Blindman's Bluff (18 page)

“Anyone living here for some time speaks Spanish.”

Marge nodded. “So…what about you and Rondo Martin…getting back to the original question.”

Marcus smiled. “I never said much to him, honestly. Occasionally, he’d show up at church. I sing in the choir. My wife does as well. He showed up once when I had a solo and told me I had a good voice. That was about as personal as it ever got.” He checked his watch and managed to hoist himself out of his chair. “Well, we’d better get going if we want to be on time.”

At that moment, Gladys walked in with the coffee.

Marcus looked at the tray of mugs. “We can be a few minutes late, I suppose.”

“You certainly can.” She smiled. “We have a…fluid concept of time here.”

Her husband passed out the coffee cups. Gladys said to help themselves to cream and sugar. The detectives thanked her profusely.

Marge said, “I like your photos, Mrs. Merry.”

Gladys smiled. “That’s what walls are for.”

“I also like the artwork.”

“Really?” Gladys said. “I don’t care much for it. It was given to my in-laws by the artist. His father was a farmer in Chino and I think he was a family friend…Did I get that right, Marcus?”

“Something like that. Paul was a weirdo. My mama only kept it because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Marcus laughed. “Turned out he became real famous.”

“Paul Pollock,” Gladys said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“No,” Marge said, “but he paints like Jackson Pollock. Are they related?”

“That’s him,” Gladys said. “Jackson Pollock. Paul was his real first name.”

“Uh, he’s pretty well known,” Oliver said. “His father was a farmer?”

“Yes, Detective, he was.”

“The painting’s very valuable, Mrs. Merry,” Marge told her.

“Oh yes, it is. And please call me Gladys.”

“And you’re not worried about theft?” Marge said.

Gladys shook her head. “The people around here who see it think it was done by one of my grandchildren.” She stared at the painting. “I don’t bother to correct them.”

T
HE LAST KNOWN
address of Alejandro Brand was in Pacoima, part of Decker’s old hunting ground in Foothill. The place was a burb of about a hundred thousand people. Its major claim to fame—besides a horrendous airplane crash in 1957 that killed children in a schoolyard—was its junior high that had once schooled Ritchie Valens, a rising pop star in the 1950s. The poor boy’s career had come to an abrupt halt when he, along with Buddy Holly and J. P. Richardson, aka the Big Bopper, had died in a heartbreaking small-craft crash in Iowa in 1959. Pacoima Junior High had been changed to Pacoima Middle School, but that was just about the only thing in the town that had evolved. It was still a working-class Hispanic neighborhood pocked with violence.

The area was rife with industrial plants and warehouses for the trades, but there was some local shopping: discount clothing stores, liquor stores, convenience marts, fast-food chains, launderettes, used-car lots, and the occasional ethnic bodega. Around here, money was tight unless it was Friday night. Then the bars did bang-up businesses. As Decker cruised down the wide streets, he slowed
down to study the bad boys who populated the sidewalks or the weed-choked lots. They eyed him back with defiant looks and aggressive stances.

Brand’s address was an apartment building constructed in the 1950s out of glittery stucco with an aqua blue sign that bore the name The Caribbean. It was two stories of depression with laundry hung from the balconies. Decker found parking easily and walked up to an outside locked gate. It was short enough for Decker to extend his arm over the top and reach the doorknob on the other side. The courtyard had a small clean pool that was currently in use by a slew of elementary-aged children. There were several women in swimsuits reclining on plastic-strap lawn chairs, yakking with one another as they worked on their tans. The ladies looked at Decker with suspicion.

He picked a woman at random—a Latina of around thirty with short black hair, dark eyes, and a voluptuous body that was pouring out of her bikini. He told her in Spanish that he was the police—a show of his badge—and looking for Alejandro Brand.

The woman responded with a purse of her lips. “He’s bad news.”

Her friend, overhearing the conversation, broke in. She was older and heavier, wearing a halter top and cutoff shorts. “Very bad news,” she concurred. “Raul, stop playing so rough with your sister. Let go of her now!” Back to Decker. “He sold drugs upstairs from his mother’s apartment.

“After Mrs. Cruz died, it got much worse. We called the police, but every time they tell us there’s nothing they can do unless someone wants to press charges.

“Finally the apartment caught fire. The building almost burned down.

“But the fire department was quick,
gracias a Dios.
” She crossed herself.

Decker thought about a meth lab and all its flammable components. “Did you smell anything funny coming from the apartment?”

“Who got that close?”

“What about the trash? Did you find a lot of antifreeze containers, Drano, lye, iodine maybe?”

“I don’t look at other people’s trash,” Lady 2 said. “I don’t know what he was doing and I don’t care now. All I know is we have more peace.”

“Although there is funny business with Apartment K,” Lady 1 told him.

“Not as bad as with Alejandro. Many bad men come in that apartment. I had to watch my daughters like a mother hen. He had lots of spending cash and had a pretty face—a bad combination for teenaged girls.”

“Any idea where he lives now?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“Gracias a Dios,”
said Lady 1.

“Let him be someone else’s problem.”

Decker said, “Did anyone else besides his mother live upstairs?”

“Who knows?” Lady 2 said. “So many people going in and out…Raul, next time you hit her, you’re getting out!”

“Did Brand have any sisters and brothers?”

Lady 1 said, “I think Alejandro was the only child. Mrs. Cruz was very old.”

“It was his grandmother,” Lady 2 said.

“She used to call him
mi hijo.
”

“He called her
abuela
once. She was the grandmother, maybe even great-grandmother. She was very old.”

“So you have no idea where Alejandro went?”

“He’s somewhere in the neighborhood,” Lady 1 told him. “I see him at the market from time to time. I pretend not to notice him.”

“Good idea,” Decker said. “What market?”

“Anderson’s warehouse food and grocery. It’s about three blocks away.”

Decker wrote it down. “How many months would you say it was between when the old lady died and the apartment caught fire?”

“Maybe three months.”

Lady 2 concurred. “Finally he’s gone. Now we have peace and se
curity. We all got together and put in the iron gate.” Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes and glowered at Decker. “How’d you get in here?”

“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 old 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.”