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“His wife was the rape victim.”
“Petticoat’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“What a sleaze. I couldn’t believe the girls in prison would touch him, let alone that a woman would actually marry him. Did he have money? The girls in the prison who would talk about him weren’t worth the STDs, I can tell you that.”
“I bet not. Thanks, Carla.” I start to say goodbye and I can hear trepidation in her voice. She’s not done with the conversation but she doesn’t want to continue it, either. She needs to hear one thing.
I say plainly, “Carla, I don’t think Mickey raped anybody.”
A sigh of relief as wide as the Pacific. Then, gushing, “I told you, Mr. Buckner. Mickey might have been a burglar but he was a decent man. He was lovable and caring. Anyone who knew him doesn’t remember him for the crimes.”
“I believe you.”
Borne on hope now: “Do you know where he is?” The question is a fragile thing that floats gently between us. My answer sets fire to its wings. Goodbye, hope.
“I don’t think he’s alive, Carla.”
“I see.” Quiet. Very quiet now.
I don’t know what else to say. Whenever I’d do a death notification to a family it was awkward. People I don’t know, telling them something that wrecks their lives, then, well, just nothing. Some people went quiet and sat there motionless. Others went apeshit and flailed about, destroying things. I’ve seen fathers go back to sipping beer and channel surfing. I’ve seen mothers start cleaning and offer to make me a snack. One woman played a game of solitaire on her computer; another played piano for twenty minutes and then broke down into sobs and fell right off the bench. One guy dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups.
Telling someone that a person they love is eighty-sixed is an odd thing. Carla Gabler knew it somewhere in her heart. She might have convinced herself of it because that was the only reason she’d accept for him not waiting for her. I think she cries, but keeps it to herself. I stay on the line for a while but only because I can’t bring myself to say well, this has been fun but I need to take a shit and hang up.
So this is how we stay.
Eventually, she says, “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” I say. “Listen, I have to go but I’m going to find Joann and ask her about anything Mickey might have said prior to his disappearance.”
“She’s a bitch, Mr. Buckner,” Carla says. Cuts right in. “That woman was born thinking she was better than her family and now that her frog husband has money, she lets everyone know it.”
“Okay. Will she be receptive?”
“No. If you walk in there and say Mickey is accused of murder she’ll think he did it.”
“Any suggestions then?”
“Yes. Avoid her.”
“Anything else?”
“Tell her...tell her you suspect he was murdered like you told me—” Tears now. Tears when she says that cold word. “—she might fill you in on what she knows, but you have to make it sound good. Like Mickey wasn’t going to do anything bad. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up. Mickey might have been a decent man, but the people he associated with after getting released from prison are not.
I think it cost Mickey Cantu his life.
24
0800 hours
The sister wasn’t hard to find.
Joann Cantu-Pierre. She’s in the book. Address at a high-end townhome complex on the northern rim of the city. The address comes back to a Jean-Luc Basile Pierre, a high-end accountant. Sounds about right.
