pulled to a stop at the corner and several people got off, including a man Bosch was pretty sure was the accordion player from the video.
“That him?”
Soto stared and eventually nodded.
“I think so.”
They got out of the car in unison. Bosch was on the street side and he looked around, still wary of the car and the gangbangers who had scoped them out earlier. He saw no sign of them and came around to join his partner on the sidewalk.
The man they thought was Alberto Cabral was carrying two cloth shopping bags that appeared filled with groceries. The bags looked like they were heavy with cans and other staples. Bosch and Soto blocked his path and Soto badged him and confirmed his identity. She started out speaking English.
“We need to speak to you about the Orlando Merced shooting,” she said.
Cabral attempted to shrug but the weight of the bags he carried in either hand impeded him.
“I don’t know anything,” he said in a thick accent.
“Did you hear that Mr. Merced has passed away?” Soto asked.
“Yeah, I heard about it,” Cabral said.
“Do you know where Angel Ojeda is?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Do you know where he is? We need to talk to him.”
Soto repeated the question in Spanish and Cabral answered in English.
“Yeah, he went to Tulsa.”
“Tulsa, Oklahoma?” Soto asked.
Cabral nodded. He put the bags down on the sidewalk to rest his arms. Bosch realized that this was the wrong place to be doing the interview, especially since it looked like the interview was going to produce a line on Ojeda. He reached down and picked up the nearest bag.
“Let us help you. Let’s take your groceries in and we’ll talk inside.”
Five minutes later they were in Cabral’s threadbare apartment, where, like his bandmate Hernandez, he lived alone and sparely. All the night work and inconsistency of gigs had made for a lonely life. There was no sign of a wife or children. No framed photos, no school drawings on the refrigerator. Bosch thought of a bumper sticker he had once seen: “Play Accordion—Go to Jail.” In many ways it appeared that Cabral’s life as a mariachi musician had been its own form of incarceration.
“How do you know Angel Ojeda is in Tulsa?” Soto asked.
Without the bags weighing his arms down Cabral could now shrug, and he did so.
“I don’t know,” he said. “When he quit the band he said he was going to Oklahoma to run his uncle’s bar.”
“So this is ten years ago?” she asked. “Right after Orlando got shot?”
He nodded.
“Pretty soon after, yes.”
Cabral was standing in the tiny kitchen, putting away his groceries, while Bosch and Soto stood on the other side of the counter. He opened the refrigerator door to put away a small carton of milk. A fetid smell of food kept too long despite the cold storage wafted into the room.
“Have you heard anything about him since?”
“No.”
“But you’re sure it was Tulsa?” Bosch asked.
“Yes, Tulsa,” Cabral insisted. “I know because I had to send him a money order with the last money he made with us.”
Bosch moved into the kitchen, crowding Cabral. These next few questions were important.
“Do you remember where you sent the check?”
“I told you, Tulsa.”
“The address. Where in Tulsa?”
“I don’t remember. It was the bar where he worked.”
“Do you remember the name of the bar?”
“Yes, because it was El Chihuahua.”
“That was the name of the bar in Tulsa? El Chihuahua?”
“Yes, I remember that. Because it was where he was from. Chihuahua the place, not the dog.”
Bosch nodded. The name of the bar was a good piece of information. He decided to change tacks with Cabral.
“Why did you bring him into the band?” he asked. “He wasn’t from Jalisco.”
Cabral responded with another shrug.
“We wanted a trumpet and he was always there at the plaza, available. He could play. I said, ‘Why not?’”
“Was he in trouble with anybody?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say this.”
“Did he ever talk to you about the shooting? I mean after. Before he went to Tulsa.”
Instead of shrugging, Cabral frowned and shook his head.
“Not really. He just said that we were lucky and Orlando wasn’t.”
“He never said that he knew what happened? He never said he knew who fired the shot and why?”
Cabral looked sharply at Bosch, surprised by the question. Bosch read it as a legit reaction.
“No, never,” Cabral said.
Bosch believed him. He looked around the apartment, thinking about what else to ask. He saw a tiny desk in the corner that had a stack of ledgers and