Blood Daughters: A Romilia Chacon Novel

Chapter 24

116 Chapter 24 Lettie Fisher had given me time off, as much as I needed. She had handed the entire case over to Randall and Shrieber. One of the many reasons I got so drunk. I didn’t go to the office. I drove straight to Ballys Gym off Victory Boulevard in North Hollywood. Spent half an hour on the Stairmaster, twenty minutes lifting dumbbells, and another twenty doing laps in the pool, dodging the older folks who swam slower but much longer. A new day, someone might have said, a new start. But I knew better. After all of the sweating and a steam shower topped off with a blast of freezing water to close off the pores, no one would smell me. While on the Stairmaster I had the choice of programs on three different television monitors: Judge Judy, The Price is Right, and the news. I watched the news. There was a follow-up to Nancy’s death, ambiguous news about the ongoing investigation. Once again they played the tape of the funeral. There I was, with Nancy’s mother Rita, and my mother. There was the priest. All in fairly close-up angles. And there she was, little Ms. Whole Foods Salad Lady, smiling at the camera and giving us the latest updates in southern California. Slow day for her—not even a car chase to follow live from a chopper. I’d give Maggie Contreras something to work with. After the workout I called KSAL 9 and asked for Contreras. I got a secretary who kept me at bay. “Just tell her Special Agent Romilia Chacón called,” then gave her my number. I wasn’t two steps into the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf when the cell phone rang. “Hi this is Maggie Contreras, KSAL 9 News, is this Agent Chacón?” Marcos M. Villatoro ~ 117 As much as she tried to be professional, I could hear in her voice the happy growl of a carnivore who has just smelled meat. 7 Maggie Contreras had made decisions in her young career. She had not gotten tit-replacement. Other news babes in southern Cal had made themselves into model material: Channel 12 had some blonde spilling out of her tight Macy’s T-shirt every evening, giving us a meteorological report that no one cared about since we lived in southern California where the weather rarely changes. And, of course, due to all that breastwork, guys on Stairmasters next to me watched the weather report with slack jaws. Maggie hadn’t done that. She was a slim lady, very slim, high cheekbones, perky little pear-like breasts, a not-too-short Santa Fe colored skirt that showed off just enough of her legginess. I had kept her at bay during the Minos case. I couldn’t stand her. Some of it may have been jealousy—those emerald eyes in a Latina woman’s head, were they colored contacts? That perpetual six-hundred-dollar-laserwhitened smile. That overall look of confidence. Yes. Some of it was jealousy. Especially when she once asked me, during a curt interview, “Detective Chacón (as I was then), do you feel hardened by the work you’ve chosen?” Hardened. Mamá has used that word before when describing me. “You’d be more bella, hija, if your face wasn’t so, well, maciza.” Maciza. Hard. Firm. Like a cinderblock. Maggie found me at the coffee shop. She smiled. I tried not to look so hard. Being soft might make her feel more comfortable, let her guard come down, so I could trap her. Because at the funeral, yes, I had been mourning. It was painful, watching Nancy’s neighbors carry her gray steel coffin from the hearse to the hole. It had been a terrible day. But I had not been blind. “How are you?” said Maggie. She sat down after shaking my hand. She might have tried to hug me had I given her any leeway. Such is the way in LA. Our ability to feign empathy is enormous, to the point that we believe it. I asked if she wanted coffee. She hesitated; having made it to my table and so close to me, she didn’t want to lose leverage, afraid I’d change my 118 ~ Blood Daughters mind and skip out of the coffee shop while she was ordering. “I need a refill anyway,” I said. “Oh...