A Long December (12 page)

“Sure.”

“And a photo, if you have one you can let us take for a while and get it photocopied.” It was going to be a lot easier to ask possible witnesses if they’d seen the deceased if we had a photograph. I cleared my throat. “Fairly recent, if you can.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Now, Linda, we have to talk about who killed him, and why.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anybody. Really,” she said, beseechingly. “I don’t know…”

“Okay,” I said. I hated to ask the next question. “You two have any kids?”

“No.”

“I’m asking, because you may be in as much danger as he was.” I leaned forward, toward her side of the desk. “I’m very serious. You, or people related to you, or friends of yours, may be at risk.”

“Oh, come on, Houseman,” said Terri.

“It’s true,” I said. “Until we know for sure why he was killed and who killed him, we have to assume relatives and associates might also be targets. It’s the only safe way to go about this.”

Terri didn’t seem to buy it.

Linda looked up at Terri and said, “He wasn’t into dope. I know you think he was, but he wasn’t.” That squelched Terri more effectively that I ever could. Then she turned to me. “You want to search our apartment? You can if you want to. I don’t care.”

“How about we just go back with you and get a copy of his birth certificate and the photograph? Maybe look around at some of his stuff, but that’s not really too necessary.” I hate to turn down an offer to search, but we really didn’t have any grounds to even do a consent search of her premises.

“Fine.”

“Now, we didn’t find any ID of any sort on him. None. No billfold. Did he carry a billfold?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Do you know if he had it with him yesterday?”

“I didn’t see, you know? I mean, I didn’t watch him put it in his pocket. It’s not around the house, or I would have seen it.” She looked at Terri. “We have to call the funeral people. I know there’s lots of stuff to do.”

“We have to call his mother first,” said Terri. That was certainly true. The mother was the only true next of kin we had. One of the problems with living together. You may be the person in the world who is closest to them, but you have damned little legal standing.

Linda’s attention was going to hell. I sure didn’t blame her. “Just a couple more questions for now, Linda. Did he have any credit cards? A driver’s license? Things like that?”

“Yes. He did.” She was trying.

“We’ll need the numbers from his credit cards,” I said. “Since we can’t rule out a robbery motive, we need to check if there’s any activity on them in the next couple of weeks.”

“Sure.”

“Then…”

“You’ll have to have her permission to do that,” said Terri, interrupting.

“All you have to do, Linda,” I said, “is look over your statements and make sure there aren’t any charges you haven’t put there yourself.” I looked up at Terri. She seemed satisfied. I really didn’t need her getting all overprotective on us. I looked back to Linda. “What state was his driver’s license in? Do you know?”

“Iowa.”

That caught me by surprise. “You sure?” I was assuming he still had a California license, since our record search indicated that all the Cuevas in Iowa who had a DL were female. “When did he get it?”

“After we moved in together. About five months ago.”

“So, he had, like, a California one before that?”

“No,” said Linda. “No, he never had one before, as far as I know.”

Interesting. “Did he drive, though? Before he got his license?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you two meet?” I needed to establish more background on Cueva, if possible.

“The plant. I used to work there.”

“Okay, so, when was that? About how long ago?”

“About six months ago… early August, this year.”

I’m always surprised at just how fast some people dive into a relationship. “So you’ve known him for a good six months, then?”

“Yeah,” she said, and started to cry again.

Linda, who’d started in a bad state for an interview, was losing ground fast. I felt sorry for her, but… well, I really needed her in a frame of mind where she’d be able to focus, so I asked Terri to take her home to Battenberg and I’d be there after lunch.

“I’ll take you to the clinic first,” Terri told her. “You’re going to need something…”

Linda just nodded.

I wasn’t happy about the clinic, but Terri was right. Since Linda wasn’t a suspect, we’d be able to talk again even though she may have had a mild sedative. Interviewing any witness who’s in an induced state is a pretty slippery slope, but I really didn’t see a problem with this one.

Hester and Dr. Steven Peters met me at the office for lunch. They had grabbed some burgers, but I was sticking to my new diet and had put rice and low-fat sausage patties in the microwave in the jail kitchen. To make the stuff palatable, I’d bought a bottle of Uncle Bob’s Hickory Smoke Flavor, which I sprinkled liberally on the “food” in the plastic bowl before I nuked it. It hadn’t tasted too bad the other times I’d had it, but the odor took a bit of getting used to.

“Is there something burning?” asked Hester.

“No, it’s my lunch.”

“You sure? “she asked.

“Yep.”

“It does smell like smoke,” said Dr. Peters. “Really.”

I went to the cupboard and showed them the bottle. “Want some? It tastes better than it smells.”

“Hard to believe,” said Hester dryly. “No thanks. Besides, the smell’s already affecting my taste.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “So, I hope there was nothing unexpected about the cause of death?”

“The cause of death,” said Dr. Peters, “was remarkably easy to determine, if that’s what you mean. GSW, head. Massive trauma. More the effect of the gas pressure than the shot pellets,” he said. He took a swig of pop from the can. “Toxicology will be back in a day or two, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.” He grinned. “Anything toxic would have to work very, very quickly to beat the gunshot wound in this one.”

“That’s a lot to be thankful for,” I said. “The simpler the better. You knew, didn’t you, that we have a new county attorney?”

“No! Really? What happened?”

Hester laughed, but said nothing. Dr. Peters looked questioningly at her. “Better if he tells it,” she said, nodding toward me.

“The old one developed a skin irritation, or an allergy or something. Really. They said it was the pollen, maybe herbicides, maybe mold spores. So he moved.”

“Really? “Dr. Peters looked quizzically at Hester.

“That’s not the funny part,” she said.

“Nobody wanted the job,” I said. That was quite true. The county considered it a part-time job, so they paid whoever it was about thirty thousand bucks a year. Nation County was lucky to get any lawyer at that rate, and what they ended up with was often an attorney who had to have a full-time regular practice on the side just to make ends meet. When they did that, they’d occasionally find themselves being asked to prosecute their own clients. Not good. Nobody who’d made it through law school wanted those hassles, with one general exception. Newbies.

“So you don’t have one, currently?”

Hester laughed again. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“We have one,” I said. “Named Carson Hilgenberg. He passed the bar last July. This is his first job.”

Hester couldn’t let it drop. “Tell him the rest of it, Houseman.”

I looked at Dr. Peters. Hell, he had to know, if for no other reason than to be able to anticipate what he might have to face with the courts. “He’s the nephew of the chairman of the Board of Supervisors.”

“Does that complicate things?” asked Dr. Peters. “It isn’t really nepotism if he’s elected.”

“Carson didn’t actually run for office. The Board appointed him. That’s not the problem. Even his uncle can’t stand him and was hoping he wouldn’t pass the bar. The problem is, there were no other applicants. That and he literally couldn’t find a job anywhere else.” I cleared my throat. “He’s kind of an idiot.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Peters. “What’s he like in court?”

“Never seen him there,” I said. “He even bargains traffic tickets. Far as I know, he’s never tried a case even in magistrate’s court.”

“I guess we get really specific for him, then,” said Dr. Peters.

“Pictures,” said Hester. “I’d suggest lots and lots of pictures.”

HESTER AND I WENT TO BATTENBERG
, stopped at Linda’s apartment, above the local hardware store, and picked up a manila envelope taped to the door. It was addressed to me, and contained two photos of the late Jesus Ramon Cueva, along with what appeared to be copies of a birth certificate and a Social Security card in his name, and a home address for his mother Maria in L. A. Attached was a note saying that Terri and Linda were at the clinic and would be back later.

We took the stuff to the Battenberg City Clerk, to have copies made. The birth certificate said Cueva was born in Los Angeles County, California. Mother’s name was given as Maria Helena Cueva, father as Jesus Ramon. The home address of Maria Cueva was 4024 Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, 91604. No phone number. I phoned the Social Security number in to Sally at the office.

“Hey, run this SSN for me in the criminal history files, will you? Nationwide, of course.”

“You always want that,” she said. “You sure you don’t want international? That’s fun.”

“No, just the States and territories.”

“Well, all right. So, then, what else? You always need more than that.”

“Well, get a teletype off to LAPD, and see if a Maria Cueva still lives at forty-twenty-four Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, will you? She’s our victim’s mother, and they’ll have to notify her that her son Ramon is deceased.” We absolutely never notify the survivors over the phone.

“No problem. What else?”

“That ought to do it, actually.”

“You kidding me?”

“Nope. That’s all. Really,” I continued, into the silence at the other end.

“You’re no fun,” she said.

While we were in Battenberg, I thought it was a good idea to connect with Hector in person. I wanted to introduce him to Hester and to check on what he knew about Rudy. I called his cell phone and asked if he could meet us at the Battenberg Public Library. Hector went there quite often to use their computers and check his Hotmail account. He said he was headed there anyway.

Martha Taylor was the librarian. She’d been in my class at Maitland High. Small, slender, and in her middle fifties, she waved as Hester and I walked in.

“Carl. Good to see you again.” She said that while looking at Hester.

“Martha, this is an agent friend of mine,” I said. “Hester Gorse.” They shook hands. “You mind if we sit at that table over there? We’re expecting my usual guest.”

“No, that’s fine. If you need anything, let me know.” She pointed to the Christmas decorations festooning the children’s section. “I’ll be over there, putting tinsel on the tree.”

“Thanks.” Martha was just great about my meeting Hector at the library. Never asked. Never pried.

Hector was with us in five minutes. He seemed a bit taken aback when he saw Hester but was impressed with her credentials. His shyness lasted about two seconds.

“Rudy was in heavy with some very bad people,” he told us. “Nobody knows why they did him, man, but they truly did it. His whole head was really gone?”

“Just about,” I said. I pushed the photos over to him. “Those look much like him?”

He looked for a moment. “These are pretty good. This one, this is a very good likeness.” He held up one that depicted a good-looking man with a mustache.

“Thanks,” I said, and retrieved the photos. “We’re going to notify his relatives in L.A. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you?” I always hope.

“Hell, man, he ain’t got no relatives in L.A.”

Hester and I exchanged glances. “You know that for sure? “I asked.

“For certain, man. I got relatives in L.A. Not Rudy.”

“You know where I could find them? Mexico?”

Hector laughed in amazement. “Hell, man, Rudy wasn’t no Mexican. He’s a high and mighty dude from Colombia.”

I don’t know about anywhere else, but in the close confines of Battenberg, the Mexican and Colombian communities didn’t get along very well. The Colombians tended to look down on the Mexicans for some reason, and the Mexicans reciprocated.

“How did you know him, Hector?” asked Hester.

“Oh, he started in the plant same day as me. We did the cleanup on the guts that spilled on the floor. Everybody’s the same, that job,” he said, with a broad grin. “Nobody better than anybody in that stink. Besides, he was illegal,” said Hector.

“Illegal?” I asked. “How do you mean that?”

“He was an illegal alien,” said Hector. “What you suppose? Hell, man, I thought you would know that already.”

“We’re just getting started,” I said. Crap. Immigration and Naturalization should be notified, and that was very likely to add another layer or two of complication and delay.

“Okay. Anyway, Rudy, he needed somebody to help him out, and we talked about things on break. He wanted to know things about L.A., about if I was from a barrio, the names of places and streets, people and things.” He smiled. “He was hard to make out, you know? He din’ speak much English, and I cannot understand his Spanish hardly at all. All the Colombians speak funny.”

You learn something every day. “Like the way we speak English here?” I asked.

“You got that right,” he said, and laughed. “Ya, you betcha,” he said, sounding just exactly like he’d been born in Minnesota. It was remarkable.

“Hey, that’s good!” I said.

“Thank you, I think so too,” he said. “My sister says I have a talent.” He got very serious, very quickly. “Rudy’s illegal. So are the ones who did this, but I don’t know names or where they are right now.”

“Do they work in the plant?”

“Rudy did, for sure. The others, though, I don’t know. I doan think so. They’re around, you know? The plant. But not regular, not like they gotta work there. They are there sometimes. But they ain’t around any one special place. They sometimes hang around in the break room.”