Laugher Read online

  “Where were you?”

  There was a snap in his eye when I asked him. And a sting in his voice when he answered.

  “Taking care of my wife, detective.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now I’d like to see my daughter. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He stepped past me and up to the counter.

  “Yes,” I said. “Have to keep up appearances, right, Mr. Roscoe?”

  Both he and the nurse, and an onlooker in the waiting room, looked at me with the kind of disdain that could stop a bear in its tracks.

  He stepped back to me. “Excuse me, detective?”

  “I would like to talk to you, sir.”

  “About what, exactly?”

  “About a lot of things. This for one.” I removed something from my pocket. “This was the card I gave to you at your house yesterday. It was torn up and thrown out the window of an SUV full of men who drugged me and stuffed me in a body bag, took me to the desert, and threatened me with death. Do you know anything about that, Mr. Roscoe?”

  Roscoe looked at the nurse and the onlooker -- who promptly put her head back into her People magazine -- and smiled.

  “You surely must be crazy, Mr. Santone.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, then leaned in and whispered. “I’d also like to talk about your little operation going on in Calabasas.”

  His smile slowly dissipated and took the shape of a guilty man.

  “About Nancy Bresser and about how your bank obtained a mortgage on her house after foreclosing on it.”

  Whatever trace of ignorance he had been pretending to exude was all gone now. He didn’t care if anyone was watching. Only of putting as much distance between us as possible.

  “My office.” He looked at me like a mongoose looks at a snake. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”

  “It’s a date,” I said and looked down the hall. “I’ll be crossing my fingers for her.” I headed for the door. Before I stepped outside I turned back. “And happy anniversary.”

  ------------------------------

  It was almost ten when I got home. Decided to stop off at a bar for a couple cocktails, which turned into five and I had to take a cab home.

  I flopped down on the couch and tried to get things straight in my head, but I was still too drunk. The only thing I was sure of was that it was Nora I saw in that car with Roscoe. I didn’t need Grayson to tell me she never left.

  A loud pop sound came from down the hall. Just a pipe creaking, but it made me jump.

  Upstairs I had a quick shower. Felt like ages since my last one. Showering at night always made me feel eerie. So vulnerable. Maybe I saw “Psycho” a few too many times.

  I threw a robe on and fell into bed with the intention of getting back up in a few minutes to do some research online; see if anyone else had a story similar to Nancy Bresser’s. However, the cocktails were still with me and kept my face to the pillow, warmed by my own breathing.

  Another pop sound. Another pipe creaking. Then a smack and a shattered glass.

  My head jolted up. Soberness hit me with no mercy. My hand instinctively went for my gun in the nightstand drawer, but it was gone. Taken by Grossman in the desert. I went to the bathroom and grabbed the first thing passable as a weapon.

  I didn’t look very intimidating - a forty-three year old man creeping down the stairs in a bathrobe holding a toilet plunger – but maybe the element of surprise would be on my side.

  There was more noise. Shuffling.

  A step creaked. I stopped.

  A couple of minutes felt like an hour. Waiting. For another sound. For someone to appear at the bottom of the stairs and shoot me. But there was nothing. I took another step. And another. Another.

  The living room was clear. The light was on.

  “How’d you get in here?” I said.

  Something. A sound. Like fainted whispers.

  I was moving through the living room towards the kitchen when I heard the scuffle of a sliding window.

  He was in the study. It was still a mess - the shelf still broken, my degrees still shattered, the scotch stain had seeped in. I burst in the room to find a dark skinned Mexican man halfway into the garden. The same man from the warehouse in Calabasas.

  “Hey!” I screamed.

  His eyes went wide upon seeing me. His face was tense with fear, but he disappeared before I had the chance to grab him.

  I hurried back through the house and out the front door, hoping to catch him running up the street. But he was gone. In every direction, he was gone.

  On the kitchen floor was a broken coffee mug. What the hell was he looking for in here? More importantly, how the hell did he get in? The study window was locked and there wasn’t any sign of him breaking it, or any other window on the ground floor. The garage only opens by remote. The only way in could’ve been through the front door -- And he would need a key for that.

  I bolted upstairs for my phone. Charlotte. She’s the only other one with a key. Roscoe must have gotten to her.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail again. Damnit.

  I had to get to her. I threw on some clothes and was downstairs when I realized I didn’t have a car.

  “Shit!”

  Ned came to the door quickly; must’ve heard the panic in my knocking. He didn’t ask what was wrong, just gave me a ride back to the bar where the Beemer was parked.

  “Hope everything’s all right,” he said.

  “So do I,” I said and got out of the car. “Thank you.”

  -------------------------------

  Charlotte was still shaking.

  “He said they’d be watching. If I called the police, he would kill me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big. Really big. Like a wrestler or something.”

  Fred, I thought. Had to be.

  “What did he say?”

  “To give him the key to your place. That’s it.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t interrogate him, Marshall. He had a gun, for Chrissake.”

  “Okay.”

  “What the hell are you involved in?”

  She said it like it was my fault. But in a way, it was, I suppose. If I explained it all, maybe she would understand why I hadn’t been there for her. But that wasn’t what was important right now. “I’m trying to figure that out myself.”

  She stood up and went to the kitchen. Came back with a glass of vodka and took a sip.

  “I want you to go to a hotel,” I said.

  “No. They’re not going to scare me out of my house.”

  “Charlotte, I don’t want you anywhere close to danger. Go to a hotel. Please.”

  She sat down on the couch, her eyes filled with defiant flames. After three years, that look was very familiar to me. There was no changing her mind.

  “All right,” I said. “But I want you to promise, if anything happens, if anybody comes back, you call me first. Me. Do you promise?”

  The flames receded long enough for her vulnerability to peek around the corner. “I promise.”

  I went for the door.

  “Will you stay here tonight?” she asked.

  The request sent a rapid delirium through my nerves. I let go of the knob and turned back to her.

  “Just tonight,” she said.

  It didn’t mean anything. I knew that. But it felt good to be needed by her. I wanted to step over; kiss her eyes and brush her hair back behind her ear. She always loved that. Said it made her melt. Maybe I could make her melt again and it would be like last night never existed. Maybe I could say “I love you and I never stopped.”

  But I didn’t. A conscious rationality glued me to the floor and cinched my lips shut, leaving me only to nod.

  “Thank you.”

  It was obvious that Roscoe sent the Mexican man to my house. But why? Not to kill me. He would’ve sent Fred for that, or at least somebody capable - Leitner, if he was still alive - and not even
bother with Charlotte. No. He wanted something else.

  Now that Charlotte had been dragged into this, I had to resolve things as quickly as time would allow, and my supply of it was running low.

  Chapter 19

  After Charlotte was asleep, I went to the study. There were still pictures of us on the desk. That time we went to Santa Barbara. Our first Thanksgiving dinner. Her wearing the sapphire necklace I bought her last Christmas. But those couldn’t distract me right now.

  I brought up Google on the desktop and plugged in a search for “mortgage foreclosures.” Free mortgage foreclosure listings. The definition of foreclosure on Wikipedia. How to avoid foreclosure. Nothing helpful.

  New search: mortgage foreclosures California. Same results. I scrolled down. Nothing.

  New search: fraudulent mortgage foreclosures California. A link on the second page caught my eye. An article from the Times posted two months ago. I clicked on it:

  CALIFORNIA BEGINS PROBE OF MORTGAGE FORECLOSURE FRAUD

  Sacramento, CA

  by Rick Grady

  Attorney General Marsha Colvey announced today that her office will re-open investigations into cases of misconduct or fraud in mortgage lending to homeowners.

  Along with Nevada, California banks can foreclose on a borrower's home without any involvement from the courts. It is a foreclosure system known as "non-judicial foreclosure.”

  Colvey recently subpoenaed mortgage giants Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac in order to dive deeper into their lending practices.

  Nevada’s attorney general, John Riley, recently indicted two Northern Nevada title officers for a "robo-signing" scheme, in which thousands of fraudulent foreclosure documents were signed and filed between 2006 and 2008. Colvey says the same practices are being employed in California.

  Fraudulent mortgage and foreclosure practices "continue to devastate lives, homes, and the economy of our state" said Colvey. “In launching our new investigation, we plan to punish all fraudulent offenders and bring restitution to all those victimized.”

  California had 546,669 foreclosure filings in 2012, the country’s largest number.

  A robo-signing scheme was exactly what I walked in on at Roscoe’s warehouse, what ripped Nancy Bresser’s home from under her, and apparently she was only one of half a million. My question was why the lending firms needed to forge them. I planned to ask Roscoe the next day.

  My eyes were getting heavy. I printed the article, folded it into my pocket and went back to the couch until morning.

  It was still dark when I left the house. Charlotte had already gone. A note on the counter said she went in early to get a head start, and thanked me for staying. I wished she would’ve woken me up so I could see her, but at least she still trusted me being alone in her house and that was a nice way to start the day.

  The sun crested over the hills as I drove on the 34 West toward Ventura.

  --------------------------

  The warehouse was the same as it was the day before, except empty. It was just past seven-thirty. I assumed work started at eight, so I parked across the street and waited.

  It wasn’t till then that I realized my head was in pain from my sunburn. I touched the top of it and was met with a sharp sting. Charlotte always keeps aloe under her sink. Should’ve grabbed some. Damnit.

  Just then came the gravelly engine of a pickup truck behind me. I had seen it yesterday. The man inside parked and went inside using his key. I didn’t move. He wasn’t who I was waiting for.

  Shortly after him came the black man driving a Honda. Before stepping inside he threw a curious glance my way, but if he recognized me, he didn’t show it.

  About ten minutes later, a small, red Prius drove by. Behind the wheel was my visitor from last night. I got out of the car and walked into the lot just as he pulled in.

  He barely had time to realize I was there before I had him pinned against the car.

  “Dios mio!” he exclaimed.

  “Come with me,” I snarled and jerked him toward my car.

  I opened the passenger door and told him to get in. He protested in Spanish and I pushed him in.

  “Do you speak English?” I said when I closed my door. “Abla ingles?”

  He was shaking and he didn’t answer.

  “Abla ingles?” I asked again, angry this time.

  He nodded. “Ci. A Little.”

  “Good.” I started the engine and drove away.

  I wasn’t taking him anywhere in particular. Just somewhere we could talk. I pulled over off the shoulder of the main road.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  He was still shaking. “I am Gael.”

  “Why were you in my house last night, Gael?”

  He looked away. I held up my phone.

  “Gael. I will call the police right now if you don’t talk to me.”

  He was nervous. I had a feeling his work visa actually was expired. “...I...he make me...he say he hurt me.”

  “Who? Who made you?”

  “I...not know name. Big. Big.” He held his arms up and hands apart. I assumed he meant Fred, which was ironic because I didn’t know Fred’s real name either. If Fred went to Charlotte for her key, and sent Gael to my house, then Roscoe must’ve dispatched Fred. “He say he kill me.”

  “What did you take?” I asked, “From my house?”

  “No,” he said. “I leave.”

  “You left something there?”

  He nodded.

  “What did you leave?”

  “In...uh...elvope.”

  “Elvope? Do you mean ‘envelope?’”

  “Ci. Ci.”

  “Okay, you left an envelope. What was in it?”

  “I not know. He give to me.”

  “Where?”

  “In...cocina. Cocina.” He looked down at his lap and closed his eyes.

  “What is cocina?”

  “Kit..kitten.” He looked at me.

  “Kitchen?”

  “Ci.” He lifted his arm. “Up. Up.”

  It was eight-fifteen. By the time I got back home it would be nine. But I had my appointment with Roscoe and wasn’t going to miss it.

  “Pleese,” he squeaked. “Pleese no cops. They send me back. Like mi hermono.”

  Hermono. I knew that word. “Your brother?”

  “We work same place.”

  “Your brother worked for Mr. Roscoe too?”

  “Ci. But he send him home.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Silvio.”

  I thought I misheard him. “Silvio? You’re brother’s name is Silvio?”

  “Ci.”

  The freshest memory of Silvio I had was one of plastic and blood, but there was a resemblance.

  “Did he have two jobs?” I asked.

  “Ci.” He replied, with curious eyes.

  “Where was the other?”

  “He work too at, uh...” he searched for the words, “Uh, comma die...”

  “Comedy?”

  “Ci! Ci. Comedy. Comedy...club.”

  I stared at him a while longer. But in my head, the gears were turning. Silvio worked for Roscoe. That connected Roscoe to both Silvio and Slavas. But what about Nora? What was his connection to her?

  “Senor?” said Gael. I was still staring at him. “Please. Please no send me back.” His curious eyes now desperate and starting to well up.

  “...no,” I said. “No, I won’t send you back.”

  A small sigh emitted from his tight lips. “Gracias. Gracias, senor.”

  I fired up the car and drove back to the warehouse. Gael opened his door to get out, but I grabbed his arm and held him.

  “Gael. Do not tell anyone you talked to me. Nobody. Do you understand?”

  He nodded. “Ci.”

  “Nobody. And if I were you, I’d find a different job.”

  He got out of the car and scurried into the building like a jackrabbit at the sight of the hunter’s gun.

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  It was just another day at the Angel City Bank and Trust. Men in suits talking on cell phones. Women in dresses carrying files. Men in suits typing on desktops. Women in dresses writing in day planners. Men in suits looking at women in dresses.