Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

“Means nothing.”

“I know, but you know how it is. You concentrate on the obvious.” Oliver said, “I just checked with the lab. No matches yet, but not all of the biological material has come back. We’ll go back to the bar and interview Davis again.”

“Good. Also, bring Cruces in again. Tell him it’s a routine reinterview.”

“Got it.”

Decker said, “What did you learn about Esteban Cruz?”

“He wasn’t much of a talker, but he wasn’t a troublemaker. We did find out that most of the Cruzes in that area are related, so maybe Brand and Esteban are kin. I don’t know where that puts Martin Cruces. Maybe the Cruz family is different from the Cruces family. I’ve called up the guidance counselor at Pacoima High to find out if Cruces went there.”

“And?”

“She’s checking into it. If he did attend, it was about seven years earlier than Alejandro Brand. I also had her check a little deeper into Joe Pine who was José Pinon. She said she could pull all the written records, but it’ll take a little time. We’ve arranged to meet later tonight, and she’ll give me whatever she has on him.”

“That could be taken care of with a phone call. Why are you meeting her in person?” The line fell silent. “How old is she?”

“I dunno…” Oliver smiled. “Maybe around thirty-five.”

“Uh-huh. Are you meeting her for dinner?”

“I haven’t had time to eat, Loo. And with Marge and me going back to Ernie’s El Matador to interview the bartender, I’m going to be famished.” Oliver was grinning. “If we were to have dinner, it would be a business meeting.”

“And that would mean you’re putting it on the department tab?”

“You know how it is with sources. You get a good one, Rabbi, you treat her right.”

THE FIRST STEP was to locate Martin Cruces.

Apparently the former guard felt comfortable enough to stay in town-and why not? The papers had moved on to the “puzzling” disappearance of Gil Kaffey and Antoine Resseur and there was no reason for him to think that the police were even close to a solve. Decker had assigned Messing and Pratt to track Cruces’s activities, which included hanging out in his house and with his B12 street buds.

Cruces was older than most of the Bodega clan-in his midtwenties and he seemed to be respected.

He appeared to be constantly on the watch, and Messing and Pratt had to keep enough distance between the bangers and the car so that their cover wouldn’t be blown.

Step two was to find forensic evidence that would put Cruces at the murder scene. He had given a DNA swab, but since genetic profiling was an expensive undertaking and he had been initially cleared, his material hadn’t been sent to the lab. That was rectified an hour ago, but it would take weeks to get back the results.

Cruces’s prints hadn’t been on file when Messing ran him through AFIS. Lee Wang went over to Foothill and asked about his activities as a teen. His youthful indiscretions had been sealed, so Wang assembled the paperwork to unseal both Martin Cruces’s and José Pinon’s records. Dozens of bloody fingerprints had been lifted from the murder scene and if Wang could only get a fingerprint card, maybe they’d have something forensically to link them to the scene. With evidence and eyewitness testimony from Rondo Martin, Wang felt sure the police could nail Joe Pine.

The third step involved clarifying the information from Rondo Martin, who was currently in a drug-induced sleep. His eyes had widened at the mention of Cruces’s name, but the specifics were yet to come. Maybe he could provide something crucial.

The last step involved breaking Cruces’s alibi, which would give the cops an excuse to bring him in again for questioning.

AT THREE IN the afternoon, Ernie’s El Matador was doing business. Salsa music was blaring from the speakers, and a soccer game flashed on a sound-muted flat screen mounted on the wall just above a neon Corona clock. Five men were sitting at the bar and two more were playing pool. The place was dark. Marge couldn’t see well enough to avoid the sticky spots on the floor.

Oliver was the first one to show his badge although he didn’t need to. He and Marge were made as soon as they walked in. No one there was wearing a seersucker jacket and a pair of linen slacks. The preferred dress was jeans with some kind of T-shirt top and sneakers. The place was warm, a shade off from uncomfortable.

The bartender was in his late twenties with dark brown eyes, café au lait skin, and black hair slicked straight back. He had an iron pumper’s body with thick biceps and oven-mitt hands. He regarded Oliver’s badge, his eyes attempting disinterest.

“How are you doing?” Oliver asked him.

Muscleman gave a shrug. “No complaints.”

“I’m Detective Scott Oliver and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. We’re looking for Julio Davis.”

“He’s not here.” He picked up a rag and began wiping down the bar.

“Could I get your name?” Marge asked.

“My name?”

“Yeah, your name.” Marge regarded the man’s face-lined and seamed and scarred from an old knife wound.

“Sam Truillo.” He stopped wiping the bar. His English was unaccented. “What do you want with Julio?”

“Just want to talk to him,” Oliver said.

“He works here, doesn’t he?” Marge asked.

A grizzled patron in the corner asked the barkeep for something in Spanish. Truillo popped the top from a Corona, stuck a lime in the mouth of the bottle, and placed it in front of the man on a napkin. He said, “I haven’t seen Julio in over a week.”

“Something happened to him?”

“I don’t know. The boss told me to call him, but his cell was disconnected.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Marge said. “What did you do after that?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t want to work, what’s it my business?”

Oliver asked, “How long had he worked here?”

“Four…maybe five months.”

“How long have you worked here?” Marge asked.

“A year.” Truillo shrugged. “Are we done?”

“And you work here full-time?” Marge smiled again. “I mean you look like you should be a spotter in a gym.”

For the first time, the bartender cracked a smile. “This pays better.”

“So you do work in a gym,” Marge told him. “Am I a detective or what?”

“I work as a personal trainer, but things are tight now. I lost a few clients and the gym lost membership. The boss was going to cut my hours, but then he told me I could work here part-time to make up for my salary cut.”

Another patron spoke up. Truillo placed a shot of tequila in front of him.

“I’m always looking for a good gym,” Marge said. “Where do you work?”

“It isn’t your type of gym,” Truillo said. “It doesn’t smell very nice.”

Marge grinned. “Neither does my job.”

“Your boss owns the gym and the bar?” Oliver said.

“Maybe.” Truillo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want with Julio?”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Nope.”

Oliver said, “Your boss asked you to find him and you don’t know where he lives?”

“My boss asked me to call him, not find him. And he wasn’t my buddy so why would I know where he lived.” His expression became flat. “Anything else?”

Marge took out her card and slid it across the bar top. “If he comes in here, can you give me a call?”

Truillo picked up the card and stowed it in his pocket. “If I remember.”

“I hope you do. By the way, who’s the boss?”

Truillo’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give him your card. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll give you a call.”