Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18

by Blindman's Bluff

  But within a few minutes of driving the rental car from the airport parking lot into the town, Marge realized that Ponceville didn’t grow for the “farmers’ market” clientele. This place was stone-cold agribusiness with acres upon acres of commercial plots fenced and confined with NO TRESPASSING signs. No cute roadside stands here. Instead she and Oliver traversed fields and groves of crops and cultivation. There were canopies of avocado shading unripe citrus, the silver-green leaves of olive trees, rows of stone fruit trees—apricots, peaches, plums, and nectarines. The area had patchwork quilts of vegetables, and with each one she passed, a different sensation would tickle her nose: cilantro, jalapeños, onions, green peppers.

  Street signs were next to impossible to find, and there were no distinguishing landmarks other than a barn here and a plow there. She and Oliver rode on two-lane asphalt streets surrounded by the breadbasket of America, trying to follow Willy Brubeck’s arcane directions to his father-in-law’s farm. The rental had come with a broken GPS and after a half hour, it was clear that they were lost.

  “We could call up and ask for help,” Marge suggested.

  “We could,” Oliver answered, “but I have no idea where we are.”

  Marge pulled the car onto the shoulder of the street. “Call him up and tell him we’re at the corner of cantaloupes and habañeros.”

  Oliver smiled. “Give me the number.”

  Marge recited the digits and Oliver punched them in. “In case his wife answers, her name is Gladys.”

  “Got it…Yes, hello, I’m Detective Scott Oliver from the Los Angeles Police Department and I’m calling for Marcus Merry…Yes, exactly. How are you, ma’am? Your husband was gracious enough to see us today and…Yes, we are lost. We’re at the corner of two fields. One has cantaloupes and the other has habañeros if that helps…Oh, it does…He doesn’t have to do that…Yes, it probably would be very helpful. Yes, thank you. Bye.” He turned to Marge. “The old man’s coming down to fetch us. She’s got a little something for us to eat when we get there.”

  “That probably means a big spread in farmer language.”

  “That’s all right by me. I didn’t eat any breakfast. Man, I didn’t even get my coffee this morning.”

  “Yeah, the airline was pretty skimpy with the food and drink.”

  “What food and drink? By the time the beverage cart came to us, all they had left were water and peanuts. I felt like a damn blue jay. Man, even prison does a better job of feeding its people.”

  “If you like starch and sugar.”

  “Those penitentiary wardens ain’t no dummies. All that starch and sugar puts their charges in diabetic comas. They, unlike the airlines, know how to keep the masses happy.”

  THEY SAT IN the living room on chintz-covered chairs, the area painted a cheery lemon yellow. The floors were knotted pine, and the walls held dozens of family photos—black and white as well as color—along with a good-sized canvas of dripping abstract art that looked completely out of place.

  A little something to eat included ham, cheese, fresh fruit, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocados, and a variety of dark and whole wheat breads. Mustard was served in a yellow crockery dish.

  At first, Oliver tried to be polite, but when Marcus Merry made himself one honking sandwich, Scott let his stomach do the talking. Willy Brubeck’s father-in-law could have been anywhere between midseventies and midnineties. He was stout with white kinky hair and pale mocha skin. He had on a denim work shirt, overalls, and rubber-soled boots. His hands and nails had been scrubbed clean.

  Gladys seemed pleased by everyone’s appetite. “I have some cake.”

  Marcus’s wife was petite with gray kinky hair cut close to her scalp. She had round brown eyes and a round face. Gamine-like, she could have been a tanned older version of Audrey Hepburn. She wore jeans with a white shirt tucked into her pants and white tennis shoes, and there were small diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.

  Marge said, “Honestly, Mrs. Merry, this is just terrific.”

  “So cake will make it even more terrific. You two go ahead and do your talking with Marcus. I’ll get the cake.”

  “I don’t need cake,” Marcus complained. “I’m fat enough as it is.”

  “Then don’t eat it.”

  Discussion over.

  Marge said, “Have you always been a farmer, Mr. Merry?”

  “It’s Marcus, and the answer is yes. I can trace my relatives way, way back.” He spoke with a combination of southern drawl and black patois. “The name Merry comes from my great-granddaddy’s owner. After he was emancipated, Colonel Merry gave him fifty dollars and his name.” Merry took another bite of his sandwich. “I think the colonel must have been my great-great-granddaddy. You see how light we are.”

  Marge nodded.

  “Comes from both sides. My daughter…Willy’s wife…everyone wanted to marry her. She was a real beauty…like my wife. Damn, I miss that girl. Willy ain’t so bad, either. Don’t tell him I said that.”

  He laughed.

  “It was my grandfather who picked up stakes and decided to come to California from Georgia. Back then, the state was filled with all different kinds of people: Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, Indians…a couple of extra black men didn’t bother no one too much. Later on when Dr. King started talking about a dream…that’s when the tension started.”

  “Is there still tension around here?” Oliver asked.

  “No, sir. We do our job and mind our own business. Now we even got a black man in the White House.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Why am I telling you this? You see tension all the time.” A pause. “Willy tells me his area don’t have much crime.”

  Marge said, “Not too bad.”

  “Well, then that’s good.” Merry took another enormous bite. “No sense having my boy in danger. Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Marge told him. “So how did your daughter meet Willy?”

  “At church.”

  “Willy isn’t from around here,” Oliver said.

  “No, but he served in Vietnam with a boy who grew up about three farms to the north of here. Willy came out for a visit and I was impressed that he bothered going to church.” He shook his head in fatherly consternation.

  “What happened to Willy’s friend who grew up on the farm?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, he went back to his roots. He grows corn and is making money off biofuel. Me, I don’t grow crops for no cars. I grow crops for people.” Another bite. “Is that cake comin’?” he shouted out loud.

  “Just hold your socks!” When Gladys came in with the cake, everyone oohed and aahed. It was chocolate with chocolate frosting and several layers of fresh berries in between. When she handed Oliver a slice, he noticed he was salivating heavily.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re very welcome. And I’ll give you both a slice to take home. He certainly don’t need the whole thing.”

  “If you don’t want me to eat it, why do you bake it?” Marcus asked his wife.

  “I do it as an artistic project,” Gladys countered.

  “Then donate it to a museum.” He finished his slice in four bites. “I know you came here to talk to the sheriff. He won’t be able to see us for another half hour. In the meantime, you can watch us bicker.”

  “Oh, you’re so silly.” She gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Coffee?”

  “I’ll have some,” Marcus said.

  “I’m making up a fresh pot.” She went back into the kitchen.

  Marge said, “How well did you know Rondo Martin?”

  “Or did you even know him?” Oliver added.

  “I knew who he was. Can’t say I knew him well. Did I ever have any business with him? Is that what you’re asking me?”

  “Just anything you can tell us about him,” Marge said as she took out her notebook. “You know why we’re interested in him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. He was the gua
rd in those murders and he’s missing.”

  Oliver said, “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Nothing much. We didn’t talk other than an occasional nod. I felt he might have kept his distance because of my skin color, but after talking to others around here, he just wasn’t the neighborly type. Not too many neighborly types anymore. Most of the farms here are run by big business.”

  Marge nodded.

  “There are still several holdouts like myself. I’ve been approached a few times about selling my land. It’s my children’s inheritance. Anyway, you don’t want to talk politics, you want to talk about Rondo Martin.” Marcus cleared his throat. “There were a couple of times when I stopped at the Watering Hole for a beer, he’d be there drinking whiskey, talking to Matt or Trevor or whoever was tending bar. We farmers work sunup to sundown when the days are long and the weather’s good. In the wintertime, it can get cold. That’s when the tavern does its business.”

  “Is there a lot of crime around here?” Oliver asked.

  “Sheriff would know more than me,” Marcus said. “Reading the daily sheet, I think that most of the crimes come from the migrants getting drunk on the weekends and whopping on each other. There’s not a whole lot to do around here. We’ve got a general store, a church, a movie house, a lending library, a couple of family restaurants, and a street of taverns. That’s about it.”

  “Do the migrants go to the same church as you do?”

  “No, they do not. We’re all Baptists. Migrants are mostly Catholic or Pentecostal. We don’t have any Catholic or Pentecostal churches. They must have their own.”

  “Where do the migrants live?” Marge asked.

  “In the outlying areas. We call them the ciudads, which means cities in Spanish. Ponceville is built like a square. Smack in the middle is the town, then the farms, and on the perimeter is where the migrants live. Their living quarters, provided by the big businesses that hire them, are pretty primitive. They got their running water and electrical lines, but it’s still very basic. Don’t matter how basic it is, though, they just keep coming. And they’ll keep on coming as long as conditions down in their countries are poorer than conditions up here.”

  “Are they legal?” Oliver asked.

  “The businesses get them their green cards. All my workers have green cards. Can’t do it any other way. Otherwise the INS will shut you down. We’re not talking about Martin very much.”

  “My partner and I are just trying to get a feel for the town,” Marge said. “Maybe it’ll help us understand Rondo Martin better. Do you know if he spoke Spanish?”

  “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.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE 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.”

&nbs
p; “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 security. 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?”