“I reached over and opened it from the inside.”
“Hmmm, that is a problem. We put the gate up for protection. If you got in so easily, maybe we need to think of other things.”
“How tall are you?” Lady 1 asked.
“Six four give or take.”
“How many men do you know who are six four?” Lady 1 asked Lady 2.
“None.”
“Me, too. It’s not a problem.” She looked at Decker. “Make sure the gate is closed on the way out. Next time, use the bell. That’s what it’s for.”
“HARRIMAN JUST LEFT.” It was Wanda Bontemps on the phone.
“What did he want?” Decker tried to keep the acid out of his voice.
“We asked him to come in, Loo.”
Hunched over the steering wheel, it took a couple of beats before Decker processed the words. He had been so focused on Rina’s safety that he forgot that Harriman was actually serving a purpose. “Yeah…right. The phony interview with Oscar Vitalez. How’d that go?”
“Harriman said it wasn’t him. We tried to convince him that he was the guy based on Rina’s ID, but he didn’t take the bait. He said emphatically that it wasn’t the guy. So I’ve got a couple more guys lined up for him to listen to. We’ve set up another meeting at five this afternoon.”
“Good job, Wanda, thank you. Alejandro Brand—the guy who Rina did ID—doesn’t live at his listed address but he’s still in the neighborhood. I’m going to hunt around. Any luck locating Joe Pine?”
“I haven’t heard from Messing. Want me to give him a call?”
“Yeah, do that. I’m getting another call, Wanda, could you hold?”
“Just take it. Nothing more to say. I’ll talk to you later.”
Decker loved the efficiency in Wanda. The call was from Rina.
“I’ve got some time this afternoon if you want me to look through more mug books.”
Decker knew there was no stopping her. “Sure. How about…three?”
“Great. Do you need anything?”
“No, darlin’, I’m fine. I’m in Pacoima now. I’ll talk to you later.”
“What are you doing in Pacoima?”
“Looking for Alejandro Brand.”
“When you find him, let me know.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So I can ID him in person.”
“Your ID doesn’t mean anything because you didn’t hear him talk about the Kaffey murders. Harriman needs to ID him, not you.”
“Why not both?”
“Because he overheard something suspicious. You didn’t.”
“I can tell you if he’s the guy that Harriman was eavesdropping on.”
“I’m sure Harriman eavesdrops on many people. That’s what got him into trouble in the first place. Look in the mug books, but nothing more. Please be considerate of your weary husband’s feelings and do not get involved any deeper, okay?”
“Stop worrying, Peter. I’m just trying to help.”
The road to hell, et cetera, et cetera. “I know, darlin’. I’ll see you at three.”
“We’ve got a date. I’m bringing a cake for the squad room. If you behave yourself, you can have a slice.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t get a piece and can use it to jump-start your diet for the seventy millionth time. Either way, it’s a win-win situation.”
MARCUS MERRY DROVE them in his 1978 Ford Bronco Ranger with 102,000 miles on it, the three of them crammed into a cabin designed for two. He announced that he was making a stop first and took them across open fields until he pulled up in front of a barn in the middle of nowhere. He cut the engine.
“Just gotta unload some stuff.”
“Need help?” Marge asked.
“Got six crates of produce in the back. If you want to carry one in, I won’t object.”
Oliver whispered to her, “You had to ask.”
“It’ll get us to the sheriff quicker.” She got out of the car and slid a crate of onions over the tailgate. “Where are we, Marcus?”
“Local food cooperative. Although everything grows out here, no one farmer grows everything. This way we just swap for what we need.” Marcus moved quickly for an old guy. Within five minutes, six crates of onions and garlic had been unloaded and Marcus received credit for his produce. “I was running a little low on points. Now Gladys can shop.”
When everyone was stuffed back into the cab, Marcus drove into “town.” Main Street was two lanes sided by storefronts: general clothing, general feed, one grocery mart, a store for fabrics, a bank, a used-car and tractor lot, and an auto parts store with a big sign that said TRACTOR PARTS. There were also two hardware stores, a movie house, couple of family restaurants, and several drinking man’s bars.
The local courthouse and county jail was the last stop on Main. It was a Federalist-style building fashioned in white plaster, not very large by courthouse standards, but it dwarfed its competition down the road.
The sheriff’s office was on the third floor and overlooked green rows of flat fields. The receptionist was an ancient woman with blue white hair partially covered by a jaunty red beret. The red was echoed again in the woman’s dress and her fingernail polish. She looked up and held out a long, liver-spotted hand. “Edna Wellers. You must be the detective friends of Willy.”
Marge smiled. The way Edna said “detective friends” made it sound like they had come to Ponceville for a play date with Brubeck. “Yes, we are. Nice to meet you.”
Edna looked at Oliver. “Well, you’re a handsome young man. Are you married? I got a daughter. Divorced but her kids are grown.”
Oliver said, “Thank you, but I’m currently seeing someone.”
She gave him a once-over. “You look like you can juggle more than one at a time. Don’t he, Marcus. Back me up on this.”
“Edna, enough out of you. They got business to do. Go get Sheriff T out here so they can make their plane in time.”
“When are you leaving, handsome?”
“This evening,” Oliver answered.
Edna’s face fell. “Well, that stinks!”
“Where’s T, Edna?”
“He hasn’t come back yet.” To Oliver she said, “You can’t stay another day?”
“Not at the present time.”
“So you’ll come back.”
Marcus said, “He’s not coming back, Edna. They’re working on a very important murder case down south.”
“Those rich people, right? The ones that Rondo worked for. You should be talking to me. I’ve been here longer than anyone. Back me up on this, Marcus.”
“I back you up.”
“What can you tell us about Rondo Martin?” Oliver brought out his notebook.
“He wasn’t as good-looking as you, handsome.”
“Few men are.”
Edna smiled. “He dated my daughter, Shareen, for a couple of months. It didn’t work out. Shareen is a talker. Rondo wasn’t much of a talker—no man is—but he wasn’t much of a listener, either. I think they were both in it for…well, you know why. I don’t have to get specific.”
“I can figure it out,” Marge said. “Was it just a casual thing or did Shareen have hopes of something more?”
“Nah, just casual.” A pause. “Rondo was a loner, didn’t talk much to anyone. Back me up on this, Marcus.”
“I hardly knew the man.”
“Just what I’m talking about. He did his job but wasn’t friendly. Even when he got a little tipsy, his lips were mostly sealed.”
Marge asked, “Did he ever slip up?”
Edna said, “Once he talked about his family.”
“Yeah, I was there,” Marcus said. “It was around Christmas. Man, it was cold and dry and just all around bone chilling. Bars did lots of business.”
Edna said, “It wasn’t good what he had to say about his folks.”
Marcus said. “Yeah, he was bitchin’ about his father…what a mean son of a gun he was. The o
ld man used to whack him until one day he whacked back. I remember it because it was an odd thing to bring up around the holidays.”
“Yeah, he had some bad memories,” Edna said.
“Anything else?” Oliver asked.
Both of them shook their heads. Edna’s beret slid to one side.
“Where was Martin from?” Marge asked.
Edna said, “Missouri, I think. Back me up, Marcus.”
Merry said, “I thought it was Iowa.”
At that moment, T the sheriff walked in. He was around five six, 140 pounds, with a seamed face and milky blue eyes. His lips were so thin that they faded into his face. He gave a surprisingly strong handshake—not exactly bone crushing but strong enough to let Oliver know he could take care of himself. He wore a khaki uniform and a Smokey the Bear hat, which he doffed, displaying a crew cut and ears that stuck out of the sides of his face. “Tim England. Sorry I took so long. We had a little problem down in the ciudads…something about stolen money. Turns out the boy just didn’t remember where he hid his stash. Probably drunk when he did it.”
“That’s where all the migrants live,” Edna said. “We call it the ciudads. That means cities in Spanish.” She turned to the sheriff. “Hey, T, maybe you can solve a mystery for us. Where was Rondo Martin from? Missouri or Iowa?”
“First he told me Kansas, but then later he said he was from New York. He said he thought he’d fit in better if he was from the Midwest. He told me his old man was a farmer in upstate.”
“Was it true?” Marge asked.
“Who knows?” T shrugged. “I always felt the man was hiding something, but never could find out what. He didn’t have any kind of arrest record. He had a good work history.”
Marge asked, “Where did he do his law enforcement training?”
“I don’t reckon I know that. He came to us from Bakersfield Police Department…worked there for a few years. His record was clean—no absentee problem, no record of undue force or brutality, no IA investigations. The day watch commander said he was always on time, took his notes, but didn’t talk much. A good, clean cop was how he put it.”
“Why’d he leave the force?” Oliver asked.
T thought a moment. “He said something about wanting a small town. He was tired of the big city.”
“Bakersfield’s a big city?”
“It isn’t L.A., but it’s going on four hundred thousand. That’s a lot of people. He certainly got small here in Ponceville.”
Marge said, “Then why did he leave Ponceville to do private security in L.A.?”
“Don’t really know, ma’am. I think Rondo was a restless sort. It takes a certain type of person to live here if you’re not a farmer. You don’t got a lot of choices—it’s either the bars or the churches. Rondo couldn’t make up his mind. Sometimes he’d show up at church, sometimes he’d show up at the tavern. He didn’t fit in anywhere.”
“Back me up on this, T. I remember Shareen saying he spent some time at the ciudads.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s where the whores are.”
“Cut it out, Edna.” T rolled his eyes. “But she’s got a point. If you’re lonely and don’t feel like praying, going to certain places is an alternative.”
“Where are these ciudads?” Oliver asked.
“They surround the farms,” T said. “There are four of ’em-north, south, east, and west.”
Marge said, “Would Shareen know who Martin visited in the ciudads?”
“Maybe,” Edna said.
“Could you call up your daughter and ask her?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, Edna,” T said. “They have work to do.”
“Well, all right then.” She called up her daughter and five minutes later she hung up the phone. “Shareen thinks he spent a lot of time in the north district. Who lives there, T? Lots of Gonzales, right? And the Ricardos and the Mendez, the Alvarez and the Luzons. I think they’re all related.”
“They are.” T regarded the detectives. “I never ask my men what they do on their off hours. Isn’t my business. Do either of you speak Spanish?”
Marge and Oliver shook their heads no.
“Then no use going down there. You won’t understand a thing they say.” T’s cell phone started ringing. “Excuse me.”
He took the call and when he hung up, he said, “Another problem at the ciudads. South district. Wanna come and see what I deal with? You can follow me in your car.”
“I drove them here,” Marcus said. “I gotta get back to work.”
“Could we ride with you?” Oliver asked.
“Sure, but it’ll take about an hour. What time is your plane out?”
“We’ve got time,” Marge said.
“Sure,” Edna said. “Enough time to see whores but not my daughter.”
“Now stop that, Edna. This isn’t a dating service. Let them do their job.” T picked up his hat. “Boy oh boy. That’s four calls in four hours. That’s what happens when it gets sweltering out there. The natives get restless.”
TWENTY-TWO
THERE HAD BEEN a lot of remodeling since Decker worked Foothill Substation some fifteen years ago, but it still smelled and sounded familiar. Detective Mallory Quince—a petite brunette in her thirties—played with the keyboard until Alejandro’s face flashed on the computer screen. “Oh him…the meth maker. He almost burned down an apartment building. That was a close call.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“From who?”
“The tenants. I talked to them this morning. I thought about a meth lab but the tenants didn’t know anything about that. How bad was the fire?”
“His unit was completely burned out. The two units on either side were a mess, too, but the FD saved the building. We picked up the sucker a couple of days later. He claimed he had nothing to do with the fire and he hadn’t been there since his grandmother died. A pack of lies, but no one contradicted him. I think they were all afraid of retribution.”
“The women said they called the police many times about him. Any record of the calls?”
“I’ll check it out, but it’s probably bullshit.” Mallory rolled her eyes. “We’d investigate crack houses and meth labs, you know that.”
Decker did know that. “So nothing on Alejandro Brand?”
“Nope.”
“You have his fingerprints?”
“Let’s see if there’s a card.” She clicked a few buttons. “Sorry. We didn’t arrest him.” She printed out the picture on the computer and handed the paper to Decker. “I’ll keep a lookout for him. Pass the word around.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He shook the woman’s hand. “Thanks for your time.”
“You miss it around here?”
“Not too different from where I am geographically, but my district’s more affluent. There’s less violent crime.”
“So you don’t miss being in the action?”
“Sometimes I miss being in the field, but I’m happy where I am. It’s good having an office with a door that closes.”
THIS WAS NOT the sunny side of Mexico inhabited by margarita-drinking American expats lying in the white sands next to warm lapis waves. This was the Baja California of Oliver’s childhood memories: a land steeped in poverty and have-nots with its shacks and lean-tos and tin-roof hovels. Tijuana was just a step across the border yet it had seemed light-years away. When he grew older, he and some army buddies would often visit the underbelly to cop cheap liquor and old whores—a rite of passage. The ciudads here were row upon row of makeshift houses plunked down in the middle of nowhere. Like Tijuana, the Ponceville ciudad residents had tried to liven up the neighborhood by painting the exteriors bright colors: aquas, lemon yellows, kelly greens, and deep lilacs. For Oliver, these Day-Glo colors had been so exotic at eighteen. Now it made him sad.
There were few landmarks, but Sheriff T knew his way around. The official vehicle was a thirty-year-old Suburban and as T maneuvered the tank along the dirt roads, the thre
e of them bounced on none-too-padded seats. He stopped in the middle of the lane in front of a one-story orange shack.
The three of them got out. T strode up to the door and gave it a hard whack. A teenaged girl not more than thirteen answered, a plump baby on her hip and a stick-thin toddler tugging her skirt. She was pretty—dark hair, smooth coffee complexion, wide-set eyes, and high cheekbones. She was sweating profusely, drops on her brow and nose. She swung the door wide open and Marge, Oliver, and T came inside.
A four-year-old boy was sitting on an old sofa, watching cartoons on an old TV perched up on boxes. Besides the TV and the couch, furniture included a dinette set, two folding chairs, and a playpen with toys. A worn rug covered an unfinished floor that looked like it had been constructed from old crates. There was one sagging shelf with a few books, a few DVDs, and an American flag mounted in an empty coffee can.
It was barebones but clean with the sweet-smelling aroma of something baking. The heat also added about twenty degrees to the already sweltering day. Marge immediately felt her face moisten. She took out a tissue and gave one to Oliver.
The young girl put the baby and the toddler in a playpen and gave each of them a cookie. The two tiny ones sat among a sea of old toys, eating their cookies without a fuss, staring at the rapid-fire animated cells of color occupying the little boy’s attention.
The teenager’s face was grave. She mopped up the sweat with the back of her hand and immediately started speaking Spanish, her tone clearly agitated. She bounced her leg up and down as she talked, kneading her hands together as well. The sheriff nodded at appropriate intervals. Their conversation was brief, and within minutes T stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. At that point, her eyes became teary as she repeated “gracias” over and over.
After they left, T said, “She lives with her parents who are both in the fields. She’s the oldest of seven. The three others are in school but someone has to stay home to watch the little babies.”
Marge said, “What about her schooling?”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18 Page 20
