Incriminating Evidence by Sheldon Siegel

slashed on a BMW. Rosie’s mom insists that the Hispanic community won’t give up its neighborhood without a fight.
    Ernie, Rosie and I sit in a semicricle of mismatched chairs at the back of the store. We’re the only people here. I’m eating a piece of pound cake. Rosie nibbles on a sweet roll called pan dulce. I ask Clemente how he got to know Johnny Garcia.
    He takes a bite of his pastry and says, “I found him about two years ago,” he says. “He was living in the streets near the projects.” He looks away. I suspect he’s thinking back to the place where he first saw Johnny. “He was only fifteen. Like a lot of kids, he’d ended up on the street.”
    My turn for a long drink of coffee.
    “He came to live at the center,” he continues. “He stayed with us for almost a year. He was already addicted to heroin. We got him into treatment—they gave him methadone and it seemed to be working. We found him a room and a job at a restaurant. It wasn’t much, but it was something.”
    I ask whether he had any friends.
    He leans back in his chair. “I don’t know. We got him a volunteer social worker named Kevin Anderson, the guy who spoke at the funeral.”
    “I just talked to him,” I say. “He wasn’t particularly forthcoming. What’s his story?”
    “Kevin is a good guy. He works in the mayor’s office and he’s helped us raise money for the center. He’s a little full of himself at times, but his heart is in the right place. His father is a big wheel in the real estate business. Some people think he’s trying to run the working-class folks out of the neighborhood. He bought a couple of buildings on Guerrero Street and has converted them into expensive lofts, and the neighbors weren’t happy about it. But he’s from Visitacion Valley and he’s never forgotten his roots. He’s donated millions over the years to many neighborhood causes. He made a seven-figure contribution to St. Peter’s to help pay for the refurbishing of the building after the fire.”
    A cynic might also suggest that Anderson and his father make large donations to neighborhood charities to keep the neighbors from contesting their development projects. I’m inclined to be cynical.
    I ask Ernie whether he knows anything about Andy Holton, Garcia’s roommate.
    “He’s another kid who was on the street,” Ernie replies. “A little older than Johnny but a very different background. His father runs a biotech company. The family disowned him when he became addicted to heroin. He came through the center a few years ago. He worked at the same restaurant that Johnny did.”
    “Could you find out where they lived?”
    “Sure.”
    “Any idea where we could find this guy Andy?” I ask.
    He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him in a couple of months.”
    We finish our pastries and head out the door. Under the beat-up sign that reads “La Victoria Abardotes y Reposteria,” Rosie takes Clemente’s hand. “I’ll call you, Ernie,” she says.
    “I’d like that,” he replies.
    Rosie’s brother, Tony, always reminds me of Sylvester Stallone. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s a lot blunter about Johnny Garcia than Ernie. “He was trouble,” he says. “It’s a wonder he didn’t die a couple of years ago.” It’s later the same afternoon and Tony is sweeping the floor of his overflowing produce market. He lives in an apartment around the corner and he’s worked by himself since his last employee quit a year ago. He hasn’t taken a vacation in five years.
    “What kind of trouble?” I ask.
    “You name it,” he says. “Booze. Pills. Dope. He got in with the wrong crowd.”
    “Did the business owners know anything about him?” Rosie asks. “Did you find out where he lived?”
    Tony holds up his hands. “Somewhere over near the projects,” he says. “A guy I know is looking into it.”
    “Does your guy have a name?” I ask.
    “Like I told you,” he says, “a guy is looking into it.”
    It is not