“Second to the oldest. Let’s see, there’s Sean, me, Shannon, Antonio, Maureen and Miguel.”
Madeline blinked. “I know I’ll hate myself for asking,” she muttered, “but Sean, Shannon and Maureen… Martinez?”
They’d reached the car, but neither made a move to get in. Cruz chuckled. “We’re a little unconventional, I guess. I’m only half Puerto Rican-my mother is Irish.”
“Hence the names,” she surmised, interest caught despite herself.
“Mom and Pop decided they would take turns naming us when we were born.” He winked. “Lucky there was an even number of us. I’d hate to consider what kind of name they would have chosen as a compromise.”
“Six kids is a large family,” Madeline said. “Where did you live?”
“A series of apartments on the northeast side,” he answered. “Pop works on the docks, and as he improved his job, his first concern was always getting us a better place to live. A few years ago they moved to a small house. Mom was home with us when we were growing up, but Maureen and Miguel are both in college. A few years ago Mom went back to school and now she works as a legal secretary.”
She tried and failed to imagine what it must have been like growing up with an apartment full of siblings in crowded rooms, with a mother home all day to ride herd. Noisy, she guessed. The one thing she remembered above all else from her own childhood was the quiet. She was the only child in the huge home most of the time, and even though her mother hadn’t worked, she’d been gone frequently, involved in her clubs and charity work. Madeline had always looked forward to cleaning day each week, when the housekeeper ran the vacuum. For that short time the house would seem a little less empty.
“So by now you’ve probably guessed how safe you are with me.” His words interrupted her thoughts and she looked across the car at him. He was leaning; he seemed to do that a lot, she noted.
“How’s that?”
“Puerto Rican and Irish-of course I had the required Catholic upbringing.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “I was even an altar boy.”
She smiled at that information. “Proof that God does work in mysterious ways.”
“That’s just what Father Dougherty used to say to me,” he agreed. “I think he believed that I was his own personal trial on earth. I got along better with the nuns at school. At least, most of them. Sister Mary Joseph never understood me. Did you ever notice that the nuns all used to have men’s names?” he added irrelevantly.
Madeline shook her head. She hadn’t had much experience with nuns.
“Things are different now,” he went on. “The school my nieces and nephews attend has nuns with names like Sister Cathy and Rosita Marie. They worry about developing positive self-concepts instead of repressing evil thoughts, and they never, ever rap students on the knuckles with a ruler.”
“Now, why do I have the feeling that your knuckles didn’t get rapped a fraction as often as you deserved it?” she wondered aloud. It was all too easy to picture him as he must have appeared when he was a mischievous youngster, all dancing dark eyes with a mop of black hair. The charm would have been apparent even then, and no doubt he’d used it shamelessly.
He shrugged. “You misunderstand me, I suppose. Just like Sister Mary Joseph.”
She gave up and got in the car. She had Cruz Martinez’s number, all right. Exactly like Sister Mary Joseph. “Where to?” she asked when he joined her in the front seat.
Cruz leaned over and turned up the radio, smiling as she winced at the mournful tune filling the air. “I think it’s time to talk to some members of the Lords, especially one Dirk Cantoney.”
Madeline agreed and Cruz directed her through the streets. “What about you?” he asked as she drove silently. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“An older brother, but he was away at school much of the time when I was growing up.”
“I should bring you home with me some Sunday,” he said idly. “Give you a look at all you missed.”
“No!” Even she was shocked at the vehement denial. At his quizzical look she explained quickly, “I mean, it wouldn’t be a good idea. Your parents probably look forward to spending the day with family, not with strangers.”
He laughed at the thought. “My parents don’t understand the word ‘stranger.’ And they always encourage us to bring friends home to meet them. My mom is a firm believer in the power of good cooking.”
She mentally scolded herself for reacting so strongly to his invitation. She should have seized the chance to observe more about Cruz Martinez-who he was, where he came from. But everything inside her recoiled from the thought of getting to know his family, even casually. She couldn’t imagine anything more uncomfortable than sitting across from his parents, being treated as a friend, all the while trying to establish whether a link existed between Cruz and the supplier. She could imagine herself conversing with his parents. “Actually, Mr. and Mrs. Martinez, I’m more than Cruz’s partner-I’m the lady who’s going to get his butt hauled to jail if he’s involved in illegal arms sales.”
She shuddered. She didn’t think she was that cool an actress. Especially if the entire family was as open and friendly as Cruz was. Seemingly open, she corrected herself. She had to keep that in mind. Here she was doubting her own ability to carry off such a masquerade at his home and he might even now be delivering an act deserving of an Academy Award. She couldn’t remember the last time a case had left a worse taste in her mouth. She wished it had been possible to do as her father wished, and ask Brewer to put someone else on this case. But that had never been an option. She was too much a professional for that.
“Slow down,” Cruz commanded as she drove by the parking lot of a business that had been vacated. He peered out the window at the people collected there, then sat back in the seat. “Keep driving.” They cruised slowly up and down streets in the area, slowing down at corners, or wherever a group of youths was found. Finally he said, “Here we are. Pull over.”
She obeyed and they got out of the car and approached a knot of several young men of various races, all of whom were wearing Lords colors.
The young men had been talking and joking loudly, occasionally jostling one another, but silence fell over the group when the unmarked car stopped and the detectives got out and approached them.
“Hey, nice wheels, man,” one finally remarked, and the rest guffawed.
“Yo, Mama,” another said to Madeline. “What you doing wasting your time with a cop?”
Madeline reached into her breast pocket and took out her shield, flipping it open. “Earning a living,” she said succinctly. “And I’m not your mama. But if I were, I’d tell you that smoking is bad for your health.”
There was a short silence at her words before the group broke into laughter again, ribbing the boy who was holding a cigarette in his hand.
“I’ve talked to some of you guys already,” Cruz interjected. “I’m Detective Martinez, and this is Detective Casey. We’re investigating the shooting of Ramsey Elliot.”
“I was there,” one volunteered. “I told you about the car. When are you going to find it?”
“Yeah, man,” said another, “you talked to all of us who was there. You mean you ain’t found the guy yet?”
“Just checking,” Cruz answered. “I don’t suppose any of you have remembered anything else about the car or its occupants, have you? Or something really helpful, like the license number?”
“It had local plates, I know that,” one said surely.
“It didn’t have no plates,” contradicted another.
“I didn’t see nuthin’. I wasn’t paying attention before, and once the bullets started flying I hit the dirt,” said a third. “I wasn’t looking at the car then, I was looking at Ramsey. There was blood all over the place.” Several others nodded at this.
“Why hasn’t Dirk Cantoney gotten in touch with me?” Cruz asked. No one spoke a word. A few glanced at each other, some shuffled their feet, but no one seemed willing to answer. Cruz went on, “I left word with several of you that I wanted to speak to him. Did any of you tell him that?” Still no response.
“We need to talk to him about the shooting, since he was there, too,” Madeline said. “He isn’t in any trouble-we just have some routine questions to ask.”
One snorted at this. “Dirk ain’t afraid of no cops,” he said derisively. The mood of the group seemed to take a menacing turn. The once cocky, bantering tone was absent now, each of the members’ faces wearing the same sullen, closed mask.
“Then he should be willing to talk to us,” Madeline inserted smoothly. “Where can we find him?”
There was another long silence before one muttered, “If he wants to talk, he’ll find you.”
“Tell him we’ll be at the Blue Pelican the rest of the afternoon,” Cruz said, naming a bar in the neighborhood.
