The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(22)

“Nice of you to say so,” Zac said. “We’ll have to see.”

Of course, Zac was right to reserve judgment. He was a good-as-gold person, a terrific lawyer and a busy one, but she had taken a chance asking him to look into this sad and likely hopeless case a couple of days before Christmas. Her pitch to Zac was based only on Cindy’s enthusiasm and gut instinct. Of course, in Yuki’s humble opinion, Cindy was right about 90 percent of the time. She was an investigative reporter. Her instinct was always supported by research.

Maria Varela had given Cindy a fat packet of letters from Eduardo along with gigabytes of family photos. Cindy had met their kids, individually and privately. She had also paid a call on Eduardo’s employer at the Stop ’n’ Shop gas station and convenience store where he had worked for years.

This was a small sample, but according to Cindy, they were all on Team Eduardo and of the same mind. Eduardo could never have shot anyone.

Cindy was sold. And despite Yuki’s lawyerly reservations, she was on the Varela train and looking to get Zac on it, too.

A half hour after leaving the Hall, Zac and Yuki cleared the security systems at San Bruno and were brought to a small interview room. They had just taken seats when the door opened again and two jail guards escorted an unchained forty-eight-year-old Mexican in an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops into the room.

Judging from his blackened eyes, swollen nose, and stitches above his right eyebrow, Yuki surmised he’d recently taken a beating.

Yuki introduced herself and Zac and explained who they were and why they had come.

“You’re a Christmas gift from my wife,” Varela said, shaking his head, “I swear to God.” Then, to Zac, “But if you’re going to be my lawyer—I have no money.”

Zac said, “I’ll decide if I’m taking your case after we talk, Mr. Varela.”

“Eduardo. Please.”

“Eduardo,” said Zac. “We’ve got only fifteen minutes. Tell me about the murder.”





CHAPTER 29





“I DIDN’T KILL that guy. I didn’t kill anyone,” Varela told Yuki and attorney Zac Jordan.

He looked anguished, defeated. Two years in a maximum-security jail would have that effect on anyone. Double that if he was innocent.

“Do you know who did kill him?” Yuki asked.

“It was one of the three damned gangsters who put it on me,” said Varela. “Their names are in my file. Pablo Esteban, Miguel Perez, Antonio Vasquez. Gangsters on our street. They told the cops it was me.”

Zac asked him to start at the beginning. Eduardo nodded and collected himself.

He said, “I had three jobs. On the weekdays I kept the auto-body repair shop clean, then at night, I worked at the Stop ’n’ Shop gas station and convenience store. I did house painting on the weekend. This happened on a Wednesday night.”

Zac nodded. Go ahead.

Varela said that he had left his day job at the auto-repair shop and gone home to wash up. He had dinner with his wife and kids. Then he walked to his car, reclined the seat back, and took a nap before to driving to his night job.

“I heard a bang,” said Varela. “I was still in my dreams. Did someone hit a car with a pipe? But then another bang. Then two more.”

He was breathing heavily now.

“I think, What’s happening? I sit up and look out. A man is lying in the street up near the corner. I get out to see, and three thugs I know from the neighborhood see me—and run very fast up the street. Like the devil was chasing them.”

Varela looked panicky as he said, “I go over to the man lying in the street. It’s dark. He is facedown in his blood. The back of his head—gone. I see his brains.” He tapped the back of his head to indicate where the man had been shot. “I think maybe I should call for help, but he’s dead. I don’t want to talk to the police. Maybe they take me in. I have a family. I can’t go to jail. So I go to work.”

He lowered his head and shook it: No, no, no.

“Police come to the Stop ’n’ Shop and arrest me. They tell me the three gangsters—”

“They used that word, gangsters?” Zac asked.

“They say men called the police and gave my name as the killer. The policemen drive me to the station. They take my fingerprints and my picture and fill out forms and ask me, ‘Where is the gun?’ I tell them, ‘I don’t have a gun. I never have a gun.’

“They ask me the same questions all night. They tell me that the dead man is my neighbor. First time I knew.”

“Did they tell you you had a right to have a lawyer?” Zac asked.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Did you waive your rights?”

“I don’t know. I answer all the questions they ask. They tell me the dead man is Gordon Perez. I do know him. He lives across the street. We had arguments about where we park our cars. It was never anything. Some shouting. But no fights, understand? So I tell them that. After all night of this, they put me in a cell.”

Zac said, “Eduardo, this is important. You didn’t have a gun? You’ve never had a gun? No one is going to show up with a gun that your fingerprints are on?”

“No, no. Never.”

“Were you given a gunshot residue test?”