American flags atop each of the bridge supports flapped in the wind. Along the riverbank to the west, Santana could see the empty marina on Raspberry Island where the Minnesota Boat Club docked its boats in summer. At a traffic light at Plato and Wabasha he watched as an elderly black man with his right leg in a walking cast limped across the street and headed for the Health Partner’s clinic on the corner. Buffeted by a sudden gust, the old man swayed like a drunk as he moved tentatively along the sidewalk. Santana wondered if the man had broken his leg falling on an icy sidewalk, as so many senior citizens were prone to do.
Just south of the light, Del Sol pennants began appearing on lampposts. Mexican families had first immigrated to the West Side of St. Paul as early as 1900 after the original Wabasha, Robert and High bridges were completed across the Mississippi. Crop failures in the state’s sugar beet fields after World War I forced poor migrant workers to seek employment in the city. Many became permanent residents. Since the 1900s, the Mexican population had swelled in St. Paul to more than sixteen thousand.
Santana drove past the Torres de San Miguel housing project and the Boca Chica restaurant. He merged onto Cesar Chávez Avenue and then onto State Street in the Latino commercial district.
Before Gamboni had left his house last night, Santana told her that Angelina Torres and Father Thomas Hidalgo had come to see him yesterday at the station. He went over his notes with her, reviewing the conversation he’d had with Gabriela Pérez about her father and a possible Mexican connection with Rafael Mendoza.
When he finished recounting the conversation, Gamboni explained that the gun found on Córdova was reported stolen in California. He had asked her to update Baker and Hawkins and requested that they interview a short list of El Día employees to make sure their alibis were solid. The give and take discussion reminded Santana of how it used to be with Rita when they were partners and lovers.
The office where Angelina Torres worked was located in a converted, two-story apartment building. Santana parked in the lot out front and walked under a green canopy and in the main entrance.
A receptionist sitting behind a counter directed him to a hallway and to Angelina Torres’ small, windowless office.
“Detective Santana,” she said, standing to shake his hand.
She wore a black skirt, turquoise blouse, a thin gold necklace with a heart, and small gold earrings.
“ Tome asiento, por favor,” she said, closing the door and pointing to a chair.
Santana sat down on a steel-legged chair with black vinyl pads opposite her desk. The walls of her office were bare except for a framed diploma from the University of Southern California. Next to him was a glass table with today’s edition of the Pioneer Press . One of the stories on the front page was about an unidentified illegal immigrant who stole a MnDOT truck after rendering the driver unconscious. The story went on to say that:
The man apparently lost control of the vehicle near the town of St. Croix Beach where he died in a collision with an Explorer driven by John Santana, a St. Paul homicide detective. The detective escaped serious injury.
A separate story further down the page described the deaths of nine illegal immigrants who were crammed into a pickup that crossed the median on Interstate 80 in Iowa at 2:40 a.m. and collided with a tractor-trailer. All of the victims were Hispanic men and women.
“I’ve been reading about you, Detective. Are you all right?”
The soreness in Santana’s right hand stilled throbbed with each beat of his heart. “Fine.”
“Have you found out something that might clear Rubén?”
“Not yet. I’d just like to ask you a few more questions.”
“If it will help,” she said, and sat down in a chair facing him.
He had considered bringing a tape recorder along, but figured it might intimidate Angelina Torres. He
Just south of the light, Del Sol pennants began appearing on lampposts. Mexican families had first immigrated to the West Side of St. Paul as early as 1900 after the original Wabasha, Robert and High bridges were completed across the Mississippi. Crop failures in the state’s sugar beet fields after World War I forced poor migrant workers to seek employment in the city. Many became permanent residents. Since the 1900s, the Mexican population had swelled in St. Paul to more than sixteen thousand.
Santana drove past the Torres de San Miguel housing project and the Boca Chica restaurant. He merged onto Cesar Chávez Avenue and then onto State Street in the Latino commercial district.
Before Gamboni had left his house last night, Santana told her that Angelina Torres and Father Thomas Hidalgo had come to see him yesterday at the station. He went over his notes with her, reviewing the conversation he’d had with Gabriela Pérez about her father and a possible Mexican connection with Rafael Mendoza.
When he finished recounting the conversation, Gamboni explained that the gun found on Córdova was reported stolen in California. He had asked her to update Baker and Hawkins and requested that they interview a short list of El Día employees to make sure their alibis were solid. The give and take discussion reminded Santana of how it used to be with Rita when they were partners and lovers.
The office where Angelina Torres worked was located in a converted, two-story apartment building. Santana parked in the lot out front and walked under a green canopy and in the main entrance.
A receptionist sitting behind a counter directed him to a hallway and to Angelina Torres’ small, windowless office.
“Detective Santana,” she said, standing to shake his hand.
She wore a black skirt, turquoise blouse, a thin gold necklace with a heart, and small gold earrings.
“ Tome asiento, por favor,” she said, closing the door and pointing to a chair.
Santana sat down on a steel-legged chair with black vinyl pads opposite her desk. The walls of her office were bare except for a framed diploma from the University of Southern California. Next to him was a glass table with today’s edition of the Pioneer Press . One of the stories on the front page was about an unidentified illegal immigrant who stole a MnDOT truck after rendering the driver unconscious. The story went on to say that:
The man apparently lost control of the vehicle near the town of St. Croix Beach where he died in a collision with an Explorer driven by John Santana, a St. Paul homicide detective. The detective escaped serious injury.
A separate story further down the page described the deaths of nine illegal immigrants who were crammed into a pickup that crossed the median on Interstate 80 in Iowa at 2:40 a.m. and collided with a tractor-trailer. All of the victims were Hispanic men and women.
“I’ve been reading about you, Detective. Are you all right?”
The soreness in Santana’s right hand stilled throbbed with each beat of his heart. “Fine.”
“Have you found out something that might clear Rubén?”
“Not yet. I’d just like to ask you a few more questions.”
“If it will help,” she said, and sat down in a chair facing him.
He had considered bringing a tape recorder along, but figured it might intimidate Angelina Torres. He
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