotic French cardboard and popped it in her mouth. Ruby chewed carefully.

  “That sucks,” she said.

  “Ruby, please understand that I did not intend to keep anything from you. I just felt no need to get you upset until I knew all the facts.”

  “So you apologize, too?”

  “God, yes. From the heart of my bottom.”

  Ruby shifted her weight on Crockett’s lap. “I love it when you’re contrite,” she said.

  “My legs are going to sleep, LaCost.”

  “That may be true, but it feels as if the duck is doing well.”

  Crockett’s ears got warm. “Get up, willya?”

  She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Whatever you want, Crockey.”

  “Ha!”

  Ruby stood up. “Okay,” she said. “Almost whatever you want.”

  Crockett adjusted his robe and looked up at her. “A little earlier in this perverse conversation you said something about me feeling a certain amount of apprehension.”

  “Yes, I did,” she said.

  “Not true.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nope. I’m scared shitless.”

  “Good,” Ruby said. “I, as you know, have seen what fear does for you.”

  “We’ll know if I have any reason to be afraid when we hear from Cletus.”

  There was a knock and a voice came through the door.

  “Complimentary room service.”

  Ruby straightened out her shirt, padded over, and opened the door. There stood Cletus Marshal, three tall Styrofoam cups of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a Starbucks bag in the other.

  Clete beamed at them. “Mornin’ ya’ll,” he said. “I’m movin’ in next door, just thought it might be nice to bring my new neighbors breakfast.”

  It took a beat or two for Ruby and Crockett to get over their shock. Ruby broke first, quickly kissing Clete on the cheek and scurrying for her bedroom. Cletus smiled at her retreating form.

  “Don’t rush off on my account, Ruby,” he said, and turned to Crockett. “You folks ain’t dressed yet? Lord, it’s almost six o’clock!”