sweatshirt closed.
“They all left,” she said.
“Pardon?” She’d taken me by surprise.
“They all left last night,” she said, standing at the bottom of the porch steps and looking up at us. “I’m the part-time manager. I live right over there, and they all left. Just like that. There’s nobody there now.”
“And nobody’s returned?” asked Hester.
“Nope. Nobody I’ve seen.” She pointed to the single-lane driveway that led to a garage toward the rear of the house. “That’s where they park their cars.”
There were no cars there. A point for her. It sounded like she had the place under pretty close surveillance. “They ever done that before? “I asked.
“No.”
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Myra Gunderson. What’s yours?”
“Carl Houseman. I’m a deputy here in Nation County. Could you tell me who owns this house?” I thought we could try the owner and see if he could do us any good.
“Helen Fritz,” she replied. “But she’s dead. Her son, Herman, lives in Cedar Rapids, I think. He owns this place now, but I think Mary Klein, the realtor, manages the rent and things for him, I guess. I just pick up the rent and call Mary when there’s a problem with the plumbing.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Would you call us if you see anybody back over here? When they come back, or anything.”
She sure would.
“When are the checks due?” I asked. I figured they’d have to be back by then.
“The first of the month. But no checks. They pay cash,” she said.
I should have guessed. But a week and a half. Damn.
I tried to reach Mary Klein, one of the local real-estate agents, but got no reply. I picked up my aluminum logbook, opened it, took out my pen, and made a ceremonious check mark on my daily log sheet.
“What’s the check mark for? “asked Hester.
“To remind me to tell Lamar how much time a cell phone saves me. He hates it when I do that.”
Next, we tried Juan and Adriana Munoz, the newlyweds. They lived in one of four apartments above the hardware store. The place had a long, very narrow stairwell with one dim light, a long, dark hall with old musty carpet, and a floor that creaked with every other step. The apartment doors were plywood, with a cheap dark stain on them and gold paper numbers stuck on them with tape. Dingy. Again, I knocked and knocked. No answer. It was apparent that Juan and Adriana Munoz were gone, too. The only difference in this instance was that Myra Gunderson wasn’t there to tell us.
Downstairs, the owner and proprietor of the hardware store said he hadn’t heard footsteps all day.
“I don’t know why they all left,” he said. The defensiveness in his voice told me he damned well knew. “Maybe some beaner reunion or something. None of my business, though.”
Beaner. That told me what I needed to know about his attitude toward Hispanics. I try not to be judgmental, but I’m always looking for a lever that I can use to move somebody.
It was an unhappy fact that a few landlords in Battenberg were gouging the illegal immigrants for rent and other services. We’d received few complaints, mainly because illegal aliens don’t feel that they can go to the cops or the courts. And they’re right, although it wasn’t a trust sort of thing. We’d get the bad guy, but the illegal aliens themselves would be referred to INS. They’d be held in a facility a long way from Nation County, and maybe even deported before the bad guy went to trial. Either way, chances were that we’d have no complaining witness, and the bad guy would walk.
“You notice when they come back,” I said, “give me a call.”
“Sure.” It was said with a noticeable lack of sincerity.
“State fire marshal’s office is asking us if we know anything about people being warehoused in unsafe conditions. You heard anything about that?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I just asked ‘cause I noticed there wasn’t a fire exit up there. Hate to have the fire marshal get the wrong impression.” I nodded to him. “Thanks for the help.”
Back outside, I said, “That might get a fire escape opened up, anyway.”
“Pretty crude, Houseman.”
“You gotta know your audience.”
“I suppose. Now, speaking of knowing your audience,” said Hester, “how many illegal aliens are we talking about?”
I thought for a moment. “In Battenberg, maybe three hundred. Give or take. Not necessarily counting their families… There’s just no way to get an accurate count.”
“That many? Good God, I didn’t realize there were that many up here.”
“That includes a bunch of ethnic groups. Not just Hispanic. And not all the new people are illegal, not by any means.”
“Oh. But as many as three hundred gone for now, right?”
“Looks like.”
Hester pulled out her Palm Pilot, slipped the stylus out, and did something. “Okay. So, answer this. Where did they all go?”
I didn’t have to think about that at all. “Beats me.”
We drove in silence for about a half mile, up the main drag of Battenberg.
“That’s a lot of people to accommodate,” said Hester absently. “We’re at least a thousand miles from the Mexican border, and a good five hundred from Canada.”
“Well, shit,” I said softly.
“What?”
“The border. They can cross one. Anytime, and pretty damned quick.” Hester looked at me quizzically.
“The bridge at Freiberg, Hester. Sixteen miles from here, they can cross the Mississippi at Freiberg. I’ll bet they’ve gone to Wisconsin.”
It was 16:00 on the button when we got to the Battenberg police department. We needed to contact Harry Ullman, my investigative counterpart in Conception County, Wisconsin. The most secure way to do that was by land line. I didn’t want any chance whatsoever of an intercept of what we were going to discuss.
The Battenberg chief, Norm Vincent, graciously let us into his private office. There were three phones there, sharing lines, and I wanted to talk to Harry with Hester on the line as well. What I didn’t want was Norm overhearing the conversation. Unfortunately, he quite rightfully sat behind his desk and waited for us to begin.
“Norm?” I asked.
“Yeah?”
“Look, we’re about to discuss a long shot with another agency. A real long shot. I wonder if we might ask you to step out for a few minutes?”
He looked hurt. Almost as if he thought I thought he couldn’t keep a secret. Well, he was right.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You should have said something.”
As he started to get up, I said, “Look, it’s like this. If we’re right, I’ll tell you as soon as we know, okay? But if we’re wrong, it’s best this doesn’t get out. At all.”
That mollified him a bit, I think, but it also whetted his appetite.
“Sure, Carl. Just let me know when you’re done.”
Within a minute, we had Harry on the line.
“Hey, Houseman! How they hang-”
“Hello, Harry,” said Hester.
“Oops,” said Harry. “It’s the fuzz.”
We all went way back.
“Got a question for you, Harry,” I said.
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with a deader over there last evening, would it?” Harry loved homicides.
“Matter of fact,” I said, “it does.”
