Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18

by Blindman's Bluff

  Tibbets said, “Of course, once you’ve got a gun, height doesn’t matter too much.”

  Carmen said, “In this area alone we have three different Bodega Twelve gangs, each one with its own turf. That means three heads who report to some other guy who reports to some other guy. I don’t know who the leader of the leaders is. It changes all the time because the leaders get shot and killed so often.”

  “So do the runners,” Tibbets said. “But the whole thing runs efficiently because it’s very easy to find drugs. Every other corner is a drop and pickup spot.”

  Marge asked, “Do you remember any of Esteban’s friends?”

  “No…” A shake of the head. “But he’s a Cruz. That’s a big family.”

  “Isn’t Cruz a common Hispanic name?” Oliver said.

  “Yes, it is,” Carmen answered, “but around here, they all seem to be related.”

  “Interesting,” Marge said. “We’re curious about Alejandro Brand. His grandmother was named Cruz. Would the two boys be related?”

  “Alejandro Brand.” Tibbets smiled. “Is he incarcerated yet? He should be.”

  “He is currently behind bars,” Marge told him.

  “What for? Drugs? Assault? Murder? All of the above?”

  “Sounds like you’ve had experience with Brand.”

  “I have and it’s all been negative. If you suspect the kid of something, he’s probably done it.”

  Oliver smiled. “Would you know if Cruz and Brand were related?”

  “Not by temperament, but if Brand is a Cruz, he and Esteban share some common ancestry.”

  “Do you ever remember the two of them talking or hanging out together?” Marge asked.

  “I think Alejandro was gone when Esteban got here.” The teacher frowned. “Esteban was a queer duck. Couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t tell what he was feeling. His eyes were flat. A body without a soul.”

  “That would be a zombie,” Oliver said.

  “I wouldn’t call Esteban a zombie,” Tibbets said. “But if he had emotions, if he had hopes or dreams or aspirations, he was very skilled at not letting them show.”

  THE PALM OF his right hand kept hitting his forehead. The way Decker felt, there was no gray matter inside to harm. He couldn’t use the cell phone inside the hospital, and it would be another two hours before Brubeck would come to relieve him. He got up and went to the nurses’ station, manned by Shari Pettigrew according to her ID tag. Decker gave the sixtyish woman his most boyish smile. “I need to call one of my detectives.”

  “You can’t use your cell phone inside the hospital.”

  “I know that. That’s why I’m talking to you. I can’t leave the ICU right now. Could I possibly borrow one of your lines? It should only take a few moments.”

  Shari punched a line. “Number?”

  Decker gave her the digits, and she handed him the receiver. “Willy, I need you down here right away. I’ve got to make some calls and I can’t do it and watch the ICU at the same time…. Thanks. Bye.” He handed the phone back. “Thank you very much.”

  “Why are you watching the ICU?”

  Again, Decker graced her with a smile. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

  “You’re an inch away. Why are you watching the ICU? Is it because someone tried to kill the sheriff?”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I can see you’ve never lived in a small town.”

  “Gainesville, Florida.”

  “That’s New York City compared with Ponceville. We’re all concerned about one of our own.” She looked down. “I sure hope he makes it.”

  “Were you close to the deputy sheriff?”

  “Not really, but we drank at the same place…the Watering Hole. Not too many bars around here so you run into the same people. Rondo kept pretty much to himself, but he seemed like he was one of the good guys.” She laughed. “Good guys…bad guys, what the hey. Mostly it’s just people being people.”

  OVER THE LINE, Marge said, “Stop battering yourself. We just made the Cruz connection a couple of hours ago.”

  “Martin Cruces was right in front of our faces.”

  “It makes sense now, but only because we found Rondo Martin near death and have pushed him down the suspect list.” Marge said, “Martin Cruces was looked into and cleared right away.”

  “What was his alibi?”

  “Oliver’s paging through the file. Talk to Brubeck and Messing. They’re the ones who checked him off. We did run him through NCIC. He doesn’t have a record. He’s in his midtwenties—older than Brand and Esteban, not exactly prime age for a gang. He still may have nothing to do with it.”

  “Is he Bodega Twelve?” Decker asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “See if Neptune Brady has a set of fingerprints for him. Usually they do something like that before guards are hired.”

  “If he didn’t do it for Joe Pine, he probably didn’t do it for Cruces, but I’ll check it out anyway. Hold on. Scott’s reaching for the phone.”

  “Okay,” Oliver said. “This is the story. Messing and Brubeck cleared him. The night of the murders, he was at his local bar—Ernie’s El Matador. He routinely comes in about two to three times a week, usually after dinner. The bartender, Julio Davis, confirmed that Cruces came in around nine, drank beer, and shot the breeze with the regulars.”

  “How late did he stay?”

  “Until closing: two in the morning. That pretty much put him out of the time frame. Messing also says that Cruces gave a cheek swab and was cooperative.”

  “Means nothing.”

  “I know, but you know how it is. You concentrate on the obvious.” Oliver said, “I just checked with the lab. No matches yet, but not all of the biological material has come back. We’ll go back to the bar and interview Davis again.”

  “Good. Also, bring Cruces in again. Tell him it’s a routine reinterview.”

  “Got it.”

  Decker said, “What did you learn about Esteban Cruz?”

  “He wasn’t much of a talker, but he wasn’t a troublemaker. We did find out that most of the Cruzes in that area are related, so maybe Brand and Esteban are kin. I don’t know where that puts Martin Cruces. Maybe the Cruz family is different from the Cruces family. I’ve called up the guidance counselor at Pacoima High to find out if Cruces went there.”

  “And?”

  “She’s checking into it. If he did attend, it was about seven years earlier than Alejandro Brand. I also had her check a little deeper into Joe Pine who was José Pinon. She said she could pull all the written records, but it’ll take a little time. We’ve arranged to meet later tonight, and she’ll give me whatever she has on him.”

  “That could be taken care of with a phone call. Why are you meeting her in person?” The line fell silent. “How old is she?”

  “I dunno…” Oliver smiled. “Maybe around thirty-five.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you meeting her for dinner?”

  “I haven’t had time to eat, Loo. And with Marge and me going back to Ernie’s El Matador to interview the bartender, I’m going to be famished.” Oliver was grinning. “If we were to have dinner, it would be a business meeting.”

  “And that would mean you’re putting it on the department tab?”

  “You know how it is with sources. You get a good one, Rabbi, you treat her right.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE FIRST STEP was to locate Martin Cruces.

  Apparently the former guard felt comfortable enough to stay in town—and why not? The papers had moved on to the “puzzling” disappearance of Gil Kaffey and Antoine Resseur and there was no reason for him to think that the police were even close to a solve. Decker had assigned Messing and Pratt to track Cruces’s activities, which included hanging out in his house and with his B12 street buds.

  Cruces was older than most of the Bodega clan—in his midtwenties and he seemed to be respected. He appeared to be constantly on the watch, an
d Messing and Pratt had to keep enough distance between the bangers and the car so that their cover wouldn’t be blown.

  Step two was to find forensic evidence that would put Cruces at the murder scene. He had given a DNA swab, but since genetic profiling was an expensive undertaking and he had been initially cleared, his material hadn’t been sent to the lab. That was rectified an hour ago, but it would take weeks to get back the results.

  Cruces’s prints hadn’t been on file when Messing ran him through AFIS. Lee Wang went over to Foothill and asked about his activities as a teen. His youthful indiscretions had been sealed, so Wang assembled the paperwork to unseal both Martin Cruces’s and José Pinon’s records. Dozens of bloody fingerprints had been lifted from the murder scene and if Wang could only get a fingerprint card, maybe they’d have something forensically to link them to the scene. With evidence and eyewitness testimony from Rondo Martin, Wang felt sure the police could nail Joe Pine.

  The third step involved clarifying the information from Rondo Martin, who was currently in a drug-induced sleep. His eyes had widened at the mention of Cruces’s name, but the specifics were yet to come. Maybe he could provide something crucial.

  The last step involved breaking Cruces’s alibi, which would give the cops an excuse to bring him in again for questioning.

  AT THREE IN the afternoon, Ernie’s El Matador was doing business. Salsa music was blaring from the speakers, and a soccer game flashed on a sound-muted flat screen mounted on the wall just above a neon Corona clock. Five men were sitting at the bar and two more were playing pool. The place was dark. Marge couldn’t see well enough to avoid the sticky spots on the floor.

  Oliver was the first one to show his badge although he didn’t need to. He and Marge were made as soon as they walked in. No one there was wearing a seersucker jacket and a pair of linen slacks. The preferred dress was jeans with some kind of T-shirt top and sneakers. The place was warm, a shade off from uncomfortable.

  The bartender was in his late twenties with dark brown eyes, café au lait skin, and black hair slicked straight back. He had an iron pumper’s body with thick biceps and oven-mitt hands. He regarded Oliver’s badge, his eyes attempting disinterest.

  “How are you doing?” Oliver asked him.

  Muscleman gave a shrug. “No complaints.”

  “I’m Detective Scott Oliver and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. We’re looking for Julio Davis.”

  “He’s not here.” He picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar.

  “Could I get your name?” Marge asked.

  “My name?”

  “Yeah, your name.” Marge regarded the man’s face—lined and seamed and scarred from an old knife wound.

  “Sam Truillo.” He stopped wiping the bar. His English was unaccented. “What do you want with Julio?”

  “Just want to talk to him,” Oliver said.

  “He works here, doesn’t he?” Marge asked.

  A grizzled patron in the corner asked the barkeep for something in Spanish. Truillo popped the top from a Corona, stuck a lime in the mouth of the bottle, and placed it in front of the man on a napkin. He said, “I haven’t seen Julio in over a week.”

  “Something happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. The boss told me to call him, but his cell was disconnected.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising,” Marge said. “What did you do after that?”

  “Nothing. He doesn’t want to work, what’s it my business?”

  Oliver asked, “How long had he worked here?”

  “Four…maybe five months.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Marge asked.

  “A year.” Truillo shrugged. “Are we done?”

  “And you work here full-time?” Marge smiled again. “I mean you look like you should be a spotter in a gym.”

  For the first time, the bartender cracked a smile. “This pays better.”

  “So you do work in a gym,” Marge told him. “Am I a detective or what?”

  “I work as a personal trainer, but things are tight now. I lost a few clients and the gym lost membership. The boss was going to cut my hours, but then he told me I could work here part-time to make up for my salary cut.”

  Another patron spoke up. Truillo placed a shot of tequila in front of him.

  “I’m always looking for a good gym,” Marge said. “Where do you work?”

  “It isn’t your type of gym,” Truillo said. “It doesn’t smell very nice.”

  Marge grinned. “Neither does my job.”

  “Your boss owns the gym and the bar?” Oliver said.

  “Maybe.” Truillo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want with Julio?”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Nope.”

  Oliver said, “Your boss asked you to find him and you don’t know where he lives?”

  “My boss asked me to call him, not find him. And he wasn’t my buddy so why would I know where he lived.” His expression became flat. “Anything else?”

  Marge took out her card and slid it across the bar top. “If he comes in here, can you give me a call?”

  Truillo picked up the card and stowed it in his pocket. “If I remember.”

  “I hope you do. By the way, who’s the boss?”

  Truillo’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give him your card. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll give you a call.”

  Marge shrugged it off. “Hey, maybe I’ll check out your gym.”

  “I didn’t tell you where I worked.”

  “No, you didn’t, did you?” She winked. “Are you going to make me figure that one out or are you going to tell me?”

  “Let’s see how good a detective you are.”

  “Sure. Thanks for your help.”

  “I didn’t give you any help.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Marge said. “You never know what’s going to be helpful.” She turned to Oliver. “Let’s go.”

  When they were in the car, Oliver said, “You’ve got that look in your eyes, Dunn.”

  “Did you notice that Truillo said I don’t know where Julio lived—like in past tense?”

  “Actually, I didn’t. You think he’s dead?”

  “I think he’s definitely not around the neighborhood. Let’s take a trip downtown.” She glanced at her watch. “We need to move it, Scotty.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “The offices close at five. Too bad. I could use a shot of caffeine, but I suppose it’ll have to wait.”

  “You’re not going to find a Starbucks in this area anyway.”

  “I actually prefer McDonald’s coffee, but I don’t want to waste the time.”

  “I repeat, ‘What’s the rush?’”

  “He doesn’t want to tell me who owns the bar. I want to check out business licenses.”

  “Aha.” Oliver looked at his watch. It was almost four. “This can’t be done online?”

  “I suppose we can find out who owns the building online through the assessor’s office, but that’s not necessarily who owns the business.”

  “Can you get the name of business owners online?”

  “Don’t know. And it is getting late. That’s why I think it’s simpler to go downtown.”

  “So let’s just leave it until tomorrow.”

  “Scotty,” Marge said, “Truillo kept referring to the owner of the bar as the boss…which in and of itself doesn’t mean too much…except that…I mean, maybe I’m just grasping, but El Patrón means The Boss in Spanish, right.”

  Oliver didn’t answer. As he entered the on-ramp of the 5 freeway, he put the magnetic red light atop the unmarked and turned on the siren. In this traffic, it was the only way that they were going to make it before closing time.

  OVER THE PHONE, Marge said, “Calling your boss ‘the boss’ doesn’t mean anything, but since Julio isn’t around right now, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to know who owns the bar. At the very least, we could call him or her up and a
sk about Julio Davis.”

  “Do you have an address for Davis?”

  “Wanda is working on it. Lee’s still doing paperwork to unseal Cruces’s and Pinon’s juvenile records. If we can’t unseal the entire file, we’re hoping that a judge will let us look inside and pull out the prints. We’ve got Marvin Oldham on call to do comparisons. If we get a match, we’ll pick up Cruces immediately.”

  “And Messing and Pratt still have him in their sights?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about my wife?”

  “We’ve got a black-and-white on Rina, and one on Harriman, too. We’re also keeping tabs on Esteban Cruz. No activity.”

  “That’s good. Anything on Gil Kaffey or Antoine Resseur?”

  “No.” Marge glanced at her watch. They were stuck in terrible traffic and even with the siren, it was slow going. “If we discover something interesting, I’ll buzz you back. Oliver is meeting Carmen Montenegro for dinner. Maybe Pinon’s school records will tell us something. She’s also checking to see if Martin Cruces went to the same school. If downtown turns out to be a bust, I’ve got some time. What do you need from me?”

  “Our main focus is on Cruces. If we get lucky and place his prints at the scene, we’ll take him in. He’ll need to be interviewed. You want to do it?” “Sure.”

  “Just keep track of everyone, Marge; Harriman, Martin Cruces, Esteban Cruz, and Alejandro Brand—he’s a real loose canon. Make sure he stays put in jail.”

  “He isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Hold on a sec, Marge.” Decker placed his hand over the receiver. The floor nurse, the same sixtyish looking woman who had loaned him the phone, said that Rondo Martin was up and wanted to talk to him.

  “Don’t tax him too much. Otherwise the doc will give us both hell.”

  “I promise. Thank you.” To Marge he said, “I’ve got to go. Martin is up. Let me know what’s going on.” He cut the line, washed his hands, and went into the ICU.

  Rondo Martin appeared more awake and in a lot of pain. He lifted a veined hand with an IV needle taped to his wrist and managed to point to the chair by his bedside. Decker sat and as the former deputy sheriff shifted his position to move a little closer, his face contorted. Sweat trickled down his forehead.