The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (14 page)

“We didn’t have an ocean to cross, just a little river that could be treacherous in parts. I’d heard of people stepping in a hole and never being seen again, taken under by the current. We had woods and open fields to cross and border guards who would pick you off like a wooden duck in a sharpshooting contest. I made it okay. Some of my friends didn’t.” Pablo squeezed his arm when he was finished. They were both silent for a long time after that, praying to their beers.

“Now we live like kings, eh?” Pablo laughed. “More like paupers.”

“You’re right,” Joaquin replied. “But what’s the alternative? Cuba? Mexico?” Pablo just nodded, his head low. He loved his country but he knew he could never go back.

“Yep. I guess that’s the best we can say about America: What’s the alternative? But it’s getting worse—crime and drugs everywhere, even a small town like this.” There it was, hanging out there—an opportunity. Joaquin took it slow.

“I heard about the murder here a few weeks ago.”

“Right around the block,” Pablo said, nodding toward the door. “A young gal—they slit her throat. You want to catch the bastard who did that and strangle him with your bare hands, know what I mean?” Joaquin nodded.

“Thank God they did catch the guy,” he prompted Pablo, who didn’t need much prompting.

“They caught shit. Those idiots couldn’t catch the right guy if he bit ’em in the ass. They locked up this kid because he’s stupid.”

“What?” Joaquin asked, trying to look surprised. He hated playing this game with Pablo but he convinced himself they were both after the same thing.

“Yeah.” Pablo was excited now. “They locked up this retarded kid—I guess he’s not retarded all the way but he’s slow. Nice kid—wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt a fly. He works at the convenience store right down the block. They go in—Frick and Frack, Bass Creek’s finest—and browbeat this kid until he supposedly confesses. Meanwhile, the real killer is miles away.”

“Who’s the real killer?” Joaquin asked. It was the logical next question. Pablo looked at him. Looked around. He realized he’d started this story and he had an obligation to finish. He leaned closer to Joaquin and out of the side of his mouth said, “A guy named Geronimo—you know, like the Indian chief.”

“No last name?” Joaquin asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“How do you know this guy did it?” Joaquin was trying not to sound like a cop but he didn’t want to lose his best—perhaps his only—lead. He ordered two more beers and took a small stainless steel flask out of his back pocket. “Join me in a little kicker?”

Pablo smiled. This Joaquin was all right. He took a long pull, followed it with a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with his arm and resumed his story.

“There’s a guy I knew named Ray who lived on Mercer Street—hung out on his stoop most nights with a buddy drinking beers. He said this Geronimo used to stop by all the time and bum a beer.” Pablo leaned closer and continued in his conspiratorial tone. “He was there the night of the murder.”

Joaquin handed the flask to his new best friend, who might just need some help getting the rest of this out. Pablo took another long drink. “Apparently Geronimo was having a thing with this woman who was killed. Her name was Lucy. She was a little loose, to be honest with you. Anyway, the kid from the store was at her trailer that night—Ray and his friend saw him go in and they all saw him later coming from that direction, stumbling down the street, then throwing up on somebody’s lawn. Ray said Geronimo got pissed when he found out the kid had been at Lucy’s and headed for the trailer. He went behind some other house or something because they didn’t actually see him go in. But they know he did it. He disappeared right after that. Both of them said he was a badass dude. Always carried a knife.”

Joaquin himself took a hit from the flask. “Did they tell the police?”

“Not really. They mentioned that he was there but that’s it.”

“Why?”

“You know. In this community you don’t ever tell the police more than you have to. And they were afraid Geronimo might kill them. They didn’t know those idiots were going to charge the kid.”

“Well, what about now? Geronimo’s gone. An innocent man’s in jail.”

“Now would be a good time but those boys were spooked. They could finger Geronimo and he knew it. They’re long gone—out of the country. Ray was from Guatemala; he went back there. The other guy, I don’t know, Nicaragua maybe. I don’t think anyone will ever find them, though.” He motioned to Joaquin for the flask, poured some of the whiskey into his beer and drained the mug. He looked relieved.

But Joaquin wasn’t finished.

“Why don’t you tell the police what you know?”

“Me, an old drunken Cuban? Amigo, do you honestly believe they would listen to anything I have to say?”

“Why did this guy Ray tell you?” He was really sounding like a cop now but Pablo was drunk enough not to notice.

“I knew his father years ago. We were close. He had to tell somebody. It burns inside your stomach like hot tar. You have to tell someone. I had to tell you. Now it’s done. I just hope that boy gets off.”

The conversation ended after that. Joaquin ordered another round and they just sat drinking the last beer in silence. Joaquin knew his undercover work was done for the night.

He decided to stay in town one more day. He wanted to talk to Pilar and comb the neighborhood one last time.

He was at Pilar Rodriguez’s house at eight the next morning.

“Ma’am, my name is Joaquin Sanchez. I’m a private investigator.” He showed her his investigator’s license. “I’m investigating the murder of Lucy Ochoa.”

“Are you working for Elena?” she asked eagerly. She was about sixty, with a weathered face but a strong, thick body.

“Yes, ma’am, for her lawyer.”

“You tell Elena or her lawyer that I can’t identify Rudy. I already told the police that. Tell Elena I
won’t
identify him. I misspoke that night, that’s all. I plan on telling her myself, just haven’t gotten around to it.”

Joaquin chatted with her a while longer before trying to politely exit. But Pilar was like a battery-operated, nonstop talking machine and it was impossible to turn her off once she got started. “They fired her, you know. Poor thing. Threw her out of the hotel and everything. No respect. They treat you like a dog even though you work your fingers to the bone for them. I know. She got another job waitressing over in Silver Creek, about five miles away. She lives in a broken-down old trailer two streets over. I should have been by to visit already.”

Joaquin didn’t know if she was ever going to take a breath. He waited patiently, his left foot behind his right, ready to run when the occasion presented itself. “It’s a crying shame what they did to her,” Pilar continued. Then, as if on cue, she started to cry.

Joaquin felt terrible but he knew this was his chance. He patted Pilar on the shoulder, then bolted for his pickup.

“I’m sorry for your troubles,” he shouted over his shoulder as he scurried down the driveway.

On Friday morning, he hitched his boat trailer early and headed straight for Vero. Dick Radek was waiting for him when he arrived.

“Catch any fish?”

“Plenty, but not the kind you’re looking for.” Joaquin told him about Pablo, Ray Castro, José Guerrero, and Geronimo. “This guy Geronimo did it but nobody’s around who can finger him. I spent my last day interviewing everybody in the neighborhood who would talk to me. Nobody knew his last name and nobody ever saw him with Lucy. At least that’s what they told me.”

“We can’t even tie him to the girl?”

“Nope. Apparently they never went out. He just showed up at the trailer.”

Dick banged the desk in disgust.

“This really sucks. We know who the killer is but we have no proof. You got any ideas about how to find this Geronimo guy?”

“Not without a last name. We could check payroll records for the pickers. Maybe find out where he lived and see if we can get the rent receipts. But these guys are illegals. You’re almost certainly not going to find anything in writing. Everything is under the table.”

“Yeah, but we need to try anyway. Anything else?” Joaquin told him about his conversation with Pilar and his struggle to get away.

“Good job, Joaquin. You turned over the only stones that could be found.”

“I’ll send you a written report. Keep me posted,” he said as he headed for the door.

“Sure will,” Dick replied. “I’ll call you next week.” As soon as Joaquin left, Dick headed downstairs to talk to the boss.

Tracey was not as upset as Dick thought she would be. “Every cloud has a silver lining—even this one, Dick.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, we didn’t find the killer and we probably won’t be able to find the two guys who could finger him.” Dick nodded. He was with her so far. “But Clay Evans has no witnesses to place Rudy at the scene, either. Two are gone and, if Pilar Rodriguez is true to her word and I believe she will be, the third won’t be able to make the identification. Which means, if we can suppress Rudy’s confession, he walks.”

“What about the blood?” It was a question he could have answered for himself if he had taken any time to think, but Tracey was moving a little too fast for him.

“Oh yeah, the blood,” Tracey said with a smirk. “That’ll help them. Rudy’s got the most common blood type in the world. The blood is meaningless. The confession is everything.”

The conversation bothered Tracey for another reason, however, which she didn’t share with Dick. If Elena had lost her job and her home and was living in a trailer in the barrio as Pilar had reported, she was destitute. There would be no more money forthcoming and the retainer was almost gone.
She got the money the last time,
Tracey told herself.
Maybe she can do it again.

Sixteen

Despite his initial trepidation (to put it mildly) when he first learned that Tracey James was going to represent Rudy, the Fourth had started to feel more confident each day as the proceedings moved along. He would still have to convince Harry Tuthill to stay on board but was confident he could. After all, Harry had come this far with him.

Tracey had filed a Motion to Set Bail that was a joke. Bail was set at $150,000 and Rudy remained in jail. She had also called him about having her psychiatrist see Rudy in jail.

“I could file a motion,” she’d told him. “But I’m hoping we can avoid that.”

“What are your grounds for the psychiatric evaluation?” Clay asked, knowing he had no basis to refuse. She was either trying to set up an insanity defense or a fitness to stand trial defense.

“I want to try to show that Rudy did not have the capacity to refuse to talk to Detective Brume.”

Clay almost started laughing into the phone. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with that motion.”

“I don’t know if it has ever been argued before.”

“Well, you certainly have the right to make the argument. Why don’t you send me a stipulation and I’ll forward it to the judge?”

“Fine.”

There was only one circuit judge in Cobb County, Gabriel Wentwell, and Clay had appeared before him enough times to know that the motion Tracey planned to file wasn’t going to fly anyplace but straight into the trash can. Judge Wentwell was a fine man in many ways: distinguished military career, church deacon, good family, and a good lawyer. His tenure as a judge had been marked with the same colorless consistency as the rest of his life. There were no surprises with Judge Wentwell—no politics, no favoritism. He was not the kind of man who was going to go out on a limb for some novel theory of law. He’d listen politely and he would pause appropriately to think about it, but ultimately he would just brush it aside in favor of the known, traditional rule of law.

Clay didn’t know—or care—what sort of evidence his opponent might present to try to make her point. His confidence was brimming again, and all he could think about was what a cakewalk this was turning out to be after all. But there were other things he didn’t know that might have given him more pause. He didn’t know that Ray Castro and José Guerrero had left town, because Wes had never told him. He also didn’t know that Pilar Rodriguez had come in for a lineup and failed to identify Rudy. As far as he knew, he had three witnesses ready and waiting.

Elena didn’t tell Rudy that she had lost her job and had to move out of the hotel. She thought it would upset him too much, but she underestimated her son. Rudy was doing well in the county jail sticking with his routine. He had made friends with the guards and some of the other prisoners, one of whom, Juan Morales, was a prison veteran. Juan, like Rudy, was Puerto Rican, a skinny little fast-talking, chain-smoking con man who had all the answers. He took Rudy under his wing and gave him some expert advice about how to handle himself if he ended up in the general prison population.

“In the beginning, you wanna act a little crazy. Most of ’em are afraid of kooks. All you wanna do is be left alone. I don’t wanna tell you this but you’re young and handsome, they’ll be on you like shit on flypaper.” Rudy tried to picture shit on flypaper but he couldn’t. He had no idea what Juan meant but Juan was on a roll. “You’re gonna be tested early. You can wait or you can make the first move.”

“The first move?”

“Yeah. You know, kick somebody’s ass. Pick a white guy. The blacks and Latinos will like that. Beat him good but not too bad. You don’t wanna create a vendetta or anything.”

“How do I start a fight with somebody I don’t know?”

“You catch his eye, then you say, ‘Are you lookin’ at me? Are you lookin’ at me?’ Say it louder the second time so everybody will hear you. The shower’s a perfect place because it gets the point across. Then you hit him and you don’t stop hittin’ him till he’s down. Pick a big guy. The biggest, toughest-lookin’ white guy you can find.”

Rudy certainly appreciated Juan taking the time to tutor him on prison life. One thing puzzled him, though: Juan was about five foot two and a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet and he didn’t know karate like Rudy did. How did he get by? Something inside told him not to ask the question.

So Rudy was doing just fine, but he could tell from his mother’s face during her most recent visits that something was wrong and it wasn’t what was happening to him. At first she had handled his situation with a fighter’s disposition and had actually been upbeat when Tracey took the case. Now she was sad all the time, her shoulders slumped. When he asked about the hotel and all the regulars, her answers were short and didn’t really tell him anything. Usually she loved talking about the colorful cast of characters who breathed life into the old place on a daily basis. Rudy’s first inclination was to ask a direct question, but once again something inside told him to let it go.