“Yes, I did. Also showed them his DMV picture. No recognition.” She thought a moment. “Even if he was camping out, both Oliver and I decided he was creepy. His placidity…like he’d shoot you while bopping to the music on his iPod.”
“I trust your instincts…” His voice faded.
“You still there, Pete?”
“I’m here.” Decker hit his forehead. “I’ve been so caught up with Rina, I’ve been ignoring the obvious. The kid’s name is Esteban Cruz?”
“Unless he has a fake ID, yes.”
“Alejandro Brand’s grandmother was named Cruz.”
Marge sat up in Decker’s desk chair. “A cousin?”
“Does he look like Brand?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Brand.”
“Brand was going on about Harriman…saying that he was an asshole who was out to get him. What if he hired a relative to do it for him?”
“Why would Brand think that Harriman IDed him? The guy is blind.”
“Brand doesn’t know that, and I didn’t correct him. I figured it would prod him to talk about the Kaffey murders if he thought that we had an eyewitness against him.”
Marge said, “Okay. What’s the next step?”
“A good question.” Decker’s brain was firing with ideas. “First of all, I want someone at my in-laws’ house full-time.”
“Already done.”
“Second, keep someone on Harriman twenty-four/seven until we figure out who Esteban Cruz is.”
“Done as well.”
“Third, let’s see if there’s a connection between Esteban and Alejandro.”
“You got it,” Marge said.
“Give me an update on what’s happening down there.”
“Gil and Resseur are still missing. Pratt and Messing are checking out their old haunts. Oliver checked out Sean Kaffey. He seems to be the smartest of the bunch. He’s a junior partner in a big law firm, making his own six figures. He doesn’t look like a good candidate for El Patrón. His dad, on the other hand, is an elusive guy. He flew back east on a private jet and is already back at the office working like a dog according to his secretary. She said he’d call me when he had a spare moment.”
Decker said, “Is it possible that he took Gil and Resseur with him?”
“I can try to locate the jet company that took him back home. See if they’ll let me peek at the airline manifest to see who’s on it.”
“Do your best. Could you also call Cindy and make sure she’s okay?”
“I’ll called her this morning. She’s fine.” Marge shifted the phone. “What’s happening up there with Rondo Martin?”
“I’m waiting in front of the ICU. Martin came out of surgery about an hour ago. I’m hoping to be able to talk to him in a bit.”
“That would be great…I mean, how do we know that Martin’s telling the truth?”
Decker paused. “What do you mean?”
“Martin is painting himself as an innocent bystander like Denny Orlando. But he also could have been a participant.”
“He’s in terrible shape. Why do you think he was involved in the murders?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what Harriman said in his statement. I’ve got it in front of me. He mentions Martin a couple of times…that Martin was really pissed about José running out of ammo.”
Decker shifted the phone to the other ear. “That’s a good point.”
“Maybe Martin was riding Pine about fucking up. Maybe Pine got super pissed and shot Martin full of lead. Maybe that’s why Joe didn’t have enough ammunition to finish off Kaffey. Just because Martin was shot doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
Decker exhaled. “That’s very true.”
The nurse peeked her head out of the ICU. “Mr. Martin is up. Please be brief.”
“Thank you very much,” Decker told her. Into the line, he said, “Martin’s conscious. I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck.”
“Keep a watch over the station house for me. Brubeck and I will be here for a while. Neither of us is going anywhere until we get some answers.”
ALTHOUGH MARTIN SMELLED a lot better, he looked a lot worse. Tubes were feeding him, medicating him, and plying his lungs with additional oxygen. Machines monitored his heart rate and his breathing. The obvious infected areas had been cleaned, but the lapsed time without proper care had taken its toll. Rondo wasn’t out of the woods yet, and Decker acted as if this was his one and only shot at the medal.
Martin acknowledged him with a slight nod. That was the best he could do.
“You’re a strong man, Rondo. You’re in good hands now. You’ll be all right.” There was no response. But the eyes were still open. “I’m keeping watch over you until we arrange for something permanent. Brubeck and me. We’ll take shifts and watch over you personally.”
Another slight nod.
“Do you mind if I talk a little?” Decker asked. “I’ll tell you what’s going on from my angle. If I’m wrong about something, you can correct me. I’ll go slowly, okay?”
A nod.
Decker kept the recitation short. Gil Kaffey had survived. He heard the murderers speaking Spanish, but that’s all he could remember. Later, by sheer coincidence, someone overheard two men talking about the case. One of them seemed to have an insider’s knowledge. That man was Alejandro Brand.
“Does the name sound familiar?” Decker asked him.
Martin closed his eyes and then opened them. Decker thought he detected a shake of the head.
“Is that a no?”
A nod.
Decker said, “It could be that he also goes by the name Alejandro Cruz. How about that name? Familiar?”
“No…” he whispered.
“Okay, you don’t know Alejandro Brand or Alejandro Cruz. The guy is a member of the Bodega 12th Street gang. So was Joe Pine. Did you know that?”
A nod.
“You knew Joe was an ex-gangbanger?”
A nod.
“Did you know that Guy Kaffey hired other ex-gang members—supposedly rehabilitated gang members—as guards?”
A nod.
“I think that’s crazy.”
Martin muttered something. Decker leaned in close.
“Few…”
“A few what?”
The response was delayed. “A few gang…”
Decker put the pieces together. “There were only a few gang members in the group?”
A nod.
“We found more than a few with felonies.” Decker checked his notes. “This one guy, Ernesto Sanchez, was also a former Bodega 12th gang member. He had been arrested and served time for two assaults. Did you know him?”
A nod.
“Rondo…if you close your eyes…and think about the other people who invaded the Kaffey house…close your eyes and picture the scene.”
He cooperated, wincing as some vision coursed through his brain.
“Could one of those men at the scene be Ernesto Sanchez?”
A shake of the head. That made sense because Sanchez was at a bar. Messing had talked to several people who remembered seeing him. So far, Martin appeared credible.
The woman in scrubs walked in. She stopped and folded her arms across her chest. Her name tag identified her as Chris Bellows, MD, surgical resident. Her eyes were intelligent and annoyed, but she managed a fleeting smile. “You need to wrap this up. It’s time for Mr. Martin to receive his medications. He needs to sleep.”
“Five more minutes?”
“How about one?” Her face told him that she wouldn’t brook any argument. She glanced at her watch. “Starting now.”
Decker sighed. “Okay. This is what I’m going to do, Rondo. I’m going to read a list of the guards who worked for the Kaffeys and you tell me by nodding if I should be investigating them.”
A nod.
“There are about twenty-two names. I’ll have to go a little fast because I have to leave soon.”
“Thirty seconds,�
�� the doctor told them.
Decker said, “I’m reading them off in alphabetical order.”
A nod.
“Doug Allen.”
Nothing.
“Curt Armstrong.”
No response.
“Javier Beltran.”
Nothing from Martin.
“Time’s up.”
“C’mon. All he’s doing is nodding. How about Francisco Cortez?”
There was no response from Martin.
“You’re not only stressing him out, you’re stressing me. Good-bye, Detective.”
“When can I come back?”
“Tomorrow, if he’s doing better.”
There was no sense bucking authority. He almost got himself shot with that approach this morning. As Decker started to put away his notes, his eyes swept over the next name on the list. His brain suddenly leaped into overdrive.
Decker spoke a final name aloud.
Martin’s eyes got very wide. His blood pressure skyrocketed and machines started beeping.
The doctor glared at him. “Leave now!”
“I’m out of here,” Decker said.
But he was smiling.
He had found his missing link.
THIRTY-THREE
THE LOS ANGELES Unified School District was a dinosaur: a brain in its head as well as in its tail. The head part was the wealthier districts—Bel Air, Holmby Hills, Westwood, Encino, and Pacific Palisades—while the caudal portion administered to the less-endowed schools in East L.A., South L.A., and the poorer sections of the San Fernando Valley. Pacoima definitely qualified as a tail.
“The dropout rate is probably higher than the graduation rate,” the guidance counselor told them. Her name was Carmen Montenegro, a woman in her midthirties with mocha skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a wide mouth with her lips painted deep red. She wore a red shirt under a black suit with no stockings. “We do the best we can with what we have, which isn’t much.”
Marge and Oliver followed Carmen as she trotted down a hallway lined with lockers, her heels clacking on yellowed, institutional floor tiling. School had let out a half hour ago, but students were still milling around, heavy backpacks dragging on their sloping shoulders. The teens were dressed in baggy jeans or sweats for the boys, and jeans, sweats, or short skirts for the girls.
Carmen took a sharp right into the admissions office, pushing past a saloon door that almost caught Marge in the stomach. Her office was tiny and looked out over the school’s parking lot. A computer was surrounded by stacks of papers on her desktop with more piles spilling on the floors. Overflowing bookshelves lined two of the walls.
“Sorry about the mess.” The administrator began hunting through yearbooks. She pulled one out. “This is from two years ago. He would have been a freshman, right?”
“Right,” Oliver answered.
“Esteban Cruz…Esteban Cruz…Esteban…Here he is.” She showed the picture to Marge. “Looks like the picture you showed me.”
Marge said, “He hasn’t aged much.”
“Yeah, he looks kinda small. You want a copy of the picture?”
“Yes, that would help.”
“Hold on.” She whisked past them and came back a few moments later with ten copies. “Here you go…Anything else?”
Marge said, “Would you mind if I looked through the book to see if he was involved in any activities?”
“No problem.” Carmen handed her the book. “Sit at my desk. Makes it easier to sift through the pages.” The administrator’s eyes skipped over Oliver’s face. She gave him the briefest of smiles. “Probably, he wasn’t involved in much. The ones who drop out are just marking time.”
Oliver’s eyes went to her hands. No wedding ring. “Do you have any recollection of him?”
She looked at the picture again. “We have so many kids going in and out of the system. I don’t remember him as being a troublemaker.”
“He told us he likes to read a lot,” Marge said. “Do you have a record of his grades and his teachers?”
“I can get both for you, but I need my computer.”
Marge stood up, yearbook in hand. She showed it to Oliver, and the two of them studied the pages as Carmen looked up the former student. “Esteban Cruz…here we go. He was passing…C’s, a few B’s even. He did get an A in English. His teacher was Jake Tibbets. Want me to see if he’s still around?”
“That would be great,” Oliver said.
Again Carmen gave him a quick smile. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”
After she rushed out of the office, Marge said, “She’s a bundle of energy.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“She was definitely giving you the eye.” When Oliver returned a Cheshire cat grin, she nudged him in the ribs. “Since when have you ever been discreet?”
“I’m trying to be less obvious. So do me a favor. Ask for a card with the phone number—in case we need to talk to her again.”
“If I ask for the card, she’ll think you’re not interested.”
“So you think I should ask for the card?”
“Yes…shhhh…I hear her.”
Carmen returned with a smile. “He’s in the teachers’ lounge and he’ll be happy to talk to you about Esteban.”
“Thanks,” Marge said. “Ms. Montenegro, I am also curious about two other men: Alejandro Brand, who would be around nineteen, and José Pinon or maybe Joe Pine. He’d be in his early twenties. Would you know if they attended high school here?”
“I can look that up for you…” She pushed some buttons and tapped the monitor. “Wow! Brand did attend here, and he was a troublemaker: a banger with the Bodega 12th Street homies. Multiple suspensions until he was expelled four years ago. He also had Mr. Tibbets as an English teacher. No success story there. What was the other name?”
“José Pinon,” Marge told her.
“Uh…Pinon, Pinon…I have Maria Pinon who was in Brand’s grade. Probably a sister, so…” Click, click, click. “Uh, he lasted through ninth grade…actually he repeated ninth grade, and then he flunked out.”
“Was he a troublemaker?”
“Uh…not really.” She looked up from the monitor. “Just your average dropout.”
“A gangbanger?” Marge asked.
“They all are.” She stood up. “Let’s go to the lounge…which is sort of misnamed. It’s a room with used furniture and a coffeepot. I think someone brought in doughnuts today. They’re probably stale by now, but if you need a sugar fix, they’ll do the trick.”
IN HIS SIXTIES or even older, Jake Tibbets was tall and as limp as a noodle. He had salt-and-pepper hair, deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and a nice-sized wattle under his neck. His eyes were algae colored and twinkled with mischief. He wore a yellow paisley shirt, black slacks, and orthopedic shoes. He was sitting on a futon, drinking something hot, the veins in his hands blue and thick. Carmen made quick introductions.
Tibbets’s voice was moderate in pitch and youthful sounding. “Have a seat. Want some tea?”
The detectives passed. It was around ninety degrees outside and the school’s air-conditioning was tepid at best.
“So you want to know about Esteban Cruz.” Tibbets sipped his beverage. “What’s the boy done now?”
“We don’t know that he’s done anything,” Marge told him. She pulled up a mismatched chair, leaving Carmen and Oliver a love seat. “We’re just gathering information. Do you remember him?”
“Sure. Not because my memory is so great. I’m at that stage where I have to write everything down. Except Shakespeare. I know Shakespeare by heart. That’s mostly what I teach. Believe it or not, when you frame Willy in modern turns, it strikes a resonant chord with the kids. Murder and jealousy and greed and naked ambition.” His voice had risen to an orator’s pitch. “Romeo and Juliet is the greatest love story ever written, with gang warfare to boot. What could be more modern?”
The three of them nodded.
Tibbets sai
d, “Yes, I remember Esteban Cruz. Smart kid. I gave him an A. An A at Pacoima High isn’t the same as an A at Boston Latin, but it did mean that he took the quizzes and tests and handed in his homework on time.”
“So he did well on the material.”
“Decent. Plus, we give a lot of credit to anyone who shows up.”
“Then why do you remember him as being smart?” Marge asked.
“Everything is relative,” Carmen broke in.
“That’s the truth,” Tibbets said. “We’re just trying to keep the kids enrolled. Try to convince them that if they stay another year or two and do a minimum job, they can walk away with a diploma that’ll give them more options. Or for the real bright ones, there’s community college. I thought that might be an option for Esteban, but he left about a year ago. I did try to contact him…left my number with his mother.”
“Did he call back?” Oliver asked.
“Nope. My Spanish isn’t perfect, but I can make myself understood. So I’m left to think that he never got the message or he wasn’t interested in what I had to say.”
“He got an A in your class,” Oliver said. “That must have stood out.”
“It did. That’s why I remember him.”
“That A must have provided him with some encouragement,” Marge said.
“If it did, he never said anything to me about it. He didn’t talk much.” Another sip of tea. “Whenever I talked to him, he was polite. He just wasn’t much on conversation. Some kids…you give them an ear to listen, they’ll spill their guts. Esteban wasn’t a talker. Like he’d given up a long time ago. Story of this community, my friends.”
“He has gang tattoos,” Oliver said.
“The area is swarming with Bodega 12th Street gang members.” He turned to Carmen for verification and she nodded. “The boys get the tattoos even if they aren’t hard-core gangbangers.”
“They pay allegiance money to the heads of the local gang to be able to wear the markings,” Carmen said. “It gives them protection…not against other gangs but against other Bodega 12th Street bangers. If the smaller kids sport the proper tattoos and have paid their fees, the bigger ones won’t bother them as much.”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18 Page 30
