Blindman’s Bluff

THIRTY-TWO

AS MARGE APPROACHED the white Accord from the rear, its motor sprang to life and the sedan crawled away from the curb. She followed it for a block or two, before the car turned on to Devonshire, one of the main drags of the West Valley. Oliver read off the license plate numerals to the RTO and it came back with no wants or warrants. The vehicle was registered to Imelda Cruz, age thirty-four, with an address in East Valley.

“Maybe Auntie Gwen had another visitor,” Oliver said.

“I don’t think so.” Marge’s eyes were glued on the Accord as it signaled a lane change. “From the back, the driver looks like a he.” Another signal, another lane change. “Joe fucking model citizen.”

“We’re driving a cruiser. He knows we’re tailing him.”

Marge’s cell rang. Oliver fished the phone out of her purse. It was Rina.

“The car’s gone, Scott. Where are you?”

“Tailing the car.”

“Oh…okay,” Rina said. “In that case, I’m going to take Harriman to the station. Neither one of us wants to stay here right now.”

“Rina, let me call in an escort for you.”

“What’s going on?” Marge said.

“She wants to take Harriman in.” Into the receiver, Oliver said, “Just wait for a cruiser to show up to follow you.”

“As long as you make it quick. I’m getting creeped out.”

“Got it.” Oliver hung up the phone and called in for a cruiser. “He looks like he’s headed for the freeway. If we’re going to pull him over, do it before the on-ramp.”

Marge turned on the siren. A moment later, the Honda signaled and pulled to the curb. Every time cops made a stop, there was that potential for violence. The Kaffey double homicide just made them all that more cautious.

“This is a case for ye olde bullhorn.” Oliver instructed the driver and any of the passengers to step out of the car with hands in the air. The seconds that followed were infused with tension, waiting for the unexpected.

The passenger door swung open and a scarecrow-thin kid emerged, wearing a wife-beater undershirt and saggy shorts. His arms were bony, and his hands were in the air. His skin was covered with tattoos.

Oliver said, “Put your hands on the trunk of your car.”

When the kid complied, Oliver told him not to move and the two of them descended quickly, Marge on one side, Oliver on the other. It was clear he wasn’t carrying weapons, so Oliver told him to turn around. The kid was around five five with a face filled with zits. He barely looked old enough to drive. His eyes were dull and brown. His expression was an utter blank-neither aggression nor fear.

“Anyone else in the car?”

“No, sir.”

“Where’s your ID?”

“In the car.”

Marge said, “Mind if I go inside your car to look for it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked him.

“Esteban.”

“Esteban what?”

“Cruz.”

Probably a relative of the owner. Oliver said, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Where do you live?”

“Ramona Drive.”

“Do you have an address?” The number he gave put Esteban living in the East Valley. “You’re a little far from home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Hanging around.”

“You shouldn’t be here, hanging around. That doesn’t look good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should be in school.”

“I dropped out of school.”

“So what do you do now that you’re not in school?”

“Hang around.”

“That’s not a very healthy way to live, Esteban. Who owns the car?”

“My mother.”

“And she gives you the car to drive just to hang around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So if I called her, she wouldn’t be upset that you have the car?”

“No, sir.”

The boy seemed basic, and in this case that made him smart. He didn’t ask why he was pulled over, he wasn’t belligerent, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

“Do you have a number for your mother?”

Esteban gave Oliver a phone number. He made the call on his cell phone and a woman came on the line. “Is this Imelda Cruz?”

“Sí?”

When Oliver identified himself and told her that he had her son in custody, the woman answered with a “no speak English.” Knowing that Marge’s Spanish wasn’t much better than his, he mumbled a “muchas gracias” and cut the line.

He studied Esteban. “You’ve got a lot of number twelves tattooed on your skin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bodega 12th Street gang?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the tats?”

A simple shrug. “It looks good.”

“So you have all the tats, but you’re not a gang member.”

“No, sir.”

Oliver said, “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

The boy didn’t answer. Marge had finished her search and was walking toward the two of them. She gave Oliver a slight shake of the head.

Approaching the boy, she said, “What are you doing in this area?”

“Just hanging, ma’am.”

“Esteban, what were you doing in your car in the middle of a residential area about twenty miles from home?”

The boy picked at one of his pimples. “I can sleep here and not get shot.”

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. “You sleep in the car?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I listen to my iPod. Sometimes I read.”

“Did you find reading material inside the car?” Oliver asked Marge.

“Two comic books and a graphic novel.” She studied Cruz’s face. Portraits in the museum held a lot more life than he did. “You shouldn’t be hanging around. It makes you look like you’re doing something bad.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You should be in school.”

“I dropped out of school.”

“You like to read,” Marge said. “Why’d you drop out of school?”

Esteban didn’t answer right away. Finally, he offered an opinion. It’s not a school, it’s a zoo.” A flash of anger had abruptly emerged from his face: frightening in its intensity, but within seconds it had faded into nothingness.

“If you like reading, you should go to the library,” Marge told him.

“You can’t sleep in a library,” Esteban told her. “They kick you out.”

“Well, find a better place to read,” Marge said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She handed him back his wallet. “The reason we pulled you over is that your taillight doesn’t work very well. Get it fixed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Silence.

“You can go,” Marge told him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the kid had driven off, Marge regarded Oliver. “Did you notice the anger when he talked about the school? A flare-up in an otherwise monotone conversation.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “That’s one cool demon spawn. I could see him shooting you in the face and not blinking an eye.”

“Which reminds me…” Marge called up Rina. “Where are you?”

“We’re almost at the station house. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” She hung up the phone and looked back at Oliver. “There weren’t any weapons in the car. If the kid was hired to hit Harriman, he was scouting his target with an objective eye.”

Oliver nodded. “That would make Mr. Politeness even scarier.”

DECKER WAS IRATE. “What do you mean you opened the door! Why’d you do that?”

Rina said, “Because he was outside all alone and he seemed vulnerable.”

“You didn’t know that he was alone. He could have brought in a posse of killers.”

“Since someone bothered to install a video camera, I had a bird’s-eye view of the street.” She took in a breath and let it out. “Harriman went to the police, Peter, and asked to speak with you. Someone told him that you’d be contacted and you’d call Harriman back. Didn’t anyone deliver the message to you?”

Decker didn’t answer. No one bothered to contact him because they thought Harriman was psycho.

“I’m a busy person, Rina. I’ve got better things to do than to check up on some weirdo.”

Rina said, “So you’re completely discounting his fears. No wonder he feels marginalized, especially after he helped you by identifying Alejandro Brand.”

“You’re not his shrink, you’re my wife. The idiot put you in jeopardy.” Decker had a burning urge to punch something. “If the bastard was being followed, he led the bad guys to your doorstep. Now you have no choice. You’ve got to move in with your parents until we know what’s going on.”

“How do you know that the kid in the Accord was after Harriman? You’re the lead detective on the Kaffey case. Maybe he’s after you.”

“If he’s after anyone, it’s Harriman. Stop arguing with me and listen for a change-”

“For a change? That is not fair! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”

“You answered the door! Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because Harriman seemed distraught. I wasn’t going to throw him to the wolves. You’re not the only one with intuitions. And, I repeat, if Harriman had felt that someone in the department had taken him seriously, maybe he wouldn’t have had to resort to trying to track you down. And stop yelling at me!”

Decker took a deep breath. “Move in with your parents, all right?”

“Fine.” She hung up the phone, her hands shaking from adrenaline. The cell rang again. She blew out air and answered it. “Yes?”

“You hung up on me!”

“There’s nothing left to say.”

Decker spoke in a measured voice. “I’m nervous.”

“Peter, I’m sorry that I made you anxious. I’ll pack up and move in with my parents. I’ll see you whenever you get home.” A pause. “When are you coming home?”

“I was planning on coming home tonight, but something’s come up and I have to stick around in Ponceville.” A pause. “I mean I don’t have to stick around but-”

“Do what you need to do. I’ve got to go.”

“Rina, I’m sorry I yelled.”

“And I’m sorry if I used bad judgment, but since you weren’t around for guidance, I did the best I could.”

“I should have had someone dealing with him before it got to this point.”

Shoulda, woulda, coulda, she thought. “I’ll be careful. You be careful, too.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“If I’m not there, don’t worry. I’m going down to the range to practice.”

“Good idea.”

“It’s not because I think I’ll need to fire a weapon. Right now, I need to attack something and so far as I know, a bull’s-eye doesn’t fire back.”

MARGE KNOCKED ON the door to Decker’s office, then came inside. Rina’s face was a mixture of anger, frustration, and weariness. She got up from the desk chair, smoothed her denim skirt, and adjusted the scarf that covered her hair. “You need to use the office, Marge?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

She stood up. “You probably think I’m an idiot. It was dumb to open the door, but it’s the way I’m made. I look for the good in humanity, Peter looks for the kinks.”

“You’re a very kindhearted person, Rina. And you have good instincts. In this case, it worked out fine. Just be careful from now on until we get some answers.”

Rina sighed. She couldn’t expect her husband to be as empathetic as Marge, but a girl could dream.

“Thanks for all your help.”

“Anytime.” Marge placed a hand on her shoulder. “And don’t pay attention to the Loo. He’s been snarling at anyone who comes near him. He’s just worried about your back.” The desk phone rang.

“That’s him. Should I tell him anything for you?”

“Tell him to watch his back.” Rina waved a bye. “His is a lot bigger than mine.”

With the desk chair vacated, Marge took up the empty seat. It was close to three in the afternoon and she hadn’t eaten all day, but basic drives would just have to wait. “Hey, Rabbi. This is what I found out about Esteban Cruz. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Decker answered.

Marge said, “No wants, no warrants, no priors. Just an average high school dropout. Oliver and I are going to drop by his former high school…try to find out who he associated with. You don’t have that many B12 tattoos on your skin without making a few friends with the homies.”

“Did you run the name by Henry Almont or Crystal McCall in Juvenile at Foothill?”

“Yes, I did. Also showed them his DMV picture. No recognition.” She thought a moment. “Even if he was camping out, both Oliver and I decided he was creepy. His placidity…like he’d shoot you while bopping to the music on his iPod.”

“I trust your instincts…” His voice faded.

“You still there, Pete?”

“I’m here.” Decker hit his forehead. “I’ve been so caught up with Rina, I’ve been ignoring the obvious. The kid’s name is Esteban Cruz?”

“Unless he has a fake ID, yes.”

“Alejandro Brand’s grandmother was named Cruz.”

Marge sat up in Decker’s desk chair. “A cousin?”

“Does he look like Brand?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Brand.”

“Brand was going on about Harriman…saying that he was an asshole who was out to get him. What if he hired a relative to do it for him?”

“Why would Brand think that Harriman IDed him? The guy is blind.”

“Brand doesn’t know that, and I didn’t correct him. I figured it would prod him to talk about the Kaffey murders if he thought that we had an eyewitness against him.”

Marge said, “Okay. What’s the next step?”

“A good question.” Decker’s brain was firing with ideas. “First of all, I want someone at my in-laws’ house full-time.”

“Already done.”

“Second, keep someone on Harriman twenty-four/seven until we figure out who Esteban Cruz is.”

“Done as well.”

“Third, let’s see if there’s a connection between Esteban and Alejandro.”

“You got it,” Marge said.

“Give me an update on what’s happening down there.”

“Gil and Resseur are still missing. Pratt and Messing are checking out their old haunts. Oliver checked out Sean Kaffey. He seems to be the smartest of the bunch. He’s a junior partner in a big law firm, making his own six figures. He doesn’t look like a good candidate for El Patrón. His dad, on the other hand, is an elusive guy. He flew back east on a private jet and is already back at the office working like a dog according to his secretary. She said he’d call me when he had a spare moment.”

Decker said, “Is it possible that he took Gil and Resseur with him?”

“I can try to locate the jet company that took him back home. See if they’ll let me peek at the airline manifest to see who’s on it.”

“Do your best. Could you also call Cindy and make sure she’s okay?”

“I’ll called her this morning. She’s fine.” Marge shifted the phone. “What’s happening up there with Rondo Martin?”

“I’m waiting in front of the ICU. Martin came out of surgery about an hour ago. I’m hoping to be able to talk to him in a bit.”

“That would be great…I mean, how do we know that Martin’s telling the truth?”

Decker paused. “What do you mean?”

“Martin is painting himself as an innocent bystander like Denny Orlando. But he also could have been a participant.”

“He’s in terrible shape. Why do you think he was involved in the murders?”

“It’s not what I think. It’s what Harriman said in his statement. I’ve got it in front of me. He mentions Martin a couple of times…that Martin was really pissed about José running out of ammo.”

Decker shifted the phone to the other ear. “That’s a good point.”

“Maybe Martin was riding Pine about fucking up. Maybe Pine got super pissed and shot Martin full of lead. Maybe that’s why Joe didn’t have enough ammunition to finish off Kaffey. Just because Martin was shot doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”

Decker exhaled. “That’s very true.”

The nurse peeked her head out of the ICU. “Mr. Martin is up. Please be brief.”

“Thank you very much,” Decker told her. Into the line, he said, “Martin’s conscious. I’ve got to go.”

“Good luck.”

“Keep a watch over the station house for me. Brubeck and I will be here for a while. Neither of us is going anywhere until we get some answers.”

ALTHOUGH MARTIN SMELLED a lot better, he looked a lot worse. Tubes were feeding him, medicating him, and plying his lungs with additional oxygen. Machines monitored his heart rate and his breathing. The obvious infected areas had been cleaned, but the lapsed time without proper care had taken its toll. Rondo wasn’t out of the woods yet, and Decker acted as if this was his one and only shot at the medal.

Martin acknowledged him with a slight nod. That was the best he could do.

“You’re a strong man, Rondo. You’re in good hands now. You’ll be all right.” There was no response.

But the eyes were still open. “I’m keeping watch over you until we arrange for something permanent. Brubeck and me. We’ll take shifts and watch over you personally.”

Another slight nod.

“Do you mind if I talk a little?” Decker asked. “I’ll tell you what’s going on from my angle. If I’m wrong about something, you can correct me. I’ll go slowly, okay?”

A nod.

Decker kept the recitation short. Gil Kaffey had survived. He heard the murderers speaking Spanish, but that’s all he could remember. Later, by sheer coincidence, someone overheard two men talking about the case. One of them seemed to have an insider’s knowledge. That man was Alejandro Brand.

“Does the name sound familiar?” Decker asked him.

Martin closed his eyes and then opened them. Decker thought he detected a shake of the head.

“Is that a no?”

A nod.

Decker said, “It could be that he also goes by the name Alejandro Cruz. How about that name? Familiar?”

“No…” he whispered.

“Okay, you don’t know Alejandro Brand or Alejandro Cruz. The guy is a member of the Bodega 12th Street gang. So was Joe Pine. Did you know that?”

A nod.

“You knew Joe was an ex-gangbanger?”

A nod.

“Did you know that Guy Kaffey hired other ex-gang members-supposedly rehabilitated gang members-as guards?”

A nod.

“I think that’s crazy.”

Martin muttered something. Decker leaned in close.

“Few…”

“A few what?”

The response was delayed. “A few gang…”

Decker put the pieces together. “There were only a few gang members in the group?”

A nod.

“We found more than a few with felonies.” Decker checked his notes. “This one guy, Ernesto Sanchez, was also a former Bodega 12th gang member. He had been arrested and served time for two assaults. Did you know him?”

A nod.

“Rondo…if you close your eyes…and think about the other people who invaded the Kaffey house… close your eyes and picture the scene.”

He cooperated, wincing as some vision coursed through his brain.

“Could one of those men at the scene be Ernesto Sanchez?”

A shake of the head. That made sense because Sanchez was at a bar. Messing had talked to several people who remembered seeing him. So far, Martin appeared credible.

The woman in scrubs walked in. She stopped and folded her arms across her chest. Her name tag identified her as Chris Bellows, MD, surgical resident. Her eyes were intelligent and annoyed, but she managed a fleeting smile. “You need to wrap this up. It’s time for Mr. Martin to receive his medications. He needs to sleep.”

“Five more minutes?”

“How about one?” Her face told him that she wouldn’t brook any argument. She glanced at her watch. “Starting now.”

Decker sighed. “Okay. This is what I’m going to do, Rondo. I’m going to read a list of the guards who worked for the Kaffeys and you tell me by nodding if I should be investigating them.”

A nod.

“There are about twenty-two names. I’ll have to go a little fast because I have to leave soon.”

“Thirty seconds,” the doctor told them.

Decker said, “I’m reading them off in alphabetical order.”

A nod.

“Doug Allen.”

Nothing.

“Curt Armstrong.”

No response.

“Javier Beltran.”

Nothing from Martin.

“Time’s up.”

“C’mon. All he’s doing is nodding. How about Francisco Cortez?”

There was no response from Martin.

“You’re not only stressing him out, you’re stressing me. Good-bye, Detective.”

“When can I come back?”

“Tomorrow, if he’s doing better.”

There was no sense bucking authority. He almost got himself shot with that approach this morning.

As Decker started to put away his notes, his eyes swept over the next name on the list. His brain suddenly leaped into overdrive.

Decker spoke a final name aloud.

Martin’s eyes got very wide. His blood pressure skyrocketed and machines started beeping.

The doctor glared at him. “Leave now!”

“I’m out of here,” Decker said.

But he was smiling.

He had found his missing link.