Chapter 21
Helen Katz rapped on the front door of the Cortez home, a firm knock but not her usual triple-bang that sent the residents scrambling to answer. Deaf, dumb, and blind, you knew that there was a cop at the door when Katz came calling. Right now though, she was feeling kindly toward Mrs. Cortez and didn’t feel the need to jump-start her heart. The woman had been through enough, and it was only going to get worse.
“Sí?” Mrs. Cortez peered through the steel webbing of the security screen, a short, stocky woman with neatly pinned gray hair and a long-sleeved black dress—mourning clothes for her younger son. Katz’s first partner had told her that if she ever wanted to get rich, she should go into business selling funeral dresses to the barrio mamacitas. The paunchy twenty-year vet had looked over at her, grinning. Even fresh out of the Academy and needing a good report, she had looked right through him until he turned away, muttering.
“I’m Detective Katz, señora. Hablas inglés? ”
Mrs. Cortez turned away, said something to someone inside, and a teenage girl joined her at the door. Her daughter—Katz recognized her from the drive-by crime scene of Luis Cortez last week. She had been wearing bright orange soccer shorts at the time. This morning she wore a more subdued beaded peasant dress with a black woven choker around her slender brown neck. Her dark eyes were older than her years. “May I help you?” Her voice was soft as flowers.
“I’m Detective Katz. I was the officer—”
“I know who you are,” said the girl, opening the door. “Please come in. My name is Estella.” She nodded as Katz stepped inside. “Mama!” She conferred with her mother for a moment, then Mrs. Cortez smiled at Katz and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Please, detective, make yourself comfortable.” Estella indicated a worn blue-leather sofa, then waited until Katz had sat down before sitting down herself, smoothing her dress as she did so. “We are very glad to see you.”
Katz looked around, confused, but the house was quiet—only the sound of water running in the kitchen disturbed the silence. The living room was clean and organized, with a sofa and two matching leather chairs that faced the television, a new thirty-one-inch Panasonic. An ornate wooden crucifix hung on one wall, next to a velvet painting of Cesar Chavez waving in triumph. On the opposite wall was a velvet painting of a muscular Aztec warrior holding an obsidian lance, his expression proud and threatening. In the far corner of the room was a small round table with a framed photograph of Luis Cortez flanked by two flickering votive candles. Luis was thirteen when he was murdered—the photo was recent, his seventh-grade portrait probably, Luis at his desk, hands folded, a mischievous smile on his face, his eyes silky.
“He was a beautiful boy, yes?”
“Yes,” said Katz.
“Yes.” Estella nodded. “We thank you for coming to the funeral.”
“I’m sorry.” Katz felt tongue-tied in the girl’s presence, wishing that the mother would return. “I’m looking for Paulo.”
“Paulo is here last night,” Mrs. Cortez said from the doorway, a tray of cookies in her hands. “Toda la noche.”
“Mrs. Cortez . . .” Katz turned to Estella. “I didn’t mention anything about last night. Your mother is giving him an alibi before I even asked for one.”
“Paulo here toda la noche,” Mrs. Cortez repeated, setting the cookies on the coffee table in front of Katz.
“Last night three Latin Princes were shot to death while sitting in their car outside a taquería in East Anaheim. These men—we believe they were the ones who killed Luis.”
Mrs. Cortez crossed herself as she walked back into the kitchen.
Katz took a bite of a cookie. It was a plain biscuit covered with colored sugar. “The man who killed the three Latin Princes . . .” She wiped crumbs off her lips, remembering the last time she had seen Luis’s older brother, Paulo, a huge nineteen-year-old in knee-length cutoffs and Pendleton. He had glowered at her from across the street at the crime scene, arms folded across his chest, his powerful neck and forearms laced with tattoos. “This man—his description fits Paulo.”
“As my mother said, detective, Paulo was home all last night.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Katz finished the cookie, reached for another. “It was a nasty shooting. The Princes were drinking beer in their Buick when someone pulled up, leaned out the driver’s side, and emptied the clip on an AK-47.” She chewed with her mouth open. “Armor-piercing rounds. Swiss-cheesed the Buick something awful.”
“I am sorry for their families,” said Estella.
“Qué lástima,” agreed Mrs. Cortez, setting a tray on the table. She poured red hibiscus tea into a cup, dropped in a couple of sugar cubes without asking, and handed it to Katz.
Katz put the cup down without tasting it and reached for another cookie. “You say Paulo stayed home last. That’s good to hear.” She took a bite. “So . . . where is he?”
Mrs. Cortez sipped her tea, then spoke to her daughter, who translated.
“My mother says Paulo left early this morning. She does not know where he went. To look for work, perhaps.”
“I don’t think so.” Katz licked her lips, sugar granules drifting onto her lap. “After the shoot-up at the taquería, I had a unit parked down the street watching this house. They were there all night, and they didn’t see anyone leave.”
Estella listened to her mother. “Paulo sometimes sneaks out the back. He is worried about being”—she searched for the word—“am-bushed by the Latin Princes. He must have gone out through the back alley.”
“I had the alley watched too.”
Mrs. Cortez spoke again. She didn’t raise her voice, but her eyes watching Katz were small and hard.
“My mother says your fine police officers must have fallen asleep and missed seeing him. She hopes you are not too harsh with them. It was a warm night.”
Katz brushed crumbs off her lap. “It would be better for Paulo if the police found him before the Latin Princes.”
Mrs. Cortez spoke rapidly as she stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the cup.
Estella blushed. “My mother—she thanks you for your concern. She will tell Paulo that you wish to speak with him.”
Katz stared at the photograph of Luis Cortez and wondered where that shy knowing smile had come from. “Estella, you know what’s going to happen to your brother if he doesn’t turn himself in. Make your mother understand that you two could also be in danger.”
“God will provide.”
“What happens if the Latin Princes don’t believe in God?”
“Everyone believes in God, detective.”
Katz shook her head, then laid her business card on the table. “Call me if you change your mind. My pager is always on.” She grabbed a couple more cookies as she stood up.
Mrs. Cortez stood up too and spoke to Estella.
“My mother thanks you very much for sending Señor Jaime to talk with us. It—it was a very rare occasion for us.”
Mrs. Cortez took Katz’s hand and squeezed it between her two palms, ignoring the cookies crumbling onto the carpet. “Gracias.”
“I don’t understand,” said Katz, feeling the heat of Mrs. Cortez’s hands.
“Muchas gracias.” Mrs. Cortez let her go.
“Mr. Jaime—he said you sent him. He asked about Luis. He wanted to know everything. We spent the whole afternoon together. All of us cried. Me, my mother, Mr. Jaime. Even Paulo, who pretended it was the dust in the air making his eyes water.”
“I didn’t send anyone to talk with you.”
“Mr. Jaime said he was a writer for a magazine—”
“SLAP.” Mrs. Cortez acted like it was funny. She lightly slapped her own cheek. “SLAP.”
“Jimmy’s writing about Luis?”
Estella nodded. “He said he wanted people to know who Luis was. To put a face on the killing, to show what the world had lost.” She was crying again. “He said he wanted everyone who read about Luis—he wanted them to feel what we feel—to feel the weight of a stone in their heart.”
Mrs. Cortez nodded, her eyes ferocious. She had cried herself dry. Katz might as well take her card back—no way they were going to turn in Paulo.
“Mr. Jaime—we can trust him, yes?” asked Estella.
Katz turned over the idea of Jimmy tracking down the Cortez family, facing off against a desperate and grieving Paulo to write a story about a boy who was just a statistic, a kid whose death didn’t even make the local TV news. “Yes, you can trust him.”