Web of Evil

'I just want to talk to him,' Ali began.

'He doesn't want to talk to you,' Andrea returned forcefully. 'He said no, and that means no.' With that, she hung up.

Ali was stunned. Because of Jesus's limited English skills and because Ali spoke only rudimentary Spanish, communications between the two of them had always been minimal at best. As far as Ali knew, however, there had never been any kind of ill will.

'Andrea Morales,' Dave was saying into his phone as Ali put down hers. 'You've dozens? Give me the addresses.'

Minutes later, though, armed with a phone book and the list of addresses, Dave was able to match one specific Andrea Morales with the received call number logged into Ali's cell phone. 'There you are,' he said triumphantly. 'Andrea and Miguel Morales, two-twenty-four South Sixth, Pico Gardens.'

Ali knew from her days on the news desk that Pico Gardens had a reputation for being a center of gang- related activities. It was also known as a haven for newly arrived illegal aliens.

'Let's go,' Ali said. She went over to the wall safe, opened it, and removed both her Glock and the small-of- back holster she had purchased to carry it.

'Go where?' Dave asked. He eyed her weapon uneasily. 'And is that really necessary?'

'In Pico Gardens?' Ali returned. 'Yes. If a couple of gringos are going there, being armed is probably the only sensible idea. Andrea told me that Jesus lives somewhere nearbywithin a few blocks of where she and her husband live. Jesus drives an old blue van. If it's parked on the street, I'll recognize it.'

'It didn't sound as though Jesus is eager to talk to you,' Dave pointed out.

'Doesn't matter,' Ali said. 'I want to talk to him.' Ali turned to her mother. 'Are you coming along?' she asked.

'I don't think so,' Edie said. 'If you don't mind, I think I'll hang around here. I'll use your computer to surf the Net.'

The idea of her mother, Edie Larson, 'surfing the Net' was still strange to Ali. Amazing even. 'Be my guest,' she said.

'I'll also look in on April from time to time,' Edie added. 'Just to make sure she's okay.'

When Dave and Ali left the hotel, they attempted the back door exit that had worked flawlessly for them the day before, but the media folks had wised up. A reporter, one lowly enough to be relegated to hanging around by the reeking kitchen Dumpster, and her equally low-on-the-totem-pole photographer were lying in wait just outside the door.

'Hey, Ms. Reynolds,' the reporter called, holding her microphone aloft and rushing up to the car. 'Is it true you've been brought in for questioning in two homicide cases? Do you have any comment?'

Of course I don't have a comment, Ali thought. She said nothing as Dave opened the door on his Nissan. It was too bad they hadn't taken her Cayenne on this trip. Now the media would have information on what had previously been their stealth vehicle.

The photographer focused his camera on Dave. 'Out of my way,' he said with a snarl, but the photographer didn't take the hint. He was still snapping away as Dave scrambled into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him.

'What jackasses!' he exclaimed. 'Were you ever that bad?'

'I don't think so,' Ali said. I hope not, she thought.

The reporter and photographer were legging it for the front of the building and, presumably, some vehicle, when Dave peeled out of the back driveway and bounced over the edge of the curb into the street.

'Are they going to catch us?' Ali asked.

'Not if I can help it,' Dave returned. 'Now which way?'

Without her GPS or a detailed map to rely on, Ali had to think for a moment before she was able to get her bearings and direct him onto the southbound ramp of the 405 and from there onto the 10.

'How's your Spanish?' Ali asked as they sped down the freeway.

'I speak menu Spanish fairly well. Why?'

'Because Jesus speaks almost no English and I speak almost no Spanish.'

'Maybe his niece, Andrea Whatever, would translate for us.'

'I doubt that,' Ali said. She picked up her cell phone and scrolled through her phone book until she located the name Duarte.

During her time as a newscaster in L.A., one of Ali's PR roles had been serving as the station's goodwill ambassador to the cancer community. Because of her own tragic history with Dean's death from cancer, she had been a likely and willing candidate. She had served on boards and walked in Races for the Cure and Relays for Life. But she had also done a lot of hands-on caregiving, work that had nothing to do with public relations and never made it into the news. One such case had been a three-year-old leukemia patient named Alonso Duarte.

Lonso's father, Eduardo, had worked at Ali's television station in the capacity of janitor. His wife, Rosa, had worked as a maid for a series of hotels. Once Lonso was diagnosed, the station had broadcast a series of stories about his battle and about his family's plight as well. They had helped raise money to fill in the gap between the bills and what medical insurance actually paid. The station's official involvement had eventually ended, but Ali had remained a part of the family's support system during Lonso's many hospitalizations and chemo treatments. The last Ali had heard, the boy had been in remission for four years.

Eddie Duarte had been working at the station the night Ali had been let go. He, of all people, had been drafted to carry her box of personal possessions out to her car. At the time he had offered to testify on her behalf in any wrongful dismissal suit. Since negotiations on that score were still pending, Eddie's testimony in the matter had so far been unnecessary. As far as Ali knew he was still on the station's payroll, but since he was a nighttime janitor, she worried about calling during the morning hours and waking him. But she did it anywaycalled him and woke him.

'Ali,' he said, when he finally realized who she was. 'So good to hear from you. How are you? I heard about your husband. I'm so sorry.'

Sorry for what? Ali wondered. Sorry because Paul's dead or sorry because he was such a jerk?

'Thank you,' she said. 'How is Rosa? How's Lonso?'

'Rosa's fine and Lonso's great. He even got to play peewee league this yearsecond base.'

For a child who had been hovering at death's door five years earlier, this seemed like nothing short of a miracle.

'But what about you?' he asked. 'I don't work for the station anymore. I got hired on with another company. If you need me to testify amp;'

'We may still need you to do that, but right now, I need something else,' Ali said.

'Name it,' Eddie said.

'I'm trying to find my old gardener,' Ali said. 'There's been a misunderstanding. I need to hire him back, but I don't speak enough Spanish.'

'You need me to translate?' Eddie asked.

'Yes,' Ali said. 'Please.'

'Where? When?'

'Soon,' Ali said. 'As soon as possible. But I'm not sure where. He lives somewhere in Pico Gardens, but we're not there yet, and I don't have an address.'

'The only place I know there is that old Linda Vista Hospital, the abandoned hospital they use for movies and TV shows,' Eddie said. 'I could meet you thereout front in the parking lot. It'll take me about forty-five minutes to get there.'

'Great,' Ali said. 'Maybe by then we'll have found him.'

'Who's Eddie?' Dave asked.

'Long story,' Ali returned. 'A very long story.'

With Ali on the phone and Dave preoccupied with dodging other drivers, they were in the wrong lane and had missed the fork onto I-10 East. Half an hour after leaving the tony environs of Wilshire Boulevard, they were driving around the desolate, graffiti-marred streets of Boyle Heights. It was a neighborhood of houses that had been built in the early part of the twentieth century and were somehow still holding together. Some of them appeared to be in