Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18

by Blindman's Bluff

  Decker eyed a piece of chocolate cake and then decided to wait for the coffee. “Willy Brubeck and I are going up to Ponceville to see if we can’t get a better fix on Rondo Martin. While we’re there, we’ll check out the Mendez family and a possible connection to Ana Mendez. While I’m gone, you two double-check Riley Karns and Pablo Albanez. Both the men knew where the horses were buried, so both the men could have dumped Denny Orlando.”

  “I’ll take Karns and you can have Albanez,” Marge told Oliver.

  “Sounds good.”

  Decker said, “And last, we need to find Joe Pine or José Pinon.”

  “Are they definitely one and the same?”

  “That’s a good question. Start with José Pinon because that’s who Harriman mentioned.”

  Marge said, “We’re still trying to get a copy of his prints. Brady doesn’t have them on file. We’re trying to push Juvey at Foothill to get us a copy because he had some teen offenses. Those records have been sealed unfortunately, but we’re trying.”

  Magda came back, Rina in tow carrying a tray with a silver coffee service and five mugs. Decker jumped up. “I’ll take that.”

  “Thank you,” Rina said.

  “Who wants decaf?” Magda announced.

  “I’m game.” Decker took a piece of chocolate cake and ate it in four bites. “Delicious. Who made this one?”

  “I did.” Magda beamed. “Your wife made the almond cookies.”

  “Those are great,” Marge said. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen, and you have three women who could open up a bakery.”

  Decker debated, then took a second piece. “It’s an XX conspiracy to keep me fat and happy.”

  He patted his burgeoning stomach.

  “One out of two ain’t bad.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT HAD BEEN Decker’s hope that County Jail might make Brand more amenable to talking. Instead, he appeared as if he had just spent a few days at Sandals. The soul patch was gone, along with the acne, and his skin glowed bronze and clear, making him appear more college student than goon. When Decker commented on his appearance, Brand attributed it to “good living.”

  “Three meals a day and lights out by ten,” Brand told Decker in English. He was dressed in dark blue scrubs. “I used to wake up at four in the afternoon.” A pause. “Maybe sunlight is good.”

  “I’m glad you find your living conditions so pleasant.”

  “I didn’t say that.” A pause. “I don’ expect to be there forever.”

  “You won’t be in County for long,” Decker told him. “Your charges carry prison time. Your next stop is Folsom.”

  “I don’ think so. You come here to talk. That means I got somethin’ you need.” He leaned forward, his breath reeking of tobacco. “You come to talk to me twice. That’s one more time than that shit head lawyer they give me.” He sat back. “But I can’t give you nothin’ if I don’ know what you want.”

  Decker took a smoke out of a pack of cigarettes and lit it up. “You’re a smart kid.”

  “That’s wha’ my abuela always said.”

  “Smart but you make some bad decisions.”

  “She said that, too. Why you talkin’ English to me now?”

  Decker gave the cigarette to Brand who thanked him by way of a nod. He switched over to Spanish. “Either one is fine with me.”

  Brand sat back and inhaled deeply. “You speak like a Cuban.”

  “Good ear, Alex, I’m originally from Florida. Tell me about some of your amigos.”

  “I have lots of friends.” A lopsided grin. “I’m a popular man.”

  Decker took out a pen and a notepad. “Talk to me about La Boca.”

  Initially, Brand’s eyes registered blanks, but then they livened up. “Yeah, you gotta find him, man. All that shit belonged to him.”

  “We’ve been looking,” Decker lied. “So far nothing. Where would we find him?”

  “I dunno. He just hangs in the area.”

  “Tell me what he does?”

  For the next ten minutes, Brand spun some yarn about La Boca being a master dealer. He said, “He’s a piece of work. You be careful, man.”

  “You seem to know a lot of pieces of work, Alex. Anything else you want to tell me about La Boca?”

  “That’s it, man.” Brand crushed out his cigarette. “How about another smoke?”

  Decker lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing a fine stream of smoke into Alex’s face. “Maybe you’ll get enough nicotine from secondhand smoke.”

  Brand’s eyes grew dark. “I don’ have to talk to you.”

  Decker said, “Is La Boca a Bodega 12th Street gang member?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?”

  Decker had been talking to Alex for about a half hour but not much rapport had been established. The kid was as cold as brain freeze. “Tell me about your amigos in the Bodega 12th Street.”

  “No gang, man. We’re just a bunch of guys who hang.”

  “I hear you’re real tough dudes.”

  “You got to take care of yourself.”

  “I agree,” Decker told him. “Sometimes that works okay…but then sometimes things go wrong…things get real fucked up, know what I’m saying?”

  Brand didn’t answer.

  “Like when your apartment blew up, that was a bad fuckup. But I really don’t care about that, Alex. That’s between you and your shithead lawyer. I’m not a drug cop.”

  “I’m not sayin’ no more until you tell me what you can do for me.”

  “I’m not from Narcotics, Alex, I’m from Homicide. I deal with murders.”

  Brand appeared baffled. “So wha’ you want with me. I don’ kill nobody.”

  “Did I say you killed anyone?” Decker gave Brand his half-smoked cigarette. “I didn’t say you killed anyone. I mean maybe you did, but I didn’t say you did.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody.” Brand inhaled the smoke and seemed to relax with each inhalation. That was good. Keep him in nicotine and maybe they’d get somewhere.

  “I work in the West Valley, working on a very bad double homicide,” Decker said. “It was supposed to be a triple homicide, but one of the victims lived so it’s a double homicide and attempted murder. Guy and Gilliam Kaffey. Know anything about that?”

  “Everyone knows about those two dudes,” Brand said. “It’s all over the news.”

  “The victim who lived…he saw things. He told what he saw. There was more than one killer, Alex. There were several men and they spoke Spanish. They had Bodega 12th Street tattoos.”

  “Not me! I don’ have nothin’ to do with that!”

  “You’ve been identified by the victim.”

  “That’s bullshit! I wasn’t there. I can prove it.”

  “So where were you?”

  Brand immediately launched into his alibi. He spoke quickly—Spanish is a language that rolls off the tongue—and he slurred his words. Decker had to pay attention to keep up with him. This was his alibi.

  He was with his girlfriend the entire night. They went to the movies. Then they went out for a hamburger. Then they went back to his apartment and had sex. Then they went out again.

  “What time was that?” Decker asked.

  “Around one, maybe a little later.” His leg started shaking up and down. “We caught up with some of my friends on the street.”

  “Where?”

  “Just around…”

  “Around where?”

  “Pacoima.” He named a street corner. “We was just hangin’.”

  “What do you mean by hanging? Be more specific.”

  “You know…”

  “Scoring dope?”

  Silence.

  Decker said, “You’re already in trouble for manufacturing, Alex. A few more pills won’t make or break your case.”

  “No big deal.” The leg was going full force. “Just a little weed.”

  “Were y
ou smoking it or selling it?”

  “Why you asking so many questions if you’re not a narc?”

  “Just trying to get a picture. Were you smoking it or selling it?”

  Brand switched to English as if to emphasize the point. “Just a little weed.”

  Decker answered back in English. “You already said that.”

  “A million people saw me there all night.”

  “A million people?”

  “Not a million, but you know…I was there all night. People saw me. I saw people. I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “You know, Alex, I can’t even remember what I had for dinner a couple of nights ago.” Decker regarded him with intense eyes. “How do you remember a week ago so clearly—in pretty good detail?”

  “The killings was big news, man. I hear about it the next day.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what really happened and I’ll see what I can do. Because I’m betting you knew what went down before anyone else knew what went down.”

  “I wasn’t there, man! If someone told you I was there, that’s bullshit!”

  “I believe you. Maybe you weren’t there, but some of your 12th Street amigos were there.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head for emphasis.

  “Now you’re lying.”

  Back to Spanish. “I swear I don’t know!”

  “Then why did the victim ID you?”

  “’Cause he’s probably a dumbshit white boy and all cholos look alike to him. I don’ know why he’d identify me. I wasn’t there.”

  Decker persisted. “But I know that you know who was there!”

  “No, I don’t.” But the blinking of his eyes was as good as yes.

  They went back and forth for another twenty minutes. By that time, Decker had been at him for almost two hours. Beads of sweat had coalesced on Brand’s face, chest, and arms. His anaconda tattoo now looked as if it was swimming in the river.

  Decker gave the kid another cigarette, hoping that would calm him down. “One of the victims lived, Alex. He saw things—”

  “Not me.”

  “You could do yourself a world of good. All you have to do is tell me what you know about it.”

  “I wasn’t there!”

  “I didn’t say you were there.” A beat. “I said that all you have to do is tell me what you know about it.”

  His eyes were on his lap. “I don’ know nothin’.”

  “Alex, that’s not true. You know all about José Pinon and that he fucked up because he didn’t kill the surviving victim. You know all about Rondo Martin and El Patrón. People have heard you talk.”

  Brand’s expression appeared stunned and confused. He shut his lips together as if that would take back his words.

  “Tell me about El Patrón.”

  Brand shrugged, but he didn’t make eye contact. His leg was still bouncing.

  “C’mon, Alejandro. You don’t want it getting back to El Patrón that you were yapping about him.”

  More silence.

  “We also have people looking for José in Mexico,” Decker lied. “What’s Pinon going to do when he finds out that you’ve been talking about him?”

  “Look, man, I tole you the truth! I wasn’t there!”

  “I believe you,” Decker said quietly. “I believe that you weren’t there. But you do know who was there.”

  “No, I don’ know.” He squirmed. “I just hear some things. I don’ know what’s true and what’s not true. Why you bustin’ my cojones, man?”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  No response. Decker waited him out. Finally, Alex said, “You work for that guy with the sunglasses?”

  It took a few seconds before Decker realized he was referring to Brett Harriman, and that was definitely not good. Luckily, Decker was a more seasoned liar than Alex was. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The faggy guy in the courthouse. I could tell he was spying on me. I shoulda dealt with it when I had the chance.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alex. I told you, I’m from Homicide.”

  “I knew he was a motherfucker. I could tell how he was lookin’ at me.”

  “Alex, let’s try to keep on topic.” Decker made a mental note to contact Harriman. “Tell me what rumors you’ve heard.”

  “What do I get if I talk to you?”

  “You get a Homicide police lieutenant who’s on your side along with your shithead lawyer.”

  “You tell the Narcos that the shit wasn’t mine?”

  “No, I can’t do that. But if you cooperate, I’ll talk to the judge who’ll be sentencing you. If he’s impressed enough, he could knock off some time.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. But what do you have to lose?”

  “I don’t want people findin’ out I talked to you.”

  “So tell me what you know and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Brand thought about it. “I just hear what you said. That José fucked up and that El Patrón was looking for him.”

  “Just to make sure that we’re on the same page, let’s make sure we’re talking about the same El Patrón. Tell me about him.”

  “I dunno his name.” Brand averted his eyes. “He does a lot of business with Bodega Twelve, if you know what I mean.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yeah, he gets the shit from the big guys. Everyone says he ordered the hit.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Just that he’s some white dude who flashes a lot of cash. I never seen him.” The cholo’s smile deepened as the seconds ticked on. “You don’ know who he is.”

  “How do you know that he ordered these hits?”

  “That’s just what I hear from my amigos.”

  “Which friends?”

  “I don’ remember…” Brand looked at Decker. “That’s the truth, man. I just hear from around.”

  “How did you hear about José Pinon fucking up?”

  “José is a loser.”

  “How do you know José?”

  “He was a righteous Twelver when I was a kid, but then he started going to someplace called Go-karts or something. It’s where rich vacas in suits ‘rehabilitate’ gang members.” He chuckled. “I don’ see him for a while. The next time I see him, he tells me that some rich guy hired him as a guard. I thought it was a joke.”

  Decker nodded.

  “What a stupid fuck!”

  “José or the man who hired him.”

  “Both,” Brand said. “The idiot gave him a uniform. He gave him a gun. He gave him a title. José thought he was hot shit…above us, know what I mean? I hope El Patrón finds him and burns his balls with cigarettes.”

  “Describe El Patrón to me.”

  “I already tole you, I never seen him.” Brand crushed out his cigarette. “Now whatchu gonna do for me, man?”

  “Well, Alex, the point is you haven’t told me anything good. I knew about José Pinon and El Patrón. I need a name.”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “So give me the name of the shooters.”

  “I tole you. José Pinon was there.”

  “Who else?”

  Brand fell quiet.

  Decker said, “It’s only a matter of time before the surviving victim identifies everyone who was there and your information will be useless.”

  “Then let him do that.”

  Decker switched tactics. “Did José ever talk to you about the people he worked with on his job?”

  “I don’ talk no more to José. He stopped hangin’ once he got his fancy fuck job.”

  “So he never mentioned any names to you?”

  A long sigh. “I think he tole me that most of them were Hispanic. Once José tole me I was smart—the only smart thing he ever said—and that if I could get my shit together, he could probably get me a job. But he had to talk to his boss first. I said I wasn’t interested.”

  “Who was his boss?”

  “I dunno. Some
dude.”

  Decker pulled out his list of guards. The first name he read was Neptune Brady. Brand’s eyes lit up.

  “Yeah, that was the dumb fuck who hired him.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Could Neptune Brady be El Patrón?”

  “Could be if he’s a white guy with a lot of cash.”

  “I’m going to read some more names. Tell me if they sound familiar.” When Decker got to Denny Orlando, Brand held up his hand.

  “That guy sounds familiar. He works with José.”

  “Yes, he does. Or did. He’s dead.”

  “José whacked him?”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Figures. He turns his back on Bodega 12th Street, he can turn his back on anyone.”

  Decker mentioned Rondo Martin and Brand didn’t react. “That name doesn’t sound familiar?”

  Brand thought a moment. “You name a lot of people. I get them mixed up.”

  “He’s a tough white dude. Could he be El Patrón?”

  Brand was dismissive. “I don’ know what El Patrón’s name is, but I don’ thin’ it’s somethin’ stupid like Rondo Martin.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SOME WHITE DUDE who flashes a lot of cash?” Marge said. “Boy, he really went out on a limb.”

  “Like they say in the electronic world: GIGO.” Oliver smiled.

  “How very techie of you.”

  “I also know LOL and IMHO.”

  “You don’t have a ‘humble opinion,’ Scott.”

  Oliver said, “No, it means ‘in my highest opinion.’”

  “Or ‘in my honest opinion.’” Decker exhaled aloud. “Wow, this is a lot more fun than talking to bullshit cons who feed me crap.”

  The three of them were sitting in Decker’s office, kicking around ideas. Oliver had on a black suit, Marge had on a gray suit, and Decker was wearing a brown suit. They were appropriately dressed for a funeral, an event that would have dovetailed nicely with their sagging spirits.

  Gil was missing, Resseur was missing, Grant was nursing wounds at the Kaffey compound in Newport, and Mace was somewhere…not exactly missing, but he wasn’t answering Decker’s phone calls. Neptune Brady and his crew had been unceremoniously axed. The leads were thinning, and the case was growing frosty.