Hard Bite (7 page)

Burnham ushers Mrs. Stamos and two burly young men presumably her sons by the resemblance, into the preview chamber. Dark glasses over faces of granite. They look lost beside the Chippendale reproduction furniture and chintz curtains. If one of them were in the casket Burnham would expect lowriders shooting guns off in the parking lot—a tradition at, ahem, certain funerals in Los Angeles.

Burnham leaves them with the door ajar and discreetly observes as they gaze down at Hector. He's dressed in a dark blue, double breasted suit of Italian summer wool and a silk dress shirt. He has a fresh haircut and his longish sideburns have been razored into a slight, curved shape to enhance his cheekbones, reminiscent of his mother. The personal shopping and grooming bill totaled $3,500 and went effortlessly on the card.

The son to Maria's right speaks quietly but with urgency. "Why not the funeral here? Let people show respect."

"He's no
carnale
," she responds.

The other son shakes his head. "Mama, he got to be buried."

"First we find who did this."

"Those dogs are dead. It's over—"

Maria Stamos maintains control of herself and never changes expression. "Don't believe it, Luis. Whatever this looks like, don't believe it." She wheels out the door and snaps. "We are through here."

An hour later, the man still known as Hector Stamos in his copper casket, inside a bronze vault, proceeds to LAX via limousine hearse. He is bound for Sinaloa, Mexico.

***

Back at the Department of Coroner, Doug enters the foyer of the admin building, and hurries around the red velvet rope that keeps the general public away from the grand eight-foot wide staircase leading to Records, Identification, Subpoenas & Certifications, and other offices. Built in the 1930s, the foyer is octagonal in shape, and still has original Art Deco mosaic tiles on the floor, marble walls, and ornate wooden scrolling over the doors. Doug takes the stairs two at a time, passing a clerk from Personal Property.

"Hey!" Doug brakes and backs down a couple of stairs so he's level with the man. "Hey, did the family of Hector Stamos claim his belongings? There was a wad of money, fifteen hundred bucks..."

The Clerk stops and steadies himself on the brass railing of the steps. "Yeah, Mrs. Stamos came and picked everything up."

"Thanks, good to hear."

"She asked a lot of questions. Really pressed for the gory details."

Doug moves away to continue up the stairs, but the clerk continues. "Easy on the eyes, that Mrs. Stamos."

"What?" Doug turns full on to look at the guy.

"You know."

"No, I don't know."

The Clerk whispers conspiratorially, "C'mon man, A MILF. A rack under that black dress..."

"The Maria Stamos I met was grey hair in a bun."

The clerk blinks. "She showed ID and everything—"

Doug dashes back down the stairs and out to the Charger.

At the Stamos home, there are no cars in the driveway. No answer at the door. Maria and Ramon Stamos, whoever they are in real life, have vanished and they aren't coming back anytime soon.

***

Mr. Burnham isn't exactly being unco-operative but he's being verrry protective of the client called Maria Stamos.

"You're saying the body was released and shipped to Mexico," Doug probes.

"All paperwork was in order, Detective. We've been in business 25 years at this location…"

"Is there any reason why this release was special? Out of the ordinary?"

Burnham shifts uncomfortably. "We accepted the body from the coroner. The family paid all expenses, we issued the papers. That was it. The fees were paid."

"How were the fees paid?"

Burnham's reluctance shifts to stubborn.

"Sir, I can come back with a warrant and seize your records. Or you could be a little more helpful. After 25 years of good relations with the department, why change now?"

Burnham says nothing, disappears, and returns with a credit-card receipt. "It's a business name," he says, holding it out. "OM Holdings. I even called the credit- card company. Everything went through just fine."

***

Forgery & Fraud didn't take long to get back. Doug was supposed to be on lunch, tucking into a tuna on whole grain, taking notes to leave for Leone, when a warm-sounding woman calls to relay that the credit card was issued to a shell company suspected of money laundering. "We can't make anything stick," she adds. "but OM happens to be the initials of Orella Malalinda."

"Who's that?"

"The wife of Alejandro Malalinda. He was a drug cartel boss before he was killed in a prison contract hit. Orella stepped in with her two sons to run the business and she seems to have the respect of the cartel."

"A contract hit where?"

"High-power, LA County."

The tuna on whole grain turns lumpy in Doug's mouth.
Los Angeles County Men's Central Jail, maximum-security section.
"Can I see the file?" he replies, swallowing hard.

"Sure. I'll make a pass code for you."

She had just given birth for the first time, in an American hospital with everything clean and smelling of laundry soap and disinfectant. Tucked into bed with the newborn son in her arms, her husband, Alejandro, came in to see his child for the first time. The baby squalls as his father removes him from her arms and Orella knows, at that instant, that her family is real and alive, and anchored here in America from now on.

Tears of joy shine in Alejandro's eyes. "I have a son," he whispers. "I'm going to be somebody."

"You already are somebody," she answers back. And that very afternoon, Alejandro made his first kill for LaEme, so it was true. He really was somebody, now.

A few years later, in their new home in Cerritos. With a small flower bed out front, and a sidewalk for the three boys to ride bicycles. Luis, Mateo and Ambrose. Ambrose the smallest of the three, slim and fine boned. His father is afraid he might grow up to be effeminate. But his mother knows better. His is a precious life she can offer to God and possibly pave the way to heaven for the whole family. A priest. Her dream for Ambrose is to educate him in America and then return him to the priests in Sinaloa as her gift back to Mexico. First, she will send him to university to study how to think big thoughts. And then, the priesthood.

"Mama I want a BB gun."

"No Ambrose, I'll buy you a new toy, a skateboard, anything but that."

"Luis and Mateo have guns."

"Yes, but not for you, Mijo."

"But WHY?"

Because priests don't ever use guns. It's not for you."

The child nods solemnly.

"Our secret okay? Just Mommy knows what God has planned for you."

"I want a red scooter and a skateboard."

She kisses him. "Of course."

***

Orella opens her eyes in the dark bedroom and sees a misty outline standing beside her. "Ambrose," she says aloud, stretching out her hand. Her hand passes through the mist, the figure fades and she remembers that Ambrose, her son, her shining hope, is dead.

The next time she awakes, Luis is tapping her hand. "Mama, wake up. You're having a bad dream. "

"Ambrose was here."

"Wha??"

"But he left."

"Mama, mama, please…" His voice is almost crooning. "People want to see you. They want to bring food and help."

"No, no calls. Tell them we are busy."

She sits up halfway, fine silk sheets of her bed rustling. "Those guys at the body shop that fixed the Mustang. I was thinking maybe they know something."

He strokes her hand but doesn't speak. Reminding her about the official conclusion of the dog attack gets nowhere.

Orella clutches at him, grabbing his forearm. "Promise me you'll talk to them. Trace his steps." Her voice rises.

Luis shushes her like a child. "Me and Mateo, we take care of it. Rest now."

He leaves his mother, concern lining his face, and goes to the back of the house to think…

The day of the accident Ambrose called his brothers. Hysterical, he cried that he had hit a man with his car, panicked, and run away. Mateo took the call—he was in a hotel bed enjoying an afternoon romance with the love of his life, fine Columbian cocaine. Mateo's best advice was to hide the car, then call back and tell him where it was. Mateo then called Luis and within minutes a moving van swallowed the damaged Mustang whole and transported it to Puerto Bros. for detailing and repairs.

When the time came to tell Orella what had happened, it was Luis who quickly converted key details of the story. She would have gone loco knowing that Ambrose killed a law-abiding man, ran from the scene and left a widow and four orphaned children behind. So, with a silver tongue, he relayed that Ambrose had collided with a norteno, a rival gang member, just a fender bender but still, he needed to go underground with an alternative ID for a while. Orella bought the story, Ambrose was only too happy to go along with the lie, and it looked as though everything was going to be fine.

Until Ambrose got dead. By the rules Luis and Mateo play by, the case is closed. Whether Ambrose's death is connected to the man he killed or not—the score is even. But Orella keeps pushing, risking a truth eruption, so something has to be done.

Luis steps into the backyard as Mateo lumbers past. "Going out," he announces. Mateo's habit keeps family connections with bottom-rung drug dealers and customers alive and well. His drug use is off-limits at home, however, and he's cold sober right now. Luis knows as soon as he's off the property, that will change.

"Not too far," Luis calls after him. "Tomorrow's a job."

***

The next morning, Luis and Mateo Malalinda climb into their Chevy Silverado, throw a gym bag in the back with a fresh change of clothes each, and set off over the hill for west Los Angeles. They ride silently, but the air is heavy between them. Mateo breaks it.

"Who we doing?"

"Puerto Bros."

"Good customers, man. Hate to see them dead."

"Me too, but Puerto Bros are the ones know what really happened. Mama's not going to stop asking."

"Their paint guy Luigi called on the voicemail. You know that guy with the passport for sale?"

"Yeah."

"He's in a wheelchair. Couldn'a had nothin' to do with it."

"Wheelchair, huh?"

"And skinny, skinny. One foot in the grave the other one on a banana peel."

Cresting the top of the 405, Los Angeles spreads out below. The freeway cuts between the hills on either side, and the San Gabriel mountains retreat in the rearview. Like a sentry, The Getty Museum juts from a knoll. The downhill incline is a temptation to speed, but Luis keeps the Silverado at seventy mph, sedate for the 405. Closing in on Wilshire Boulevard he takes the first exit heading south on surface streets.

In the charming old neighborhood of Palms, they park the truck, catch a bus that rattles and shakes down to Lincoln Boulevard, and there they begin walking dozens of blocks, carrying the gym bag between them. In the far reaches of the full-to-bursting Costco parking lot, they come upon a ten-year-old Toyota in reliable-looking shape, with no car alarm or appliances to slow down theft. With swift practice, they change the plates, hot wire the car and drive to Tito's Tacos on Venice Boulevard. At the takeout window, Mateo purchases burritos, tamales, and soft tacos, along with a large order of warm, crispy tortilla chips and salsa, and a triple-side of refried beans with a choice of both corn and flour tortillas, and hot sauce.

"I'm going to let you out the front," Luis says, as they near the Puerto Bros. garage.

"Give me a minute and then come in." He pats the gym bag and grabs the crackling bags of food. Mateo is well-known by management and staff at Puerto Bros.—good customers for meth that Mateo delivers personally. When he saunters in, the body shop guys tense at first. Recent events have them on edge, but Mateo waves the enormous bags of food at them with a grin and opens the top so a rich aroma wafts out.