Decker said, “Is it possible that he took Gil and Resseur with him?”
“I can try to locate the jet company that took him back home. See if they’ll let me peek at the airline manifest to see who’s on it.”
“Do your best. Could you also call Cindy and make sure she’s okay?”
“I’ll called her this morning. She’s fine.” Marge shifted the phone. “What’s happening up there with Rondo Martin?”
“I’m waiting in front of the ICU. Martin came out of surgery about an hour ago. I’m hoping to be able to talk to him in a bit.”
“That would be great…I mean, how do we know that Martin’s telling the truth?”
Decker paused. “What do you mean?”
“Martin is painting himself as an innocent bystander like Denny Orlando. But he also could have been a participant.”
“He’s in terrible shape. Why do you think he was involved in the murders?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what Harriman said in his statement. I’ve got it in front of me. He mentions Martin a couple of times…that Martin was really pissed about José running out of ammo.”
Decker shifted the phone to the other ear. “That’s a good point.”
“Maybe Martin was riding Pine about fucking up. Maybe Pine got super pissed and shot Martin full of lead. Maybe that’s why Joe didn’t have enough ammunition to finish off Kaffey. Just because Martin was shot doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
Decker exhaled. “That’s very true.”
The nurse peeked her head out of the ICU. “Mr. Martin is up. Please be brief.”
“Thank you very much,” Decker told her. Into the line, he said, “Martin’s conscious. I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck.”
“Keep a watch over the station house for me. Brubeck and I will be here for a while. Neither of us is going anywhere until we get some answers.”
ALTHOUGH MARTIN SMELLED a lot better, he looked a lot worse. Tubes were feeding him, medicating him, and plying his lungs with additional oxygen. Machines monitored his heart rate and his breathing. The obvious infected areas had been cleaned, but the lapsed time without proper care had taken its toll. Rondo wasn’t out of the woods yet, and Decker acted as if this was his one and only shot at the medal.
Martin acknowledged him with a slight nod. That was the best he could do.
“You’re a strong man, Rondo. You’re in good hands now. You’ll be all right.” There was no response.
But the eyes were still open. “I’m keeping watch over you until we arrange for something permanent. Brubeck and me. We’ll take shifts and watch over you personally.”
Another slight nod.
“Do you mind if I talk a little?” Decker asked. “I’ll tell you what’s going on from my angle. If I’m wrong about something, you can correct me. I’ll go slowly, okay?”
A nod.
Decker kept the recitation short. Gil Kaffey had survived. He heard the murderers speaking Spanish, but that’s all he could remember. Later, by sheer coincidence, someone overheard two men talking about the case. One of them seemed to have an insider’s knowledge. That man was Alejandro Brand.
“Does the name sound familiar?” Decker asked him.
Martin closed his eyes and then opened them. Decker thought he detected a shake of the head.
“Is that a no?”
A nod.
Decker said, “It could be that he also goes by the name Alejandro Cruz. How about that name? Familiar?”
“No…” he whispered.
“Okay, you don’t know Alejandro Brand or Alejandro Cruz. The guy is a member of the Bodega 12th Street gang. So was Joe Pine. Did you know that?”
A nod.
“You knew Joe was an ex-gangbanger?”
A nod.
“Did you know that Guy Kaffey hired other ex-gang members-supposedly rehabilitated gang members-as guards?”
A nod.
“I think that’s crazy.”
Martin muttered something. Decker leaned in close.
“Few…”
“A few what?”
The response was delayed. “A few gang…”
Decker put the pieces together. “There were only a few gang members in the group?”
A nod.
“We found more than a few with felonies.” Decker checked his notes. “This one guy, Ernesto Sanchez, was also a former Bodega 12th gang member. He had been arrested and served time for two assaults. Did you know him?”
A nod.
“Rondo…if you close your eyes…and think about the other people who invaded the Kaffey house… close your eyes and picture the scene.”
He cooperated, wincing as some vision coursed through his brain.
“Could one of those men at the scene be Ernesto Sanchez?”
A shake of the head. That made sense because Sanchez was at a bar. Messing had talked to several people who remembered seeing him. So far, Martin appeared credible.
The woman in scrubs walked in. She stopped and folded her arms across her chest. Her name tag identified her as Chris Bellows, MD, surgical resident. Her eyes were intelligent and annoyed, but she managed a fleeting smile. “You need to wrap this up. It’s time for Mr. Martin to receive his medications. He needs to sleep.”
“Five more minutes?”
“How about one?” Her face told him that she wouldn’t brook any argument. She glanced at her watch. “Starting now.”
Decker sighed. “Okay. This is what I’m going to do, Rondo. I’m going to read a list of the guards who worked for the Kaffeys and you tell me by nodding if I should be investigating them.”
A nod.
“There are about twenty-two names. I’ll have to go a little fast because I have to leave soon.”
“Thirty seconds,” the doctor told them.
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.
THIRTY-THREE
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.