Part 4
Riverside County Jail
Indio, California
Hermano Pinetta
37
Two Riverside County Deputies led Hermano Pinetta from his cell to a small interview room in the Riverside County Jail. Hermano, who currently wore a blue Riverside County jumpsuit, was a forty-four-year-old two-strike felon looking at serious time if convicted of charges stemming from his most recent arrest.
Hermano’s attorney was in the hall outside the door. Oscar Castaneda was a nervous middle-aged man with long hair he constantly pushed from his face, and eyes that flitted like nervous moths.
Oscar glanced at the lead deputy as if he was embarrassed to make eye contact.
“One second, please?”
The guards stopped to let Oscar have his second, so Oscar stepped close and lowered his voice.
“They gonna ask you about a car. You gonna get one chance here. You wanna go home in this life, you answer this lady’s questions.”
“What lady? What you talkin’ about?”
The deputy tugged Hermano’s arm before Oscar could answer, and pulled Hermano into the room. Hermano had been in this same interview room three times since his arrest, but never with more than a couple of local detectives he knew by their first names. Now, the little room was crowded with humorless men in suits who watched him with hungry eyes. The lone woman sat at the interview table with the men surrounding her like a chorus of angels. Her hands rested on a manila envelope, with her fingers laced.
The deputies pushed Hermano down onto a chair opposite the woman, then hooked his handcuffs to a steel rod bolted to the table.
She said, “Hermano Pinetta.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You were arrested and booked for running a chop shop and receiving stolen property, to wit, twenty-seven counts re various stolen autos and auto parts. These are state crimes. You are not currently charged with any federal crimes. Do you understand the difference?”
Oscar leaned down, and whispered in Hermano’s ear.
“Say yes.”
Hermano said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“The charges against you will be prosecuted by the Riverside County prosecutor’s office. These charges are what we call ‘wobblers,’ meaning Riverside has discretion to prosecute them as felonies, misdemeanors, or not at all. Do you understand what this means?”
Oscar whispered again.
“They ding you for a felony, that’s your third strike, and you on the farm the rest of your life. Tell her you understand.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name is Nancie Stendahl. I’m an Assistant Deputy Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. From Washington. Would you like my help with Riverside?”
Hermano felt sick. He glanced at Oscar, whose eyes danced and spiraled like dying fireflies.
“Yes, ma’am. We would definitely appreciate your help.”
The woman opened the envelope, took out a picture, and put it on the table so Hermano could see it. The picture showed a couple of skinny white kids standing beside a silver Mustang.
“Parts of this vehicle were found at your place of business. Do you recognize this car?”
“No.”
The woman and everyone else in the room simply waited, and Oscar once more appeared in his ear.
“Tell the truth, you stupid motherfucker.”
Hermano cleared his throat.
“Yeah, I seen that car. Sure.”
The woman leaned forward.
“Where did you get it?”
Hermano hesitated, but Oscar’s voice floated in his ear again.
“You give this lady a name, or there ain’t no one on this earth gonna help your sorrowful ass.”
Hermano said, “My cousin, Luis. Luis Pinetta.”
The woman smiled for the first time, but it was not a pleasant smile.
Joe Pike: one day after Elvis Cole is taken
38
When Pike realized Washington and Pinetta would return for their personal belongings, he shoved Haddad toward the door.
“Move. Out now, Jon. Move.”
They pulled out of the house where the Indians were murdered as fast as they entered, Stone pushing Haddad face-first into the Jeep’s back seat, Pike gunning the Jeep out and away, clearing the scene before Washington and Pinetta returned. The garage door was still lowering when they parked behind a Dodge pickup less than one block away, the Jeep’s engine ticking.
Pike edged down behind the wheel, but saw neither Stone nor Haddad in the mirror.
“Is he down?”
Behind him, Stone’s voice came from the darkness.
“He’s so down the next stop is a fuckin’ grave.”
Everything changed when they left Orlato and Ruiz in the desert. Orlato, Haddad, and Ruiz had been sent to dump bodies, but had not returned or called. The Syrian might send someone to see if the Escalade had broken down in the desert, but Pike thought it more likely the Syrian would assume his men had been arrested, and everything they knew would be shared with the police. He would send Washington and Pinetta to clean the house of evidence as quickly as possible.
Stone said, “We’re not grabbing these guys, right? We’re going to follow them?”
“Yes.”
“Groovy.”
Jon Stone said nothing more, and neither did Pike.
Pike’s cell phone buzzed eighteen minutes later. He glanced at the call screen, and saw the caller was a man who managed a gun shop Pike owned.
“Yes?”
Ronnie said, “Hey, man. Thought you should know. The ATF came around today.”
“Okay.”
Pike thought nothing of it. His gun shop was licensed by the government to sell firearms. An agent from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms dropped by once a year to check their paperwork and ask questions. Pro forma.
“They weren’t here about the shop. Said they’ve been trying to reach Elvis, and thought you might know
