arm. “It wasn’t him, please…”
Drawing his own gun, Hauck headed toward the bedrooms. He slowly opened one of the doors as Rosa shouted behind them, “Mama, tell them, please…!”
It was a teenage girl’s room. Posters on the wall. Marc Anthony. Beyoncé. A baby-blue bedspread. Books on a makeshift desk. Like it hadn’t been disturbed for months.
“Victor Ruiz!”
No answer.
Hauck made his way inside the larger bedroom. The mother’s room. A white work uniform was neatly draped over a chair next to an ironing board. On the dresser, there was a statuette of the Virgin Mary.
“Victor?”
He kicked a pair of slippers out from under the bed and glanced underneath. He looked, brushing clothing aside, inside the closet.
Nothing.
Slowly, Hauck pushed open the bathroom door. The room was plain, undecorated. A few toiletries crowded around the sink. A pink plastic shower curtain was drawn across the tub.
Hauck edged off the safety from his gun.
“Victor?”
He heard a click.
Hauck raised his Sig. “You open that curtain slowly,” he said, “and I want to see your hands out first, you understand?”
There was silence at first, then the rustle of someone shifting on his feet.
Hauck took a step back. “Son, if you’re there,” he said, “please don’t make me do something both of us will always regret.”
There was no answer and Hauck’s grip tightened on the gun. From back outside, there came a cry. “Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot him! Victor, please!”
Hauck drew back the bolt.
A voice rang out from behind the curtain. “Okay, okay…Don’t shoot! I’m not carrying, please…”
There was a rustle from behind the bath curtain. Two hands poked through. One had something in it. “It’s just a cell phone, man.”
“Put it down!” Hauck said. “On the floor. And slowly step out of there! Now.”
The curtain pulled aside, and the person climbed out from the tub. He was just a kid. Sixteen, seventeen. In an oversize gray hoodie, baggy jeans, a red Yankees cap, a thin, teenager’s mustache.
“Okay, okay, easy, man…” He put his arms in the air. “Just don’t shoot!”
The good news was he was staring at Victor Ruiz.
The bad news was that he didn’t look a thing like the person Hauck had seen leaning out of the red truck.
Freddy Munoz flipped a cassette into the recorder in interview room one. “So listen, Victor, we’re gonna ask you a few questions…”
Victor Ruiz nodded, biting his lower lip. “Okay.”
“I’m just gonna turn the tape recorder on,” Munoz explained, “so there are no misunderstandings…And I would think on how you answer very carefully, if I were you,’ cause how you do is gonna help determine how we can help you get through this, bro. You understand…?”
Victor nodded. Hauck, leaning against the wall, noticed the kid’s legs bobbing like crazy.
“So where were you this morning, Victor?” Munoz began. “Around ten o’clock.”
“I was home.”
“No, you weren’t home, Victor. Your mother and sister don’t back that up. They told us you didn’t sleep at home last night.”
“Well, they’re wrong. They didn’t see me. I was home.”
“You remember what I said?” Munoz said. “Please don’t crap me, Victor. That doesn’t help things, you understand? You have any clue what you’re in here for?”
“I don’t know what I’m in here for.” Victor tilted back his chair. “I was home.”
Munoz nodded. He gave the kid a smirk that made it clear he didn’t believe him. “Lemme see your arm.”
“My arm?”
“Your arm, Victor. Your left arm. Whatsamatter, I don’t speak clearly enough for you, hombre?”
Nervously, Victor yanked up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Munoz twisted it over. On his forearm, there was some kind of tattoo. Like a pitchfork. In black and red.
“What’s that about, Victor? That the new fashion color scheme for fall?”
“It’s about nothing, man. It’s just—”
“Man?” Munoz’s eyes widened and he glanced toward Hauck. “You see a man anywhere in this room, Victor? I’m a police detective who’s trying to save your ass from this bucket of shit you’re about to step into. You understand? You want to know about a man? There’s a man dead who was shot at a gas station in Greenwich this morning, and guess who’s number one for it on our list. So you got any brains left in that little head of yours, Victor, take another look around and tell me if you see anyone named man in here,’ cause Lieutenant Hauck and me, we’re the only ones between you and spending the rest of your life in jail.”
“No.” Victor wet his lips and rubbed his scalp underneath his cap. “I don’t see no one named man in here, Detective.”
“Good. Let’s start over again. What’s that on your arm?”
“Colors.” Victor Ruiz shrugged. “El Diablos.”
“Diablos? Not Diablos, Victor. Didn’t someone see you wearing a red bandana this morning, bro?”
“Red bandana? No way, man, that’s DR-17. Ask that cop from Bridgeport, Diablos and 17s don’t mix.”
“I didn’t ask you if they mixed, Victor. I asked if you wore a red bandana sometimes. Like maybe this morning…?”
“You must be kidding, ma—” Victor caught himself. “Detective. You got it dead wrong. That’s a sure way to get me killed.”
“I know another way, Victor, and that’s by not telling us the truth. You heist a truck yesterday?”
“No way. I never stole no car. I swear.”
“We got the people who did it on camera. Security video, Victor. How’s it going to look if you’re in here lying to me and then I show you that mug of yours up there on the screen winning a fucking
