Chapter Thirteen

Ionly had an hour or so before I needed to head to work, but it was enough time to talk to Julia, then check out where Henry lived, which wasn’t far from Lyle’s Diner.

When I walked in, a pale reedy woman with graying blond hair approached. “You must be Margo, Millie’s cousin.” She took my hand and squeezed. “I’m Julia Henderson, it’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve heard about me.”

She laughed lightly. “Of course I have. Millie and I go way back. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Come, sit. Coffee?”

“Thanks,” I said.

She motioned to the counter. Lyle’s Diner was an old-fashioned restaurant with cushioned red vinyl booths and surprisingly comfortable stools. Though the atmosphere looked to be right out of the fifties, the kitchen was modern and immaculate. The cook was in the back wearing all white, including a chef’s hat. A single waitress handled the floor, but it was four in the afternoon and the diner had only a few customers. The posted hours were 6:30 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. six days a week, and 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. on Sunday.

Julia poured a cup for each of us, motioned to a saucer that had creamer and sugar. I added a little cream. I could drink my coffee black if I had to, but I preferred light. She put in both cream and sugar.

“Millie said that you’re a private investigator looking into the kids going around robbing businesses.”

Now I am, I thought. “I’m very interested in what happened here. You mentioned to Millie and to me, just now, that your impression was of kids. How young?”

“Young teens. I didn’t get a good look at them—they were in and out so quickly, and when we looked at the security tape—it’s stationary and focused on the cash register—we only saw them from the back. They didn’t go for the register, just came in and knocked stuff around. We called the police immediately. Maybe that’s why they left in a hurry. But they didn’t have to break our display. It was an antique, been in the diner since my grandparents opened the place nearly seventy years ago, more a conversation piece than anything. We were so upset about it.”

“And you think young teens? Fourteen, fifteen?”

“Like I said, I didn’t clearly see their faces. But the way they moved, laughed—they laughed and mocked Mr. Gomez, one of our regulars, when he confronted them. I felt they were teenagers, probably around fourteen. One may have been a little older. They were having fun being destructive, as if that was their primary purpose.”

“Did you think they were on drugs?”

She considered, then said, “Now that you mention it, they may have been high. Giggly, you know? Not hard drugs—I’ve seen enough addicts and how they act.”

“In the weeks leading up to the vandalism, did you have any other trouble? Maybe a dine and dash? Loitering out front? Did you report teenagers using drugs? Anything unusual?”

She was shaking her head to each of my questions, and I feared my theory was wrong.

What theory? I just had a vague idea about the motive of these three kids and not much more.

Other than I was ninety percent positive that Henry Diaz was one of the three and his friends from today were the other two.

Julia said, “We started closing earlier because of the increase in crime. We’ve had to call the police a few times to roust homeless people sleeping in our doorway and once, in our dumpster. And we’ve shooed away panhandlers a few times. But we also donate our extra food to the homeless shelter three blocks from here, and I’ve given away my body weight in free coffee every year since my sister and I took over the diner. It’s just become more difficult over the last few years.”

I pulled out my phone and showed her the list of businesses I’d compiled from crime blogs and news reports of similar crimes in this area. “Do you recognize any of these businesses?”

“Why yes—almost all of them. They were all vandalized?”

“Or robbed, eight in the last month since Christmas. I think it’s the same three teenagers. Do you think you could talk to the people you do know, pool your collective memories? You might come up with information that can help the police. Then call the detective in charge of your case. Do you remember the name?”

“I have his card.” She walked behind the counter and reached into a small drawer. “Detective Tomas Villines.”

“Can I see the card?”

She turned it to me, and I took a picture of it. Villines was part of the robbery squad of the Violent Crimes Bureau. “I might want to follow up with him,” I told her. Especially since Ambrose wasn’t returning my call.

“I’ll start making calls right now.” Julia seemed pleased to be proactive. “If I hear anything important, I’ll let you know.”

“And you should let the detective know about any new information. I can investigate, but I can’t arrest anyone.”

I called Scotty and told him I’d be a few minutes late for work, then I called Jack. His phone went to voicemail, so I left a message asking if he knew Villines with Robbery, and could he maybe give him a heads-up that I’d be calling him. Then I headed to Henry’s foster care home on 11th Avenue, just north of West Campbell and the canal. Licensed for six foster kids, no infants. Sophia and Henry had been in the home for two years, from when their mother went to prison until last summer, when Sophia moved to the all-girls house. Sergio had the exact date in his notes, but hadn’t indicated why she’d moved. Based on my conversation with her, she much preferred the new home.

Andy called me when I was almost to Henry’s.

“Hey,” I said.

“I haven’t heard from you in two days.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Do you have anything?”

He sounded almost desperate.

I didn’t want to share my theory because I could be wrong, and I didn’t want Andy to get slapped down if this all exploded in our faces. But technically, he was my client, and I couldn’t just avoid answering questions like I did with my brother.

“Do you remember when Sergio mentioned other robberies during his first interview?”

“Yes.”

“I dug into those. They were mostly vandalism and petty theft. The consensus is that the robberies were committed by three teenage boys, two taller, one shorter—just like the Cactus Stop. The MO is the same, the only difference is that someone died. I think if you compare the security footage from the earlier robberies with the Cactus Stop you’ll find that the three suspects are the same.”

“So? That has no impact on Sergio’s case. And even if his defense lawyer could prove he wasn’t part of the other robberies, it doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Rodriguez.”

“But if you compare the tapes and can determine based on height, weight, size, whatever that the shooter was also at the other robberies, then that might go a long way in proving Sergio’s innocence. I have a list of dates and times, and except for the Cactus Stop, all the crimes happened before 10:00 p.m.”

“It’s an outlier then, which doesn’t help Sergio. And I can’t do anything. I can’t even tell his defense attorney to check it out, George would have my ass.”

I could, I realized. I might have to. The idea of an innocent man in prison made my skin crawl as much as a killer walking free. Maybe more.

“Just see what you can find out,” I said. “Detective Tomas Villines is the investigating officer, out of the robbery squad.”

“What else? Because this is thin, Margo.”

I didn’t want to share, but felt I didn’t have much choice at this point. “I can’t prove this,” I said cautiously. “But I think Sergio is trying to protect his brother.”

“His brother is the shooter?”

“No. His brother lives with the shooter in foster care.”

“That doesn’t make any sense to me. Even if he was there at the store, getting the shooter off the street would protect Henry more than taking the blame for murder.”

“Unless there’s something else going on. I talked to Sophia Diaz today on her way home from school.”

“She’s a minor—”

“I’m not worried about that.” There was no crime in approaching the girl. “I think she’s scared of Javier. I only heard his first name in passing, so I don’t have much information about him. I gave her my card and I think she’ll call.” Okay, I didn’t really think she would call. I gave it about a twenty percent chance. But I wanted to sound optimistic for Andy as I continued to follow up on each fact I learned.

“For what it’s worth,” I continued, “I think Sergio is innocent and that he knows a lot more than he said. I don’t have the proof yet, but I believe Henry had Sergio’s hoodie at some point—that’s why there’s GSR in the pocket. Sergio doesn’t want his brother to get in trouble.”

I pulled up to the corner of West Campbell and 11th Avenue, parked.

“That’s shortsighted,” Andy said. “Especially if Henry isn’t the shooter.”

“He’s not. He’s too short. But he was probably there. Has anyone in your office or Phoenix PD done a deep dive into the victim, Rodriguez? Or the other clerk, Don Cruz?”

“I haven’t seen anything. Why?”

“I’m working on getting as much as I can, but one thing you should be asking yourself about is motive. A man as straight and narrow as Sergio will have a motive if he’s going to kill someone. I don’t buy his ‘I snapped’ line. If you told me that Rodriguez had molested his little sister? I might buy it. But to kill someone in cold blood for no reason except he got mad—when he has no history of violence—doesn’t work for me.”

I could hear Andy writing something down. I was glad he agreed with me.

“And while you’re at it, please check up on Henry’s foster home and the kid Javier. He has a look—I know, I know, you can’t arrest someone because they look like a bad kid. But it was his eyes.”

“Juvenile records will be hard to get.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know you and law enforcement can see if a kid has a record.”

“I mean, it’s going to take me a while to find out who’s in that home. Running arrests, probation is easy, but I need full names.”

“I have their address.” I rattled it off.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Andy said and ended the call.

I needed to find something to show Sergio how his confession would make Henry and Sophia’s lives worse.

Then, maybe he’d cooperate.

I was grateful that I had a beat-up car and it wouldn’t stand out. Henry’s neighborhood, though less than a mile south of Sophia’s, was ten times worse.

The houses were run-down, uncared for. I could see why Sophia liked her new place better. This house was large on a tiny lot. An old couch on the porch sagged with the weight of an older white guy smoking a cigarette. Was he one of the foster parents? He looked more like a grandfather than a dad.

I wondered if my mom could get more detailed information about foster families. Even though she was now a private practice lawyer, she’d spent the bulk of her career as a prosecutor and knew all the right people. But if she could, would she tell me?

Doubtful. My mom was willing to bend rules, but she didn’t break them.

I sat in my car and watched the street, pretending to read something on my phone in case anyone paid me any attention. I took pictures, not that I knew yet what I would do with them.

As I watched the house, the two skinny kids came out, Bruno and Javier, who I’d seen with Henry earlier. They said something to the man on the porch, then left. Their heads were together and they were walking my way.

I took a couple pictures of them from inside my car, and was about to leave when they crossed the street and headed away from me without a second glance in my direction.

I watched them go. A shorter boy approached them from the corner. It was Henry. They were a full block away, but I recognized his clothes. The three of them went off together. Even though they matched the builds of the kids in the video, proving it would be next to impossible. There were a lot of kids who hung around in threes.

I wanted to follow, but had to get to the bar for my shift. And what could I do? I had no proof they’d committed a crime.

Andy was right. Even if I proved that these kids had robbed eight businesses over the last month that didn’t mean they had robbed the Cactus Stop or killed Rodriguez. Sergio had confessed, and there was evidence on his person. Until we had solid proof he was innocent, he would remain in lockup.

I relieved Scotty at six. He’d worked all day, and I would close tonight. We had two servers until nine, but people didn’t come here to eat bar food—though it was decent—they came here for beer and ballgames. The Suns were playing the Kings away in Sacramento, so we had a decent crowd watching the game, which I put on all the screens.

What Andy and I had discussed rattled in my head, and while I worked the bar, I also worked on my laptop. I subscribe to several databases for personal information. All legal stuff. I had Greg Rodriguez’s address and birthday from Andy’s file, so that helped. I didn’t have data on Don Cruz, but after some searching around and narrowing down, I found him: Donald James Cruz. He and Greg were the same age: twenty-three. A little more digging and I found out they both graduated from the same high school—Sunnyslope—the same year. It was a large campus, but they could have known each other.

Social media was an investigator’s best friend. It was the one thing I had mastered when Gene took me under his wing; at least I had been able to teach him something.

Both Don and Greg had multiple social media channels and between pouring beer, chatting with regulars, and closing tabs, I made some interesting discoveries.

The two men did in fact know each other from high school. Neither was involved in sports, band, drama, or any other school clubs that I could find. They were both far more interested in posting about getting stoned and eating pizza. After high school, Don went to community college and lived at home; Greg moved into the dive apartment the month after he graduated, never went to college, and worked in a variety of jobs—his Instagram page had him working at nine different places in five years, some that overlapped. Could be more that he hadn’t posted about. They followed each other, which didn’t always mean something, but there were several posts where they were tagged together over the years.

Don had a TikTok page and posted mostly silly content. But one post caught my eye.

It was a fifteen-second video taken at night from one of the Piestewa Peak trails. I knew, because I’d hiked virtually every trail in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve dozens of times. It was posted two months ago and I could hear a voice—presumably Don’s—saying, “We’re on top of the world!” The camera spun around showing the stars, the horizon, a distinctive cactus. The park was closed at night, so they wouldn’t have been able to drive to the trailhead, but they could have easily walked or biked.

As the camera spun, I glimpsed another man—and I had to watch it six times to freeze it at just the right second to determine he was Greg Rodriguez holding something shiny. I couldn’t get a clear shot of the shiny object. They were both laughing. The text over the short clip read:

When you’re sitting pretty you feel like every day you’re on the top of the world.

What the hell did that mean?

I saved the video to my phone.

Then I went more carefully through Don’s hundreds of posts trying to re-create his life and just how close he was to a man he told me he barely knew.

One more video stuck out to me. It was posted only a couple days ago. Don was clearly standing in the parking lot of the Cactus Stop. His eyes were watery and red, his voice a bit slurred, and I suspected he was high. “Hey, bros, I gotta new partner.” He snickered. No one else was in the video, just Don. “A lot smarter than my old partner.”

Partner? For what? The Cactus Stop? Wouldn’t he say co-worker if that were the case?

Don continued as he walked from what might have been his car to the door. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, “If all goes well, I won’t be doing the daily grind here anymore. Wink, wink.” He giggled, said something too quiet to hear to someone outside the video range, then the video ended as he opened the door.

I watched again. There was a reflection of another person in the glass door, but it wasn’t distinct enough for me recognize him. But maybe someone better at computers could figure it out. Lu was pretty good at this stuff. I saved the video to my phone, then sent it to her.

Lu, you’ve always been a computer whiz. There’s a reflection at the end of this video, is there any way you can make it clearer?