The Trade

Matt shrugged. “I’d call in the bulldozers.” His cell phone buzzed and he excused himself, walked over to the bank of darkened windows.

“Matt Lowell.”

“Matt, it’s Bobby. Listen, a heads-up. Better you don’t contact the coroner about that matter we talked about last night. Something’s come up. Okay?”

“What’s happened?”

“I’m at the desk, I can’t talk now. Just hang tight, don’t make any calls, okay?”

“Too late. I called this morning.”

“Shit. Did you leave your name?”

“Of course I left my name.”

“Shit,” Bobby said again. “Oh well, maybe it won’t make any difference. They lose bodies all the time down there, chances are they’re no better with telephone messages.”

“What bodies? What are you talking about?”

“I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you tonight. Better yet, I’ll come by. Meantime, don’t make any more calls to the coroner.” He rang off.

Slowly, Matt returned the cell to his pocket. He cleaned a circle in the filthy window with the heel of his hand. Across the street stood a mirror image of the four-story building he was standing in. Someone had enough faith in the neighborhood to try to do something with it, but not enough to trust the neighbors not to make off with anything they could get their hands on. Surrounding the old factory was a new ten-foot chain-link fence topped with a concertina of razor wire.

Matt walked over to rejoin the two men.

“Mike tells me we can turn this dump into luxury apartments,” Ned said. “You’re the design and structural arm of the firm.” For Matt, the thrill of his job was in seeing the aesthetic possibilities in the crumbling buildings they restored. He was good at it, had the imagination to see what could be, probably got it from his father. It also enabled him to see the absence of opportunity, such as this building.

Matt laughed. “Mike, you don’t believe that.”

“Sure I do. Would I lie to you guys? This is a wicked piece of property. Great potential.”

“Yeah, potential to go from bad to worse.”

“That building you were looking at, Matt? Across the street there? Sold in less than a week, asking price, and I hear it’s going to be gutted and refitted as apartments. It will bring the whole area up.”

“In your dreams, Michael,” Ned said. “Who’d you sucker into that deal?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have the listing, but I hear it was bought by some outfit from Canada. I could have offered this one to them, but we’ve been doing business for a long time. I wanted to give you guys first crack at it.”

The three men navigated the dark filth-encrusted stairs and stepped out into the sunshine.

“So don’t wait too long, guys,” Mike said. “This is a primo piece of downtown real estate, a steal at the price.”

He slid into his late model Lexus, tapped his horn at a kid running across the street, and drew away.

“Shall we go for it, Matt?” Ned’s tone was doubtful.

Matt eyed the street scene. A couple of guys selling foam-rubber pads and remnants of fabric from the back of a beat-up truck to small round women a long way in time and distance from their Aztec roots. Men with the same flat features leaned against walls, hats tipped over eyes, waiting for God knows what. In the middle of the block, kids converged on an old guy selling ice cream from a handcart that looked as if it had been in use since the fifties.

“Pass. Let someone else take the hassle.” Matt looked again at his watch. “See you tomorrow.”

Matt put the Range Rover into the now doorless garage, walked down the side deck past Bobby’s Harley, a Softail, parked in the middle of the ruined front garden, and let himself into the kitchen.

Bobby was sprawled on the overstuffed sofa in the living room, a box of crackers on the table in front of him, watching a ballgame on television, Barney at his feet. The Lab got up as Matt came in, gave him a swift, enthusiastic greeting, and went back to monitoring Bob’s hand-to-mouth motion. Bob held up a warning finger. “USC, Arizona, flag on the play. Oh, damn. USC’s offside.” He clicked off the set.

Bobby tossed Barney a Ritz and swung his feet to the floor. “You’ve got to find a new hiding place for the house key. That flowerpot’s history.”

Matt threw his briefcase onto the kitchen counter. The key had always been kept in a flowerpot. “I’ll get a new one.”

“And get the fence fixed while you’re at it. You’re totally exposed to the street, your neighbors are never here and this place is barely more than a shack. A quick push on the kitchen door, and you’re cleaned out in minutes.”

“You try getting anything done. Half of Malibu’s in line ahead of me.”

“What about one of your own work crews?”

“Ned would have a coronary. Leases are signed and we’re getting the Contessa project ready for occupancy. Anyway, Barney would take the hand off anyone coming in here.”

“Okay, that’s my community outreach for the week,” Bobby said.

Matt filled Barney’s bowl, took a bottle of water from the fridge. He crossed to the living room, dropped into an armchair, propped his feet on the coffee table. “So, okay, what’s happened that’s so all-fired important?”

Bob leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “A body’s been found up on Encinal Canyon Road. A girl, maybe fourteen, fifteen. White.”

Matt knew what Bobby was going to tell him, but he didn’t want to hear it. A fourteen year old. Just a kid herself. “Didn’t Encinal burn out?”

“No, not all the way down to the beach. Anyway, she wasn’t in the fire area. She was by the side of the road, and she was covered in wildflowers. A fire crew checking hotspots found her.”

“Flowers? Someone must have cared about her.”

“Or some sick bastard thought it was a cute touch.”

“How’d she die, Bobby?”

“Until we get an autopsy report, it’s just guesswork. She’s been badly abused at some time, but the scars are old. Marks on her breasts as if she’d been burned by cigars, that sort of thing. Poor kid had a short and brutal life, but whoever put her on the side of the road wanted her found. She was dressed in some expensive threads, baggy silk pants, a matching top and a shirt. The pants were blood-soaked, but someone had tried to clean her up. My guess is that she gave birth then hemorrhaged out.”

“So that’s the mother.”

Bobby shrugged. “Putting two and two together, that’s my guess. Homicide’s got it. So far her description doesn’t match any missing person on file in Los Angeles County. They’ve sent it to Sacramento, see if they get any hits statewide. I thought you’d be interested.”

“What’ll happen if they don’t get anything?”

“Nothing much. No identifying marks on her or the baby, no way to find out who they were.”

“What about dental records?”

“Sure, but not everyone visits a dentist. And anyway, there’s no national database for teeth. All we can do is find out if they’re related. After that, there’s nowhere to go.” Bobby dropped another cracker for Barney. “Don’t try to get that baby released to you, Matt. Let it drop.”

“It’s too late, I told you. I called the coroner this morning.” Matt got up, put his empty glass in the sink. “I’m going out to eat. Sylvie still on late duty?”

“Yeah, all this week. You want to take this seriously, buddy.”

“I am taking it seriously, but what do you want me to do? I’ve already called the coroner’s office. They have my name, my address, my phone number. They didn’t ask for my social security number, or they’d have that, too. So, you want to go eat?” Bob let out a long breath. “Okay. Usual place?” Matt had been thinking of Granita for a change, Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant at the top of the road, but the prices were pretty rich for a deputy sheriff with a Malibu mortgage, even with two salaries coming in. Bob would agree if he suggested it, then insist on carrying his weight. “Sure. Googie’s Coffee Shop in five.”

CHAPTER 5

7:00 a.m. on a Friday morning, and traffic on the I-10 from Santa Monica to downtown was moving steadily. In another hour, it would be gridlock. Matt listened to Coltrane, and restrained the impulse to jockey the Range Rover from lane to lane. He got off the freeway at 9th Street, and stopped to pick up a couple of caffe grandes at the Starbucks by Macy’s—he knew better than to risk the coffee on a construction job, which tasted as if it were made with iron filings, guaranteed to burn a hole in the lining of the stomach.

By 7:30 he was at the Contessa, four hundred low-rise luxury apartments on what used to be a used-car lot before the neighborhood got too run-down even for clunkers. Swimming pools, tennis courts, running track, gym, all the bells and whistles, heavily landscaped, an urban refuge, and close to major freeways and the Staples Center. The city was jubilant, already counting on the tax base to revitalize the surrounding area. Lowell Brothers was gambling the company shirt on the project, their first venture into new construction, but so far it looked good. Ned had negotiated leases with both teams that called the Staples Center home, NBA basketball and NHL hockey, the Lakers and the Kings.

Half a dozen trucks loaded with large boxed jacaranda trees were lined up on Bixel Street outside the Contessa. By the time the job was finished, a hundred prime specimens would be in the ground.

“Good morning, Ben.” Matt handed Ben Pressman, the landscape architect, a container of coffee, popped the lid on his own and took a sip. He and Ben circled the trucks, checking out the jacarandas.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Ben said.

“Yeah. Not bad, Ben.” He and Pressman had personally selected each one, shopping half a dozen tree farms to get what they wanted. “Let’s get them in the ground.”

He stayed on through the morning, ate enchiladas with the Hispanic work crew gathered around Roxanne’s Hot Lunch, the roach wagon that made the rounds of downtown construction sites.

It was almost four when he got back to the office in Brentwood.

Two men, flipping without much interest through magazines devoted to the construction business, looked up as he walked in. Matt raised an inquiring eyebrow at Marni behind her desk in the front office.

“These gentlemen are waiting to see you, Matt. They’re from the sheriff’s department.”

The men replaced the magazines on the table, got to their feet. The elder of the two said, “Mr. Lowell? I’m Detective Jim Barstow. My partner, Detective Eduardo Flores.”

Matt glanced at the proffered shields, noted the nicotine-stained fingers and the smell of tobacco that clung to the two men. He shook hands with each in turn, conscious of Marni’s ears straining to hear every word, and ushered them into the office. Ned, frowning at the computer screen on his own side of the partners’ desk, looked up as Matt introduced the detectives. They refused coffee. Matt settled himself behind his desk, indicated a couple of chairs on the other side.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Just a few questions. You are the Matthew Lowell who found the child on the beach, is that right?” Barstow asked. Late forties, thinning fair hair, deep set blue eyes. Slim, sharp tailoring.

Not much got past him, Matt guessed. “Yes. During the fire.”

“That would be last Monday?”

“Yes. Monday.”

“She was alive when you found her?”

Matt nodded. “Yes.”

“About what time of day was that, Mr. Lowell?”

“Sometime between four and five. It’s hard to say exactly. The smoke from the fire was black and covered the entire sky, so it was dusk long before the sun started going down. And sunset these days is at five. So I can’t say for sure. I didn’t look at my watch.”

Barstow’s partner gave a half smile. He’d caught the sarcasm. Flores was in his early forties, bulky but not fat, an ungainly nose away from being darkly handsome.

“Well, that’s close enough for now,” Barstow said. “Were you working in Malibu on Monday?”

“No, I was here, but I’ve lived in Malibu all my life and I know how fast a brushfire moves in a Santa Ana wind. I had horses in Ramirez Canyon and was worried about getting them out. And my dog was locked inside my house.”

“That’s the house on Malibu Road?” Barstow asked. He produced a small notebook from the inside pocket on his jacket.

Matt nodded. “That’s right.”

“You say you found the baby several miles north of that location between four and five o’clock. By noon the entire area had been evacuated, the highway was closed in both directions from Topanga Canyon in the south, and Trancas Canyon in the north. How was it you managed to be on that particular part of the beach at that particular time? Can you explain that?”

“I drove—”

“Wait a minute,” Ned said. “What is this? An interrogation? He’s already reported this to—”

“It’s okay, Ned, let me handle it,” Matt said. He held a tight rein on his irritation. Ned could be a pain sometimes with his big brother concern. Ginn thought it was guilt because Ned had been at Wharton in Philadelphia when their mother was killed, and had gone back to school the day after she was buried, leaving Matt alone with their father in a house that contained only shadows where she had been.

“You’re right,” he said to Barstow. “The Pacific Coast Highway was closed when I got to Topanga Canyon.”

“What time was that?”

“About two, two-thirty.”

Barstow made a note on his pad. He looked up, nodded for Matt to continue.

“I turned around and went back to the Santa Monica Freeway, took the 405 north across the Sepulveda Pass to the 101 in the San Fernando Valley.” Deliberately, Matt went through every detail of the long circuitous route back to Malibu. “The 101 west was pretty clogged because of fire closures, but I was able to make it to Las Posas Road below Oxnard. I turned off there and drove toward the ocean through the berry fields and came down the PCH that way.”

Barstow flipped through the pages of his notebook.

“On your way down the PCH you had to pass Encinal Canyon, right?”

Matt felt his gut clench. “Yes.”

“Did you drive up into Encinal Canyon?”

“Of course not. I was trying to get home.”

“And the Pacific Coast Highway was already closed at Trancas Canyon when you got there?”

“That’s right. They were pretty busy in the market parking lot, getting a convoy together to go over the Kanan Dume Road while it was still open. It wasn’t difficult to drive around the roadblock.”

“What were you driving?”

“I had a pickup and a horse trailer.”

Flores spoke for the first time. “Do you usually commute to work here in Brentwood with a horse trailer, Mr. Lowell?”

“No. I picked it up at Malibu Riding Club on Pacific Coast Highway.”

“That’s just before Encinal Canyon, is that right?”

“Yes.” The enchiladas he’d eaten at lunch suddenly felt like a lead weight in his stomach. They thought he had used the trailer to transport the body of the dead girl.

“Why didn’t you take the Kanan Dume Road from the 101? Why go all the way up to Las Posas?”

“I wasn’t sure Kanan Dume was open. I didn’t want to run into another roadblock and have to turn back. I didn’t have that kind of time.”

“Are you saying that in the middle of a fire, an equestrian center loaned you a pickup and horse trailer? I would’ve thought they’d need vehicles like that to evacuate their own animals.”

“The truck and trailer didn’t belong to the riding club, they belonged to me. I boarded my horses there until a couple of weeks before the fire. I left some tack and the pickup and trailer there until I could pick them up.”

“Where are they now, this pickup and trailer?”

“At A-1 Auto Wrecking in Oxnard.”

Barstow raised his eyebrows. “What happened to them?”

Matt held on to his temper. What did this bozo think happened to them in the middle of a goddamn fire? “I was trying to get into Ramirez Canyon at Paradise Cove but the gates to the tunnel under the road were closed. The fire came through the tunnel, caught the trailer and pickup. I made a run for it to the Cove restaurant. The trailer and pickup are a total loss. I had to have them towed.”

Barstow continued making notes. “I see. What happened then?”

“I got some water from the restaurant, and started south along the beach. It’s about seven miles to my place from the Cove. I was more than halfway there, just past the Edwards estate, when I spotted what looked like a downed pelican lying near the water. I got closer, and saw it was a baby.”

“And the baby was alive when you picked it up?”

Matt had to force himself not to look away. “Yes. I thought I just said that.”

“No, you didn’t. So then?”

“I felt a faint pulse. I wrapped her in my shirt and went back to some stairs that I’d seen still standing. I thought maybe I could get some help there, but when I got back the stairs had burned and the wind had blown them apart, so I turned around and continued toward home.”

“It didn’t occur to you to go back to the restaurant?”

“Of course it did, but what for? Fire blocked the road, the restaurant was empty, no one was coming, no fire crews. Plus I was more than halfway home.”

“When did you realize she was dead?”

“When I got home. I put her on the couch. She seemed cold. I tried to feel a pulse and couldn’t. I tried to give her CPR, holding her nose and breathing into her mouth, but it was too late. She was dead.” He’d been reliving that moment over and over ever since.

“You’ve got a bandage on your arm, Mr. Lowell. What happened?” Flores asked this question. Matt guessed they were taking turns.

Instinctively, Matt looked down at his wrist. He’d dropped by his doctor’s office, Phil had put a couple of stitches in, and covered it with gauze and a Band-Aid. That was the day after the fire.

“I broke a window at the restaurant to get some water and I guess I cut it. I didn’t notice it until later.”

“You didn’t notice a cut that was bad enough to need stitches and bandaging?”

“A hell of a lot more was going on then than a cut on my arm, Detective Flores. Half of Malibu was on fire.”

Flores nodded and gave him that thin smile again. “So is that your blood on the blue shirt the baby was wrapped in?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you get help for this baby right away?”

“Where? It was in the middle of a wildfire. The phones were down. I’d dropped my cell on the beach. Where was I supposed to find help?”

“You could’ve taken her to the Civic Center there in Malibu, couldn’t you?”

“She was already dead, and flames were coming over the ridge. What would have been the point of attempting that?” He wanted to ask if this guy had ever been caught in a firestorm, but the answer was obvious. He hadn’t.

“You’ve shown an interest in claiming this baby, Mr. Lowell. Why is that?” Barstow asked.

Out of his peripheral vision, Matt saw Ned open his mouth, then close it without speaking. He hadn’t told Ned what he intended.

“No reason. I just thought…I didn’t like the idea that she might be cut up for the purpose of training doctors.”

“Who told you that would happen?”

“Doesn’t it?”

Barstow shrugged. “A young woman was found yesterday morning on Encinal Canyon Road. It’s possible she was the mother.”

“Really?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Did you know this girl?”

“Know her? No, I didn’t know her. I would’ve told you if I knew her. Look, I found a child on the beach in the middle of a wildfire. I did the best I could to keep her alive. I feel terrible that I wasn’t able to, but I got in touch with the authorities as soon as I could, which was around midnight. After I’d spent hours fighting to save my house. I thought it would be the right thing to do to give her a burial. Where are you going with this?”

Flores joined the conversation. “Why do you feel so threatened by these questions?”

“I don’t feel threatened, Mr. Flores.” Matt made a conscious effort to relax. Flores was right, he sounded defensive. “I just don’t understand why you’re talking to me about a young girl found dead in Encinal.”

“Well, the spot in Encinal is not too far from where you said you picked up the child on the beach. You’ve shown quite an interest in that baby. We’re just trying to do our job, get to the bottom of who knew what and when they knew it,” Flores said.

Matt held his eyes. They were a mid-brown, the sort of brown usually described as warm. But these were as cold as any Matt had seen, and the slight smile hovering around Flores’ tight lips didn’t help.

“Well,” he said, “if I can help you do that, of course I will. Anyway, are you sure the girl you found was the mother?”

Neither man responded. It was clear they were not here to answer questions, just ask them.

“Would you be willing to give a sample for DNA testing, Mr. Lowell?” Flores asked. “Just for the record.”

“Now wait a minute,” Ned said. “Just you guys wait a minute here—”

“It’s okay, Ned,” Matt said. He turned to Barstow. “Why are you asking me to do that?”

“There’s nothing to it, Mr. Lowell, nothing invasive,” Barstow said. “A swab, some saliva, that’s all.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Ned said. “Is he suspected of some crime?”

“We don’t know that a crime has been committed, Mr. Lowell. This is just routine.”

Matt sat back and let Ned run with it. He’d seen Ned’s face and knew better than to start an argument with him in front of a couple of detectives.

“Routine, bullshit,” Ned said. “What happens to that sample afterward? It’s kept on record, right? So my brother, who has done absolutely nothing except behave like a model citizen, now has his DNA on record in a police file connected to some unknown girl’s death?”

Flores shook his head. “The sample will be destroyed.”

“Come on,” Ned said. “We’re supposed to trust the police department that screwed up the blood evidence in the O.J. Simpson case?”

Barstow turned to Matt. “We have your shirt, Mr. Lowell, and we don’t need your permission to test it.”

“Then why are you asking for saliva?”

“Well, cooperation would count in your favor—”

Ned was on his feet. “What are you talking about, in his favor? Is he being accused of something?”

“No. Well. Thank you, we’ll be in touch. If you remember anything else, give us a call.” Barstow produced a small leather cardholder, removed a business card and placed it on Matt’s desk. He glanced at Flores, and both detectives rose. “And we’re the sheriff’s department, not LAPD. Just so you know. Anyway, thanks for your time.” At the door, Barstow turned. “Your horses get out okay?”

“Yes, thanks,” Matt answered.

Barstow nodded and offered a polite smile. The two detectives left the room, leaving behind a faint trail of stale cigarette smoke, and the unspoken words hanging in the air.

They suspected him of murder.

CHAPTER 6

Matt turned off his laptop and pushed back from his desk in the corner of the living room. It was no good. He couldn’t work. It seemed as if he’d been going over the same set of drawings for the last three hours. All he could think of was the conversation with the detectives and the two creatures who’d somehow fallen into the middle of his life, the baby who had died in his arms, and the young girl who may or may not be the baby’s mother.

He got to his feet, poured another cup of coffee, his third that morning, took it to the window. Rays from the sun pierced the bottom of the mounting gray-and-white thunderclouds, and sparkled in large intermittent coins of light on the water. The temperature had dropped dramatically since the fire, and rain was in the forecast.

A flight of California brown pelicans swept low, wingtips skimming the top of the waves. Matt followed their glide with his eyes until they disappeared over the water. The pelicans were making a comeback after the DDT disaster in the seventies that had damn near wiped them out.