The Emerald Cat Killer (15 page)

“Then why the knife?”

“Why a duck? You want these creeps to make sense? If the girl panicked and forgot her lines, then her partner might have done the same. He's dangerous. Violent. That's assuming the girl's partner was a boy. Might have been a two-girl team. Gender equality is real big in Berkeley.”

Nobody laughed.

“He might have planned a simple mugging but nobody made him carry that knife with him,” Marvia continued. “If he'd left the knife at home … well, he might still have clouted Coffman with the rock, there's no telling, but when we catch the thug and his skank ho, that knife will go against him. Big time. He might have grabbed the rock and hit Coffman in a moment of panic but he brought that knife with him. That's premeditation. We'll get the creep and that will be important when we take the case over to the DA.”

She stood up. “Enough. We can sit here and play Clue all day but the only way to catch the bad guys is to go out and grab 'em by the ear and drag 'em to the principal's office.”

Lindsey said, “Fair enough. I'll go pay a visit to Alta Bates, and then I'm off to Universal Data Services in Oakland.”

“Good. You keep chasing that computer. But listen, that's not just a piece of evidence in your civil case. It's a murder weapon. I'm sending an officer with you. Strombeck, hunt up Jo Rossi. She's smart and she needs to get out of the shop and back on the street.”

Lindsey did not protest.

*   *   *

Marvia Plum scampered back to her own office and got on the horn to the OPD gang unit. She reminded them of who she was—they were not strangers—and told them what she was planning to do.

The duty officer at OPD asked if she wanted a partner or backup. She said no, she was only investigating at this point. Before she left BPD headquarters, she checked out Steve Damon and came up dry. That was no surprise. She tried Rigoberto Chocron and discovered that he'd entered the country legally on a student visa and enrolled at Laney College in Oakland. He'd dropped out of Laney and his student visa had been cancelled. He was eligible for deportation but he had dropped off the radar and
la migra
had no idea where he was.

Still, he was hardly a high priority ICE target. He was one of the twelve million illegals in the country.

Thanks be to the Goddess Justitia for zapping a brain wave to Hobart Lindsey and getting him to snap that cell-phone shot of Chocron. It was hardly portrait quality but it was good enough to give Marvia an idea of what Chocron looked like. And another break—apparently Rigoberto Chocron was his real name. There must be a thousand Juan Gonzalezes in the Bay Area, and as many Martín Perezes, not to mention the nonexistent Steve Damon. But there was at least a chance that she could locate the one and only Rigoberto Chocron.

She used the voluminous pockets of a loose-fitting, padded jacket to carry her equipment. She stopped at Dorothy Yamura's office on her way out of the building. When she explained her mission to Captain Yamura, Yamura asked how she hoped to get Chocron to talk, assuming that she was able to find him.

“From Hobart Lindsey's report, Chocron is amenable to a little cash persuasion.”

Yamura looked pensive. “That's a dangerous tactic.”

“Do you have another suggestion?”

After a moment of contemplation, Yamura said, “Yes, I have.” She explained her idea and Marvia reacted enthusiastically. As Marvia left Yamura's office, Yamura was reaching for the telephone.

Lieutenant Plum revved up her souped-up Falcon and headed for Oakland. She found a parking place on Foothill Boulevard and strolled into Los Arcos. A smiling Mexican man gestured her toward a table but she stopped him and asked if he spoke English. His reply indicated that his linguistic skills were even more limited than her own, but she managed to get a message across.

“Busco a Rigoberto Chocron. Está aquí?”

The man smiled at her Spanish. He shook his head and shrugged.
“No está. No le conozco.”

No, he didn't know him but he knew he wasn't here.

“Chocron usa su teléfono, no es verdad?”

“No, señora, no tenemos un teléfono.”

Right. She believed that absolutely, and by the way, did Los Arcos happen to have a nice big
puente
they'd like to sell? She could set up tollbooths and get rich that way.

The trouble was, as far as she knew, Chocron wasn't wanted for anything except an immigration complaint, and that was a
muy
low priority. You could smoke pot on the police HQ lawn if you really wanted to get arrested, before any Berkeley or Oakland cop would hassle you over a
migra
beef.

No point in staking out Los Arcos in hopes of finding Chocron. At least at this point.

She told the man
“Grácias,”
and went on her way.

At the pawnshop on East Fourteenth Street she stopped and studied the contents of the window. As she walked in she spotted a shape disappearing into the back of the store. Nothing she could do about that. The woman behind the counter was obviously the
prestamista,
exactly as Hobart Lindsey had described her.

Marvia faced her.
“Señora Crista?”

“Sí.”

“Habla el Ingles?”

“Poco.
Do you speech the Spanish?”

“Poquito.”

“Okay, then. Let's use English, okay? What do you want? You come here to pawn something or to buy something?”

“Neither. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“You're a real cop. You not
la migra
. I can smell them a mile away.” She held her nose. “Regular cops smell different from
la migra.
I didn't smell you until you came into my store. What do you want? You OPD? You looking for stolen goods? I don't take stolen goods.”

Whoo!
Talk about busted! This lady was pretty sharp. In her line of work it made sense.

“I saw some computer equipment in your window. I'm trying to find a laptop computer.”

“We get them sometimes. I don't think we got any right now.”

“I'm looking for a particular one. You might have had it and then the owner redeemed it or you sold it.”

“When would that be? You know when that would be, when you think we maybe had it? You got a serial number? Brand? What?”

Marvia flipped to her notebook. So much for blending into the community. She hadn't identified herself as an officer, but
Crista-la-prestamista
didn't need her to do that. She read the data she'd gotten from the Simmons case file.

Crista pursed her lips. She shot a glance toward the back room; from her side of the counter Marvia could not see who or what was back there. Crista said, “I'll have to go look it up. We have to keep records, you know; it's the law.” She paused but Marvia did not take the bait.

Crista disappeared.

There was the sound of hushed conversation from the back. For a moment, Marvia considered circling the counter and confronting Crista and whoever she was talking with. It might even be Rigoberto Chocron himself. Lindsey had said that Chocron and Crista were acquainted. He wasn't sure how chummy they were; at one point, Crista was treating Chocron as a casual acquaintance, but then again Lindsey described Chocron doing his Latin-lover act on the woman.

Will the real Crista please stand up.

The woman reappeared. “Maybe I can help you. Maybe I'm not so sure. Why did you say you want this computer?”

“For starters, it was stolen.”

“Recently?”

“No. A year ago, a little more.”

“So why you looking for it now? What could it be worth? Maybe a few dollars? Maybe even a hundred dollars? These things, they keep changing them, don't they? This one you're looking for, why you even care anymore?”

“Crista, this particular laptop was involved in at least one very serious crime. Completely aside from the original theft.”

“And you think you know who did this thing?”

“Who was that in the back?”

“What?”

“Who were you talking to in the back room?”

“Just the janitor. He came to take out the trash from the store.”

“I don't think so.”

“All right, so maybe he don't have any green card. You gonna bust him?”

Marvia shook her head. “You already figured out I'm not ICE, I'm not
la migra.
I don't care if he's from Mexico or Mars. I'm not going to arrest him.”

“But you a cop, right? I told you, cops have a smell.”

“Okay, I'm a cop. But all I want right now is some information, and I think your friend, your—well, never mind, I think he can help me.”

“What you want from him?”

“He brought the computer in here and pawned it, didn't he? Did he redeem it, or did you sell it to somebody else?”

“What's the difference? It's gone. I don't have it no more.”

“Señora, what I need to know now is how the person who pawned it got it. That was Rigoberto Chocron, wasn't it? Is Rigoberto here? He's the person you were talking with. He's not in trouble, I promise. I just need to talk to him.”

“Oh, I understand. A cop would never tell a lie, right? You wait here for a minute.”

She disappeared again, then returned. “Nobody back there. I guess the janitor finish his work and leave. He not a very reliable character, you know?”

This was not going well. If Marvia tried to lean on Crista that would be the end of any chance from this angle. “Okay, look, suppose I give you my contact information.” She produced her card and slid it across the glass countertop.

Crista picked it up and studied it. She said, “You wait here a little longer.”

Crista disappeared once more and—surprise!—Rigoberto Chocron appeared in her place. Lindsey had done a good job with his cell phone. This was definitely the guy.

Chocron said, “Why you so interested in that laptop computer? I used it for school. I didn't like the course. It was women's poetry. I thought it might be kind of, you know, maybe romantic. But it was mainly about hating men and women loving other women. Not my kind of stuff, you know? So I hocked the thing. I was gonna come back for it but I didn't really need it so I just left it.”

“Mr. Chocron—” For a moment she feared that he was either going to bolt or attack her. The former would be bad enough but the latter—she really did not want a violent encounter with an angry illegal in the middle of his turf.

But he waited, poised. She could read the fight-or-flight tropism ready to go either way.

“Señor Chocron,” she tried again, “I'm sure you heard my conversation with Crista.”

He nodded.

“I'm not after you. I'm trying to backtrack the trail of that computer. I only came here to find out who Crista got it from. Now if you could tell me who you got it from, I'd be one step closer to catching a really bad person.”

“How bad?”

“A killer.”

“Gang stuff? I don't get involved in no gang stuff. That's much too dangerous, too many people get killed. Mexicans, blacks, we kill each other, nobody cares. You're pretty black, lady, you ought to know that. Somebody white must of got killed. Is that it?”

“I can't go into that. I can only promise you, I'm not after you. You're just a link in a chain and I have to keep going.”

“A link, hey?” He nodded, ran brown fingers across his face. He was actually handsome in a fast-moving, elusive kind of way. “You wearing a wire?”

Marvia said, “No. I'll level with you. I am carrying communication equipment but it's turned off. And I am armed, yes. But I don't expect to use any force today. I really just want to talk.”

He considered. Then, “All right. Hold on.” To Crista, a staccato burst of Spanish that Marvia couldn't begin to follow, but the response was clearly positive. Chocron gestured toward the curtained area and Marvia followed him into the back room.

It was dusty and cluttered, with a few chairs and a table and a microwave. Chocron gestured. “Sit down.”

She did.

“Ask.”

“When did you obtain the computer? Where? How? From whom?”

“I bought it.”

“Really? Did you know it had been stolen?”

“No. We just like the army around here.”

“I don't understand.”

“Don't ask, don't tell.”

“So who did you buy it from?”

“I don't know.”

“Somebody on the street?”

“No.”

She waited. Finally he gave in.

“I bought it at a flea market.”

“Where?”

“I don't remember. There a lot of flea markets around here. People not so rich, you know? Not everybody can go to fancy stores and pay top dollar. You know? We buy at thrift shops, cheap bodegas, flea markets.”

“I understand. But I want you to try and remember. It's not like a can of soup, you know, you don't buy a computer every day.”

“That's for sure. But she told me I need one.”

“Who did?”

“My poetry professor. Professor Rostum. Rosemary Rostum.”

“Did she tell you where to get it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Come on, Rigo, you can do better than that.”

“Why should I? That other guy, that insurance guy, he still owes me money. He think he can burn me and get away with it, no way. But he paid me.”

“How much?”

“Thirty dollars.”

Marvia suppressed a grin. “Well, you're ahead of the game. I just need a little more information and I'll leave you alone. And I promise, not a word to ICE.”

“Okay, I got it at that flea market out near the coliseum.”

“By the freeway there?”

“That's the one. An old drive-in movie place. You can get some good stuff there.”