and would be back later.
We took the stuff to the Battenberg City Clerk, to have copies made. The birth certificate said Cueva was born in Los Angeles County, California. Mother’s name was given as Maria Helena Cueva, father as Jesus Ramon. The home address of Maria Cueva was 4024 Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, 91604. No phone number. I phoned the Social Security number in to Sally at the office.
“Hey, run this SSN for me in the criminal history files, will you? Nationwide, of course.”
“You always want that,” she said. “You sure you don’t want international? That’s fun.”
“No, just the States and territories.”
“Well, all right. So, then, what else? You always need more than that.”
“Well, get a teletype off to LAPD, and see if a Maria Cueva still lives at forty-twenty-four Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, will you? She’s our victim’s mother, and they’ll have to notify her that her son Ramon is deceased.” We absolutely never notify the survivors over the phone.
“No problem. What else?”
“That ought to do it, actually.”
“You kidding me?”
“Nope. That’s all. Really,” I continued, into the silence at the other end.
“You’re no fun,” she said.
While we were in Battenberg, I thought it was a good idea to connect with Hector in person. I wanted to introduce him to Hester and to check on what he knew about Rudy. I called his cell phone and asked if he could meet us at the Battenberg Public Library. Hector went there quite often to use their computers and check his Hotmail account. He said he was headed there anyway.
Martha Taylor was the librarian. She’d been in my class at Maitland High. Small, slender, and in her middle fifties, she waved as Hester and I walked in.
“Carl. Good to see you again.” She said that while looking at Hester.
“Martha, this is an agent friend of mine,” I said. “Hester Gorse.” They shook hands. “You mind if we sit at that table over there? We’re expecting my usual guest.”
“No, that’s fine. If you need anything, let me know.” She pointed to the Christmas decorations festooning the children’s section. “I’ll be over there, putting tinsel on the tree.”
“Thanks.” Martha was just great about my meeting Hector at the library. Never asked. Never pried.
Hector was with us in five minutes. He seemed a bit taken aback when he saw Hester but was impressed with her credentials. His shyness lasted about two seconds.
“Rudy was in heavy with some very bad people,” he told us. “Nobody knows why they did him, man, but they truly did it. His whole head was really gone?”
“Just about,” I said. I pushed the photos over to him. “Those look much like him?”
He looked for a moment. “These are pretty good. This one, this is a very good likeness.” He held up one that depicted a good-looking man with a mustache.
“Thanks,” I said, and retrieved the photos. “We’re going to notify his relatives in L.A. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you?” I always hope.
“Hell, man, he ain’t got no relatives in L.A.”
Hester and I exchanged glances. “You know that for sure? “I asked.
“For certain, man. I got relatives in L.A. Not Rudy.”
“You know where I could find them? Mexico?”
Hector laughed in amazement. “Hell, man, Rudy wasn’t no Mexican. He’s a high and mighty dude from Colombia.”
I don’t know about anywhere else, but in the close confines of Battenberg, the Mexican and Colombian communities didn’t get along very well. The Colombians tended to look down on the Mexicans for some reason, and the Mexicans reciprocated.
“How did you know him, Hector?” asked Hester.
“Oh, he started in the plant same day as me. We did the cleanup on the guts that spilled on the floor. Everybody’s the same, that job,” he said, with a broad grin. “Nobody better than anybody in that stink. Besides, he was illegal,” said Hector.
“Illegal?” I asked. “How do you mean that?”
“He was an illegal alien,” said Hector. “What you suppose? Hell, man, I thought you would know that already.”
“We’re just getting started,” I said. Crap. Immigration and Naturalization should be notified, and that was very likely to add another layer or two of complication and delay.
“Okay. Anyway, Rudy, he needed somebody to help him out, and we talked about things on break. He wanted to know things about L.A., about if I was from a barrio, the names of places and streets, people and things.” He smiled. “He was hard to make out, you know? He din’ speak much English, and I cannot understand his Spanish hardly at all. All the Colombians speak funny.”
You learn something every day. “Like the way we speak English here?” I asked.
“You got that right,” he said, and laughed. “Ya, you betcha,” he said, sounding just exactly like he’d been born in Minnesota. It was remarkable.
“Hey, that’s good!” I said.
“Thank you, I think so too,” he said. “My sister says I have a talent.” He got very serious, very quickly. “Rudy’s illegal. So are the ones who did this, but I don’t know names or where they are right now.”
“Do they work in the plant?”
“Rudy did, for sure. The others, though, I don’t know. I doan think so. They’re around, you know? The plant. But not regular, not like they gotta work there. They are there sometimes. But they ain’t around any one special place. They sometimes hang around in the break room.”
“Are they Colombians, too?” Hester asked.
“Not all of them, ma’am. Some are,” and he leaned forward to whisper, “some are from other places. Some are Hispanics, some are dark-skinned from somewhere I doan know, some are whites.”
Oh, great.
“One of those whites happen to be a tall, kind of blond dude?”
“I would say there is a very good chance of that,” said Hector, with a smile. He did like to kid me. “But really, yes. I do not know his name, but I think they call him Cheeto, you know, like the corn chips in the bag.”
“Any of’em live here in Battenberg?” I hoped.
“I cannot say that, man. I never see them go home anywhere here.”
“What do they drive? “asked Hester.
“More than one set of wheels,” said Hector. “Sometimes in a Chevy pickup, sometimes a Jap car.”
“What kind of Jap car? “I asked.
“Honda, maybe Subaru, or something like that.”
“What color?” asked Hester.
“Kind of a calf-shit yellow,” said Hector. He’d picked up local descriptors in a hurry, I noticed.
“Tan?” asked Hester. “Cream-colored?”
Hector looked about the room. “Like that,” he said, pointing at a tropical poster on the far wall. “Like the sand in the picture.”
It could have been described as cream-colored. Maybe. Under certain lighting conditions.
“Okay, got it,” I said. I lowered my voice. “So, you’re telling us that this is dope-related?”
“No way, man,” said Hector. “Not with Ramon, anyway. I doan know what, but it’s much bigger than dope.”
“What is it?” asked Hester.
“I don’ know.” His accent was beginning to thicken. Hector was nervous.
“Got a guess? “I asked. I figured he knew.
“All I know,” he said, “is that the word is ‘you do not in any way fuck with these people.’ And before you ask me, no, I don’ know who they are. I have seen them, I think. I don’ even know that for sure, man. I’m telliri you, these are very, very bad men.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you think you’ve seen them-assuming it might have been them-what do they look
