A Long December

CHAPTER 07

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2001 13:27

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.”

“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?”

“Linda says he’s over here all the time. Watching TV. Helping Rudy change the oil in the car. That sort of stuff. They even had him here last Christmas.”

“Orejas his real name?” asked Hester.

“I don’t know, but until she wakes up,” said Terri, indicating Linda’s zonked form, “Orejas will have to do. Do either of you speak Spanish?”

Neither of us, as a matter of fact. “Why?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Well, I don’t think Orejas speaks any English. He might not do you a lot of good. I mean, if you can’t talk to him.”

“Interpreters,” said Hester, “should be just fine. Standard procedure.”

“Orejas is the butt of lots of jokes about those ears,” said Terri. “The best one is that he looks like he thinks Viagra’s a suppository.” She giggled. “I mean, I feel sorry for the poor guy, but that’s really funny.”

It struck me that way, I had to admit.

There was a loud snoring sound. We all glanced into the living room toward the sleeping Linda. Gone to the world.

“Is there anybody around for her?” asked Hester.

“Her mom and dad are on their way back from Arizona,” said Terri. “We talked to them before she went to sleep. They’ll be here early tomorrow.”

“Good. I hate to say this,” said Hester, “but just how sure are you that when she says there’s no dope involvement here, she’s right?”

Terri shrugged. “I always thought he was into dope. She always said he wasn’t. She ought to know.”

“Can you think of anything else it could be? “I asked.

Terri shook her head.

“Well, I said this back at the office, but she might want to go where there’s some company. Just in case.” I thought about what Hector had said about Rudy’s associates. “Dope or no dope. At least until we know why this happened. Can we keep some of these photographs for a while?”

“Houseman, you want a lot. Ah, what the hell, why not?”

When we got to the car with the photos, I opened the envelope and took out the first one. I handed it to Hester. “This is the head table at the wedding reception. Want to know what I noticed?”

“Please.”

“No parents. Nobody old enough to be the parent of a twenty-year-old, not by a long shot.”

“And?”

“The parents sit at the head table. I can only think of two reasons they aren’t there.”

“Death,” said Hester. “That would account for it.”

“All four, for a couple in their twenties… what are the odds?”

Hester laughed outright. “Houseman, sometimes…look, at least as good as the odds that the young couple met at the orphanage.”

“Okay. Okay, but my second reason is better.”

“And that would be?”

“They’re illegal aliens. They can’t afford to bring their parents to the wedding and couldn’t do it legally anyway. Hah, gotcha with that one, didn’t I? Well, if you don’t have available parents, you just might have the most important person in your circle of friends join you. Mr. Thin-face there. Look at all the pictures with him, and you’ll see that everybody looks just pleased as shit to be in his presence.”

“Well… “she said, after she’d looked the bunch over while I backed the car out and headed toward the packing plant, “that might be a stretch.” She very carefully put them back in the envelope. “Oh, what the hell, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. So, like, what?”

“I want to know who he is,” I said. “I’m thinking Godfather-type of relationship in those photos.” I paused while I turned a sharp corner.

“You’re developing a suspicious imagination, there, Houseman,” said Hester. “Let’s make a bet… like for a milkshake. You go for”-and she made a two-fingered gesture with each hand, indicating quotation marks-”the Godfather.” She chuckled. “I, frankly, will go for”-and again the quotation gesture-”the plant foreman.”

I have to admit that plant foreman hadn’t occurred to me. Damn. Just somebody’s boss. Of course.

“Is there a Dairy Queen around here?” asked Hester. “I want chocolate.”

“Let’s just wait,” I said. “Wait and see.” I sounded lame even to myself.

We paused in the parking lot of the packing plant long enough for me to call Sally and see what she had found out. By the lack of cars in the parking lot, I was afraid I already knew the answer.

“They’re closed, Houseman,” she said. “No explanation, just that they aren’t working today.”

“If they’re closed,” I said, “who’d you talk to?”

“Well, the office staff is there. But the floor is closed down.”

“Thanks. That’s where we’ll be until further notice. I’ll leave this thing on in case you need us.”

“You’re all dedication. You have anything to tell Lamar yet?”

“Not really. When we get back.”

The business office of the plant was smaller than you’d think, and was on the second floor of one of the large cement-block buildings. The receptionist in the sparsely furnished office handed us off to the assistant manager, a Mr. Chaim B. Hurwitz. I suspected the B stood for Benjamin, because the first time I’d met him he’d told me to call him Ben. Most people at the plant referred to him as “Mr. Hurwitz.” I’d had dealings with him before, a couple of times, and I thought he was a pretty straight sort of guy. Ben had been the first Jew I’d met in Battenberg, and he had been an education for me. Like most of the residents of Nation County, my previous experience with things Jewish had consisted of the movies The Diary of Anne Frank, Exodus, The Pawnbroker, Schindler’s List, and Fiddler on the Roof. Hardly a primer for knowing the twenty-first-century Jewish American.

Ben Hurwitz and I shook hands, and after Hester identified herself, he asked us to sit down. His office was small, crowded, and spartan. It reminded me of the interior of a mobile office you find on construction sites. Absolutely no nonsense, and extremely functional.

“What brings you to me? “he asked.

“Well, we originally wanted to talk to some of your workers, but”-I smiled-”they seem to have gone on strike again.”

I was well aware that the packing plant was not a union shop. Not at all, and the plant would fight unionization to its last breath. And Ben knew that I knew that.

“No. No, the union is much stronger than that,” he said, deadpan. “What we have here is a coffee break.” Ben Hurwitz and I had been over the illegal alien issues before. His company asked for Social Security numbers, and the workers presented them. The plant had absolutely no way to verify the numbers. They started asking for birth certificates, and the workers began producing them. All indicated they were from either Los Angeles or San Diego or Houston. None of those county courthouses had the facilities to constantly search their records for confirmation of birth certificates, and the plant had no legal way of compelling them to do so. At one point, the plant started asking for driver’s licenses as a way of confirming the other identity papers. Their attorney told them that they couldn’t do that unless they were hiring a particular individual to drive for them. If they asked to see a green card, those they were shown were probably forgeries anyway. They also had no obligation or desire to spend the fees charged for the searches. If they had a question, they called INS. That agency had never responded by showing up. INS was grossly undermanned and Iowa was a long way from being the state with the largest immigration problem.

“Just so we’re perfectly clear here,” I told Ben, “as you know from before, I have no authority to ask for an individual’s proof of citizenship. If I ask if somebody is a U.S. citizen, and they say yes, that’s the end of it. I have no authority to demand. None.” I shrugged. “Unconstitutional is unconstitutional, period. So, even if I do determine that somebody is illegally here, I can’t arrest an illegal alien because, one, I’m not a federal officer, and two, I don’t have a federally-approved facility where I could keep them.” I nodded toward Hester. “Neither does she. So… I think we can afford to stipulate that none of us will go into that issue during this conversation. That sound okay to you?”

He nodded.

“We’d also like to get the word out on that, because we’re gonna be needing witnesses, and it’d be nice if they came back into the world.”

Ben chuckled. “I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to find them first.”

“I hear that,” I said. “So, I assume you’ve become aware that Rudy Cueva was murdered yesterday afternoon, about five or six miles from here?”

“Yes. My wife and I saw it on the news. They didn’t say who it was, but we heard from the staff later.” He gave me a wry look. “You know, on TV you looked pretty good. Even if the camera puts on some pounds.”

“Thanks for blaming the camera,” I said. “So, you knew Rudy, then?”

“Of course.” Ben picked up the phone on his desk but didn’t touch the numeric pad. “You want to see his employee file? It’s no use to him.”

“Sure.”

He pressed two numbers and told whoever answered to bring in Rudy’s file. “What else can I do for you?”

Hester opened the envelope Terri had given us and handed Ben the photo with Orejas in it. “Do you know the stocky short one there? With the hat. He’s called Orejas, I think.”

Ben didn’t hesitate. “Surely. That’s Jose Gonzales. You’re right, they do call him Orejas.” Ben chuckled. “Orejas is Spanish for ‘big ears.’ It’s his nickname.”

Ah. Big ears, indeed. “They only use one word for ‘big ears’? I would have thought it would be two words.”

“I don’t want to embarrass anyone,” said Ben, with a glance at Hester. “I have to say the way it was explained to me was that it means big ears in the same way that a woman nicknamed ‘boobs’ means a woman with large breasts. The words ‘big’ or large’ in either case would be redundant.”

“Like, ‘mouth’ would mean ‘big mouth’? “asked Hester.

Ben was embarrassed. “I wish that example had come readily to mind,” he said.

“You know where this Orejas lives? “I asked.

Ben picked up the phone again, dialed what looked like the same two digits. “Get me the address of Jose Gonzales. No. No. No, the one they call Orejas… with the ears… that Jose Gonzales.” He looked up at us and smiled. “It’s a common name… and I should warn you, they may have a family Social Security number, too.” He spoke back into the phone, “Yes?” He wrote the information on a slip of paper and pushed it over to me.

Hester, anxious to score her milkshake, presented Ben with a second photo. The shot of the head table, with the thin-faced man so prominent. “Do you know the man with the thin face?” she asked.

“No. No, but I recognize the bride and groom. They work here, too.” He picked up the phone and again rattled off two names. “Juan and Adriana Munoz, their current address, please.” Again, he wrote it down and passed it to me. “They were married about six months ago. Are there more?”

Never being one to let an opportunity go by, I just handed him a half dozen more of the photos. His next call resulted in five more names and addresses. “So, the person who gave you these didn’t know who they were?” He sounded pretty skeptical.

“It’s a long explanation,” I said.

He just nodded. “Anything else I can do?”

“Any idea,” asked Hester, “when this ‘coffee break’ will be over?”

“Unions. What can I say? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe two, three days? I think it will depend on the, ah, ‘activity’ around our plant.”

There was a knock at the door, and a secretary entered with a stack of files. Ben picked out Rudy’s and handed it to me after she left. “Look through it. You need copies, say so.”

“Thanks. Any idea why Rudy was killed?” It was a long shot, but you never know until you ask. Frankly, I half expected Ben to pick up the phone and ask his secretary. Instead, he looked very thoughtful.

“Rudy was not our most ambitious employee. But he was liked. No, I don’t know. So, do you know who killed him, or can’t you say?”

“No comment,” I said with a smile. “Union rules.”

16:51

“You okay?” I asked Hester.

She nodded, then spoke very deliberately. “How many grenades do you think they have left?” She shook her head, reached inside her coat, and pulled out a bottle of water. She took a swig, tilted her head toward the wounded side, and let the water do its work. She turned away, spit, and turned back to me. “God, that’s irritating,” she said.

“Now that you bring it up, I don’t suppose you walk in someplace and buy just one.”

“Right.” She was looking out a wide crack that some past farmer had tried to fill with cement. It hadn’t worked. “It’s getting dark.”

“Yeah. I was thinking about that.”

“Me, too.”

“George is comin’ down as soon as it’s dark enough.” I looked around. “The yard light will cast a shadow on this corner, from about the big door over the whole left side of the place.”

“They’ll shoot it out,” she said. “Damn thith thing.”

“Be quiet and have some more water. No, they won’t. If they leave it on, they can see anybody who comes our way up the lane.”

It was the grenades that had me worried. “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “Either they got modern frags, or concussion grenades.” She looked at me questioningly. “Modern grenades have a fine wire wrapped around a central core. Notched. Tiny fragments, but a cloud of’em. Lethal radius to ten or fifteen feet, not worth shit twenty-five feet away. Well, somethin’ like that. Not like the old grenades in the movies, with the Hershey-bar squares.”

She nodded in agreement.

“Concussion grenades don’t have very effective fragments at all.”

She nodded again.

“I don’t think any fragments made it through the barn, so…” We left it at that. I had no idea if I was right or not. Just something to say.

“You want me to see if I can start George’s heater for you?”

“No thanks. I’m just fine.”

I patted her on the shoulder and moved back over to my position.

“Hester okay? “asked Sally.

“Yeah. You think dehydration could be a problem for her?”

“Well, she’s thin, and she lost a bunch of blood…might as well not take a chance. How much water you got left?”

I patted the left side of my Canadian Army parka. “Three bottles.”

“Better keep ‘em on the inside,” she said.

I only had two inside pockets that were available, so I gave her one of the bottles. Our body temperature would keep them from freezing.

“She has one bottle now.”

“I’ll make sure she drinks,” said Sally. “What do you think’s gonna happen when it gets dark?”

“No idea. Just stay alert. Everybody calling the shots is outside this barn, one way or the other.”

“Yeah. You know what?”

“What, Sally?”

“I wish the people at the Academy could see me now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said. “All the guys gave us gals shit. About being smaller. About having to do only eighty-five percent as many push-ups and sit-ups and things. ‘I suppose the bad guys will only try eighty-five percent as hard to kill you.’ Shit like that.”

“Sorry to hear that. I thought it might have changed since I was there.”

“Oh, it has,” she said. “They have electric lights now.”

“You little shit,” I said. “I’m not that old.”

“Yeah, right. I’m about eighty-five percent as old as you.”

She looked right at me as she said it, and the reflection of the setting sun bounced off the little gold and silver badge on her winter hat, and just about blinded me.

I told her what had happened. “You better unpin that hat badge and stick it in your pocket.”

“Anyway,” she continued, as she stuffed the badge inside her coat, “I think I can hold my own, huh?”

“With the best of em,” I said.

“You’re not just trying to cheer me up?”

“No, I’m trying to cheer myself up.” I grinned. “Just getting back for the electric light comment,” I said. “Can’t think of anybody else I’d rather be pinned down with.”

At that moment, Lamar’s voice came crackling over the walkie-talkie and we both jumped.

“Go ahead, One,” she said.

“Tell Three the TAC team’s here.”

That was good news. I told Sally to have Lamar give the TAC team leader my cell phone number, and I’d talk with him on the phone. I was still worried that the people trying to kill us might somehow be monitoring our radio traffic, or that the media would be monitoring us and broadcast something that the riflemen in the shed could somehow hear. I was also getting worried about the batteries in the walkie-talkie. Especially in cold weather, they will deplete really fast if you do much transmitting.

The Assistant TAC team leader was a trooper sergeant named Ed Henning. I’d met him once or twice.

“My boss ain’t here yet. What you got up there? “asked Ed.

I told him, gave an approximate number of six suspects, told him where we thought they were, said they all seemed to have AK-47s, and that they seemed to have chucked at least one grenade at us.

“What you got cornered up there?” he asked. “Osama bin Laden?”

“Close enough,” I said.

While I’d been on my cell phone, Sally had been busy on her walkie-talkie. “George says he’s comin’ down in about ten minutes,” she told me.

Good. If we had any chance of making a break for it, I didn’t want George stranded on the upper floor of the barn. Besides, I was really worried about these guys trying to set the place on fire. If we had to get out of a burning barn, anybody in the hayloft was as good as dead.

“Make sure he tells you when,” I said.

“He will.”