“So I’ve heard.”
“From who?”
“The tenants. I talked to them this morning. I thought about a meth lab but the tenants didn’t know anything about that. How bad was the fire?”
“His unit was completely burned out. The two units on either side were a mess, too, but the FD saved the building. We picked up the sucker a couple of days later. He claimed he had nothing to do with the fire and he hadn’t been there since his grandmother died. A pack of lies, but no one contradicted him. I think they were all afraid of retribution.”
“The women said they called the police many times about him. Any record of the calls?”
“I’ll check it out, but it’s probably bullshit.” Mallory rolled her eyes. “We’d investigate crack houses and meth labs, you know that.”
Decker did know that. “So nothing on Alejandro Brand?”
“Nope.”
“You have his fingerprints?”
“Let’s see if there’s a card.” She clicked a few buttons. “Sorry. We didn’t arrest him.” She printed out the picture on the computer and handed the paper to Decker. “I’ll keep a lookout for him. Pass the word around.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He shook the woman’s hand. “Thanks for your time.”
“You miss it around here?”
“Not too different from where I am geographically, but my district’s more affluent. There’s less violent crime.”
“So you don’t miss being in the action?”
“Sometimes I miss being in the field, but I’m happy where I am. It’s good having an office with a door that closes.”
THIS WAS NOT the sunny side of Mexico inhabited by margarita-drinking American expats lying in the white sands next to warm lapis waves. This was the Baja California of Oliver’s childhood memories: a land steeped in poverty and have-nots with its shacks and lean-tos and tin-roof hovels.
Tijuana was just a step across the border yet it had seemed light-years away. When he grew older, he and some army buddies would often visit the underbelly to cop cheap liquor and old whores-a rite of passage. The ciudads here were row upon row of makeshift houses plunked down in the middle of nowhere. Like Tijuana, the Ponceville ciudad residents had tried to liven up the neighborhood by painting the exteriors bright colors: aquas, lemon yellows, kelly greens, and deep lilacs. For Oliver, these Day-Glo colors had been so exotic at eighteen. Now it made him sad.
There were few landmarks, but Sheriff T knew his way around. The official vehicle was a thirty-year-old Suburban and as T maneuvered the tank along the dirt roads, the three of them bounced on none-too-padded seats. He stopped in the middle of the lane in front of a one-story orange shack.
The three of them got out. T strode up to the door and gave it a hard whack. A teenaged girl not more than thirteen answered, a plump baby on her hip and a stick-thin toddler tugging her skirt. She was pretty-dark hair, smooth coffee complexion, wide-set eyes, and high cheekbones. She was sweating profusely, drops on her brow and nose. She swung the door wide open and Marge, Oliver, and T came inside.
A four-year-old boy was sitting on an old sofa, watching cartoons on an old TV perched up on boxes.
Besides the TV and the couch, furniture included a dinette set, two folding chairs, and a playpen with toys. A worn rug covered an unfinished floor that looked like it had been constructed from old crates. There was one sagging shelf with a few books, a few DVDs, and an American flag mounted in an empty coffee can.
It was barebones but clean with the sweet-smelling aroma of something baking. The heat also added about twenty degrees to the already sweltering day. Marge immediately felt her face moisten.
She took out a tissue and gave one to Oliver.
The young girl put the baby and the toddler in a playpen and gave each of them a cookie. The two tiny ones sat among a sea of old toys, eating their cookies without a fuss, staring at the rapid-fire animated cells of color occupying the little boy’s attention.
The teenager’s face was grave. She mopped up the sweat with the back of her hand and immediately started speaking Spanish, her tone clearly agitated. She bounced her leg up and down as she talked, kneading her hands together as well. The sheriff nodded at appropriate intervals.
Their conversation was brief, and within minutes T stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. At that point, her eyes became teary as she repeated “gracias” over and over.
After they left, T said, “She lives with her parents who are both in the fields. She’s the oldest of seven. The three others are in school but someone has to stay home to watch the little babies.”
Marge said, “What about her schooling?”
“Her birth certificate says she’s sixteen, which means she doesn’t have to go to school anymore.”
“She looks about twelve.”
“She probably is, but I don’t do her family a favor by asking too many questions.”
“What was the problem?” Oliver asked.
“Some twenty-year-old punk out in the fields keeps bugging her, sneaking away from work and trying to come inside and have sex with her. Ignacias Pepe, whoever the hell that is. There’s just too many of them for me to keep track. Just as I get to know who lives where, one moves out and another comes in to take his place. She told me that Ignacias is picking strawberries at the McClellans’ farm. I’ll go over and have a talk with the jerk. Tell him to keep his pecker in his pants unless he wants it pickled in a jar.”
The three of them loaded back into the Suburban.
“I’ll pass Marcus’s place on the way to Ardes McClellan’s farm. I know you’ve got other business to tend to so how about if I drop you off.”
“That would work out,” Oliver said. “Edna, your secretary, said something about Rondo Martin hanging out in the northern area. Is that different from where we were?”
“Interchangeable. Wish I could tell you more about the man, but you know how it is. If no one’s making trouble, you don’t go looking for it.”
Marge said, “Thanks for bringing us along. We didn’t find out too much about Rondo Martin, but we certainly got a good feel for the town.”
T said, “This place is not much more than two spits in the wind, but I love it. Wide-open fields and a big blue sky. I can do my job without the brass-ass boys above me telling me what to do.”
Oliver said, “You’ve got that one pegged.”
“Not that I don’t answer to someone,” T said. “There’s the mayor and the city council, but for the most part, they mind their own business and let me keep the law.”
“Good for them and good for you,” Marge said.
“Yeah, you always answer to someone unless you’re God. I suppose he don’t answer to no one, but I’ve never met him, so I couldn’t say for sure.”
THE WOMAN HAD tenacity and would have made a fine detective. She looked up at Decker and said, “This isn’t coming as easily as Brand. No face just pops out at me.”
“Then maybe he isn’t there.”
“He had a BXII tattooed on his arm.”
“He’s a member of the Bodega 12th Street gang but that doesn’t mean he made the mug book. Don’t force it, Rina. It’s after five. Maybe it’s time to quit.”
She closed the book. “I’m sorry.”
“What for? You’ve certainly done your bit.” Decker checked his watch again. “I’ve got a couple more things to finish up here. I’ll be home in an hour.”
“Okay.” She stood up and gave him a kiss. “See you then.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
“No need. I know the way. Go finish up.”
“Thanks for the cake, Rina. The Dees really enjoyed it.”
“It’s my pleasure. After all these years of baking, it’s hard to wean me away from the oven. Making cakes for the squad room prevents me from going cold turkey.”