Blindman’s Bluff

TWENTY-TWO

THERE 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.”

“Where does she live now?” Oliver asked.

“When Neptune was eighteen, she and her husband moved back east. I get a Christmas card every year from her. She calls me on my birthday. She’s a real good woman.” His eyes were misty. “You never know about people. That’s why there’s something called a second chance.”

Marge flipped a page on her notepad. “What did Neptune do after he graduated from high school?”

“I thought he had a chance at college. Instead he became a cop for the Oakland Police Department.”

“So that was right out of high school?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you know how he got his job with Mr. Kaffey?” Oliver asked.

“No idea. He never said nothing to me, but I suspect that he moved to L.A. because he wanted to be an actor. He certainly had the looks for it.”

Marge and Oliver nodded.

Porter said, “Neptune was happy with the position. He made money. Bought himself a little house and a new Porsche-from his half-brother in St. Louis.” A smile. “He’s living the good life.” The old man shook his head. “I feel for my boy. He’s a bundle of nerves, although he tries to hide it from me.”

“Has he spoken to you about the murders?” Oliver asked.

“Nothing much. Something about an insider messed him up.”

Marge tried to hide her excitement. “Did he mention a name?”

“Martin something…”

“Rondo Martin?” When Porter nodded, Marge said, “What did he say about him?”

“Lemme think.” Porter was quiet as he drank tea. “Just that Martin messed him up and that he was missing. He said once the cops found him, they’d know who did this.”

“When did Neptune tell you this?”

“I don’t know…maybe right after it happened.” Porter slowly started to rise from the couch. When it was clear he was having trouble, Marge stood and lent him a hand.

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, if you’re asking, you could get me more tea with a little milk.”

“I could do that.” She poured him a fresh cup. She set the mug down on an end table. “On the night of the murders, do you know what time you received the phone call with the news?”

“I was sleeping, missy. Next thing I know, Neptune’s shaking my shoulder and telling me that there’s been an emergency and he has to leave right away.”

Oliver said, “Would you mind if we looked at a copy of your phone records?”

“You can have a copy, but it won’t do you any good. Neptune always used his cell phone. Kept the damn thing glued to his ear even when we were watching the game.”

“You’re probably right,” Marge said. “He probably didn’t use your phone. But my boss likes us to be thorough.”

“You can have a copy as soon as I get it.”

“We can just call up the phone company,” Marge said. “You don’t have to bother as long as I have your permission and your account number.”

“I don’t know my account number, but I just paid my bill. The receipt is still on the kitchen counter in the mail slot.”

Oliver got up. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.” Marge turned her attention back to Porter. “Anything else we can do before we leave?”

“Yeah, find this Martin guy. This whole mess is weighing real heavy on my boy.”

“We’re doing what we can.” Oliver proffered his hand. “We have a plane to catch. Thanks so much for your time.”

The old man took the hand and gave it a dead-fish shake. Probably not so long ago, the man had an iron grip. Oliver handed the old man a card. “Here’s my office number at the station house and here’s my cell number.”

“Here’s mine as well,” Marge said.

“What are these for?”

“If you think of something you want to tell us,” Oliver said.

“Or even if you want to talk,” Marge said.

“Call you up just to talk?” Porter gave her a wide grin. “I’m an old man and spending a lot of time alone. Be careful what you offer, missy. You might not know it, but I’m the king of gab.”