Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

“Just anything you can tell us about him,” Marge said as she took out her notebook. “You know why we’re interested in him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. He was the guard in those murders and he’s missing.”

Oliver said, “What can you tell us about him?”

“Nothing much. We didn’t talk other than an occasional nod. I felt he might have kept his distance because of my skin color, but after talking to others around here, he just wasn’t the neighborly type.

Not too many neighborly types anymore. Most of the farms here are run by big business.”

Marge nodded.

“There are still several holdouts like myself. I’ve been approached a few times about selling my land. It’s my children’s inheritance. Anyway, you don’t want to talk politics, you want to talk about Rondo Martin.” Marcus cleared his throat. “There were a couple of times when I stopped at the Watering Hole for a beer, he’d be there drinking whiskey, talking to Matt or Trevor or whoever was tending bar. We farmers work sunup to sundown when the days are long and the weather’s good. In the wintertime, it can get cold. That’s when the tavern does its business.”

“Is there a lot of crime around here?” Oliver asked.

“Sheriff would know more than me,” Marcus said. “Reading the daily sheet, I think that most of the crimes come from the migrants getting drunk on the weekends and whopping on each other.

There’s not a whole lot to do around here. We’ve got a general store, a church, a movie house, a lending library, a couple of family restaurants, and a street of taverns. That’s about it.”

“Do the migrants go to the same church as you do?”

“No, they do not. We’re all Baptists. Migrants are mostly Catholic or Pentecostal. We don’t have any Catholic or Pentecostal churches. They must have their own.”

“Where do the migrants live?” Marge asked.

“In the outlying areas. We call them the ciudads, which means cities in Spanish. Ponceville is built like a square. Smack in the middle is the town, then the farms, and on the perimeter is where the migrants live. Their living quarters, provided by the big businesses that hire them, are pretty primitive. They got their running water and electrical lines, but it’s still very basic. Don’t matter how basic it is, though, they just keep coming. And they’ll keep on coming as long as conditions down in their countries are poorer than conditions up here.”

“Are they legal?” Oliver asked.

“The businesses get them their green cards. All my workers have green cards. Can’t do it any other way. Otherwise the INS will shut you down. We’re not talking about Martin very much.”

“My partner and I are just trying to get a feel for the town,” Marge said. “Maybe it’ll help us understand Rondo Martin better. Do you know if he spoke Spanish?”

“Anyone living here for some time speaks Spanish.”

Marge nodded. “So…what about you and Rondo Martin…getting back to the original question.”

Marcus smiled. “I never said much to him, honestly. Occasionally, he’d show up at church. I sing in the choir. My wife does as well. He showed up once when I had a solo and told me I had a good voice. That was about as personal as it ever got.” He checked his watch and managed to hoist himself out of his chair. “Well, we’d better get going if we want to be on time.”

At that moment, Gladys walked in with the coffee.

Marcus looked at the tray of mugs. “We can be a few minutes late, I suppose.”

“You certainly can.” She smiled. “We have a…fluid concept of time here.”

Her husband passed out the coffee cups. Gladys said to help themselves to cream and sugar. The detectives thanked her profusely.

Marge said, “I like your photos, Mrs. Merry.”

Gladys smiled. “That’s what walls are for.”

“I also like the artwork.”

“Really?” Gladys said. “I don’t care much for it. It was given to my in-laws by the artist. His father was a farmer in Chino and I think he was a family friend…Did I get that right, Marcus?”

“Something like that. Paul was a weirdo. My mama only kept it because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Marcus laughed. “Turned out he became real famous.”

“Paul Pollock,” Gladys said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“No,” Marge said, “but he paints like Jackson Pollock. Are they related?”

“That’s him,” Gladys said. “Jackson Pollock. Paul was his real first name.”

“Uh, he’s pretty well known,” Oliver said. “His father was a farmer?”

“Yes, Detective, he was.”

“The painting’s very valuable, Mrs. Merry,” Marge told her.

“Oh yes, it is. And please call me Gladys.”

“And you’re not worried about theft?” Marge said.

Gladys shook her head. “The people around here who see it think it was done by one of my grandchildren.” She stared at the painting. “I don’t bother to correct them.”

THE LAST KNOWN address of Alejandro Brand was in Pacoima, part of Decker’s old hunting ground in Foothill. The place was a burb of about a hundred thousand people. Its major claim to fame-besides a horrendous airplane crash in 1957 that killed children in a schoolyard-was its junior high that had once schooled Ritchie Valens, a rising pop star in the 1950s. The poor boy’s career had come to an abrupt halt when he, along with Buddy Holly and J. P. Richardson, aka the Big Bopper, had died in a heartbreaking small-craft crash in Iowa in 1959. Pacoima Junior High had been changed to Pacoima Middle School, but that was just about the only thing in the town that had evolved. It was still a working-class Hispanic neighborhood pocked with violence.

The area was rife with industrial plants and warehouses for the trades, but there was some local shopping: discount clothing stores, liquor stores, convenience marts, fast-food chains, launderettes, used-car lots, and the occasional ethnic bodega. Around here, money was tight unless it was Friday night. Then the bars did bang-up businesses. As Decker cruised down the wide streets, he slowed down to study the bad boys who populated the sidewalks or the weed-choked lots. They eyed him back with defiant looks and aggressive stances.

Brand’s address was an apartment building constructed in the 1950s out of glittery stucco with an aqua blue sign that bore the name The Caribbean. It was two stories of depression with laundry hung from the balconies. Decker found parking easily and walked up to an outside locked gate. It was short enough for Decker to extend his arm over the top and reach the doorknob on the other side. The courtyard had a small clean pool that was currently in use by a slew of elementary-aged children. There were several women in swimsuits reclining on plastic-strap lawn chairs, yakking with one another as they worked on their tans. The ladies looked at Decker with suspicion.

He picked a woman at random-a Latina of around thirty with short black hair, dark eyes, and a voluptuous body that was pouring out of her bikini. He told her in Spanish that he was the police-a show of his badge-and looking for Alejandro Brand.

The woman responded with a purse of her lips. “He’s bad news.”

Her friend, overhearing the conversation, broke in. She was older and heavier, wearing a halter top and cutoff shorts. “Very bad news,” she concurred. “Raul, stop playing so rough with your sister. Let go of her now!” Back to Decker. “He sold drugs upstairs from his mother’s apartment. “After Mrs. Cruz died, it got much worse. We called the police, but every time they tell us there’s nothing they can do unless someone wants to press charges.

“Finally the apartment caught fire. The building almost burned down. “But the fire department was quick, gracias a Dios.” She crossed herself.