Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

The three of them nodded.

Tibbets said, “Yes, I remember Esteban Cruz. Smart kid. I gave him an A. An A at Pacoima High isn’t the same as an A at Boston Latin, but it did mean that he took the quizzes and tests and handed in his homework on time.”

“So he did well on the material.”

“Decent. Plus, we give a lot of credit to anyone who shows up.”

“Then why do you remember him as being smart?” Marge asked.

“Everything is relative,” Carmen broke in.

“That’s the truth,” Tibbets said. “We’re just trying to keep the kids enrolled. Try to convince them that if they stay another year or two and do a minimum job, they can walk away with a diploma that’ll give them more options. Or for the real bright ones, there’s community college. I thought that might be an option for Esteban, but he left about a year ago. I did try to contact him…left my number with his mother.”

“Did he call back?” Oliver asked.

“Nope. My Spanish isn’t perfect, but I can make myself understood. So I’m left to think that he never got the message or he wasn’t interested in what I had to say.”

“He got an A in your class,” Oliver said. “That must have stood out.”

“It did. That’s why I remember him.”

“That A must have provided him with some encouragement,” Marge said.

“If it did, he never said anything to me about it. He didn’t talk much.” Another sip of tea. “Whenever I talked to him, he was polite. He just wasn’t much on conversation. Some kids…you give them an ear to listen, they’ll spill their guts. Esteban wasn’t a talker. Like he’d given up a long time ago. Story of this community, my friends.”

“He has gang tattoos,” Oliver said.

“The area is swarming with Bodega 12th Street gang members.” He turned to Carmen for verification and she nodded. “The boys get the tattoos even if they aren’t hard-core gangbangers.”

“They pay allegiance money to the heads of the local gang to be able to wear the markings,” Carmen said. “It gives them protection…not against other gangs but against other Bodega 12th Street bangers. If the smaller kids sport the proper tattoos and have paid their fees, the bigger ones won’t bother them as much.”

Tibbets said, “Of course, once you’ve got a gun, height doesn’t matter too much.”

Carmen said, “In this area alone we have three different Bodega Twelve gangs, each one with its own turf. That means three heads who report to some other guy who reports to some other guy. I don’t know who the leader of the leaders is. It changes all the time because the leaders get shot and killed so often.”

“So do the runners,” Tibbets said. “But the whole thing runs efficiently because it’s very easy to find drugs. Every other corner is a drop and pickup spot.”

Marge asked, “Do you remember any of Esteban’s friends?”

“No…” A shake of the head. “But he’s a Cruz. That’s a big family.”

“Isn’t Cruz a common Hispanic name?” Oliver said.

“Yes, it is,” Carmen answered, “but around here, they all seem to be related.”

“Interesting,” Marge said. “We’re curious about Alejandro Brand. His grandmother was named Cruz. Would the two boys be related?”

“Alejandro Brand.” Tibbets smiled. “Is he incarcerated yet? He should be.”

“He is currently behind bars,” Marge told him.

“What for? Drugs? Assault? Murder? All of the above?”

“Sounds like you’ve had experience with Brand.”

“I have and it’s all been negative. If you suspect the kid of something, he’s probably done it.”

Oliver smiled. “Would you know if Cruz and Brand were related?”

“Not by temperament, but if Brand is a Cruz, he and Esteban share some common ancestry.”

“Do you ever remember the two of them talking or hanging out together?” Marge asked.

“I think Alejandro was gone when Esteban got here.” The teacher frowned. “Esteban was a queer duck. Couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t tell what he was feeling. His eyes were flat. A body without a soul.”

“That would be a zombie,” Oliver said.

“I wouldn’t call Esteban a zombie,” Tibbets said. “But if he had emotions, if he had hopes or dreams or aspirations, he was very skilled at not letting them show.”

THE PALM OF his right hand kept hitting his forehead. The way Decker felt, there was no gray matter inside to harm. He couldn’t use the cell phone inside the hospital, and it would be another two hours before Brubeck would come to relieve him. He got up and went to the nurses’ station, manned by Shari Pettigrew according to her ID tag. Decker gave the sixtyish woman his most boyish smile. “I need to call one of my detectives.”

“You can’t use your cell phone inside the hospital.”

“I know that. That’s why I’m talking to you. I can’t leave the ICU right now. Could I possibly borrow one of your lines? It should only take a few moments.”

Shari punched a line. “Number?”

Decker gave her the digits, and she handed him the receiver. “Willy, I need you down here right away. I’ve got to make some calls and I can’t do it and watch the ICU at the same time… Thanks.

Bye.” He handed the phone back. “Thank you very much.”

“Why are you watching the ICU?”

Again, Decker graced her with a smile. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

“You’re an inch away. Why are you watching the ICU? Is it because someone tried to kill the sheriff?”

“How’d you find that out?”

She rolled her eyes. “I can see you’ve never lived in a small town.”

“Gainesville, Florida.”

“That’s New York City compared with Ponceville. We’re all concerned about one of our own.” She looked down. “I sure hope he makes it.”

“Were you close to the deputy sheriff?”

“Not really, but we drank at the same place…the Watering Hole. Not too many bars around here so you run into the same people. Rondo kept pretty much to himself, but he seemed like he was one of the good guys.” She laughed. “Good guys…bad guys, what the hey. Mostly it’s just people being people.”

OVER THE LINE, Marge said, “Stop battering yourself. We just made the Cruz connection a couple of hours ago.”

“Martin Cruces was right in front of our faces.”

“It makes sense now, but only because we found Rondo Martin near death and have pushed him down the suspect list.” Marge said, “Martin Cruces was looked into and cleared right away.”

“What was his alibi?”

“Oliver’s paging through the file. Talk to Brubeck and Messing. They’re the ones who checked him off. We did run him through NCIC. He doesn’t have a record. He’s in his midtwenties-older than Brand and Esteban, not exactly prime age for a gang. He still may have nothing to do with it.”

“Is he Bodega Twelve?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know.”

“See if Neptune Brady has a set of fingerprints for him. Usually they do something like that before guards are hired.”

“If he didn’t do it for Joe Pine, he probably didn’t do it for Cruces, but I’ll check it out anyway. Hold on. Scott’s reaching for the phone.”

“Okay,” Oliver said. “This is the story. Messing and Brubeck cleared him. The night of the murders, he was at his local bar-Ernie’s El Matador. He routinely comes in about two to three times a week, usually after dinner. The bartender, Julio Davis, confirmed that Cruces came in around nine, drank beer, and shot the breeze with the regulars.”

“How late did he stay?”

“Until closing: two in the morning. That pretty much put him out of the time frame. Messing also says that Cruces gave a cheek swab and was cooperative.”