INSTEAD OF HEADING directly back to the crime lab, Horatio drove around the neighborhood awhile longer. The streets looked more or less alike, except that as they got farther away from Granado’s place there had been more turf struggles, indicated by gang graffiti painted atop other gang graffiti. Warfare by spray can.
He didn’t know why Felix Granado would refuse to identify the victim, but he had some ideas. In spite of the gang leader’s comment, being seen helping the police in any way couldn’t be good for his standing. He would rather obstruct an investigation than aid it, just out of general principle. Then there was the strong possibility that the shooting was gang-related. If the victim had been shot by other Los Danger Boys members, maybe for breaking a gang rule of some kind, Granado wouldn’t want to identify him because he would want to stifle the investigation. If the shooter had been a member of a rival gang, then Los Danger Boys would want to avenge it themselves, without police interference.
Horatio had hoped to appeal to the human being that Felix Granado was, but the gangster inside had won out.
A few blocks away from Granado’s little house, they spotted two young men standing on a street corner outside a little bodega. Hand-lettered signs in the windows advertised cerveza, loteria, ice-cold Dr. Pepper, and menudo. The boys were teenagers, one holding a can of Coke and a lit cigarette in the same hand, with his other tucked into a pocket of his baggy black denim pants. The second boy leaned out over the curb and spat into the street as they drove past. Horatio was sure it was an expression of opinion.
“H, I know that kid,” Eric said.
“The spitter?”
“The other one, with the smoke. He’s Los Danger Boys, I’m pretty sure. Let’s talk to him.”
Horatio turned into the mouth of an alley, backed out, and reversed direction. The two boys had started walking away from the bodega, but he passed them and then pulled onto the sidewalk, blocking their way with the big SUV. When Eric shoved his door open, he was right in front of them.
“Hold up a second,” he said. Horatio stayed where he was, his hands on the steering wheel, as Eric stepped down to the sidewalk and addressed the kid he had mentioned. “You work at Graciana, right, in Little Havana? Busboy?”
The kid’s face clouded over, as if he was embarrassed at being revealed as a working stiff in front of his friend. “Yeah. So?”
“I’ve seen you there. I’m Eric.”
“Maybe I’ve seen you there, too. What about it?”
“I’m not looking to jam anybody up, man, but I need some information. You’re Los Danger Boys, right?”
The kid flicked the cigarette butt to the pavement and stamped it out, transferring the Coke to his left hand. Now his right dove into the deep pocket. “No.”
“I’ve seen the tattoos on your knuckles,” Eric said. “It’s okay, we’re not with the gang unit or anything. We’re with the crime lab, and we’re trying to identify a body.”
“Just don’t say nothing, dude,” the other teen said. He refused to meet Eric’s gaze, but kept glancing into the vehicle at Horatio.
“If you want to help your friend, keep your mouth shut,” Eric warned. Horatio was proud of the way Eric had managed the conversation so far. He released the wheel long enough to hand over the victim’s photograph when Eric reached for it.
“This is the guy,” Eric said. “You know him?”
“Dude…”
Eric kept his gaze locked on the first kid. “Do you know him or not?”
“Maybe I’ve seen him around,” the kid said.
“I need a name. His address too, if you know it.”
The kid was nervous now. He took a long swig from the can, emptying it, then crushed it in his fist. He looked like he wanted to throw it to the ground but had suddenly realized that littering in front of two cops wouldn’t be the wisest course of action. Instead, he held the can awkwardly in his hand and stared at the picture. “Your mom owns Graciana, right?” Eric asked. He sounded like he was just making conversation, but it was really a thinly veiled threat. If you don’t help me, I’ll go to your mother.
The threat worked. “His name’s Silvio.”
“Last name.”
“Castaneda. Silvio Castaneda. That’s him. He get whacked or what?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s weird, dog.” Now that he had spilled the name, he seemed to have gotten past his anxiety about talking to the police. His friend stared at him, as if astonished at his behavior.
“Why is it weird?” Eric asked.
“He’s just—he’s nothing, you know? Not an important guy. Not really a player. He hasn’t been LDB for long, never got very far up in the organization.”
“Has he ever been arrested?”
“No way. He never done nothing to get arrested for.”
If you don’t count the possession and sale of cocaine, Horatio thought.
“We need to inform his family of his death,” Eric said. “You know where he lived?”
The kid shuffled his feet, switched hands on the crushed soft drink can again, shot a glance at his friend, and gave Eric an address. “I think that’s right,” he said. “Anyway, it’s a gray house there, one down from the corner.”
“We’ll find it,” Eric said. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“See you at the restaurant.” Eric climbed back up into the Hummer and closed his door.
“That’s close by,” Horatio said.
“Yeah, couple blocks.”
“Good work, Eric.” Horatio started the Hummer again and watched the kids saunter up the block, not hurrying, like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Joe Castaneda’s eyes filled with tears, and he backed out of the doorway, his legs wobbling. Horatio was afraid he might faint or fall down and braced himself to catch the man if it came to that. “May we come in for a minute?”
“S-sure,” Castaneda stammered. “Y-yeah.”
Horatio entered the modest home, with Eric close behind. They had driven over straight from the bodega and found Joe Castaneda at home. The man was heavyset, his gut straining a thin white undershirt. He hadn’t shaved today, and his eyes were puffy with sleep. On his legs were a pair of cotton pajama pants in a red plaid pattern, and his feet were bare. Horatio thought that perhaps he worked nights, and they had interrupted his sleep. A faint smell of tortillas hung in the air, possibly his morning meal.
Castaneda dropped into a well-worn easy chair. At a sound from an interior doorway, Horatio swiveled, reaching for his weapon.
“What is it, Papa?” a young girl asked. She looked to be in her midteens, petite, not even five feet tall. She wore a black T-shirt with a heavy metal band’s logo on the front, tight jeans, and yellow sneakers with black checks. The makeup around her eyes was thick and dark, as if she had applied it with a trowel, and her lips were painted fashionably black. “Who the hell are these dudes?”
“Are you Silvio’s sister?” Horatio asked her. When talking with young people, Horatio liked to get on their level, but this girl was an awkward height—crouching would lower him too much, but standing fully upright made her have to look up at him. He settled for tilting his head to one side, lowering his face a little.
“Yeah, I’m Faustina.”
“I’m very sorry, Faustina, but your brother was killed last night. We just now found out who he was so that we could tell you.”
Joe Castaneda sat in the chair, his face buried in his hands, utterly still. He could have been sleeping for all the noise he made. “My son…” he said quietly, then went silent again.
“Is your mother at home?” Horatio asked the girl.
“My mama’s dead,” Faustina said. There was an angry, brittle edge to her voice. “Three years ago. Someone shot her where she worked, at a gas station. No one did jack about it.”
“I’m very sorry about that, Faustina. I guarantee you, something will be done about Silvio’s death.”
“How did it happen?”
“He was shot, Faustina. One of the bullets hit his heart.”
“Just like my mama.”
“I wish it wasn’t.”
Joe Castaneda lowered his hands. Tears traced down his cheeks. “Where…” he began. He didn’t seem to know how to ask his question. “Where is he?”
“Your son is in our morgue, Mister Castaneda,” Horatio explained. “He’s being well taken care of there while we determine exactly what happened and who killed him. We’ll release him to you as soon as we can, so if you’d like to make arrangements—”
“My wife, she…”
“Faustina told us that your wife was also shot, and I’m very sorry. We try to do our best for every crime victim, but some cases aren’t solved immediately. Some take years, and I can’t lie to you, some are never solved.”
“Because the cops don’t care about our people,” Faustina said. “That’s why our people have to join gangs, so we’ll have someone who will look out for us. Everybody knows the po-po don’t give a damn.”
“That, young lady, is not true. We care about every victim.” Horatio paused. “I care. And I guarantee you, I will do everything in my power to get at the truth. I will find out who killed your brother.”
Faustina Castaneda didn’t answer him. Not with words, anyway. But her deep brown eyes locked on his, dry and bitter, and told him everything.
She didn’t believe him.
He would just have to prove her wrong.