“Yes, boss,” Jaime said. “I know who to call. Thanks.”
People who aren’t citizens of this country are at a distinct disadvantage in dealing with law enforcement. They often come from places where cops have an inarguably upper hand. Lupe Rivera wasn’t a suspect in Marcella’s homicide and so far no one had mentioned that word in her presence. Her husband was the guy with the problem. Lupe would have been well within her rights to have refused to speak to us, but she didn’t, mostly, I believe, because she was petrified.
While we were still at the house and still using Jaime Carbajal as her translator, Detective Caldwell managed to make it sound like going back to the sheriff’s department in Ellensburg to continue the interview and record it was the most routine thing in the world.
Lupe made a small attempt at objection. “But what about the boys?” she asked.
“I’ll look after them,” Mel offered helpfully. “They can come with me. Maybe they’d like to go get something to eat.”
It was another of those good cop/bad cop, divide-and-conquer routines that Mel Soames does so well, and in the end, that’s how we did it. I drove Jaime Carbajal into Ellensburg and dropped him off at the Best Western. Then I drove back to the Log Jam Diner in Cle Elum where Mel had taken the two boys. Tomas was cheerfully mowing through a platter loaded with pancakes-the Log Jam is an all-day breakfast kind of place-while Alfonso sat staring out the window. His arms were folded stubbornly across his chest. He had refused Mel’s offer of food. Even the glass of water in front of him remained untouched.
“Where’s my mom?” he asked as I scooted into the booth next to Mel. “What did you do with her?”
“Your mother is fine,” I said. “She’s still with Detective Caldwell. She’ll bring your mom back to your house as soon as they finish.”
“You’re lying,” Alfonso insisted. “You won’t bring her home. You’re going to send us back to Mexico.”
“I ordered a burger for you,” Mel told me, then she turned to Alfonso. “You’re wrong,” she said. “We’re not from Immigration. That’s not our job.”
“Why are you here, then?” Alfonso asked.
Mel took a long meditative bite of her hamburger and chewed it thoroughly before she swallowed and answered. “We’re here because of your father. Has he seemed different lately?”
Done with talking, Alfonso shook his head and turned away. Tomas poured several more glugs of maple syrup onto a pancake that was already swimming in the stuff. Then he looked up at Mel.
“Papa has been mad,” Tomas said. “At everybody.”
Alfonso glowered at the younger boy and aimed an elbow in the direction of his little brother’s rib cage, but Tomas neatly dodged the blow and went right on talking as though nothing had happened. “He’s even mad at Mama,” he added. “He hit her.”
I’ve heard that kids learn new languages faster than older people can. Tomas’s English was far better than his mother’s, and better than his older brother’s as well. Fueled by his sugar-high short stack, he seemed ready to tell all.
“He hit your mother?” Mel asked. “When did that happen?”
Tomas shrugged. “The other day. Sunday night, when they had a big fight. They thought we were asleep.”
My burger came. It had obviously been sitting under a warming lamp for some time, and it wasn’t anything to write home about. Not eating it gave me a chance to study Alfonso. He was biting his lip. I guessed Tomas wasn’t the only one who knew about the fight.
“Why did your parents fight?” Mel asked.
“Mama was mad because Papa had been gone all weekend. She was yelling at him about that. That’s when he hit her. He was drunk.”
He said the words quietly and with no particular malice. That was simply how things were; how their lives were.
Then Mel sprang her trap. “Did you know your father lost his wallet?”
Alfonso shook his head.
“Just now?” Tomas asked.
“No,” Mel said. “It happened a couple of months ago. Someone found it and returned it. We wanted to find him and tell him thank you. We think his name is Miguel.”
Mel had mentioned the napkin fragment that had been found in Tomas Rivera’s wallet-a torn napkin with the name “Miguel” written on it along with a no-longer-functioning cell-phone number. She brought it up innocently enough, but the reaction from both boys was nothing short of electric. Tomas dropped his fork into his plate, slopping a spatter of sticky syrup onto the table. Alfonso drew in his breath in a sharp gasp. The wary look that passed between them spoke volumes.
“Does your father have a friend named Miguel?” Mel asked.
Now neither boy answered aloud, so I stepped into the melee to give Mel a hand.
“Does he?” I asked.
After a long silence, the younger boy finally nodded his head. “We’re not supposed to talk about him,” Tomas muttered with a sideways glance in his brother’s direction.
“Why not?” I asked. “Why aren’t you supposed to talk about him?”
“Because…” Alfonso said. His eyes brimmed with sudden tears. I knew he was wavering, so I focused my attention totally on him.
“Well?” I persisted.
Even so, Tomas was the one who answered. “Papa told us never to say his name,” the boy said. “He said Miguel is a bad man. That if we talk about him he might come here and kill us. Or else he’ll tell Border Patrol about us and they’ll send us back to Mexico.”
“Have you met him?” I asked. “If you saw Miguel again, would you recognize him?”
“I would,” Alfonso said. “He has a big scar on his face.”
“When did you see him last?” I asked.
“This morning,” Alfonso said. “Before we left for school. He came to the house looking for Papa. Mama told him he was too late, that Papa was already at work.”
Tomas may have gone to work, I thought, but he didn’t show up at work. Big difference.
“Did you hear what Miguel and your mother talked about?” I asked.
“He said that if Papa knew what was good for him, he’d keep his mouth shut.”
“Keep his mouth shut about what?” Mel asked.
Alfonso shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think Mama knew either, but after he left she was scared. And crying.”
And she was still crying this afternoon when we got there, I thought.
“Did you happen to notice what kind of a vehicle Miguel was driving?” Mel asked.
This time Tomas was the one who piped up. “One of those trucks like army guys drive.”
“A Hummer, you mean?” I asked.
Tomas nodded. “Except it wasn’t brown and tan,” he said. “It was yellow.”
“Washington plates?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Alfonso said. “I’m not sure.”
I signaled for the bill. “Time to go,” I said. “This is information Detective Caldwell needs to have ASAP.”
Joanna was polishing off the last of her creme brulee and chatting with Frank Montoya’s mother when the waitress came up and whispered, “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady. There’s someone who would like to speak to you. His name is Norm Higgins, and he’s waiting in the bar.”
Shaking her head in exasperation, Joanna put down her napkin. She had thought Norm might object to Jaime’s using a store-bought coffin, but she was astonished that the man would track her down at a private function to hassle her about it. After all, the Carbajals were the ones making Marcella’s funeral arrangements. Joanna had nothing to do with it. But then again, Higgins and Sons was a family-owned business. If their bread and butter was going away, Joanna supposed Norm had reason to be upset.
She walked into the bar and found Norm sitting in a booth at the back of the room. She didn’t know him well, but she recognized him. He was nursing a beer and seemed engrossed in watching a televised basketball game.
