Try Dying Page 11

  “Sure, but what exactly are you saying? You’re starting to worry me a little bit.”

  “I’m worrying myself.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Just in the way I’ve described. Will you?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Thanks.” I rubbed my temples, my middle fingers making small circles on the skin. “You ever hear of a gang called Triune Foe, or something like that?”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  “It sounds almost like it has a religious connotation, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe it’s a Catholic gang, a bunch of priests carrying concealed beads.”

  I ignored his goofy grin, which was starting to bother me. “I went to see a guy, a Latino, about Jacqueline, and—”

  “What does a Latino guy have to do with Jacqueline?”

  “Will you shut up and listen? Just concentrate on what I’m telling you. When I talked about the guy who fell on Jacqueline’s car, this guy’s friend, he got all mysterious and mentioned this Triune Foe. He said it would be bad if they ever found out I was looking into it.”

  “What are you doing sticking your schnozz in police business?”

  “So I guess your answer is No, you don’t know anything. Fine. Thank you. Get out of my office.”

  “Dude, despite my usual obnoxiousness, I’m concerned about you.”

  “If you are, then just watch my back with McDonough. Got to get a lot done today.”

  “Consider your back watched,” Al said, standing. “And such a lovely backside it is.”

  “Get out.”

  After Al left I brought up my activity page on the computer, looked under Edwards, and saw the tasks piled up like bricks at a construction site. I needed to get on this.

  For the next hour I forced myself to work on a summary memo of the Claudia Blumberg depo. For a little while that did the trick. I managed to get my mind off Tomás and Ernesto Bonilla, but my headache got about ten times worse. Halfway through I had my assistant, Kim, bring me aspirin and a bottle of water, and I downed four of the pills.

  It helped a little, and probably tore my stomach lining since I hadn’t eaten. But I pushed on.

  A few minutes after I’d put the last touch on the memo, Kim buzzed me and said Lori, Al’s assistant, wanted to see me. Lori Ruiz was a sharp, competent presence in our office. She was taking paralegal classes at night at UCLA Extension. She did a lot of grunt work for Al, and sometimes me, and did a nice job of it every time.

  “You wanted to see me about something?” I said. “I hope Al has committed major fraud. He owes me a dinner, and only jail time is going to wake him up.”

  She smiled and said, “Nothing like that. He said you were asking about Triunfo.”

  I straightened up in my chair. “Yeah.”

  “Said you thought it might be a gang.”

  “Is it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a self-help group. Started by a man named Rudy Barocas. Ever hear of him?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  “You see him in the papers sometimes,” Lori said. “He’s pretty hot looking. The kind of guy who always has his hair perfect, slicked back like Antonio Banderas, and all the right clothes. Real successful guy.”

  “So what’s this group of his do?”

  “Triunfo means triumph. It started as a way to help gangbangers get out of the life. He has a ranch or honor farm out in Lancaster, I think it is, where the courts sometimes send these kids. He uses discipline and hard work to turn them into productive citizens and all that.”

  “Does it work?”

  Lori shrugged. “I guess sometimes it does. They also have a place in Hollywood where they do counseling with people.”

  “Anybody?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “I could find out if you want.”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  I said, “Do you know any reason why people might be scared of this group?”

  “Scared?”

  “Yeah. Like they might come after you or something.”

  “Not really. I just know my sister gets some materials from them and says it helps her. Says she’s going to be a success with it. She’s in real estate. She still thinks you can get good real estate deals in Southern Cal.”

  “A dreamer.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But . . .” She looked at the floor.

  “What?”

  “I get a little nervous about it. She’s really buying into it. I don’t want her to end up throwing her money away.”

  “Self-help scams have been around since Satan told Eve to have a bite.”

  “You believe in that?”

  “What?”

  “Satan.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But a bunch of people are sure making a good case.”

  She laughed, but in a way that made me think she was a believer in God’s great enemy. When she left my office, I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore.

  40

  TRIUNFO WAS HEADQUARTERED in one of those renovated office buildings in Hollywood, this one on Vine. The Pantages was around the corner, one of the last reminders of old Hollywood. I could see the stack of flying saucers that made up the Capitol Records building. Outside of Musso & Frank, and the Egyptian and Chinese theaters, there wasn’t much recognizable from the days when Garbo and Gable went out among ’em. The local city powers were trying to make Hollywood a respectable place again, and a lot of building was going on. They were trying to stir up a good nightlife.

  But this was daytime, and I could see the dirt on the black and gold-flecked Walk of Fame, as clearly as muck on a stagnant pond. Poor Audrey Hepburn. Her star had a big wad of old gum stuck to it.

  Outside the building, in an alcove, was a book rack that had one offering. Same cover, but some titles were in Spanish. The English version read You Can Do It, and in the middle of the cover was the smiling face of the author, whose name was emblazoned in bold letters across the top—Rudy Barocas.

  He had thick brown hair swept back, clear brown eyes, and a perfect, V-shaped jaw. I wondered if he’d had any work done on his face. Chin implant maybe. Botox.

  I picked up one of the English copies and turned to the back cover.

  Rudy Barocas never should have made it.

  Born into poverty in Miami. Gang life at an early age. Destined to end up in prison or on a slab.

  Then one night a rival gang came looking for him and shot up his house, nearly killing his thirteen-year-old sister.

  At age nineteen, it seemed Rudy had little time.

  Deciding that family came first, Rudy packed up his mother and sister and drove across the country to Los Angeles, where he found work in a garment sweatshop.

  And where he decided to test the American Dream.

  Today, Rudy Barocas is a living testimony to the reality of that dream. As one of the country’s most successful Latino businessmen, Rudy now gives of his time and talents to spread his philosophy of self-respect to everyone from gang members to movie stars.

  This is Triunfo.

  This is Triumph.

  And it can give you the American Dream.

  At the bottom were a couple of blurb endorsements. One from a Hollywood star, an actor who had a running part on a hit NBC drama.

  The other blurb was surprising. It was from L.A. County Supervisor Leland Rich. Surprising because Leland Rich was a Bizarro World Barocas. Red hair, skin that seemed almost transparent. Some had called him a Huck Finn type. That was something no one would ever say about Barocas.

  Rudy Barocas is helping transform our City, and will do the same with the whole country someday.

  The blurb was a little over the top, but then it started to make sense. Leland Rich was just another ambitious politician, and in L.A. that meant you had to get as much of the Latino vote as you could. That was the political reality and would be from now on.

  �
��Would you like a self-test?”

  I turned around and looked into the eyes of a beautiful Latina. She was dressed in a blue business suit, held a clipboard, and wore a sales smile.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We offer a test,” she said. Her accent was mild, her voice a smooth hum. I could see why they would want her out front as the face of the organization. “The test will help you identify your areas of greatest potential.”

  “Oh yeah?” I craned my head to look at what was on the clipboard. She tipped it back.

  “It takes about twenty minutes. Would you like to come inside?”

  “Can you tell me a little bit more about your group?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “This guy on the book, Barocas?”

  “Mr. Rudy Barocas. You mean you haven’t heard of him?”

  “Should I have?”

  “He’s a great man.”

  “Does the great man have an office here?”

  The smile began to melt. “Mr. Barocas has several offices. He is constantly on the go.”

  “You ever met him?”

  “If you would like to come inside and take our self-test, we would be more able to help you.”

  “I don’t need any help at the moment, except to set up an appointment with Mr. Barocas.”

  “I cannot help you. If you would like to call the main office—”

  “Where is the main office?”

  “You will find the number here.” She handed me a slick, color brochure. Another picture of Barocas, this time leaning on a Mercedes, was on the front.

  “Why don’t I just go in and—”

  “Inside is for anyone interested in—”

  “Your self-test, yes. How much will it cost me?”

  “The self-test is free.”

  “I mean after that.”

  “Sir, if you would like—”

  “I would not like. I just want to —”

  A voice behind the woman said, “Is there a problem?”

  He was a little stubby, maybe thirty, with a shaved head and an ill-fitting green suit with a black knit shirt underneath. He and the suit did not look like they belonged together. It was like an old joke my dad used to tell, that sometimes he felt like life was a tuxedo and he was a pair of brown shoes. Maybe it was the dull blue of a web tattoo on his neck, sticking up above his collar. You don’t usually associate gang tats with finer clothes.

  “This gentleman wishes to make an appointment with Mr. Barocas,” the woman explained.

  The man said, “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, just an interested bystander.”

  He paused, shook his head. “You will have to call the main office.”

  “If I do, will I get to see him?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “How long have you worked for this place?” I asked.

  The two of them gave a sideward glance at each other. “Thank you for coming by,” the man said. “Feel free to come back and take our test.”

  “How about I buy a book?” I said quickly.

  “You can certainly do that,” the woman said skeptically. “Nineteen-ninety-five, you can pay inside.”

  “Twenty bucks?” I hefted the anemic paperback.

  “All profits go to help turn gang members around,” the woman said.

  I bought the book and drove home, wondering if I had what it took to realize any dream, let alone the American kind.

  Capitol Records

  Musso & Frank

  41

  AT HOME I microwaved a burrito, popped a Coke, and sat out in the back, munching and drinking and trying to feel normal again. The last couple of weeks was like a kid’s fingerpainting—awash with strong colors but formless. Messy.

  Chasing after a phantom killer was stupid. It was getting me hurt, almost knifed, turning me into something unrecognizable.

  Where was the high school kid voted Most Likely to Succeed? What had become of the editor of the UCLA Law Review, who had his picture taken with the governor of California during his visit to the campus? In the picture I’m shaking the governor’s hand and smiling like Oprah’s agent. Life was supposed to be one smooth ride after that.

  So where was the kid now? Eating a lukewarm burrito outside a home that would never hold the only woman he’d ever really wanted.

  I put the burrito down and walked back in through the French doors I’d had installed because Jacqueline liked them. There was something I had to see.

  The box Fran had given me sat on the coffee table, next to a picture of Jacqueline and me in a gold frame. It was the time we went skiing in Big Bear with Al and his wife, Adrienne. Jacqueline has her arms around me from behind. She’s wearing a blue wool cap. Her smile is pure happiness. My smile is cool. I am trying not to show the camera that I am crazy in love.

  I hate myself in that picture. I wish I’d let my feelings show.

  It was only six o’clock now, but I was thrashed.

  I was tired of hurting.

  I wanted Jacqueline.

  And some part of her was in this box. Stuff from her school years, Fran had said.

  But I was also afraid as I slit the brittle tape that Fran had used to secure the box. What would I find? Was this even a good idea?

  I couldn’t stop.

  Three high school yearbooks were on top. Grover Cleveland High School. The Cavaliers. 1991, 1992, 1993. Neatly stacked.

  I took the first one out. Opening it, I smelled dust, and ran my hands over the cool, slick pages.

  Jacqueline was in here, waiting for me.

  Turning to the page marked Sophomores, my hands were shaking and sweaty. I flipped to the D’s, and was actually having a hard time breathing as I scanned the row of square photos, the young hopefuls of 1991.

  And then I saw her. Jacqueline Dwyer.

  She was beautiful even then, in a fifteen-year-old way. Her dark hair was long and silky, her eyes pure and clean. You could already see jadedness in some of the other kids. Not Jacqueline. She could have been a poster for American youth in 1946, when the country was cocky and confident. But there was something in her eyes. A searching. Like she was ready to look for something but didn’t quite know what.

  I reached for the next annual. 1992.

  She was there in the Juniors, looking more mature, more confident.

  What was she like back then? What was she thinking? Who was she going out with? What did she want out of life?

  What would it have been like if I’d met her then?

  Then the last annual. Jacqueline as a senior. This time her picture was larger. She was smiling. I recognized the smile. It was like the one in the frame on the coffee table. Only difference was that the one in the frame was bigger and fuller, as if with me she’d found what she was looking for at last.

  I set the yearbooks on the coffee table and looked in the box. There were some pictures of kids, snapshots Jacqueline must have taken at football games and dances. She was popular.

  And smart. A couple of her high school report cards were there. Straight A’s. Great comments from the teachers, like her eleventh-grade English teacher. “Real talent for writing. A pleasure to have in class!”

  More items. An athletic letter for volleyball. A stack of papers, stapled, which looked like reports for history and other classes. A+ on most of them.

  Some jewelry. A pair of earrings. A stuffed animal dog the size of my fist, filled with bean baggy stuff.

  And a plain, black composition book. Nothing on the cover.

  I opened it. The first page had the date of Jacqueline’s sixteenth birthday.

  Below, in neat but flowing handwriting, was this line:

  There has got to be more to life than this.

  More what?

  JUST MORE.

  My neck started to tingle. It was like hearing Jacqueline’s voice. The heart of the woman I had loved, when she was a teenager. And now it was in my hands, talking to me.

  Should I read this?
Would it be a violation? Jacqueline had never mentioned this journal to me. Maybe she’d forgotten about it.

  Or maybe she didn’t want anyone but her to see it.

  But she loved you. She’d want you to read it.

  I knew I would.

  But not then. I closed the journal and just held it. I didn’t want to rush through it. I wanted to savor it, as if I had been given the ability to travel through time, to sit down with Jacqueline and just listen to her.

  I carried the journal with me to the couch and lay down with it. I closed my eyes. At some point, I don’t know how long it was, I fell asleep.

  42

  NEXT MORNING, FEELING a little more human, I left a message for Channing Westerbrook and drove to the office. I actually got some good work done, prepping for the depo of Dyan Trudeau, Claudia Blumberg’s mother and Jonathan’s ex. Al dropped by to check up on me and seemed pleased I was looking pretty good.

  Channing called saying it was about time we met, and she gave me the name of an eatery in Hollywood.

  The restaurant was located a block off Ivar. It was in a renovated house, the old Craftsman-style that was big in the twenties and thirties. Now it was upscale and, according to Channing, the perfect place for rising stars to chow together.

  She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and I asked for a Pellegrino. Taking out a pad and pen, she asked, “How are you feeling these days?”

  “Like Paris Hilton thinking.”

  “What?”

  “My head hurts.”

  “Got it.”

  “Been a strange few days.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I wanted to ask you a question.”

  She frowned. “Wait a second, you owe me a little material here.”

  “I’ll get to that.”

  “Why don’t we start with it and go from there?”

  I realized then how little I liked this arrangement. I almost asked to call the whole thing off, but knew she could be the source of valuable information. “All right. Last night was hard. I was thinking of Jacqueline, looking at pictures of her when she was in high school. It was strange.”