the dash. I’ve always had a fascination with dashboards. “Neat,” I said.
I turned around. Gina stood in the doorway, wearing an expression I’d seen only once before. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
We stared at each other for a good ten seconds before I said, “Where?”
“Behind the big tree.”
She stepped aside as I walked out of the garage and followed me as I went across the lawn and around the sycamore. When she caught up with me, she slipped her hand in mine and held on as if she’d never let go. The two of us stood gaping at the spectacle draped on the back side of the tree.
A wooden cross had been nailed to the trunk. DickMcAfee was tied to the cross-member by lengths of cord around his upper arms. His head dropped to one side and his eyes were closed. His naked feet dangled six inches above the ground.
His arms were spread wide, and somebody had driven spines through his hands. Three inches long, wickedly sharp, from
Euphorbia grandicornis
was my guess. And, adding insult to injury, whoever had pulled off this heinous stunt had taken a branch of
Euphorbia milii
, and twisted it into a ring, and tied the ends together with a thin green plant tie. They’d placed the ring on Dick’s head, pushing it down so it would stay in place. The spines had opened dozens of tiny cuts that were the least of Dick’s troubles.
Euphorbia mili
. Common name: crown of thorns. Supposedly the plant Jesus wore on his head when he, like my cactus cohort Dick McAfee, had been crucified.
10
T WO HOURS LATER GINA AND I WERE STANDING WITH DE -tective Alberta Burns on the McAfee front sidewalk. She and Casillas had come and done their cop stuff, while Gina and I hung out with a gaggle of uniformed officers. Someone had found Hope at the homeless shelter she volunteered at on Thursdays and brought her back home. A knot of onlookers had gathered; most still hung on. All those kids with bikes and couples with dogs.
Speaking of dogs, the local news hounds had already sniffed the situation out. Two of their vans were parked a few houses away. Across the street the blonde from Channel 6 rehearsed a stand-up.
“He was already dead when they strung him up,” Burns was saying. “There was a blow to the head.”
“Blunt-force trauma,” I said.
My impressive command of police lingo surprised her, I think. “The thorns through the hands were a nice touch,” she said. “Don’t you think?” Spines.
“Excuse me?”
“Botanically, they’re spines, not thorns.”
“I see. By the way, where were you when he was killed?”
“When would that have been?”
“Late morning, according to the coroner investigator.”
“We spoke on the phone around ten. He said he was going to the nursery in half an hour. Whoever it was must have come right after I talked to him. Christ.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Portugal?”
“If I’d rushed over after we talked, I might have saved him.”
“How would you know there would be something to save him from?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Were you somewhere we could verify between, say, ten and noon?”
“I went to the movies at eleven. Somebody there should remember me. I was the one who wasn’t laughing.”
“We’ll check it out. What about you, Ms. Vela?”
“I was with a client from eleven until two-thirty.”
She nodded. “We’ll need a name and number.”
We answered some more questions. When she told us we could go, I hustled Gina off toward our vehicles. I’d gotten her into hers and had the Datsun’s door open when Casillas materialized. “What’s in the bag?”
I’d been clinging to the gym bag like a life preserver since I first walked around the sycamore. It dangled from my fingers, all sporty and blue with a white Dodgers logo. “Clothes,” I said.
“That all?”
“A hanger. To hang my suit up.”
“One always wants to hang one’s suit up, doesn’t one?”
I tossed the bag on the ground. “Just open it,
I turned around. Gina stood in the doorway, wearing an expression I’d seen only once before. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
We stared at each other for a good ten seconds before I said, “Where?”
“Behind the big tree.”
She stepped aside as I walked out of the garage and followed me as I went across the lawn and around the sycamore. When she caught up with me, she slipped her hand in mine and held on as if she’d never let go. The two of us stood gaping at the spectacle draped on the back side of the tree.
A wooden cross had been nailed to the trunk. DickMcAfee was tied to the cross-member by lengths of cord around his upper arms. His head dropped to one side and his eyes were closed. His naked feet dangled six inches above the ground.
His arms were spread wide, and somebody had driven spines through his hands. Three inches long, wickedly sharp, from
Euphorbia grandicornis
was my guess. And, adding insult to injury, whoever had pulled off this heinous stunt had taken a branch of
Euphorbia milii
, and twisted it into a ring, and tied the ends together with a thin green plant tie. They’d placed the ring on Dick’s head, pushing it down so it would stay in place. The spines had opened dozens of tiny cuts that were the least of Dick’s troubles.
Euphorbia mili
. Common name: crown of thorns. Supposedly the plant Jesus wore on his head when he, like my cactus cohort Dick McAfee, had been crucified.
10
T WO HOURS LATER GINA AND I WERE STANDING WITH DE -tective Alberta Burns on the McAfee front sidewalk. She and Casillas had come and done their cop stuff, while Gina and I hung out with a gaggle of uniformed officers. Someone had found Hope at the homeless shelter she volunteered at on Thursdays and brought her back home. A knot of onlookers had gathered; most still hung on. All those kids with bikes and couples with dogs.
Speaking of dogs, the local news hounds had already sniffed the situation out. Two of their vans were parked a few houses away. Across the street the blonde from Channel 6 rehearsed a stand-up.
“He was already dead when they strung him up,” Burns was saying. “There was a blow to the head.”
“Blunt-force trauma,” I said.
My impressive command of police lingo surprised her, I think. “The thorns through the hands were a nice touch,” she said. “Don’t you think?” Spines.
“Excuse me?”
“Botanically, they’re spines, not thorns.”
“I see. By the way, where were you when he was killed?”
“When would that have been?”
“Late morning, according to the coroner investigator.”
“We spoke on the phone around ten. He said he was going to the nursery in half an hour. Whoever it was must have come right after I talked to him. Christ.”
“What’s the matter, Mr. Portugal?”
“If I’d rushed over after we talked, I might have saved him.”
“How would you know there would be something to save him from?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Were you somewhere we could verify between, say, ten and noon?”
“I went to the movies at eleven. Somebody there should remember me. I was the one who wasn’t laughing.”
“We’ll check it out. What about you, Ms. Vela?”
“I was with a client from eleven until two-thirty.”
She nodded. “We’ll need a name and number.”
We answered some more questions. When she told us we could go, I hustled Gina off toward our vehicles. I’d gotten her into hers and had the Datsun’s door open when Casillas materialized. “What’s in the bag?”
I’d been clinging to the gym bag like a life preserver since I first walked around the sycamore. It dangled from my fingers, all sporty and blue with a white Dodgers logo. “Clothes,” I said.
“That all?”
“A hanger. To hang my suit up.”
“One always wants to hang one’s suit up, doesn’t one?”
I tossed the bag on the ground. “Just open it,
Similar Books
