by Shawn Wilson
“The son of a bitch she’s married to—that’s his handiwork. Nice, isn’t it?” Alma glanced around the room. “See these boxes and those suitcases? We’re packing up and gonna be out of here before he gets home from work. Ask your questions, but we’ve got to keep working.”
“I understand. Do you live here with Lourdes and her husband?”
“No, and it’s a good thing for him because if I did, well, I’d better not go there.” She was using a screwdriver to loosen the legs on a crib but not making much headway. “Damn, I can’t get this to budge.”
“Let me try.” Brick motioned for Alma to hand him the screwdriver. “Hold on to it, there at the top.” Over the next few minutes Brick managed to disassemble the crib and ask Lourdes about Jose and Maria. She didn’t see Jose often but said he was always friendly and helpful. He’d help her with her groceries or if she were carrying her laundry basket. That sounded exactly like the kind of thing Brick would expect from Jose. “Did you get to know Maria after she moved in?”
“Yes, a little. She didn’t have any friends here so she would come over sometimes while Jose was working. She’d help me cook and do some cleaning. I’ve been really tired, but Roberto still expects me to do everything like before.”
“Asshole,” Alma said. “Excuse my language, but that’s the nicest name I can call him. What kind of a man hits his wife, especially his pregnant wife?”
“An asshole.” Brick handed the screwdriver back to Alma along with the screws he had freed. “You might want to put these in a bag and tape them to the crib.”
“Thanks. Otherwise, they’ll get lost for sure.”
Brick turned toward Lourdes. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Maria?”
“No, not really.”
“Did you ever see anyone coming or going from Jose’s apartment?” Lourdes shook her head, but Brick continued questioning her, hoping something would jog her memory. “What about noises—loud voices, people arguing?”
“No, nothing.”
“What about a boyfriend. Did Maria ever talk about having a boyfriend?”
“No.” Lourdes glanced at her watch before brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I need to go pack the baby clothes.”
“Just one more question. Did Maria seem worried about her safety or Jose’s?”
“No, she never mentioned anything like that.”
When Lourdes left the room, Brick lowered his voice so she wouldn’t hear the question he was about to ask Alma. “Tell me about Roberto. Is he involved in a gang?”
Alma shook her head. “No, that’s about the only good thing I can say about him. He works and he provides for her, but it’s the drinking. He’s a nasty drunk.”
“Does he get in fights with other people?”
“Not that I know of. He’s not stupid; he doesn’t want to get his ass kicked, and mostly, he drinks at home. It’s gotten worse since Lourdes is pregnant, but hitting her—that crossed the line.”
Brick had heard stories like this way too many times. But at least it sounded like Lourdes and her baby had the family support she needed to escape a situation that could escalate. Still, for his own peace of mind, he needed confirmation. “Is she going to be safe with you?”
“Yes, we’ll be fine.” Alma smiled confidently. “Roberto’s afraid of my husband and with good reason. It’s one thing to hit a woman, but he knows better than to take on a guy who is bigger, stronger, and hates his guts. Roberto’s a coward … and an asshole.”
“Do you think it’s possible Roberto could have been involved in any way with Jose and Maria’s murders?”
Alma shook her head. “I’d like to say yes so you could lock him up, but honestly, I don’t think so.”
Brick wished everyone he talked to was as forthcoming as Alma. “Where does Roberto work?”
“He manages the bodega at the corner of Columbia Road and 18th Street. He’s there now or at least he should be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s the daytime boss, so I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak away for an hour or two.” Alma shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve stopped by there a few times and got the old ‘he’ll-be-right-back’ routine. I don’t think he’s at noon Mass, if you know what I mean?”
“Is he cheating on your sister?”
“I don’t have proof, but I’ve got intuition. Sometimes women just know things.”
Brick couldn’t argue with that. He felt his cellphone vibrate but ignored it for the moment. He took out one of his business cards and handed it to Alma. “I’m going to go to the bodega and talk to Roberto.”
The color drained from Alma’s face. “Oh my God, please don’t tell him—I mean I want to get her out of here before—”
“It’s okay. I won’t let on that I’ve been here or that I’ve talked to you or Lourdes.”
Alma didn’t look convinced.
“I give you my word.”
Alma managed a half smile. “Thank you.” She slipped Brick’s business card into her pocket.
“If you or Lourdes think of anything else, anything at all, give me a call.”
Brick wrote down a number and address for Alma in his notebook. Something told him he’d be talking to her again. The apartment door closed behind him as he checked his phone for text messages. Ron was waiting in the lobby.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“WHAT DID YOU find out?” Brick asked Ron.
“Nada. That’s Spanish for nothing, right? ’Cause that’s exactly what I’ve got. And ‘nothing from nothing leaves nothing.’”
“Is that a quote from a movie I’m supposed to know?”
Ron shook his head. “No, man, song lyrics. Go ahead, take a guess.”
“Tony Bennett.”
Ron burst out laughing. “Tony Bennett … please tell me you aren’t serious.” Ron glanced over at his partner. “Want to try again?”
“No.”
“Okay, it was Billy Preston.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Sure, you have. Among other things, he played keyboards on Abbey Road for The Beatles.”
“Them I’ve heard of.”
“I’d be real worried if you hadn’t.” Ron rolled his eyes. “So, did you have better luck than me?”
Brick relayed what he learned from talking with Alma and Lourdes. Nothing seemed all that significant, but he was concerned about the apparent domestic abuse. Brick believed Alma knew her brother-in-law well, but she wasn’t around him 24/7. For that matter, neither was Lourdes.
“This Roberto guy sounds like a total douchebag,” Ron said.
“You’re right, but just remember we can’t let on that we know any of this.”
Brick and Ron left the cruiser parked in the alley and walked the two blocks to the intersection of Columbia Road and 18th Street. The El Mercado Bodega was located between a Zagat-rated Ethiopian restaurant and a vintage clothing store. Across the street, a two-story mural of Toulouse Latrec adorned the side of what otherwise would have been a nondescript building housing a French café.
The aroma of freshly baked pan dulce greeted the detectives as they stepped inside the bodega. Customers with plastic trays in one hand and metal tongs in the other selected items from the bakery cases. Brick was tempted to grab a tray and join them. Instead, he zigzagged his way around the cases and past the fresh produce. Ron followed close behind. They stopped in front of the cash register. A health department certificate was posted on the wall. Next to it, a sign indicated the manager-on-duty was Roberto Morales.
Brick waited while the guy behind the counter finished printing computer-pick lottery tickets for an elderly man whose attempt at small talk was being ignored.
“Are you Roberto Morales?” Brick asked.
“Who wants to know?”
Brick wasn’t about to swap attitude with Roberto. Instead, he identified himself formally but in a louder voice than Roberto may have appreciated. “And this is Detective Hayes. We’d like to as
k you a few questions.”
“About what?”
Before Brick could respond, a man approached the counter from the opposite side and pointed to a pack of cigarettes on a shelf behind the cash register. Roberto retrieved the pack, handed it to the guy, and rang up the sale.
“The murder that happened across the hall from your apartment,” Brick said.
The answer seemed to catch Roberto off-guard. His eyes narrowed. “How do you know where I live?”
“We checked the rental applications for all the tenants. This was listed as your place of employment.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was an explanation that worked for Brick in the past. He hoped it would again.
“So what do you want to know?” Not exactly polite, but Roberto had dialed down the surly tone.
Brick glanced around. “Is there someplace where we can talk?”
“Guess you haven’t noticed, I’m working here.”
“I have noticed. And this will take less time if we’re not interrupted.”
Roberto exhaled dramatically. He turned and looked toward a young man stocking a shelf with canned food. “Miguel.” He motioned for him to come over to the counter. A young guy in a white Real Madrid jersey quickly complied. “Take over for me … and don’t screw up.”
Roberto popped the top on a can of Inca Kola before leading Brick and Ron to a stock room at the back of the bodega. He sat down on top of a stack of fifty-pound bags of rice.
Brick took the lead. Even though Jose’s murder wasn’t their case, he decided to start there and transition to Maria’s at the appropriate time. “Did you know your neighbor, Jose Delgado?”
“Yeah, I knew him. So?”
“How well did you know him?”
“I knew who he was, that’s all.”
“Did you ever hang out, watch a game together?”
“No.”
“Did you ever notice anything going on across the hall? People coming and going at all hours, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Loud voices, people arguing?”
“No.” Roberto started to get up. “I need to get back to work, man.”
“Take it easy, just a couple more questions. Do you know if Jose belonged to a gang?” Brick noticed a smirk on Roberto’s face. “Is there something funny about that?”
“Yeah. If he belonged to a gang, it’d be a gang of fags.”
Brick was taken aback. He never got the impression Jose was gay. “Why do you say that?”
“I know a fag when I see one—he was a fag.” Roberto took a long swig of soda and then another. “Only girl I ever seen him with was his sister.”
Brick wasn’t convinced Roberto was an expert on sexual orientation, but the mention of Jose’s sister was the segue he was waiting for. “Are you aware that Maria Delgado was also found dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know her?”
“Not really.”
“What does that mean—you either knew her or you didn’t.”
“She spent some time with my wife.”
“Like shopping, partying …”
“No. My wife’s knocked up. Maria helped her with stuff, laundry and cleaning.”
Like an experienced tag-team member, Brick gave his partner a familiar head nod. Ron immediately picked up on the cue and took over the questioning. “Did Maria ever help you with stuff?”
Roberto shifted his position. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Roberto.” Ron stepped a little closer. “You’re a smart guy, you know what I mean.” Roberto didn’t respond, but a muscle in his jaw started to twitch. Ron leaned in. “I can tell you’re a macho guy. You said your wife’s pregnant, probably been a while since you’ve gotten any.” Ron shook his head. “That’s tough on a guy … right? And there’s Maria, young and pretty, and all you got to do is walk across the hall.”
Roberto jumped to his feet. “Man, you’re full of shit. I don’t know what happened to Jose and Maria, but I know I didn’t have anything to do with it.” He crumpled the empty soda can and tossed it into a trash can. “And I know something else—I’m done talking to you.” Roberto brushed past the two detectives and out of the stock room.
Ron glanced over at Brick. “Think I hit a nerve.”
“Like a dentist with a jackhammer.” Brick smiled. On the suspect list he was keeping in his head, Roberto Morales just joined Carlos Garcia.
* * *
It was around nine p.m. when Brick arrived at the Tidal Basin near the paddleboat launch. Five minutes later, Ron showed up. Officially, the detectives were off-duty, but Brick never let that stop him from pursuing a lead. And in order to talk to the street people who spent their nights near the Tidal Basin, he had to accommodate their schedule. Swapping out the Brooks Brothers suit with some old jeans and with a backpack slung over his shoulder, Brick could easily pass as a tourist. Although, it was unlikely a tourist would be wearing a Kevlar vest under a hooded sweatshirt as Brick was. For the most part, he found street people to be harmless, but it was impossible to know when someone would turn violent.
At first, Brick and Ron went in opposite directions looking for anyone who might have been in the area on the night Maria’s body was dumped in the water. It didn’t take long for Brick to realize their timing was off. From the number of Styrofoam cups spilling out of a trash can, it appeared the soup truck had been there earlier. It wasn’t unusual for recipients to dine-and-dash in order to secure a place on a steam grate or, as a last resort, a bed at one of the city-run shelters. Brick continued along 15th Street toward the Jefferson Memorial, stopping only once to talk with a heavily tattooed guy who said he took the train from Philadelphia earlier in the day. Brick kept walking, wondering if he was nearing the infamous spot where, back in the ’70s, Fanne Foxe, an Argentine stripper, leapt from a car and jumped in the water. In the back seat of the car was Congressman Wilbur Mills, Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. What would Washington be if not for scandals, Brick thought.
After about forty-five minutes, Brick felt his phone vibrate. He read the text message and headed toward the 14th Street Bridge. Ron was waiting under a cherry tree that had lost most of its blossoms. “What’s up?”
“I talked to two guys who claimed they weren’t here that night because it was foggy and damp. Said they spent the night down at the shelter on Indiana Avenue. Anyway, they told me there’s a guy who goes by the name of ‘Ranger’ who’s staked a claim in the culvert under the bridge. If anyone saw something, it’d be him. I was about to go look for him, but they told me he doesn’t like black guys ever since he got rolled by a couple of teenagers.”
“Does he have anything against redheaded Irishmen?”
Ron laughed. “Don’t know, but I’m guessing you’re about to find out. Should I watch your back but keep out of view?”
“No. Let’s go check it out.”
Brick and Ron walked in the direction of the bridge. As they got closer, they saw pieces of clothing hanging from a tree limb. Just beyond was a sleeping bag atop what appeared to be a paint-splattered drop cloth. Brick shone his flashlight over the sleeping bag. It moved slightly.
“Ranger.” Brick listened but heard nothing. “Ranger, are you in there?” Still no response. Brick handed the flashlight to Ron. He needed to get closer, but he also wanted his hands free. Ron trained the flashlight on the sleeping bag.
“Ranger, we’re from the police. Put your hands where I can see them. Do it now.” Whoever was in the sleeping bag complied. “That’s good. Keep your hands up and slide on out of there.”
The man who emerged was rail thin. He looked to be in his late sixties, but the wizened face could have belonged to a younger man. He rubbed his rheumy eyes with hands that appeared to be deformed, probably by arthritis. “Get that goddamned light out of my face.” He blinked a couple of times. “How’d you know my name?”
“You’re famous around here.”
“Guess I am at that.” Ranger st
arted laughing, which triggered a phlegmy coughing fit. “Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
“You’re disappointed?”
“Yeah. I could use a couple of nights indoors. Food’s better at the jail. Plus, I can sleep there with both eyes closed ’cause the cops aren’t going to steal my stuff like the riffraff at the shelter.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday.” He scratched the back of his head. “Maybe the day before.”
Brick unzipped his backpack and pulled out a bag from McDonald’s. Several times testimony from a street person had been useful in prosecuting a case. Unlike paid informants, they didn’t expect to be compensated, but a sandwich or cup of coffee often proved to be a good investment. “You can put your hands down. Here’s a couple of cheeseburgers and some fries. How about you eat those while we ask you a few questions? I’m Detective Kavanagh and this is my partner, Detective Hayes.”
“You sure he’s a cop?”
Brick nodded.
“See this scar over my eye. Got that from a black guy. Two of them beat me up last summer.”
Ron spoke up for the first time. “I’m sorry, man. Why do they call you Ranger?”
The guy struggled to get to his feet. He shifted his cheeseburger to his left hand. With his right, he saluted. “82nd Airborne, Fort Benning, Georgia. Went to ’Nam in ’69 and ’71.”
Brick wondered if it was true or a lie told so many times Ranger probably believed it himself. Either way, it was the kind of response that tugged at Brick’s heartstrings. The second tour would have put this guy in the country around the same time as his own father. Brick felt like he was staring at another casualty of war.
Ranger sat back down and went to work on the fries.
“How long have you been living on the street?” Brick asked.
Ranger shrugged his bony shoulders. “Stopped counting a few years ago.”
“Were you here every night last week?”
“Yeah, ’cept for the night I went to the opera at the Kennedy Center.” Ranger laughed heartily, once again sending himself into a coughing fit.
“Are you okay?” Brick feared Ranger might be choking, and despite the compassion he felt for the guy, performing CPR was not something he wanted to do.