Crossing the street, he stood under the streetlight and looked up at the Salarcos' unit. From reading the police reports, Hardy knew that the involvement of this critical witness had been reluctant at first. Salarco was a mow-blow-and-go gardener with an INS problem- no green card. Ironically, the Salarcos were only involved in the case because Andrew himself had told the detectives about them. Sergeant Taylor had asked him if he had any idea who might have called nine one one before he had- that person had had a thick Mexican accent.
Andrew had volunteered that he bet it was the people upstairs- they had definitely been home that night. Their baby had been crying incessantly, and it had been distracting to the max. Andrew had told Sergeant Taylor that it was one of the reasons he couldn't just go into one of Mooney's back bedrooms to work on memorizing his lines. He'd had to get out where it was quiet enough to concentrate.
So Taylor had asked Salarco if he'd seen or heard anything, or had called nine one one. At first the neighbor had said no. He and his wife had a sick baby. That's all they were concerned with. But Taylor had a hunch and asked about Salarco's immigration status, then explained that he was not with the INS, that Salarco's testimony might be crucial to a murder investigation and might in fact mitigate in his favor with la migra. Hardy knew this was probably a cynical lie on Taylor's part, but it did accomplish its goal- Salarco talked.
At the sidewalk in front of the house, Hardy took a deep breath, hoping he could make the man talk again.
The door to the Salarcos' upstairs unit was around the driveway side in the back. A small flatbed truck took up most of the space between this building and its neighbor. There was no light over the door, and Hardy heard nothing when he pushed the doorbell, but after few seconds, he heard footfalls within, coming downstairs. Then, "Sí? Qué es?"
"Señora Salarco?"
"Sí. Policia?"
"No. Habla inglés?" Hardy dug for some words that he hoped were close enough. "Soy abogado de Señor Bartlett."
"Momento."
The footsteps retreated. Hardy had time to turn around and examine the truck and the building. Wooden fence posts lined both sides of the empty flatbed. He saw no tools. The windows in the cab were up. The house was old, ramshackle, very small- less than half the size of the other buildings on the block. Hardy had wondered how an illegal handyman could afford the rent to even a doghouse in this neighborhood, and the answer was that it wasn't much bigger than a doghouse, and from the outside at least, not much nicer.
Another set of footsteps on the stairs. This time the male voice, though heavily accented, spoke English. "Yes."
"Mr. Salarco?" he said through the door. "My name is Dismas Hardy. I'm the lawyer for Andrew Bartlett. About the murder case?" No response. "If you've got a few minutes, I'd like to talk to you if I may."
Salarco didn't ponder for long. Perhaps, Hardy thought, he considered anyone involved with the case a potential official who could turn him in. If so, Hardy was happy to let him keep believing that.
With bright red skin and an unlined face, he struck Hardy as much younger than his stated age of twenty-eight. A little above medium height, in his T-shirt and jeans, Salarco could have been a weight lifter, with his massive arms and well-developed shoulders, tiny waist. But the face- Hardy came back to it- it was the face of a boy. "Tardes, señor… what is it, please, your name again?"
"Hardy. Dismas Hardy."
"Deezmus. I don't know that name."
Hardy kept it genial. "Nobody does. I wouldn't worry about it."
They ascended a narrow stairway that ended in another door that opened into Salarco's living room. It was little more than a cubicle, but nicely furnished in Salvation Army. A beaded bottle of Modelo Negro rested on the coffee table, along with a paperback book-Cien Años de Soledad. So the gardener was a reader, perhaps with intellect. It was good, Hardy thought, to find out early.
The television was tuned to a Spanish station. Salarco turned it off, indicating that Hardy sit on the upholstered couch. "Cerveza?" he asked, and Hardy nodded. When he came back with the beer, Salarco took the opposite end of the couch. "So what do you want to know?" he asked.
Hardy put his beer down on the table, took a relaxed position. "I'd really just like to walk through the events of the night of the murder, when you called the police. I've got a copy of your statements here, and I just wondered if you'd mind telling me again what you did that night, in your own words. Would that be all right with you?"
"Sí. Sure."
"Before we begin, though, I want to ask you if you've talked to any lawyers with the DA's office about your statements, or your identification of Andrew Bartlett."
He thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "Not any lawyers. I have talked to the police three, maybe four times. But no lawyers."
This made sense to Hardy. In the normal course of events this case wouldn't come to trial for the best part of a year. Whoever pulled Andrew Bartlett for the adult trial wouldn't even have had a chance to review his own discovery yet. With all the dealing and then the hurry to move Andrew up out of juvenile court, Hardy doubted whether Brandt had, either, since he didn't have to know all the facts about the crime- he wasn't trying the case.
So Hardy had a clear field. But before he started to run, it was important that Salarco understand his position. He had already gotten it out, and now he handed him his business card, as required by statute. "I want you to know that I represent Andrew Bartlett, the boy you identified as the killer of Mr. Mooney and the girl, Laura Wright. I'm his lawyer. I want to hear what you have to say because I'm going to have to try to find out what happened."
The seriousness of the little speech hit a mark. Salarco drew his arm off the couch and onto his lap. His brow clouded a bit. "I will just tell the truth," he said, "as I have."
"That's all I can ask. Thank you." He took a hand-held tape recorder from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. "Do you have any objection if I record what you say?"
It wasn't clear whether Salarco knew he had the option to refuse. He nodded, then waited. "How do you want me to start?"
"Just what happened that night."
Another nod. "The main thing is Carla, our baby, she was sick. High high fever. She is crying crying, but finally, maybe about nine o'clock, we finally get her to start to sleep." He uncrossed his legs, reached for his beer and drank. "But then downstairs, you know, just down there, right below, we hear this… this fight."
"A physical fight?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see, but I heard loud yelling- a man, two men, and a woman. Loud! Really loud! And of course then it wakes up Carla. She started crying again and… You have babies?"
"Two," Hardy said. "Older now."
"Well, you know, then… when they cry. At least me, it makes me… I don't know the word. Impaciente. Crazy to have it stop."
"Impatient," Hardy said. And thought, To say the least.
"Sí. Impatient. So then Carla starts again and I am impatient with the noise from below. So I stomp on the floor like this"- he brought his heel down-"boom, boom, and it's quiet for another few minutes, then the yelling starts again, and Carla is crying."
"And what happened then?" Hardy asked.
"Then, when it started again, I went downstairs to ask them to stop."
"Just a minute, please." Hardy sat up straight. This was not in anything he'd read. "You're saying you went downstairs at a little after nine o'clock and talked to the people down there?"