Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

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.

THE LOS ANGELES Unified School District was a dinosaur: a brain in its head as well as in its tail.

The head part was the wealthier districts-Bel Air, Holmby Hills, Westwood, Encino, and Pacific Palisades-while the caudal portion administered to the less-endowed schools in East L.A., South L.

A., and the poorer sections of the San Fernando Valley. Pacoima definitely qualified as a tail.

“The dropout rate is probably higher than the graduation rate,” the guidance counselor told them.

Her name was Carmen Montenegro, a woman in her midthirties with mocha skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a wide mouth with her lips painted deep red. She wore a red shirt under a black suit with no stockings. “We do the best we can with what we have, which isn’t much.”

Marge and Oliver followed Carmen as she trotted down a hallway lined with lockers, her heels clacking on yellowed, institutional floor tiling. School had let out a half hour ago, but students were still milling around, heavy backpacks dragging on their sloping shoulders. The teens were dressed in baggy jeans or sweats for the boys, and jeans, sweats, or short skirts for the girls.

Carmen took a sharp right into the admissions office, pushing past a saloon door that almost caught Marge in the stomach. Her office was tiny and looked out over the school’s parking lot. A computer was surrounded by stacks of papers on her desktop with more piles spilling on the floors.

Overflowing bookshelves lined two of the walls.

“Sorry about the mess.” The administrator began hunting through yearbooks. She pulled one out.

“This is from two years ago. He would have been a freshman, right?”

“Right,” Oliver answered.

“Esteban Cruz…Esteban Cruz…Esteban…Here he is.” She showed the picture to Marge. “Looks like the picture you showed me.”

Marge said, “He hasn’t aged much.”

“Yeah, he looks kinda small. You want a copy of the picture?”

“Yes, that would help.”

“Hold on.” She whisked past them and came back a few moments later with ten copies. “Here you go…Anything else?”

Marge said, “Would you mind if I looked through the book to see if he was involved in any activities?”

“No problem.” Carmen handed her the book. “Sit at my desk. Makes it easier to sift through the pages.” The administrator’s eyes skipped over Oliver’s face. She gave him the briefest of smiles.

“Probably, he wasn’t involved in much. The ones who drop out are just marking time.”

Oliver’s eyes went to her hands. No wedding ring. “Do you have any recollection of him?”

She looked at the picture again. “We have so many kids going in and out of the system. I don’t remember him as being a troublemaker.”

“He told us he likes to read a lot,” Marge said. “Do you have a record of his grades and his teachers?”

“I can get both for you, but I need my computer.”

Marge stood up, yearbook in hand. She showed it to Oliver, and the two of them studied the pages as Carmen looked up the former student. “Esteban Cruz…here we go. He was passing…C’s, a few B’s even. He did get an A in English. His teacher was Jake Tibbets. Want me to see if he’s still around?”

“That would be great,” Oliver said.

Again Carmen gave him a quick smile. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”

After she rushed out of the office, Marge said, “She’s a bundle of energy.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“She was definitely giving you the eye.” When Oliver returned a Cheshire cat grin, she nudged him in the ribs. “Since when have you ever been discreet?”

“I’m trying to be less obvious. So do me a favor. Ask for a card with the phone number-in case we need to talk to her again.”

“If I ask for the card, she’ll think you’re not interested.”

“So you think I should ask for the card?”

“Yes…shhhh…I hear her.”

Carmen returned with a smile. “He’s in the teachers’ lounge and he’ll be happy to talk to you about Esteban.”

“Thanks,” Marge said. “Ms. Montenegro, I am also curious about two other men: Alejandro Brand, who would be around nineteen, and José Pinon or maybe Joe Pine. He’d be in his early twenties.

Would you know if they attended high school here?”

“I can look that up for you…” She pushed some buttons and tapped the monitor. “Wow! Brand did attend here, and he was a troublemaker: a banger with the Bodega 12th Street homies. Multiple suspensions until he was expelled four years ago. He also had Mr. Tibbets as an English teacher. No success story there. What was the other name?”

“José Pinon,” Marge told her.

“Uh…Pinon, Pinon…I have Maria Pinon who was in Brand’s grade. Probably a sister, so…” Click, click, click. “Uh, he lasted through ninth grade…actually he repeated ninth grade, and then he flunked out.”

“Was he a troublemaker?”

“Uh…not really.” She looked up from the monitor. “Just your average dropout.”

“A gangbanger?” Marge asked.

“They all are.” She stood up. “Let’s go to the lounge…which is sort of misnamed. It’s a room with used furniture and a coffeepot. I think someone brought in doughnuts today. They’re probably stale by now, but if you need a sugar fix, they’ll do the trick.”

IN HIS SIXTIES or even older, Jake Tibbets was tall and as limp as a noodle. He had salt-and-pepper hair, deep crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, and a nice-sized wattle under his neck. His eyes were algae colored and twinkled with mischief. He wore a yellow paisley shirt, black slacks, and orthopedic shoes. He was sitting on a futon, drinking something hot, the veins in his hands blue and thick. Carmen made quick introductions.

Tibbets’s voice was moderate in pitch and youthful sounding. “Have a seat. Want some tea?”

The detectives passed. It was around ninety degrees outside and the school’s air-conditioning was tepid at best.

“So you want to know about Esteban Cruz.” Tibbets sipped his beverage. “What’s the boy done now?”

“We don’t know that he’s done anything,” Marge told him. She pulled up a mismatched chair, leaving Carmen and Oliver a love seat. “We’re just gathering information. Do you remember him?”

“Sure. Not because my memory is so great. I’m at that stage where I have to write everything down. Except Shakespeare. I know Shakespeare by heart. That’s mostly what I teach. Believe it or not, when you frame Willy in modern turns, it strikes a resonant chord with the kids. Murder and jealousy and greed and naked ambition.” His voice had risen to an orator’s pitch. “Romeo and Juliet is the greatest love story ever written, with gang warfare to boot. What could be more modern?”