Liar

Apparently it was her guilt over this that led her to make a generous offer-to call my sister and explain a few matters to her about the cemetery. But I had a score to settle with Barbara, so I told Mary that I would make the call myself.

Barbara’s an early riser, so I called before leaving for San Pedro, and started by telling her that the “stranger” in what she thought of as her grave was our mother’s sister.

That led to a brief bout of hysterical exclamations regarding Briana’s unworthiness to be buried in the same cemetery as our mother, let alone in an adjoining plot. Listening to Barbara’s version of family history, it would have been more appropriate to bury Benedict Arnold in Arlington National Cemetery.

I nocked my first arrow. “Then you should call the person who owns the gravesite and tell her off.”

“I will!” Barbara fumed. “Who is it?”

I let the arrow fly. “Aunt Mary.”

Utter silence. Bull’s-eye.

I loosed the next one by saying, “Of course, if you make too much of a fuss about it, you might be the one who ends up buried in some other cemetery. Aunt Mary owns most of the nearest plots.”

“She does?”

“Yes, she does. And Barbara? If I ever hear from Mary that only one half of our parents’ gravestone is being cared for? I’m going to beg her to sell those remaining plots to me. And I think she’ll do it, don’t you?”

She hung up on me. William Tell never had a better day.

Briana’s apartment was on the east side of San Pedro, an area named by Juan Cabrillo when he sailed into its bay in 1542. San Pedro was once a city itself, but became part of Los Angeles near the turn of the century; Briana’s apartment was near the old downtown, an area once known as Vinegar Hill, on one of the streets between Gaffey and the harbor.

We turned onto Sixth Street, driving past an old theater and Vinegar Hill Books. At the corner of Centre and Sixth was Papadakis Taverna, Frank’s favorite Greek restaurant. We had dined there not long ago, and now I thought of how close we had been to Briana’s home that night.

We turned off Sixth and drove through the surrounding neighborhood, a mix of homes and apartments that ranged in style from Victorian mansion to postwar crackerbox. Briana’s apartment wasn’t hard to find: there was a black-and-white LAPD patrol car sitting in front of it.

“Old Mac didn’t trust us to wait for him,” Rachel laughed.

“Mac?”

“McCain. He called me ‘Pazzi, I suppose? He picked that up from those boneheads I worked with in Phoenix.”

“How well do you know this guy?” I asked.

“Well enough,” she answered, in a tone that made me change the subject. She was doing me a big favor and her past was none of my business-my own is by no means sterling. I was curious about her connection with McCain, but it was clear I’d have to wait to learn more.

The apartment was in a run-down fourplex. The crown of the building was a flat roof skirted by three irregular rows of red Spanish tile. The exterior walls were sun-faded brown with white pockmarks; as we came closer, we could see that the stucco was coming off-large, broken, dry bubbles of it clung to the walls-wounds in the building’s hide.

The windows at the side of the building were barred. Four large picture windows faced the street; at the center of the building, a wide doorway opened onto a concrete porch. Inside this door were a short entryway and a steep set of stairs; at the top and bottom of the stairs, apartment doors faced one another. On the right-hand side of the entry, a short row of black mailboxes was attached to the wall. Self-adhesive gold numbers-the type one might find in a hardware store-adorned the locking mailbox doors, numbering them one through four. Three of the four boxes also had red-and-white tape labels bearing the occupant’s first initial and last name.

The officer in the patrol car waved at us. Rachel smiled and waved back, saying under her breath, “Yeah, putz, we know you’re watching us.” I glanced at my watch. We were only about fifteen minutes early.

The building was quiet; I decided to see if any of Briana’s neighbors were home. I knocked on the door across from Briana’s and heard a parrot squawk, but no one came to the door. I heard a phone ring in one of the upstairs apartments; it rang about ten times. I climbed the stairs anyway, but got nothing but a little exercise.

When-right at ten o’clock-Rachel saw McCain’s car pull into an empty parking spot down the street, she glanced at me nervously and took a deep breath. I had never seen her less than ready to take on the world, so I was surprised by her reaction. But when McCain stepped out of his car, dramatically clutched his chest and shouted, “Married? Married?” she was already grinning and hurrying toward him. There was nothing sexual about their dancing embrace in the middle of the street, nothing desperate. If anything, it was the sort of happy, enthusiastic hug two football fans might give one another after their team scored a crucial goal on a Hail Mary pass. Friends, I told myself, they were just friends.

Told myself that until they came walking back toward me, Rachel a little ahead of him, and I saw how McCain watched her, saw the hunger with which he took in her way of moving, and saw her glance back at him and smile.

Show him a picture of Pete, I wanted to say, but didn’t. She must have read something on my face though, because she stopped smiling and said, “I guess you two have already met.”

“I guess you two have, too,” I said, hating the snide little note I heard in it.

“Well,” McCain said uncomfortably, bringing out a keychain with a St. Christopher medal on it. “Here are your aunt’s keys.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking them from him. Determined to redeem myself with Rachel, I added, “Listen, you two haven’t seen each other in a long time, and it’s bound to take me awhile to even figure out how I want to tackle this job, so maybe you’d like to grab a cup of coffee somewhere.”

“I’d love to do some catching up,” McCain said, “but why don’t you come with us?”

“Yeah, come along,” Rachel said meaningfully. “I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” McCain said. He went over to the patrol car, said something to the officer in it.

While McCain was out of earshot, I started to apologize to her, but she said, “Thanks for coming along. I know you’re anxious to get started on your aunt’s place.”

Nothing was further from the truth than this last, but I didn’t argue with her. I looked up to see the black-and- white driving off. McCain was walking back.

“You’re still a suspicious bastard, Mac,” Rachel said when he was nearer. “What the hell was that guy guarding? We’re here to take everything we can out of the place anyway.”

“As I recall, you’re good with a set of lock picks. Why risk damage to the door?”

“No damage. Like you said, I’m good with them.”

He didn’t answer, just started to ask her about people in Phoenix. She started asking about people in the LAPD. This continued even after we were at the coffee shop, Rachel and I on one side of a booth, McCain on the other. He tried to bring me into the conversation by talking about Frank’s time as a hostage, focusing on the efforts to free him. It was still difficult to talk about.

“That whole experience was awful,” Rachel said. “It’s still with all of us, Mac. It’s affected everybody who cares about Frank. Out on the job, I don’t think Pete can stand to go more than a couple of hours without knowing where Frank is. Drives Frank nuts.”

“That’s right,” McCain said. “I forgot he was Harriman’s partner.” He smiled a little and said to me, “I think your husband was kind of angry with me last night.”

Kind of angry? I decided I wouldn’t tell him all the choice things Frank had said about him on the drive home.

“In fact,” he went on, “I think he was seriously considering kicking my ass.

“Then you’re lucky he didn’t try,” Rachel said.

“Your husband as big as Harriman?” he asked.

“You don’t need to worry about whether my husband can kick your ass,” she said, leaning across the table.

“Why not?”

“Because we both know I can.”