January Justice by Athol Dickson

would send her staff and the crew ashore for the evening, including me, telling everybody, “I vant to be alone; I just vant to be alone,” doing Garbo perfectly and playing it straight. After dark I would hop a shore boat at the pleasure pier, and they would drop me back out at the Panache. She and I would indeed be alone, except for the moon above the island, and the village lights twinkling in houses on the hillsides, and the night herons swooping through the masts around us, and Perry Como crooning on the stereo. We would make love under the stars up on the flybridge and drink champagne and make love again, and it would be magnificent.
    But all of that was over and done with. So it was north through Corona del Mar again, the shops and restaurants on both sides, the traffic thickening and the birds-of-paradise along the median, and then a right on MacArthur Boulevard and up the hill with the Fashion Island office buildings on the left. Then there I was at Pacific View Memorial Park, where they had put Haley in the ground while I was screaming in the hospital.
    I entered through the main gate and passed some flags and a sign that said “Court of Valor.” A few good men in the ground over there, I figured.
    Following Simon’s handwritten directions, I went left at the fork, up the hill. Almost at the top, I parked between two mausoleums. There was another sign that told me the mausoleums were called “Lagunita Courts.” I turned off the engine and sat there looking down the hill toward a little reservoir, which was all the water I could see, and I wondered why they called the cemetery “Pacific View.” Not that there was anything wrong with the place. In fact, I liked it all right as far as cemeteries go. John Wayne was supposed to be down there somewhere, so Haley probably would have liked it too. I could almost hear her saying, “If it’s good enough for the Duke, it’s good enough for me.”
    The graves were marked with bronze plaques on granite stones, flat at ground level. The hill was beautifully manicured, like a lawn falling away toward the reservoir below. There were a few live oaks, and flowers in bronze vases here and there. Some of the flowers were plastic, some real. I figured Simon, Teru, and Higgins must have picked the plot, because I was pretty sure Haley hadn’t been prepared for this.
    I flinched at the tap on the Bentley’s side window. I looked, and there was Castro, pointing his Glock at me.
    He motioned for me to lower the glass.
    I did.
    “What do you want?” I asked.
    “Get out.”
    I sighed. I reached over and picked up the roses. I opened the door and got out.
    Valentín Vega’s bodyguard didn’t back away. He stood right in front of me, the Glock aimed at my belly, but within reach. That was a mistake.
    I spoke to him in Spanish. “Do you know where we are?”
    He said, “That is not important.”
    I felt the rage rise up and knew I only had a second or two before I lost control. I didn’t want to kill the man, so I turned away and headed down the hill. I figured if he put a bullet in my back, it might be better all around.
    “Hey,” he called from behind me. “Hey, pendejo , you better stop right there.”
    Ignoring him, I kept walking.
    I followed Simon’s directions, lining up the two largest live oaks and moving to a position about two-thirds of the distance between them to the right. I walked with the roses in my left hand and my face turned down so I could read the names on the bronze plaques. Behind me, Castro had stopped shouting. I had no idea if he was following and didn’t care enough to look. After a few minutes, I found her.
    Haley Lane, it said. No middle name. No date of birth, or death. Just her name, because for most of the Western world, that would always be enough.
    There was a small bronze vase beside her name. I hitched up my suit pants, squatted down on the balls of my feet, and slipped the roses into the vase. I put the palm of my right hand on her