Try Fear (28 page)

“Nick,” she said.

I took the phone. “Buchanan here.”

“There’s a guy here from the DA’s office,” he said in a frantic voice. “Wants to question me. What do I do?”

“Stay calm. I can be there in half an hour.”

“What if he don’t want to wait that long?”

“He’s got no choice. He can’t force you to talk. If he wants to wait, he can. If he wants to leave, he can.”

“He’s standing here giving me the eye right now. Hurry up, will you?”

I hurried. But L.A. traffic didn’t. There was an accident on the freeway and Sister Mary and I didn’t get to Nick’s for fifty-five
minutes.

A little too late, it turned out.

N
ICK’S TRUCK WAS
not in the driveway. There was no answer to our knocks on the front door.

“What do you suppose happened?” Sister Mary said.

“Cold feet,” I said. “Maybe our boy got scared.”

“Scared?”

“Maybe it wasn’t a DA investigator at all.”

I heard a shuffling sound and turned. An old woman was on the walkway, approaching. “Don’t think you’ll find anybody home,”
she said. Her skin was rich ebony and she wore a silky blue wig, one that a blues singer in Paris might have worn in the 1920s.
She was wrapped in a pink terrycloth robe and the snouts of fuzzy slippers showed underneath, one after the other, as she
moved forward, slowly.

“Do you know Mr. Molina?” I said.

“That his name?” she said. “He didn’t go out much. New here. He’s renting. I know the owner, he lives in Downey. I can see
through my window. I live next door, and watch my stories and Oprah. But I have to get up and walk around every fifteen minutes
or so, so as not to have the blood clot in my legs. Don’t want to get the phlebitis, you know. Don’t want to lose my legs.”

She made tiny little piston motions with her arms as she walked.

“So I go to the window and I look out, just to see what’s happening in the neighborhood.” She reached us and stopped. Her
wrinkles were deep creases in black drapes. “I kind of am the neighborhood watch, you might say. Nobody moves in or out of
this neighborhood without me knowing about it. And if they try anything, I will get on the phone and call the police, yes
I will.”

“About Mr. Molina, did you—”

“He stays up late and he drinks beer. He even came over to my house once and said would I drink a beer with him, and I said
I didn’t want to. I don’t like beer. I prefer bourbon.”

“Have you seen him today?”

“Nothing happens in this neighborhood without me knowing about it. Now, that makes me want to know who you two are.”

“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “And this is Sister Mary. She is my investigator.”

“My name is Mrs. April Rutherford, and this neighborhood can get pretty rough if you don’t look like you belong, and Sister,
I don’t think you look like you belong. Nearest Catholic church is three miles. But I want you to know I went into a church
once, about five years ago, and lit a candle. Does that work?”

Sister Mary said, “If it is done with the right faith. Do you belong to a church?”

“I’m a Baptist,” the woman said. “But I thought I’d cover all bases that day. My son died two years ago, and his kids, my
grandkids, they live with their ma in Texas. Texas! I don’t get to see ’em. I’d like to see ’em again, but she never calls.”

“Mrs. Rutherford,” I said. “I’m starting to wonder if Nick might be inside the house, and unable to respond. Do you happen
to have an emergency key or anything like that?”

“Not personally,” she said. “But I know how to get in that house. I been in this neighborhood forty years, and I’ve seen a
lot of people come and go. I’ve seen kids break into that house. I once went over and tried to jimmy the side window, that
was oh, about ten years ago, because I thought there was a strange smell coming out and I wanted to know—”

“Can we get a window open?” I said.

“Now I don’t know if I should help you anymore. I don’t really know who you are, I mean if you are who you say you are. I
believe the sister here is a Sister, but I don’t know if you’re really a lawyer. Maybe you’re holding her hostage or something.”

“I assure you he’s not,” Sister Mary said.

“Is he a religious man?” Mrs. Rutherford asked.

“I think so,” Sister Mary said. “Only he doesn’t know it.”

“Thank you very much, Sister,” I said. “Ma’am, there is a man on trial for murder, and Mr. Molina is a key witness. I just
want to make sure nothing has happened to him. He could be lying inside this house, injured or something.”

“Murder you say?”

“Yes.”

“If you break in, you might get in some trouble.”

“I’ll take the chance, ma’am.”

“My, oh my. You have to be small to get through that window.” She looked at Sister Mary. So did I.

“Excuse me?” Sister Mary said.

A
NUN DOES
not look dignified crawling through a kitchen window. But Sister Mary Veritas did it, and didn’t squawk. Just after her derrière
slipped through the window, her shoes disappeared, and we heard a loud
thunk
inside.

“I’m all right,” she shouted, a little anger in the tone. She opened the back door and I went in, followed by Mrs. April Rutherford.

“Nick?” I said. No answer. I did a little sweep of the place. I expected to find him. For some reason I expected to find him
dead on the floor.

I didn’t. The place looked lived in, man messy, but there were no signs of foul play. And no sign of Nick.

To Mrs. Rutherford I said, “Did you see anybody come here within the last hour?”

“Now, let me see.” Mrs. Rutherford looked at the floor. “I was watching my story, my
General Hospital
. Do you watch the
General Hospital
?”

“I’m afraid I missed the last one.”

“Now you’re playing with me.” She smiled.

“So you didn’t see anybody come here?”

“No, I did not. Now, I watch
Judge Judy
right after the
General Hospital
. You like Judge Judy?”

“Maybe we better go outside now,” I said.

We went out the kitchen door, Mrs. Rutherford insisting I’d love Judge Judy if I just gave her a chance.

Once we were on the driveway I gave Mrs. Rutherford my card. “Please give me a call if anyone comes to the house, would you
do that for me?”

“You’re a nice-looking young man,” Mrs Rutherford said. “Have you ever thought about going on the
General Hospital
?”

Sister Mary tried to stifle a laugh.

“I may just give that a try,” I said. As I did I noticed a very large man moving toward us from the sidewalk. He wore a Raiders
jersey with a silver chain around his neck. The chain looked like it weighed eighteen pounds. The man weighed considerably
more.

“You okay, April?” the man said.

“I’m okay, Marvin,” she said.

“Any trouble?”

“No trouble, Marvin. These folks are company.”

“You sure?” He gave me a middle linebacker stare.

“Now you just back yourself up,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “This is a real honest-to-God lawyer and a real honest-to-God nun.”

“Whatta they want?”

“That’s just none of your affair, Marvin.”

“Everything happens here I want to know what it is,” Marvin said.

“Nice to meet you, Marvin,” Sister Mary said.

“You for real?” he said.

“We think so,” I said. Sister Mary gave me an elbow, just as if I was backing her into the paint.

Marvin shook his head and turned around and started to lumber away. I think the ground shook a little.

“Well now,” Mrs. Rutherford said to me, “I’m glad I could help. Come back and visit if you want to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

“I make a mean lemonade, with the oil from the rind,” she said. “It is Wilt Chamberlain’s own personal recipe, did you know
he liked lemonade?”

“I did not know that,” I said. I shook her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford.”

Sister Mary leaned across me, extending her hand to the woman.

But her hand never met the other woman’s. I heard some sort of crack, and Sister Mary hit the ground.

I
HEARD ANOTHER
crack. And knew it was gunfire. A piece of driveway chipped near my foot.

I grabbed Mrs. Rutherford and pushed her down. She fell hard on the pavement, crying out.

Thinking the shots came from across the street, I put my body in front of the two women. Then I looked at Sister Mary. She
wasn’t moving.

I got my phone and punched 911. I gave dispatch the address and said, “We need immediate police and ambulance. Shots fired.”

I put the phone away. Sister Mary groaned. So did Mrs. Rutherford.

“Stay still, both of you,” I said. Whoever fired the shots was still out there. If we tried to get up or move, he could pop
us like shooting-gallery ducks. On the other hand, I was a nice unmoving target right now.

Sister Mary groaned again.

“How bad is it?” I said.

“Have I been shot?” Sister Mary said.

“Yes. Don’t move.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Don’t talk. An ambulance is coming.”

“Call Father Bob,” she said.

And then she passed out.

N
O MORE SHOTS
were fired, but I kept the women down. Sister Mary had taken a bullet just below the left shoulder. I pressed my coat on
the wound to staunch the bleeding. I had no idea what else to do, so I kept whispering to her that it would be all right.
I tried to make it into a prayer.

Then I heard Marvin’s voice, barking like a king. “What is goin’ on?”

“Get out of here, Marvin,” I said. “There’s a shooter.”

“Shooter? Better not mess with me.” Marvin, standing a few feet from us, turned and scanned the street.

“You listen now, Marvin!” Mrs. Rutherford said.

“I’ll clean him out,” Marvin said. “Where is he?”

“Get down, Marvin!” I said.

“I ain’t gettin’ down,” he said.

And he didn’t. He just stood there, like he was standing guard. Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing. He stayed that way
until the ambulance arrived, sirens blaring.

Two paramedics took over. I asked one of them, a tall kid, where they were taking her. He said the new trauma center on South
Grand. I liked the sound of
new.

Sister Mary was still out when they put her in the back of the ambulance.

I called Father Bob and told him to meet me at the trauma center just as a black-and-white pulled up to the scene. Two patrol
officers, both Hispanic, walked up the driveway fielding comments from the clutch of onlookers who had gathered.

Mrs. Rutherford got to them just before me. “A nun’s been shot!” she said.

The older of the officers looked at the ambulance. “A nun?”

“Shot,” I said. “I have no idea who. But from the way she fell, I’m thinking across the street at a slight angle.” I pointed
to a red house with green trim. “Maybe over that way.”

The officer—his name plate read
Carnello—
said, “Wait here,” and started across the street.

Marvin looked at the other officer and said, “It wasn’t me.”

“Okay,” the officer said.

“He’s been helpful,” I said.

Two more black-and-whites joined the scene, and by now there were a whole bunch of people crowding the streets.

Officer Carnello shouted from across the street. Two of the new officers on scene went toward him, as did a bunch of the people
who were watching. The crowd was shifting, the show was moving.

I looked at Mrs. Rutherford and said, “How you doing?”

“My knees hurt,” she said.

“You need me to take you to a doctor?”

She shook her head. “My, no. I’ve had a lot worse in my time.”

I nodded and then jogged over to the house across the way. One of the new officers on the scene was telling people to stay
back. I asked him what was up. He told me to stay back, too. I ignored him, ran past and in through the open front door.

Three officers, including Carnello, were standing around a black male, bloodied and unconscious on the floor.

“D
O YOU KNOW
this man?” Carnello said.

“No,” I said. “Does he have a weapon?”

“This is a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you step outside. I’ll want a statement.”

“You can have it later,” I said. “I’m going to the trauma center.” I gave him my card.

“If you could please wait—”

“No can do,” I said.

I left, got in my car and drove to the center. I told reception who I was and that got me some information. They had Sister
Mary in right now, and I was invited to wait.

I went to a waiting room stuffed with hot, anxious, impatient people. Green leatherette chairs, and a TV monitor with the
drone of some talk show. I didn’t hear it. Mostly I paced and looked at the walls.

Father Bob found me there around three-thirty. “Any word?” he said.

“No,” I said. “She’s still inside.” I took him outside to the hallway so we could talk in private.

“Any idea what happened?” Father Bob asked.

“Not much,” I said. “We were looking for a witness, we went to the guy’s house. But after Sister Mary went through the kitchen
window—”

“Excuse me?”

“Later. We were at this house, the guy wasn’t there and the next thing I know somebody shoots at us and Sister Mary goes down.
I’m sure the shot was meant for me.”

“This is rather unbelievable.”

I looked at my hands. They were balled up into fists.

Father Bob put his hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing?” he said.

“Oh, never better.”

“Ty, talk to me.”

“I shouldn’t have used her,” I said.

“We both know she wanted to do this,” he said.

I shook my head. “You can’t mix what you do and what I do. You can’t be looking after the things of God and then run around
with a crazy lawyer getting shot. I’m not good for her.”

“We believe all of this is in God’s hands, you know.”