The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller (17 page)

“Yeah, like the doc will let me have that,” Joe said.

“I know. What shall I do with it?”

“The door needs a stopper.”

I glanced at his lunch tray. “You hardly ate anything. You need to eat.”

“Fillet of skunk fat? No thank you.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Yes it can.”

“Mitchell says he heard the nurses are sending you Get-Well cards to get you out of their hair.” Joe laughed at that. “King Davis told me to stick a fork in you: if you’re done, get the hell back to the lab.”

He laughed again, the old twinkle asserting itself in his eyes. Then he said, about David, “I put him through somethin,’ didn’t I?”

“Cruel and usual.”

“I told him not to make a special thing of coming to see me. He’s got school…”

“Uh-huh.”

“So. How’s Mahatma Sheriff?”

“Fuhgeddaboutit. If you think you’re going to get me talking about work, you’re wrong.”

He said to come nearer, and slipped a hand somewhere, and I laughed and told him he was well, he could sign himself out now.

Investigator Bright had just sat down in Stu Hollings’ office when I walked in. I took the chair next to him.

Stu asked me, “How’s the man?”

“Doing well,” I said. “He said thanks for the cake.”

Will had on a pearl-gray suit, white shirt, and a black tie with red and gray diamond design. His shoes were polished till they looked like plastic. He had a classy-looking black watch and a hand covered in dark hair. He may be an A-H at times, but I couldn’t help appreciating the aesthetics.

With nary a preliminary, he launched in. Looking at Stu, he said, “We have an association with that rape-murder on Dresden last month and the Juan Doe at Turtle Rock.”

“Dresden,” Stu said. “Bombed to the ground in WW-Two.”

“The Estevez case?” I said. “You’re kidding.”

“That one,” Will said. “You and Sanders got the print ID for the Doe at Turtle Rock…” He turned a sheet of paper on Stu’s desk so he could read it. “Froylan Estancio Marcos Cordillo. Cordillo was picked up for driving a stolen. He had a passenger.”

“I am aware of that,” I said.

“Turns out the arresting officer on the stolen wrote her name in his report: Juanita Rosa Estevez.”

Stu said, “So this Cordillo knew the girl and she was a murder victim too.”

“That’s right, but the MOs are entirely different. She was raped, strangled, and mutilated.”

“It wouldn’t be so unusual that these two may know each other, uh?” Stu said. “They’re all of a klatch, so to speak.”

“All of a klatch?” I said.

He shifted and sat up straighter and spoke louder, and said, “Well, they run into each other, they may hang on the same street corners, the same jobs, who knows?”

Will pushed his chair out to go. He said, “Well, that’s it, that’s all I have. But I figured you should know that. I’m over here to see Fred Singh. He around?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Stu said.

“Oh, and something else,” he said, now looking at me. “We made Doe One. The one off Alton? Desi Cono Blanco. Went by ‘Whitey,’ I understand. Blanco. Means white in Spanish. Blanco didn’t work at that place he had an employee badge for…what was it? Tri-Cycle Inc., on Marconi. The sketch did it. Anonymous tip, but the sketch did it. Your person did good. Tell him I said so.”

I just nodded. I’d tell
him
, Trudy, what a good job she did.

My mind was churning slowly, but something flickered in. Joe had made a quip about Marconi while we were working prints from Doe Three, the Turtle Rock: Froylan Cordillo—Freddie. The 3-4-5-6-7 address. The phony one. So, Doe One “worked” on Marconi, and Doe Three used Marconi for a fictional residence address. How the heck did I miss that? Well, I missed it and that was that.

And now Will was saying Doe Three knew Nita Estevez.

And I was remembering David Sanders knew Freddie.

And Freddie knew Estevez. And maybe Cordillo.

And David knew Freddie…and was afraid, torn, acting screwy.

And Freddie knew Estevez…Little Crane…

“We still have a long way to go on these,” Will said, at the doorway but continuing to yak. “Blanco actually worked at a computer company on Bake Parkway. No enemies as far as anyone knew, good worker, no absences.”

“What kind of work did he do for them?” I said, stalling, stalling. Confused. Sick. Scared.

“Assembly. They make instruments to measure high-pressure gas used in etching computer chips. Don’t ask me any more than that, because I don’t know any more about that shit than that,” he said with a small grin.

“Me either,” Stu said, relieved.

“Well, gentlemen,” I said, “I guess I have nothing to add to this discussion. Thanks, Will, for the additional information. I’ll be toodling off, go try to put some sense to my notes.”

“Sounds good,” Will said. He turned to Stu and asked, “How are our friendly citizens’ groups lately?”

“They came, they went, they vociferated. I haven’t heard any more about it.”

But that was about to change.

TWENTY

M
itchell had a radio on when I got back to my desk. A news station cited that Sheriff-Coroner Matthew Trott met with a citizens’ group called HAFARC: Hispanic-American Fairness, Action, and Respect Coalition.

HAFARC was demanding heightened action on the recent unsolved homicides of persons of apparent Hispanic origin. Sheriff Trott did his usual mouth-to-microphone attempt at resuscitation. It made me feel like crap. I left the area and paced down the hall and out the back door, then stood for a while breathing the air. A co-worker coming in from the parking lot with evidence bags asked if I was okay. “I know how it is,” he said. “Some days…man.” He gave a shake of his head and went on in.

The thing was, here was my chance to get the whole force of the sheriff-coroner’s department involved…and I just couldn’t do it. I was sandbagging; not giving over information, however remote, on these cases. But where to start? What I really needed was Dave Sanders. I needed to talk with him without alarming his mother and, most of all, Joe.

One thing I wasn’t going to do was run right to Stu or even Boyd Russell. Boyd had three of the cases, Will Bright two, plus Nita Estevez. I’d go to one of them as soon as I could.

I went back in and made calls when Mitchell left the room and the other techs were off at the scopes or elsewhere. First I called Jennifer’s house, hoping to find David there. Then I called her office again. She said they had lunch together and David
seemed much calmer now. I told her I thought he may have left a notebook at my place; could she let him know?

“He’s got a friend he wants to stay with.” She sounded if she were smiling. “A girl, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, yes, I’ll call him tonight.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad to hear it. Listen, I’d best be getting off here. But I just wondered, did he leave a number?”

“Uh, four-seven-one-two thousand. Sounds like a business number, huh? I
guess
individuals can have the thousand numbers. I repeated it back, so I’m sure it’s good.”

“Thanks, Jennifer,” I said. “Take care.”

“I
will
do that. That is one thing I do,” she said, puffing again.

It was bum. No good. When I dialed the number for David, the piercing sound of a fax tone came on.

Mitchell came back and put headphones on so he could listen to the radio without disturbing others. I felt a powerful need to talk to Ray Vega. I phoned him at home. “You’re there,” I said.

“Where should I be?”

“I didn’t know what your shift was,” I said. “Wondering if can I come talk to you tonight. About Dave Sanders.”

“No prob. I’m on duty, though.”

“Where will you be, say, eight o’clock?”

“Buzz me back about then. You can ride with me, help me snag some idiots. Hey, I got one for you you’ll never believe. I had to go de-ghost a house yesterday.”

“What?”

“This Chinese lady. She waves me down, says there’s a baby crying in her house. ‘Don’t hurt it!’ she says, ‘just make it stop crying.’ I go in, take a look, don’t hear no baby. She says it’s a ghost-baby—like I should have known. I take out my cuffs and cup ’em in my palm just so, and tell her this is magic, this’ll do it. I go back in. Come out. She’s happy. Takes all kinds.”

“It surely does, Ray. See you tonight.”

Stu walked in. He glanced at Mitchell and Mitchell took his feet off the desk but didn’t remove the headphones.

“Why don’t I have anything on these cases?” Stu said. “I want everything you have on my desk before you leave.”

“There’s not that much.”

“What have you been doing?”

I felt my face flush. “Stu, I’ve been to sixteen scenes in the last two weeks. I can’t
manufacture
evidence.” One toe over the line. It showed in Stu’s face.

He came forward a bit and said, “I’ll talk to you later,” then turned and walked off.

I glanced over and saw Mitchell looking my way. “Ah, shit,” I said, and went down the hall and got a stiff cup of coffee, came back and compiled an overall report for Stu, then made copies of my worksheets. I put it all in a small binder and delivered them down to Stu’s office. He hated traffic and loved his wife’s good cooking, so he was out the door already, which was best for both our sakes.

I was walking to the stairway of my condo when Dave Sanders appeared through a cut between two of the buildings. “Can I come up?” he asked. I’d passed his small black car at the curb on the slope below and could see it now through the cut.

“You gave your mother a wrong number,” I said, when we got in. He didn’t reply. “Why’d you cut out this morning?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sit down. Something to drink?” He nodded. I got him a Pepsi. “We have to talk, David.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said quietly.

“You knew Freddie Cordillo.”

“Barely, like I said.” He rubbed a knee; then it started bouncing. The old anguish was in his eyes.

“Freddie Cordillo may have known two other people murdered this past month. Did you know that? Does that make any sense to you?”

“There’s someone else,” he said. “Last Friday. His name was Vic Montalvo. I recognized him from the sketch in the paper, just like Freddie.”

“You…Was he found near Capistrano?”

“That’s the one.” He couldn’t keep his gaze on me then, but went haltingly on with his story. Victor Montalvo had a sister. She had a friend who worked in a cantina in the heart of Santa Ana to pay off her debt to a smuggler. Her name was Nita Estevez.

I showed no emotion in my voice. “Did you know her?”

“No. But I know she died.”

“I thought she worked in a garment factory.”

“That was after. First she worked there, at that place. And listen to me: My roommate, Greg Cheng, he knew them all.”

“David, this sounds…kind of over the top.”

“It’s not! This fucking Cheng is a fucking asshole!”

“Is he doing the killing?”

He shook his head, but I didn’t know if it was to my question or for the hopelessness of the whole thing.

“He’s too smart for that.”

“Are you willing to talk to investigators?”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“You know why not! The reason is lying in the hospital not two miles from here.”

“How would you feel about talking to Ray Vega?”

“He’s a cop!”

“David, he’s a friend. He can give us ideas.”

I don’t know quite how I did it. Maybe he was just ready. He agreed to let me phone Ray.

It took seventeen minutes to get to the station off Junipero Serra, where Ray was sitting in for a sergeant. At the front counter inside, a frowzy woman was showing her proof of insurance so she could get a towed car out. A senior citizen volunteer in a blue
shirt went to get Ray. While we waited, David read the framed Certificates of Valor on the walls.

Ray came out, shook David’s hand, and brought us to an office jammed with four desks, metal filing cabinets, a water cooler, metal bookcases, and footlockers. Once we were seated, Ray said, “Gotta move forward, my man. We can help.”

A female officer came in and started to sit at her desk but glanced at our tight faces, asked if we needed anything, and left.

David took a deep breath, then told Ray what he told me, but added more about the sister of the victim from San Juan Creek. “Her name is Angela. She’s got a friend,” he said almost inaudibly. “Her friend barely speaks English. I think she’s in trouble.”

“How so?” Ray asked.

“Because…because I saw her.”

“Saw her what?”

“
Saw
her.” David hung his head.

“Hey, man,” Ray said. “We all—”

“This girl is a slave!
Indentured
, like, to Greg Cheng and this coyote guy.” He looked at me then, could read skepticism in my face. “It’s true! She’s supposed to pay off the coyote, this lizard named Lizzaraga. He farms her out. God!”

“Easy, man,” Ray said, and put a hand on David’s shoulder.

“She’s like a
slave
and I
used
her. And it makes me sick.
Sick
. How can I tell that to Dad, huh? What will he think of me? Worse, what will it do to
him?
I didn’t know in the beginning. I thought…I thought she liked me.” His face distorted in anguish.