James Sheehan - The Mayor of Lexington Avenue

“They caught shit. Those idiots couldn’t catch the right guy if he bit ’em in the ass. They locked up this kid because he’s stupid.”

“What?” Joaquin asked, trying to look surprised. He hated playing this game with Pablo but he convinced himself they were both after the same thing.

“Yeah.” Pablo was excited now. “They locked up this retarded kid-I guess he’s not retarded all the way but he’s slow. Nice kid-wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt a fly. He works at the convenience store right down the block. They go in-Frick and Frack, Bass Creek’s finest-and browbeat this kid until he supposedly confesses. Meanwhile, the real killer is miles away.”

“Who’s the real killer?” Joaquin asked. It was the logical next question. Pablo looked at him. Looked around. He realized he’d started this story and he had an obligation to finish. He leaned closer to Joaquin and out of the side of his mouth said, “A guy named Geronimo-you know, like the Indian chief.”

“No last name?” Joaquin asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“How do you know this guy did it?” Joaquin was trying not to sound like a cop but he didn’t want to lose his best-perhaps his only-lead. He ordered two more beers and took a small stainless steel flask out of his back pocket. “Join me in a little kicker?”

Pablo smiled. This Joaquin was all right. He took a long pull, followed it with a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with his arm and resumed his story.

“There’s a guy I knew named Ray who lived on Mercer Street-hung out on his stoop most nights with a buddy drinking beers. He said this Geronimo used to stop by all the time and bum a beer.” Pablo leaned closer and continued in his conspiratorial tone. “He was there the night of the murder.”

Joaquin handed the flask to his new best friend, who might just need some help getting the rest of this out. Pablo took another long drink. “Apparently Geronimo was having a thing with this woman who was killed. Her name was Lucy. She was a little loose, to be honest with you. Anyway, the kid from the store was at her trailer that night-Ray and his friend saw him go in and they all saw him later coming from that direction, stumbling down the street, then throwing up on somebody’s lawn. Ray said Geronimo got pissed when he found out the kid had been at Lucy’s and headed for the trailer. He went behind some other house or something because they didn’t actually see him go in. But they know he did it. He disappeared right after that. Both of them said he was a badass dude. Always carried a knife.”

Joaquin himself took a hit from the flask. “Did they tell the police?”

“Not really. They mentioned that he was there but that’s it.”

“Why?”

“You know. In this community you don’t ever tell the police more than you have to. And they were afraid Geronimo might kill them. They didn’t know those idiots were going to charge the kid.”

“Well, what about now? Geronimo’s gone. An innocent man’s in jail.”

“Now would be a good time but those boys were spooked. They could finger Geronimo and he knew it. They’re long gone-out of the country. Ray was from Guatemala; he went back there. The other guy, I don’t know, Nicaragua maybe. I don’t think anyone will ever find them, though.” He motioned to Joaquin for the flask, poured some of the whiskey into his beer and drained the mug. He looked relieved.

But Joaquin wasn’t finished.

“Why don’t you tell the police what you know?”

“Me, an old drunken Cuban? Amigo, do you honestly believe they would listen to anything I have to say?”

“Why did this guy Ray tell you?” He was really sounding like a cop now but Pablo was drunk enough not to notice.

“I knew his father years ago. We were close. He had to tell somebody. It burns inside your stomach like hot tar. You have to tell someone. I had to tell you. Now it’s done. I just hope that boy gets off.”

The conversation ended after that. Joaquin ordered another round and they just sat drinking the last beer in silence. Joaquin knew his undercover work was done for the night.

He decided to stay in town one more day. He wanted to talk to Pilar and comb the neighborhood one last time.

He was at Pilar Rodriguez’s house at eight the next morning.

“Ma’am, my name is Joaquin Sanchez. I’m a private investigator.” He showed her his investigator’s license. “I’m investigating the murder of Lucy Ochoa.”

“Are you working for Elena?” she asked eagerly. She was about sixty, with a weathered face but a strong, thick body.

“Yes, ma’am, for her lawyer.”

“You tell Elena or her lawyer that I can’t identify Rudy. I already told the police that. Tell Elena I won’t identify him. I misspoke that night, that’s all. I plan on telling her myself, just haven’t gotten around to it.”

Joaquin chatted with her a while longer before trying to politely exit. But Pilar was like a battery-operated, nonstop talking machine and it was impossible to turn her off once she got started. “They fired her, you know. Poor thing. Threw her out of the hotel and everything. No respect. They treat you like a dog even though you work your fingers to the bone for them. I know. She got another job waitressing over in Silver Creek, about five miles away. She lives in a broken-down old trailer two streets over. I should have been by to visit already.”

Joaquin didn’t know if she was ever going to take a breath. He waited patiently, his left foot behind his right, ready to run when the occasion presented itself. “It’s a crying shame what they did to her,” Pilar continued. Then, as if on cue, she started to cry.

Joaquin felt terrible but he knew this was his chance. He patted Pilar on the shoulder, then bolted for his pickup.

“I’m sorry for your troubles,” he shouted over his shoulder as he scurried down the driveway.

On Friday morning, he hitched his boat trailer early and headed straight for Vero. Dick Radek was waiting for him when he arrived.

“Catch any fish?”

“Plenty, but not the kind you’re looking for.” Joaquin told him about Pablo, Ray Castro, Jose Guerrero, and Geronimo. “This guy Geronimo did it but nobody’s around who can finger him. I spent my last day interviewing everybody in the neighborhood who would talk to me. Nobody knew his last name and nobody ever saw him with Lucy. At least that’s what they told me.”

“We can’t even tie him to the girl?”

“Nope. Apparently they never went out. He just showed up at the trailer.”

Dick banged the desk in disgust.

“This really sucks. We know who the killer is but we have no proof. You got any ideas about how to find this Geronimo guy?”

“Not without a last name. We could check payroll records for the pickers. Maybe find out where he lived and see if we can get the rent receipts. But these guys are illegals. You’re almost certainly not going to find anything in writing. Everything is under the table.”

“Yeah, but we need to try anyway. Anything else?” Joaquin told him about his conversation with Pilar and his struggle to get away.

“Good job, Joaquin. You turned over the only stones that could be found.”

“I’ll send you a written report. Keep me posted,” he said as he headed for the door.

“Sure will,” Dick replied. “I’ll call you next week.” As soon as Joaquin left, Dick headed downstairs to talk to the boss.

Tracey was not as upset as Dick thought she would be. “Every cloud has a silver lining-even this one, Dick.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, we didn’t find the killer and we probably won’t be able to find the two guys who could finger him.” Dick nodded. He was with her so far. “But Clay Evans has no witnesses to place Rudy at the scene, either. Two are gone and, if Pilar Rodriguez is true to her word and I believe she will be, the third won’t be able to make the identification. Which means, if we can suppress Rudy’s confession, he walks.”