H Is for Homicide

real?"
    "Raymond, we've just been in four auto accidents! That last one we had, I nearly slid off the seat. You could have warned me."
    "You want to see a doctor? I can set it up. Heat treatments, ultrasound, anything you want. It's one of the perks."
    "Let me see how I feel when we get back to the apartment. Where's Bibianna? I hope I'm not the only one out here risking my neck."
    "Her and Luis are doing a drive-down same as us."
    "Good. I'm glad to hear it."
    He looked over at me, trying to gauge my mood. "You like it so far?"
    "It sure beats working for a living."
    He flashed a smile, eyes returning to the road. "Doesn't it?"
    We stopped briefly at Buddy's Auto Body Shop across the street and two doors down from the apartment where Raymond lived. The garage itself sat in one corner of a property that extended from street to street. In the far corner, there was a corrugated metal shack surrounded by chassis, fenders, bumpers, engines, tires. A dilapidated chain-link fence enclosed maybe two full acres of wrecked cars and assorted parts. A sign read: BUDDY'S AUTO SALVAGE OPEN 6 DAYS TOP $$ FOR YOUR CAR OR TRUCK. ONE OF THE LARGEST SELECTIONS OF USED PARTS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. A big black rottweiler, with a head as craggy as a tree stump, was asleep in the dirt beside a pickup truck.
    I said, "Does Buddy work for you?"
    "I'm Buddy. Guy runs the place is Chopper. Back in a minute," he murmured as he got out. Raymond apparently operated his "repair" business in conjunction with an auto wrecking and salvage company, probably dismantling vehicles once he'd maximized the insurance potential.
    I waited until he went into the garage and then I got out myself and ambled over to the Pepsi machine just inside the door. I took my time tucking coins in the slot, extracting a can of Diet Pepsi. I popped the top and downed it, idly taking in my surroundings. There was not another soul in sight and no indication of any work being done. The late afternoon sun slanted onto the cracked concrete floor in tawny yellow strips. The air smelled of oil, old tires, and hot metal. A pyramid of bright blue metal barrels had been laid on their sides and served now as storage bins for a jumble of rusted car parts. I could see Raymond through the open doorway of an area marked off as office space. The flat-roofed building appeared to be converted from a very small stucco house. Additional office space was provided by a single-wide trailer tucked between the fence and the building. The horizontal panes of a pair of dusty louvered windows were slanted open to let in some air. A wooden pallet was leaning up against the trailer. There was an alarm company sign affixed to the side of the trailer, but I didn't take it seriously. This didn't look like an establishment famous for its security.
    Raymond finished his business and emerged from the garage with a guy at his side whom he introduced as Chopper. He was an Anglo in his forties, balding and squat. His breathing was labored and his face freckled with sweat.
    I said, "Great dog," hoping to ingratiate myself with his owner.
    "That's Brutus." Chopper gave a piercing whistle and Brutus awoke obligingly and lumbered to his feet. The poor dog was ancient, so crippled by arthritis that he walked with a rocking motion, approaching by degrees. Up close, I could see his black hair was dusted with white. He paused beside me, his manner humble. I put my hand down near his nose and he licked me. I felt embarrassingly dewy-eyed about the damn beast.
    Raymond and Chopper finished their business and we walked on back to the apartment building, leaving the car where it was.

16
    BIBIANNA WAS ALREADY home, seated at the kitchen table, applying a coat of bright red polish to her nails. She was wearing red shorts and a halter top in a vivid jungle print, red, black, olive green, and white. Her hair was pulled up in a glossy coil on top. Luis was out somewhere walking the dog. I marveled that Bibianna hadn't escaped while she could. Raymond had forgotten to return the telephone to its hiding place. He didn't seem aware of it, but Bibianna sure was. She ignored the instrument so studiously I had to guess she'd used it. I caught her eye with a visual query, but she kept her expression blank. I wondered who she'd called. Her mother? Jimmy Tate? Could he be out of jail yet?
    Raymond glanced at his watch. "Hey. It's nearly five. Time to call your insurance agent."
    My conversation with Mac was brief. Raymond let me