A Long December (13 page)

“Are they Colombians, too?” Hester asked.

“Not all of them, ma’am. Some are,” and he leaned forward to whisper, “some are from other places. Some are Hispanics, some are dark-skinned from somewhere I doan know, some are whites.”

Oh, great.

“One of those whites happen to be a tall, kind of blond dude?”

“I would say there is a very good chance of that,” said Hector, with a smile. He did like to kid me. “But really, yes. I do not know his name, but I think they call him Cheeto, you know, like the corn chips in the bag.”

“Any of’em live here in Battenberg?” I hoped.

“I cannot say that, man. I never see them go home anywhere here.”

“What do they drive? “asked Hester.

“More than one set of wheels,” said Hector. “Sometimes in a Chevy pickup, sometimes a Jap car.”

“What kind of Jap car? “I asked.

“Honda, maybe Subaru, or something like that.”

“What color?” asked Hester.

“Kind of a calf-shit yellow,” said Hector. He’d picked up local descriptors in a hurry, I noticed.

“Tan?” asked Hester. “Cream-colored?”

Hector looked about the room. “Like that,” he said, pointing at a tropical poster on the far wall. “Like the sand in the picture.”

It could have been described as cream-colored. Maybe. Under certain lighting conditions.

“Okay, got it,” I said. I lowered my voice. “So, you’re telling us that this is dope-related?”

“No way, man,” said Hector. “Not with Ramon, anyway. I doan know what, but it’s much bigger than dope.”

“What is it?” asked Hester.

“I don’ know.” His accent was beginning to thicken. Hector was nervous.

“Got a guess? “I asked. I figured he knew.

“All I know,” he said, “is that the word is ‘you do not in any way fuck with these people.’ And before you ask me, no, I don’ know who they are. I have seen them, I think. I don’ even know that for sure, man. I’m
telliri
you, these are very, very bad men.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you think you’ve seen them—assuming it might have been them—what do they look like?”

He hesitated. “I don’ want to say this,” he whispered. He took a deep breath, and let it out. “Hokay. Look, there is one tall white guy, man, and two Latinos, one is very ugly in the face. Like an accident with a wall, man. And one dark-skinned man who dresses really well, you know? Expensive things. Very long nose. Very quiet. And one dark-skin dude with an Anglo nose. Maybe he comes from Argentina or Brazil or something. He’s always got on a Yankees baseball cap. He’s crazy, like wired, you know? But I doan think he’s doin’ much dope. He’s natural crazy.” He looked around. “I think maybe I should go.”

“New York Yankees? You think he’s from New York?” I always hate asking obvious questions.

“No way, man. Maybe he’s a baseball fan,” said Hector.

“The white guy… is he local?”

“I doan know.” He looked around. “I never met this dude, man. That’s the way I want to keep it.”

White. Well, the local label sure fit. But Battenberg also had a substantial Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian community, all first-generation and very recent. White would apply to them as well. I wasn’t done with that line of questioning yet, but I thought we could keep up an informal but cooperative relationship if I didn’t pressure him, at least not yet.

“At least some are connected to the meat plant, though?” I asked. We were going to have to start interviewing a broader set of witnesses. Well, just as soon as we developed something to ask them.

“There’s a bunch that work at the plant who might know something, but good luck with that today.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The plant is closed. They say it’s in honor of Rudy, but the real reason is that most of the workers ain’ there.” Hector grinned. “Illegals. You know how it goes. They won’t be back for a while… three, four days, most of them.”

“You’re kidding.” The last time this had happened it cost us three days. There had been a murder in the Hispanic community, and they all thought they’d be deported if they talked to us.

“No, I am not. Some of them even went away last night.” The grin got bigger. “Just like last time.”

“Any idea where they went? “asked Hester.

Hector shrugged. “Probably most of them are here somewhere. Just not at work, where you can find them.” He grinned again. “Not even to the Casey’s for cigarettes, not today. Maybe not tomorrow, too.” The grin faded. “The ones who know Rudy the best, they have probably gone a distance. They worry about the cops
and
the Immigration Service.”

Well, damn. Now we’d have to go to the plant, get home addresses, and try not to scare any illegals into running before we could talk to them.

“Did he have any close friends you know of?”

“Maybe two. Maybe three. You already talk to Linda?”

I nodded.

“She better be careful, too. She don’ know the way things are. She’s from Iowa.”

“You think she’s in danger? “asked Hester.

Hector shrugged. “I don’t know what she knows. Maybe
she
don’t know what she knows, either. You know?”

I thought he’d summed it up pretty well. “Yeah, I know. Hell, Hector, there are some days I’m not even sure of what I know myself.”

He thought that was funny. “I got to go, to look normal. But you be careful, Mr. Houseman. I would miss you.”

“Stay in touch,” I said. “Maybe it would be best it we just talk on the phone for a while.”

He stood, and stuck out his hand to Hester. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Hester shook hands with him, and he walked over to the bank of half a dozen public access computers, picked one, and sat down, completely ignoring us. If someone had walked in ten seconds later, there would have been absolutely no indication we’d ever talked.

“Second one from the right,” said Hester. “Remember that.”

“Got it.”

We headed out the door. “He works in the plant?”

“Yep. Well, that’s his official job,” I said, as soon as we were outside.

“Official?”

“Well, he’s a dope dealer in real life,” I said. “Ecstasy and meth, in small quantities. Makes a profit, though. That’s what I hear, anyway. Can’t prove it yet.”

“You get interesting snitches, Houseman. For a Norwegian.”

“He says he likes it here in Iowa,” I said, as we got in the car. “Just like a lot of the Latino dope dealers do. They’ll tell you that the cops here don’t beat ‘em up just because they’re Mexicans. The other dope dealers don’t shoot ‘em here, and the local customers pay up front.”

“What more could you ask for, right? “She shook her head. “Let’s hear it for family values.”

“Like Hector says, ‘Ya, you betcha.’”

Hester and I headed back to Linda’s apartment, to return the originals we’d been given. I called the office on the radio and let them know we were in the car.

“Ten-four, Three,” said Sally. “Ten-twenty-one the office.”

She wanted me to phone in. “Ten-four.” I handed Hester my cell phone, and she dialed as I drove.

“Hey, Sally, it’s Hester. Is this for us, or just for Houseman?” There was a pause. “No kidding? Really? Okay, I’ll pass it along. Oh, he’ll love this, all right. No, you tell him.”

She handed the phone back to me. “It’s Sally.”

“I knew that,” I said. I took the phone. “Well?”

“Well, looks like your case is going to shit, Houseman,” said Sally. “The address in Los Angeles you gave me? The one where his mother lives?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a movie studio. A movie lot. Where they make pictures.”

Sally sounded very much entertained. “The LAPD say it was a studio from year one. The old Republic lot, I think they called it. At least since the thirties. Never residential.”

“Well, damn,” I said. “That’s great news. I just found out he was never in L.A. anyway.”

“Sure, you did.”

“No, really. But cross-check the Social Security book, and see where his SSN originated. That might not be California, either. And, hey, we still got those CDs with all the phone directories in the U.S. on ‘em?” I suspected Hector was right, and that Rudy was indeed illegal. But it never hurts to check as thoroughly as possible. I decided not to share that information with Sally just yet. She’d be inclined to search harder, I thought, if she didn’t know.

“Sure, but it’s not
everybody
, you know. But I’ll be glad to, before you even ask. Give Hester my best.”

“One more thing,” I interjected quickly, before she could hang up.

“What?”

“Call the packing plant and see if they’re working a full shift today, will you?”

“Why, you hungry again already?”

“Just do it. Call me as soon as you get some hard data, okay?”

“You bet. Can I come out and do my Sheriff’s Reserve thing on this one?”

I had to laugh at that. Sally was a reserve officer, and a good one. But it seemed to me that every time we had her put that particular hat on, things went to hell in a handbasket.

“Sure,” I said. “But not until it gets worse than you can make it.”

I parked in front of Linda’s apartment.

“First thing,” I said, “is to call LEIN, and see if there’s been a one-oh-two submitted on anybody called Cheeto.” LEIN is the acronym for the Iowa Law Enforcement Intelligence Network. A 102 is the standard form that an agency will submit when it has important data on a suspect. Narcotics involvement, burglary, things of that sort. The 102 includes a place to list nicknames.

“Let’s do it,” she said. She had the number programmed into her cell phone and was talking to the senior analyst in about five seconds. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Nation County Sheriff’s Department. Okay, I’ll tell him. Bye.”

She put the phone back in her inside jacket pocket. “Norma says hi, and she didn’t have anything in the standard fields. She’s checking with the adjoining states. She’ll get back to us.”

“Good. Norma’s cool.” We got out of the warm car and into the sharp twenty-degree air. “So,” I said to Hester, “what do you think? Do we tell her, or do we assume she’s been lying to us?”

“I’d be inclined to trust her,” said Hester. “I think Ramon was lying to Linda. Big time.”

We headed up the stairs. “I hope,” I said, “that she doesn’t take this too hard. The kid’s already had a bad day.”

I needn’t have worried. Terri answered the door and ushered us in. Linda was totally zonked in a recliner, wrapped up in a blanket with a pillow under her head. She was leaning her cheek against the head of a dark brown teddy bear that was cradled in her arm. She snored quietly.

“They gave her ten cc’s of Valium, IM,” said Terry in a low voice, holding a finger to her lips to tell us to be quiet. “She’s out.”

“No shit.” I whispered back.

“Yeah. She’ll be that way for a few hours. Want a cup of coffee?” she asked, as I handed her the manila envelope.

“Sure.” The three of us adjourned to the kitchen.

We talked in hushed voices, but we talked. Terri was in a talking mood.

“She’s not sure of anything right now,” she said. “And not just because she’s out like a light.”

“Sure.”

“He had some strange friends, Houseman. I still don’t have the names, but she’s got some pictures of a wedding they went to in Minneapolis about three weeks ago. Rudy’s friends. Strange people. Want to see ‘em?”

As if I’d decline an offer like that. In a minute, they were spread out on the little kitchen table.

It looked like a big wedding, and an expensive one. Everybody happy, all dressed up and smiling for the camera. There was quite a mixed bag in attendance, about as culturally diverse as Battenberg. The theme was sort of Tex-Mex, judging from the attire of the band, but there were all sorts of people there. The composition of the head table caught my eye. The obvious bride and groom, of course. A nice looking Latino couple in their late twenties or early thirties. There was a thin-faced man at the table, maybe a bit older than the happy couple. Intense-looking, dark complected, and it almost looked like he was the center of attention instead of the bride and groom. Along with him were two blond young women; a reddish-blond young man; a studious-looking young man of about twenty with a good tan and black hair and glasses; and a small, very pale young woman with close-cropped black hair.

I handed the first photo to Hester. “Keep this one in mind.”

She gave it a quick look and then glanced up at me. “Okay, but I must be missing something.”

As we continued to go through the photos, I noticed that in seven of the thirty or so shots, the thin-faced man was depicted with various groups all around what I assumed was the church hall.

“You know who this one is? “I asked Terri, pushing a photo across the table to her and pointing at the thin-faced man.

She nodded. “Yeah, I do. I met him here, once. I was over here to see Linda, and this guy and Rudy came in. Nobody introduced us, so I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.”

“Do you remember his name? “asked Hester.

“He never gave it. Just looked at me like I was some super ditzoid, and said,

‘I greet you. Or, really, more like ‘I greed you.’ That’s an exact quote, by the way.”

“Do you know if he works here in town?” I asked.

“I don’t know another thing about him,” said Terri. “Well, except that he’s pretty highly regarded by Rudy. Was, I mean.” She pushed the photo back over the table to me. “Check out the little Mexican dude in this one. With the ears and the hat. The one that looks lost.”

The one she was pointing out looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. Chunky, almost. It looked like he was dressed in his very best shirt and string tie, with an absolutely outstanding tan Stetson in his hand. He also had an absolutely outstanding pair of ears. Literally. They stuck straight out from the sides of his head. He was standing stiffly, as if he was uncomfortable. He was smiling, but with his large dark eyes he did indeed appear lost. He looked very much like the poor relative you can see at just about any wedding or funeral you go to. “What about him?”

“That’s the one they call Orejas. He’s Rudy’s little shadow, always hanging around. Works at the plant. He’s harmless, but a real pest.”

“How so?”