Blindman's Bluff (19 page)

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.”

T
HERE 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.”

“What work did you do?” Marge asked him.

“Longshoreman. I spent my life loading and unloading docks. Good pay, but long hours and backbreaking work. Still, I paid all my bills and never owed anyone a red cent.” He sipped tea. “You want some more brew, missy?”

“No, thank you.”

Porter looked at Oliver. “What about you, sir?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Oliver said. “So your son didn’t have your work ethic?”

“Pshaw.” Porter waved his hand in the air. “Erstin had a work ethic for one thing only. He made himself a daddy when he was fifteen, then again at sixteen. By the time he got around to Wendy, Erstin was an old pro.”

“That’s a lot of babies,” Marge said. “Do you keep in contact with your grandsons?”

“One of ’em is in prison.” Porter rolled his eyes. “The other one loved cars from the get-go. He moved to St. Louis and sells Porsches. He’s a good kid.”

Another sip of tea.

“Erstin was shot about two months before Neptune was born. The girl’s parents wanted to put the baby up for adoption, of course. But when I got wind of it, I put up a fight. I wanted the boy especially since I lost my own son…” His eyes got pensive. “A judge saw it my way. The girl relinquished claim on him.”

Oliver said, “Do you have the girl’s full name?”

“Wendy Anderson…” He held up his hands and let them drop into his lap. “She called me out of the blue one day…just like you did. She wanted to visit the boy and I said fine. Neptune was a good-looking boy—tall like his daddy but he looked like his mommy. He was a charmer like his daddy.”

The detectives waited.

“The next day, Wendy and her parents show up at my door, all sweetness and light. One minute they want nothin’ to do with the boy, the next minute they’re trying to play with my sympathies. Wendy…she’s crying and crying. I believed that she really cared. But the parents. Hah! The boy could pass…that’s all they cared about.”

Marge nodded.

“They had no legal grounds to get the boy back. But then there are moral grounds. I felt for that little girl. I lost my son and she had feeling for her little boy. I wouldn’t give up custody—no sirreebob—but I did tell the judge that maybe we could work something out.”

He finished his tea and smiled with yellow teeth. “And we did. She wound up taking him alternative weekends and every Wednesday night. When he had to go to school and couldn’t sleep over in the city no more, she’d drive all the way out here, take him for dinner, and then drive all the way back. Tell you the truth, as he grew up, he became a handful. I didn’t mind the relief. When the boy was eight, she married, became a lawyer, and had kids of her own. But she still kept it up with Neptune. Every other weekend and every
Wednesday, that girl was there like clockwork. I was the boy’s daddy, but she molded herself into one fine mommy.”