The Impaler (16 page)

“You have some of the same friends?” Markham asked, reaching inside his pocket. “Does this guy look familiar to you?”

Markham handed him a picture of Billy Canning. The boy scanned it quickly.

“No,” said Diego, handing back the paper. “Like I said, me and Jose wasn’t close.” There was a hint of regret in the kid’s voice—almost shame, Markham thought—and he folded Canning’s picture back into his pocket.

“You know where Jose might have gone on the night he disappeared?” he asked.

“If you think he went and seen that lawyer for something, you’s even more wack than the police. Cuz that’s the only reason we seeing y’all again. Cuz of that lawyer. They smoked that motherfucker the way they did Jose. That’s the only reason why y’all so worried about Jose again after almost two months of us seeing no one.”

“There’s been a development,” Markham said. “And I assure you I’m going to do my best to find your brother’s—

Markham noticed something catch Diego’s eye. He followed it and saw a little girl at the opposite stairwell. She cradled a cat in her arms.

“Go inside, Marla,” Diego said. The girl didn’t move. “You hear what I said? Or do you want me to give you another beating before Papa gets home?”

“Auntie said I could look for Paco,
tú pendejo.
”

Markham smiled in spite of himself. He knew from working in Tampa that
pendejo
meant dumb-ass.

Diego didn’t move—only looked back at Markham cynically and said: “May I go now, sir?”

“Yes. But tell your aunt that I’ll send your sister in after I talk to her, okay?”

Diego nodded and sulked into the apartment without looking back. Markham approached the little girl.

“That’s a pretty cat,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Paco.”

“How old is he?”

“Papa says he’s about a year old, but nobody’s sure, really. He was a stray and was living here before we moved in. But he likes me best. You a policeman?”

“No, I’m with the FBI. You know what the FBI is?”

“I think so. It’s like a policeman only you work for the President.”

“That’s right,” Markham said, smiling.

“Is that black car over there yours or the President’s?”

“I wish it was mine, but the President just lets me borrow it.”

“Did Diego ask you to sit in it?”

“No. Why?”

“Cuz Diego keeps telling Hector he’s going to buy a Ford Explorer someday after he gets his license. The Ford Explorer looks kind of like your car. Diego says he’s going to get a black one like yours and give Hector a ride in it before anybody else. Hector is my cousin. He’s older than me.”

“That wasn’t very nice, you know, what you said to Diego.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Diego let Paco out on purpose when it was raining just to be mean to me. The policemen, the ones who came after Jose died, they spoke Spanish and, well, you didn’t look like you knew how to speak Spanish.”

“I don’t. Just a few words. Your English is much better than my Spanish.”

“Papa doesn’t like us to speak Spanish too much. Only when he doesn’t understand us. He wants us to learn English so we can all go to college someday. Diego says he’s not going to college. Says he’s going to be rapper or a DJ, but even his English is better than Papa’s. You won’t tell Papa what I said to Diego, will you?”

“No. It’s a secret between us. Your name is Marla?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sam Markham. Your first name and my last name sound a little alike, don’t you think? Marla and Markham?”

“Yes, they do.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“You brought back our computer?”

“Your computer?”

“Oh,” said the girl, deflating. “I guess you didn’t. I thought we were finally going to get our computer back. The policemen took it away when Jose died. Papa called about it a couple of weeks ago and they said they needed to keep it for evidence. Diego said they probably sold it and kept the money, but he doesn’t really care cuz Hector has a computer. I don’t get to use it very much cuz they’re always hogging it. Do you know if the police still have it, Mr. Markham?”

“Call me Sam. And I will check on it. Did Jose use your old computer a lot?”

“Not that much,” Marla said, scratching behind Paco’s ears. “We spent a lot of time together when he wasn’t working. He was my best friend.”

“Did you know any of his friends?” Markham held up the picture of Billy Canning. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Billy Canning. Do you recognize him? A friend of Jose’s maybe?”

“No,” Marla said, studying the picture. “But Jose had a lot of friends. You didn’t come to the funeral, but there were a lot of people there. But I don’t know this man, no.”

“Did you ever see him with that other man, Alex Guer-rera? Jose ever mention him to you? Someone just named Alex, maybe?”

“No.”

“Did he ever chat with anyone on the computer that you know of? Ever tell you about anybody he met online? Someone named William or Billy?”

“Jose and Diego were always fighting over the computer, but Diego used it more. I don’t think Jose went into chat rooms and stuff. He worked a lot, and Diego was always downloading music. Jose had a MySpace page like a lot of the older kids do, but Papa made Diego take it down after Jose died and the police printed it out.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“Some men came by last week. Men dressed like you. They asked Papa and Diego a bunch of questions, and I overheard Papa telling Mama that some lawyer got killed and they think it might be related to Jose. I didn’t hear anything else, but I’m sure they were talking about the
pan-dilleros.
Diego says he doesn’t think it was the
pandilleros
who killed Jose. He said that from the beginning. But Diego is stupid because even Jose said he thought it was—”

Marla stopped.

“What, Marla? Did Jose say something to you before he died?”

The girl looked uncomfortably at her feet—bit her lip and held Paco tighter to her bosom. The cat squirmed, stuck out its paw and looked up at Markham helplessly.

“What is it, Marla?” he asked. “Do you want to tell me something but you’re afraid? Afraid of the
pandilleros
?”

“No,” said Marla. “It’s just that, well, I promised Jose I wouldn’t tell.”

“Yes, I understand. But Jose is gone now and wouldn’t mind if you—”

“No, I promised him
after
he died.”

Markham looked at her curiously.

“In my dreams,” she whispered, looking past him toward her apartment door. “I haven’t told anyone except Father Banigas last week at confession, but Jose, after he died … well … sometimes he speaks to me in my dreams.”

“I see,” said Markham, smiling. “I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I once lost someone I loved very much, too. And sometimes she speaks to me in my dreams just like Jose speaks to you.”

“Who is she?”

“My wife. She died about eleven years ago. Her name was Michelle—began with an M just like your name.”

“Were you sad when she died?”

“Very much so. I still am sometimes.”

“Me, too. But not as much now that I know Jose is in Heaven. Is your wife in Heaven?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Maybe she and Jose can become friends up there. Maybe she and Jose can do stuff together and talk about things now that he’s in Heaven with her. I’m glad that you told me about your wife talking to you cuz I was worried that once Jose got into Heaven he wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. Or maybe God wouldn’t let him, even.”

“Marla, does Jose say anything else to you in your dreams?”

“Please,” Marla said, frightened. “Don’t make me break my promise.”

“Listen to me,” Markham said, sitting down on the stairs, “I had wanted to speak to your parents first, but what if I told you that Diego is right? What if I told you that Jose wasn’t murdered by the
pandilleros
, but by someone else?” Mark-
ham held up the picture of Billy Canning. “The same someone who murdered the lawyer and now this man.”

“You mean the man in the picture is dead, too?”

“Yes, Marla, and that’s why I need you to help me. You have to tell me what you know about Jose.”

“But it’s a secret that only the two of us were supposed to know. Papa and Diego would hate Jose if they found out. And if Papa and Diego find out that I knew about Jose’s secret and didn’t tell them, they’d hate me, too. Might kill me, even.”

“I won’t tell your father and brother that I found out Jose’s secret from you. You have my word on that, Marla.”

Marla was silent, unconvinced.

“Do you love your cat Paco?” Markham asked. Marla nodded. “Well, let’s say someone very mean was going around hurting cats like Paco. And say that I knew something that could save Paco from this person—a secret, maybe, that somebody told me. Something really important that I promised not to tell, but it could save Paco’s life. Which do you think is more important, the secret or saving Paco?”

“Saving Paco.”

“Well it’s the same thing for Jose. There’s nothing we can do for your brother now, but what you tell me might save other young men just like him; might even prevent other sisters like you from losing a brother and feeling sad. And you don’t have to worry about anything. I promise you that your father and Diego won’t know you told me. You don’t have to worry about getting into trouble, okay?”

“But what about Papa and Mama? Jose’s secret would kill them.”

“No, it won’t, Marla. I promise you. Nothing could be worse than losing Jose. And don’t you think they’d want to prevent other parents from losing their sons, too?”

“But what about Jose?” Marla asked with tears in her
eyes. “What about what Papa and what everybody else would think of him? Jose told me that he heard a story of a boy like him whose father and family got so mad that the boy ran away and then committed suicide with this gun he found. Jose said that if I told, he would have to kill himself, too; said it would be like I killed him myself.”

“But Jose is in Heaven now, Marla. And when you’re in Heaven, you’re happy no matter what happens down here on Earth, right?”

“Well …” Marla said, thinking hard. “If I tell you Jose’s secret, do you promise, next time you see your wife that you’ll tell her to tell Jose that it was okay because you said so? Will you tell her to tell him not to be mad at me?”

“I promise,” Markham said. “I’ll tell her the very next time I see her.”

The little girl whispered her secret in his ear—lit a fire under his ass and put him on West Hargett Street in twenty minutes. Markham didn’t wait to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. Instead, he sent Marla back inside to tell her aunt he’d been called away and that someone else would stop by later to explain everything to her parents. Schaap was on his way back to the Resident Agency from the NC State campus. Most important for the FBI was that they get everything coordinated before the media got wind of Canning. Most important for Sam Markham was that he kept Marla Rodriguez’s secret.

“To the grave,
señorita
,” he said as he cruised down West Hargett Street.

He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lucky; couldn’t believe that an eleven-year-old girl could have possibly kept secret the most important lead in the investigation thus far. Yet at the same time it all made sense: her love for her brother, her need to protect him from the wrath of her family. And then there was the lack of media attention because of the initial
gang angle. It was almost as if the deck had been stacked against Jose Rodriguez from the beginning. But rather than feeling anger or frustration toward his little sister for not coming forward, curiously, Markham loved her for it.

Angel’s, was what she told him. Angel’s.

Markham parked his SUV in a lot about a block away from the club—recognized it immediately from the silver Mylar banners that hung vertically along the length of the building like angel wings. Despite its renovations, he could tell that the club had once been a pair of connecting storefronts. However, what stuck out to him the most was the orientation of the “dead” space—the parking lots, the sidewalks, the narrow alleyways between the buildings. Lots of places to hide and watch.

Angel’s took up nearly the entire block. Billed itself as a “nightclub complex” and sported a marquee over the front door that read:

Markham stepped inside and found a map on the wall to his left—color-coded with sections labeled
bar
,
dance floor
,
patio
,
video bar
,
pool hall
, and
theater
.

He approached the bar.

“Can I get you something?” asked the bartender. He was muscular, bald, and wore a tight black T-shirt. Markham quickly scanned the room—eight patrons, all male, two at the bar, the rest scattered at the tables. Half suits, half casual.

“Is the manager or the owner around?” he asked.

“You got a two-for-one special, friend,” the bartender said, smiling. “I’m Paulie Angel, and welcome to my home.”

Markham flashed his ID and introduced himself.

“I see,” Angel said, nervous. “Perhaps we’d better talk in
the office.” He signaled over Markham’s shoulder. “You’re up, Karl,” he said, and a man rose from one of the tables and stepped behind the bar.

Angel led Markham out the back and across an enclosed courtyard. Once inside again, they quickly passed through the pool hall and entered an office at the end of a narrow hallway. Markham had taken in as much as he could, but what stuck out to him the most was the obnoxious neon sign at the opposite end of the hallway:

“All right,” Angel said, settling in behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”

Markham sat down and slid him a copy of Jose Rodriguez’s senior class photo. “You recognize this man?” he asked.

“Sure. That’s Ricky Martinez.”

“Ricky Martinez?”

“Yeah. She used to work here as one of our performers, only for a few months, though. Called herself Leona Bonita. Kickoff slot in our Wednesday and Saturday shows. I haven’t seen her in a while, though. Left her shit in the dressing room and never came back for it. That happens sometimes with the younger girls. Tried calling her, but number is no longer in service. Stuff’s pretty much been picked through. What’s left is still back there. Something happen to her?”