“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.”
Marge asked, “Where did he do his law enforcement training?”
“I don”t reckon I know that. He came to us from Bakersfield Police Department…worked there for a few years. His record was clean—no absentee problem, no record of undue force or brutality, no IA investigations. The day watch commander said he was always on time, took his notes, but didn”t talk much. A good, clean cop was how he put it.”
“Why”d he leave the force?”Oliver asked.
T thought a moment. “He said something about wanting a small town. He was tired of the big city.”
“Bakersfield”s a big city?”
“It isn”t L.A., but it”s going on four hundred thousand. That”s a lot of people. He certainly got small here in Ponceville.”
Marge said, “Then why did he leave Ponceville to do private security in L.A.?”
“Don”t really know, ma”am. I think Rondo was a restless sort. It takes a certain type of person to live here if you”re not a farmer. You don”t got a lot of choices—it”s either the bars or the churches.
Rondo couldn”t make up his mind. Sometimes he”d show up at church, sometimes he”d show up at the tavern. He didn”t fit in anywhere.”
“Back me up on this, T. I remember Shareen saying he spent some time at the ciudads.”She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That”s where the whores are.”
“Cut it out, Edna.”T rolled his eyes. “But she”s got a point. If you”re lonely and don”t feel like praying, going to certain places is an alternative.”
“Where are these ciudads?”Oliver asked.
“They surround the farms,”T said. “There are four of”em-north, south, east, and west.”
Marge said, “Would Shareen know who Martin visited in the ciudads?”
“Maybe,”Edna said.
“Could you call up your daughter and ask her?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, Edna,”T said. “They have work to do.”
“Well, all right then.”She called up her daughter and five minutes later she hung up the phone. “Shareen thinks he spent a lot of time in the north district. Who lives there, T? Lots of Gonzales, right? And the Ricardos and the Mendez, the Alvarez and the Luzons. I think they”re all related.”
“They are.”T regarded the detectives. “I never ask my men what they do on their off hours. Isn”t my business. Do either of you speak Spanish?”
Marge and Oliver shook their heads no.
“Then no use going down there. You won”t understand a thing they say.”T”s cell phone started ringing. “Excuse me.”
He took the call and when he hung up, he said, “Another problem at the ciudads. South district. Wanna come and see what I deal with? You can follow me in your car.”
“I drove them here,”Marcus said. “I gotta get back to work.”
“Could we ride with you?”Oliver asked.
“Sure, but it”ll take about an hour. What time is your plane out?”
“We”ve got time,”Marge said.
“Sure,”Edna said. “Enough time to see whores but not my daughter.”
“Now stop that, Edna. This isn”t a dating service. Let them do their job.”T picked up his hat. “Boy oh boy. That”s four calls in four hours. That”s what happens when it gets sweltering out there. The natives get restless.”
TWENTY-TWO
THERE HAD BEEN a lot of remodeling since Decker worked Foothill Substation some fifteen years ago, but it still smelled and sounded familiar. Detective Mallory Quince—a petite brunette in her thirties—played with the keyboard until Alejandro”s face flashed on the computer screen. “Oh him…the meth maker. He almost burned down an apartment building. That was a close call.”
“So I”ve heard.”
“From who?”
“The tenants. I talked to them this morning. I thought about a meth lab but the tenants didn”t know anything about that. How bad was the fire?”
“His unit was completely burned out. The two units on either side were a mess, too, but the FD saved the building. We picked up the sucker a couple of days later. He claimed he had nothing to do with the fire and he hadn”t been there since his grandmother died. A pack of lies, but no one contradicted him. I think they were all afraid of retribution.”
“The women said they called the police many times about him. Any record of the calls?”
“I”ll check it out, but it”s probably bullshit.”Mallory rolled her eyes. “We”d investigate crack houses and meth labs, you know that.”
Decker did know that. “So nothing
on Alejandro Brand?”
“Nope.”
“You have his fingerprints?”
“Let”s see if there”s a card.”She clicked a few buttons. “Sorry. We didn”t arrest him.”She printed out the picture on the computer and handed the paper to Decker. “I”ll keep a lookout for him. Pass the word around.”
“I”d appreciate that.”He shook the woman”s hand. “Thanks for your time.”
“You miss it around here?”
“Not too different from where I am geographically, but my district”s more affluent. There”s less violent crime.”
“So you don”t miss being in the action?”
“Sometimes I miss being in the field, but I”m happy where I am. It”s good having an office with a door that closes.”
THIS WAS NOT the sunny side of Mexico inhabited by margarita-drinking American expats lying in the white sands next to warm lapis waves. This was the Baja California of Oliver”s childhood memories: a land steeped in poverty and have-nots with its shacks and lean-tos and tin-roof hovels. Tijuana was just a step across the border yet it had seemed light-years away. When he grew older, he and some army buddies would often visit the underbelly to cop cheap liquor and old whores—a rite of passage. The ciudads here were row upon row of makeshift houses plunked down in the middle of nowhere. Like Tijuana, the Ponceville ciudad residents had tried to liven up the neighborhood by painting the exteriors bright colors: aquas, lemon yellows, kelly greens, and deep lilacs. For Oliver, these Day-Glo colors had been so exotic at eighteen. Now it made him sad.
There were few landmarks, but Sheriff T knew his way around. The official vehicle was a thirty-year-old Suburban and as T maneuvered the tank along the dirt roads, the three of them bounced on none-too-padded seats. He stopped in the middle of the lane in front of a one-story orange shack.
The three of them got out. T strode up to the door and gave it a hard whack. A teenaged girl not more than thirteen answered, a plump baby on her hip and a stick-thin toddler tugging her skirt. She was pretty—dark hair, smooth coffee complexion, wide-set eyes, and high cheekbones. She was sweating profusely, drops on her brow and nose. She swung the door wide open and Marge, Oliver, and T came inside.
A four-year-old boy was sitting on an old sofa, watching cartoons on an old TV perched up on boxes. Besides the TV and the couch, furniture included a dinette set, two folding chairs, and a playpen with toys. A worn rug covered an unfinished floor that looked like it had been constructed from old crates. There was one sagging shelf with a few books, a few DVDs, and an American flag mounted in an empty coffee can.
It was barebones but clean with the sweet-smelling aroma of something baking. The heat also added about twenty degrees to the already sweltering day. Marge immediately felt her face moisten. She took out a tissue and gave one to Oliver.
The young girl put the baby and the toddler in a playpen and gave each of them a cookie. The two tiny ones sat among a sea of old toys, eating their cookies without a fuss, staring at the rapid-fire animated cells of color occupying the little boy”s attention.
The teenager”s face was grave. She mopped up the sweat with the back of her hand and immediately started speaking Spanish, her tone clearly agitated. She bounced her leg up and down as she talked, kneading her hands together as well. The sheriff nodded at appropriate intervals.
Their conversation was brief, and within minutes T stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. At that point, her eyes became teary as she repeated “gracias”over and over.
After they left, T said, “She lives with her parents who are both in the fields. She”s the oldest of seven. The three others are in school but someone has to stay home to watch the little babies.”
Marge said, “What about her schooling?”
“Her birth certificate says she”s sixteen, which means she doesn”t have to go to school anymore.”
“She looks about twelve.”
“She probably is, but I don”t do her family a favor by asking too many questions.”
“What was the problem?”Oliver asked.
“Some twenty-year-old punk out in the fields keeps bugging her, sneaking away from work and trying to come inside and have sex with her. Ignacias Pepe, whoever the hell that is. There”s just too many of them for me to keep track. Just as I get to know who lives where, one moves out and another comes in to take his place. She told me that Ignacias is picking strawberries at the McClellans”farm. I”ll go over and have a talk with the jerk. Tell him to keep his pecker in his pants unless he wants it pickled in a jar.”
The three of them loaded back into the Suburban.
“I”ll pass Marcus”s place on the way to Ardes McClellan”s farm. I know you”ve got other business to tend to so how about if I drop you off.”
“That would work out,”Oliver said. “Edna, your secretary, said something about Rondo Martin hanging out in the northern area. Is that different from where we were?”
“Interchangeable. Wish I could tell you more about the man, but you know how it is. If no one”s making trouble, you don”t go looking for it.”
Marge said, “Thanks for bringing us along. We didn”t find out too much about Rondo Martin, but we certainly got a good feel for the town.”
T said, “This place is not much more than two spits in the wind, but I love it. Wide-open fields and a big blue sky. I can do my job without the brass-ass boys above me telling me what to do.”
Oliver said, “You”ve got that one pegged.”
“Not that I don”t answer to someone,”T said. “There”s the mayor and the city council, but for the most part, they mind their own business and let me keep the law.”
“Good for them and good for you,”Marge said.
“Yeah, you always answer to someone unless you”re God. I suppose he don”t answer to no one, but I”ve never met him, so I couldn”t say for sure.”
THE WOMAN HAD tenacity and would have made a fine detective. She looked up at Decker and said, “This isn”t coming as easily as Brand. No face just pops out at me.”
“Then maybe he isn”t there.”
“He had a BXII tattooed on his arm.”
“He”s a member of the Bodega 12th Street gang but that doesn”t mean he made the mug book. Don”t force it, Rina. It”s after five. Maybe it”s time to quit.”
She closed the book. “I”m sorry.”
“What for? You”ve certainly done your bit.”Decker checked his watch again. “I”ve got a couple more things to finish up here. I”ll be home in an hour.”
“Okay.”She stood up and gave him a kiss. “See you then.”
“I”ll walk you out.”
“No need. I know the way. Go finish up.”
“Thanks for the cake, Rina. The Dees really enjoyed it.”
“It”s my pleasure. After all these years of baking, it”s hard to wean me away from the oven. Making cakes for the squad room prevents me from going cold turkey.”
“Anytime you want to feed your jones, it would be welcomed here.”
Rina smiled. Just as she stepped out of the door to the substation, she saw Harriman coming her way. She told herself to keep moving and when he wordlessly passed her, she felt a twang in her gut—as if she were impolite.
Don”t get involved, she told herself. She didn”t always listen to her gut, but images of all that spilled blood gave her pause.
THE DETOUR THROUGH the ciudads put Oliver and Marge behind schedule. With the drive from Ponceville to Oakland eating up another couple of hours, an actual dinner was out of the question.
They ate tuna sandwiches on the way, arriving in the Bay Area with a little over an hour to call up Porter Brady and arrange an interview with him. The detectives figured that after bypass surgery the man would stick close to home, so they weren”t surprised when he answered on the third ring.
“Why do you want to talk to me?”Porter sounded annoyed. “I already told the police that Neptune was with me. We have phone records to prove it.”
Marge said, “It would be helpful if we could talk to you in person.”
“Why”s that? I never had an ounce of trouble with the boy.”A pause. “Does my son know you”re coming here?”
“No, he doesn”t.”Marge was matter-of-fact.
“I don”t have much to say to you about Neptune. He”s a good boy.”Another pause. “I suppose I wouldn”t mind some company.”
“Then we”ll see you in a few minutes.”
Porter lived in an apartment not far from Jack London Square—a waterfront tourist attraction made up of old warehouses converted to shopping malls. Brady”s unit was two bedrooms and two baths and was furnished with original 1950s furniture. It hadn”t been pricey at the time but the color of the maple had mellowed to a fine tawny port, and the clean lines transferred nicely into the twenty-first century.
The old man had greeted them in pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. He was stick thin with an unhealthy-looking gray pallor. He had a long face topped with white kinky hair, brown eyes, and thick lips. At present, his skin color could have belonged to any race, but his hair pointed to black. What was even more surprising was his age. Neptune was in his thirties, and the old man appeared to be in his seventies. The mystery was cleared up within a matter of seconds.
“I”m his grandfather but I raised him. That makes me his father.”
Marge sipped a mug filled with sweet tea. “This is good. Thank you.”
“My own brew.”
“Delicious.”She took out a notepad. “Are you Neptune”s maternal grandfather?”
“Paternal,”Porter told her. “His daddy, my son, was murdered before Neptune was born. Eighteen years old. He ran with the wrong crowd.”
“What about Neptune”s mother?”Oliver asked.
The old man sat back on his divan, his robe falling open to reveal a sunken chest. He closed it back up. “She”s from a white family across the bay. She worked as a teacher”s pet…no, not pet.”He laughed. “What do they call those helpers?”
“Teacher”s aide?”Marge said.
“Yeah, an aide. That”s right.”He nodded. “That”s right. She wasn”t but a year older than the students. Erstin—that was my boy—was in her class. He was a good-looking boy. Tall and strapping and a charmer. My wife died when he was five. I tried, but I couldn”t be both a daddy and a mommy. I had to work.”
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