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.”
Marge shrugged it off. “Hey, maybe I’ll check out your gym.”
“I didn’t tell you where I worked.”
“No, you didn’t, did you?” She winked. “Are you going to make me figure that one out or are you going to tell me?”
“Let’s see how good a detective you are.”
“Sure. Thanks for your help.”
“I didn’t give you any help.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Marge said. “You never know what’s going to be helpful.” She turned to Oliver. “Let’s go.”
When they were in the car, Oliver said, “You’ve got that look in your eyes, Dunn.”
“Did you notice that Truillo said I don’t know where Julio lived-like in past tense?”
“Actually, I didn’t. You think he’s dead?”
“I think he’s definitely not around the neighborhood. Let’s take a trip downtown.” She glanced at her watch. “We need to move it, Scotty.”
“What’s the rush?”
“The offices close at five. Too bad. I could use a shot of caffeine, but I suppose it’ll have to wait.”
“You’re not going to find a Starbucks in this area anyway.”
“I actually prefer McDonald’s coffee, but I don’t want to waste the time.”
“I repeat, ‘What’s the rush?’”
“He doesn’t want to tell me who owns the bar. I want to check out business licenses.”
“Aha.” Oliver looked at his watch. It was almost four. “This can’t be done online?”
“I suppose we can find out who owns the building online through the assessor’s office, but that’s not necessarily who owns the business.”
“Can you get the name of business owners online?”
“Don’t know. And it is getting late. That’s why I think it’s simpler to go downtown.”
“So let’s just leave it until tomorrow.”
“Scotty,” Marge said, “Truillo kept referring to the owner of the bar as the boss…which in and of itself doesn’t mean too much…except that…I mean, maybe I’m just grasping, but El Patrón means The Boss in Spanish, right.”
Oliver didn’t answer. As he entered the on-ramp of the 5 freeway, he put the magnetic red light atop the unmarked and turned on the siren. In this traffic, it was the only way that they were going to make it before closing time.
OVER THE PHONE, Marge said, “Calling your boss ‘the boss’ doesn’t mean anything, but since Julio isn’t around right now, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to know who owns the bar. At the very least, we could call him or her up and ask about Julio Davis.”
“Do you have an address for Davis?”
“Wanda is working on it. Lee’s still doing paperwork to unseal Cruces’s and Pinon’s juvenile records. If we can’t unseal the entire file, we’re hoping that a judge will let us look inside and pull out the prints. We’ve got Marvin Oldham on call to do comparisons. If we get a match, we’ll pick up Cruces immediately.”