“Those are great,” Marge said. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen, and you have three women who could open up a bakery.”
Decker debated, then took a second piece. “It’s an XX conspiracy to keep me fat and happy.”
He patted his burgeoning stomach.
“One out of two ain’t bad.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
IT HAD BEEN Decker’s hope that County Jail might make Brand more amenable to talking. Instead, he appeared as if he had just spent a few days at Sandals. The soul patch was gone, along with the acne, and his skin glowed bronze and clear, making him appear more college student than goon.
When Decker commented on his appearance, Brand attributed it to “good living.”
“Three meals a day and lights out by ten,” Brand told Decker in English. He was dressed in dark blue scrubs. “I used to wake up at four in the afternoon.” A pause. “Maybe sunlight is good.”
“I’m glad you find your living conditions so pleasant.”
“I didn’t say that.” A pause. “I don’ expect to be there forever.”
“You won’t be in County for long,” Decker told him. “Your charges carry prison time. Your next stop is Folsom.”
“I don’ think so. You come here to talk. That means I got somethin’ you need.” He leaned forward, his breath reeking of tobacco. “You come to talk to me twice. That’s one more time than that shit head lawyer they give me.” He sat back. “But I can’t give you nothin’ if I don’ know what you want.”
Decker took a smoke out of a pack of cigarettes and lit it up. “You’re a smart kid.”
“That’s wha’ my abuela always said.”
“Smart but you make some bad decisions.”
“She said that, too. Why you talkin’ English to me now?”
Decker gave the cigarette to Brand who thanked him by way of a nod. He switched over to Spanish.
“Either one is fine with me.”
Brand sat back and inhaled deeply. “You speak like a Cuban.”
“Good ear, Alex, I’m originally from Florida. Tell me about some of your amigos.”
“I have lots of friends.” A lopsided grin. “I’m a popular man.”
Decker took out a pen and a notepad. “Talk to me about La Boca.”
Initially, Brand’s eyes registered blanks, but then they livened up. “Yeah, you gotta find him, man. All that shit belonged to him.”
“We’ve been looking,” Decker lied. “So far nothing. Where would we find him?”
“I dunno. He just hangs in the area.”
“Tell me what he does?”
For the next ten minutes, Brand spun some yarn about La Boca being a master dealer. He said, “He’s a piece of work. You be careful, man.”
“You seem to know a lot of pieces of work, Alex. Anything else you want to tell me about La Boca?”
“That’s it, man.” Brand crushed out his cigarette. “How about another smoke?”
Decker lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing a fine stream of smoke into Alex’s face.
“Maybe you’ll get enough nicotine from secondhand smoke.”
Brand’s eyes grew dark. “I don’ have to talk to you.”
Decker said, “Is La Boca a Bodega 12th Street gang member?”
“I dunno.”
“Sure you do.”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
Decker had been talking to Alex for about a half hour but not much rapport had been established.
The kid was as cold as brain freeze. “Tell me about your amigos in the Bodega 12th Street.”
“No gang, man. We’re just a bunch of guys who hang.”
“I hear you’re real tough dudes.”
“You got to take care of yourself.”
“I agree,” Decker told him. “Sometimes that works okay…but then sometimes things go wrong… things get real fucked up, know what I’m saying?”
Brand didn’t answer.
“Like when your apartment blew up, that was a bad fuckup. But I really don’t care about that, Alex. That’s between you and your shithead lawyer. I’m not a drug cop.”
“I’m not sayin’ no more until you tell me what you can do for me.”
“I’m not from Narcotics, Alex, I’m from Homicide. I deal with murders.”
Brand appeared baffled. “So wha’ you want with me. I don’ kill nobody.”
“Did I say you killed anyone?” Decker gave Brand his half-smoked cigarette. “I didn’t say you killed anyone. I mean maybe you did, but I didn’t say you did.”
“I didn’t kill nobody.” Brand inhaled the smoke and seemed to relax with each inhalation. That was good. Keep him in nicotine and maybe they’d get somewhere.
“I work in the West Valley, working on a very bad double homicide,” Decker said. “It was supposed to be a triple homicide, but one of the victims lived so it’s a double homicide and attempted murder.
Guy and Gilliam Kaffey. Know anything about that?”
“Everyone knows about those two dudes,” Brand said. “It’s all over the news.”
“The victim who lived…he saw things. He told what he saw. There was more than one killer, Alex. There were several men and they spoke Spanish. They had Bodega 12th Street tattoos.”
“Not me! I don’ have nothin’ to do with that!”
“You’ve been identified by the victim.”
“That’s bullshit! I wasn’t there. I can prove it.”
“So where were you?”
Brand immediately launched into his alibi. He spoke quickly-Spanish is a language that rolls off the tongue-and he slurred his words. Decker had to pay attention to keep up with him. This was his alibi.
He was with his girlfriend the entire night. They went to the movies. Then they went out for a hamburger. Then they went back to his apartment and had sex. Then they went out again.
“What time was that?” Decker asked.
“Around one, maybe a little later.” His leg started shaking up and down. “We caught up with some of my friends on the street.”
“Where?”
“Just around…”
“Around where?”
“Pacoima.” He named a street corner. “We was just hangin’.”
“What do you mean by hanging? Be more specific.”
“You know…”
“Scoring dope?”
Silence.
Decker said, “You’re already in trouble for manufacturing, Alex. A few more pills won’t make or break your case.”
“No big deal.” The leg was going full force. “Just a little weed.”
“Were you smoking it or selling it?”
“Why you asking so many questions if you’re not a narc?”
“Just trying to get a picture. Were you smoking it or selling it?”
Brand switched to English as if to emphasize the point. “Just a little weed.”
Decker answered back in English. “You already said that.”
“A million people saw me there all night.”
“A million people?”
“Not a million, but you know…I was there all night. People saw me. I saw people. I didn’t kill nobody.”
“You know, Alex, I can’t even remember what I had for dinner a couple of nights ago.” Decker regarded him with intense eyes. “How do you remember a week ago so clearly-in pretty good detail?”
“The killings was big news, man. I hear about it the next day.”
“Why don’t you tell me what really happened and I’ll see what I can do. Because I’m betting you knew what went down before anyone else knew what went down.”
“I wasn’t there, man! If someone told you I was there, that’s bullshit!”
“I believe you. Maybe you weren’t there, but some of your 12th Street amigos were there.”
“Nope.” He shook his head for emphasis.
“Now you’re lying.”
Back to Spanish. “I swear I don’t know!”
“Then why did the victim ID you?”
“’Cause he’s probably a dumbshit white boy and all cholos look alike to him. I don’ know why he’d identify me. I wasn’t there.”
Decker persisted. “But I know that you know who was there!”
“No, I don’t.” But the blinking of his eyes was as good as yes.