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He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just mad. Why do you even care? Tell Mr. Perez I’m sorry, I didn’t want any of this to come back on him. Okay? Is that it?”
“Who’s Maria?”
He seemed surprised that I asked.
“You have a tattoo with the name Maria. I’m curious.”
He looked at me like I was weird for asking. Maybe I was, asking about Maria out of the blue.
“My aunt, not that it’s any of your business.”
No one got a tattoo for someone they didn’t care about.
“Why’d you confess, Sergio?”
He stared at me, more tired and defeated than when he first entered the room.
“If you’re guilty,” I continued, “you should be in prison. But if you’re innocent? The person who killed Greg Rodriguez will kill again. I know it. I watched him pull the trigger. He did not hesitate. My guess? This wasn’t his first rodeo. It won’t be his last. If you’re pleading guilty out of some sense of loyalty to someone, you are guilty of helping him get away with it.” I leaned forward, waited until he looked me in the eye. “If you know who killed Rodriguez, tell me. I can help you.”
He looked me straight in the eye and for a second, I thought he was going to admit he lied. That he was there but innocent. That he knew who’d done it—a friend, a neighbor, someone he wanted to protect. Or someone who scared him.
Then he said, “I killed him. Don’t come here again.”
He got up and walked over to the guard, who checked his wrist band, then unlocked the door, and Sergio exited without looking back.
I left the jail ninety-percent positive that Sergio Diaz was innocent of the crime he’d confessed to.
But why did he confess? Who was he protecting? Was he guilty of other crimes?
Who could have been wearing his hoodie? Because gun residue was pretty conclusive that a recently fired gun had been in his pocket.
I had my work cut out for me, and I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.
Seven
I drove to the convenience store that had been robbed. Greg Rodriguez had been killed less than two weeks ago, and it was back to business as usual.
The Cactus Stop had a couple dozen locations throughout Sunnyslope and central Phoenix, and a few scattered downtown and in Glendale. They were known for being clean and kicking out loiterers, plus they gave teenagers opportunities for first jobs. There was one down the hill from my house and I often stopped there instead of the grocery store if I needed one or two things. I paid more, but they called them “convenience” stores for a reason.
I’d never been in this location, and it was older than others in the chain that I’d seen. Hand-painted ads filled the barred windows and door, announcing which beer was on sale for what price and which tobacco products could be found inside. Beer and tobacco was the bread and butter of the business, but they also sold bread and butter.
Andy’s file on the victim had been thin: Greg Rodriguez was twenty-three, had worked at the Cactus Stop for six months, and lived alone in a dive apartment walking distance from his work, putting him in the same geographic circle as Sergio. There was no known connection between Greg and Sergio, but after the confession, I wondered if the police had even looked for one. They should have run Greg’s record. Had he ever been in prison? Arrested? Any gang associations?
It was well after three, area schools were out, and I saw a half dozen teens going in and out, mostly singles and in pairs. A couple sketchy twentysomethings who looked like they were coming off a high, a mom with a stroller who came out with a paper bag of groceries in the pocket under the stroller seat. One Phoenix PD cruiser rolled by, heading east, on patrol, not riding hot. Even in the bad areas of Phoenix, violent crime in the middle of the day wasn’t common.
After fifteen minutes of observation, I went inside.
This Cactus Stop was definitely more run-down than the Stop by my house. Not as clean, crowded aisles, more alcohol, tobacco, and junk food and less bread, butter, and milk.
Any sign of the robbery and murder had been cleared. The cigarette cage had been replaced. The only other people in the store were two young teen boys in faded jeans and rock band T-shirts inspecting the large selection of chips.
The clerk had a name badge on his green Cactus Stop shirt.
D. Cruz.
Don Cruz was the clerk who had told police that Sergio had kicked a display and left angry after Cruz refused to extend him two dollars in credit.
I went over to the cold beer wall and noted most were cheap and American, with a small shelf for Dos Equis and Modelo. I’m a beer snob. I like dark microbrews best. My brother drinks Coors Light. I would prefer not drinking anything to light beer, but Jack has been helping me with renovations so I try to keep his preferred beer in the fridge. I grabbed a six-pack and headed to the counter.
