Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18 by Blindman's Bluff

Author:Blindman's Bluff [Bluff, Blindman's]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780062088215
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2009-08-11T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-ONE

THE LAST KNOWN address of Alejandro Brand was in Pacoima, part of Decker’s old hunting ground in Foothill. The place was a burb of about a hundred thousand people. Its major claim to fame—besides a horrendous airplane crash in 1957 that killed children in a schoolyard—was its junior high that had once schooled Ritchie Valens, a rising pop star in the 1950s. The poor boy’s career had come to an abrupt halt when he, along with Buddy Holly and J. P. Richardson, aka the Big Bopper, had died in a heartbreaking small-craft crash in Iowa in 1959. Pacoima Junior High had been changed to Pacoima Middle School, but that was just about the only thing in the town that had evolved. It was still a working-class Hispanic neighborhood pocked with violence.

The area was rife with industrial plants and warehouses for the trades, but there was some local shopping: discount clothing stores, liquor stores, convenience marts, fast-food chains, launderettes, used-car lots, and the occasional ethnic bodega. Around here, money was tight unless it was Friday night. Then the bars did bang-up businesses. As Decker cruised down the wide streets, he slowed down to study the bad boys who populated the sidewalks or the weed-choked lots. They eyed him back with defiant looks and aggressive stances.

Brand’s address was an apartment building constructed in the 1950s out of glittery stucco with an aqua blue sign that bore the name The Caribbean. It was two stories of depression with laundry hung from the balconies. Decker found parking easily and walked up to an outside locked gate. It was short enough for Decker to extend his arm over the top and reach the doorknob on the other side. The courtyard had a small clean pool that was currently in use by a slew of elementary-aged children. There were several women in swimsuits reclining on plastic-strap lawn chairs, yakking with one another as they worked on their tans. The ladies looked at Decker with suspicion.

He picked a woman at random—a Latina of around thirty with short black hair, dark eyes, and a voluptuous body that was pouring out of her bikini. He told her in Spanish that he was the police—a show of his badge—and looking for Alejandro Brand.

The woman responded with a purse of her lips. “He’s bad news.”

Her friend, overhearing the conversation, broke in. She was older and heavier, wearing a halter top and cutoff shorts. “Very bad news,” she concurred. “Raul, stop playing so rough with your sister. Let go of her now!” Back to Decker. “He sold drugs upstairs from his mother’s apartment.

“After Mrs. Cruz died, it got much worse. We called the police, but every time they tell us there’s nothing they can do unless someone wants to press charges.

“Finally the apartment caught fire. The building almost burned down.

“But the fire department was quick, gracias a Dios.” She crossed herself.

Decker thought about a meth lab and all its flammable components. “Did you smell anything funny coming from the apartment?”

“Who got that

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