Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 32

Chapter

32

Just as we were about to leave, a new person entered the crime scene. C.I. named Gloria Mendez, whom we both knew well.

Milo told her who the victim was and the highly probable cause of death.

She said, “How much commission do I owe you?,” kneeled, went through the pockets of the black sweatpants and came up empty. Then she removed the white sneakers and examined them. Same result.

“Nothing, Milo, sorry. The shoes don’t even smell.”

Milo said, “Clean living. A lotta good it did him.”

—

It was close to four p.m. when we set out for the home of Francisco and Laura Rosales. Nice part of North Hollywood bordering Toluca Lake where movie stars avoiding the Westside used to live.

Trying to avoid commuter clog, Milo took Benedict Canyon and fared reasonably well.

“Don’t even know if they’re home,” he said. “But calling and then having to explain…” He shook his head, took a curve fast, and said, “God, I’ll never stop hating this.”

—

Google’s spy camera said the residence was a two-story brick-faced Colonial and Google hadn’t lied.

Generously proportioned, green-shuttered house, skillfully landscaped, on a quiet, pretty, magnolia-shaded street. High-end vehicles predominated up and down the block. Perched in this driveway was a silver-gray Land Rover.

Milo said, “Not exactly Emmanuel’s setup. Wonder if there was tension.”

“Not according to the photo he kept.”

“Hmmph. Okay, here goes.”

—

The front door was deep green, paneled, and set up with a peephole and a shiny bronze lion’s-head knocker. He lifted the ring and let it collide with the strike plate.

Seconds later, a child’s voice said, “Mo-om, the door.”

“Who?”

“I dunno.”

“Hold on.”

Movement behind the hole. Maybe one of those peephole cameras. Milo showed the little glass sphere his badge, then stepped back so his face was visible.

The door opened on the blond woman from the family photo, now brunette streaked with ginger.

Milo gave her his name, then mine.

“Police? Is Frank—”

“Frank’s fine, ma’am. It’s about your brother-in-law.”

“Manny? What happened to him?”

“Could we come in?”

Laura Rosales’s hand clawed her cheek. “That sounds bad. Is it— is it?”

“Unfortunately—”

“Omigod omigod. I have to call Frank !”

—

She seated us in a spotless, out-of-a-magazine living room and rushed off to get her phone. A couple of kids appeared, staring from the neighboring dining room. Familiar faces from the photo in Manny Rosales’s bedroom, a few years of maturity tacked on.

Milo said, “Hey guys.”

They scampered off.

He said, “Did I just do something scary?”

Before I could reply, Laura Rosales returned, hands shaking, and lowered herself to the edge of an overstuffed chair. Her skin was a shade paler, her eyes wide.

“You’re going to tell me Manny’s dead.”

“Sadly, we are, ma’am. So sorry for your loss.”

“My loss, the kids’ loss, and most of all Frank’s loss.” Hunching, she buried her face in her hands and cried, shoulders rising and falling.

Milo did what he always does. Waited out every painful second then produced a tissue.

Laura Rosales took thirty or so seconds before dabbing and hazarding eye contact. “Frank’s on his way, his office isn’t far from here. He’s a dentist. Periodontist…what happened?”

“At this point we don’t know much, ma’am, but it looks as if Mr. Rosales was shot leaving his backyard to take out the garbage.”

“Shot? Murdered? Oh, that’s hideous, it’s absolutely hideous ! What, a gang thing? I know they’re crawling all over Venice like vermin but Manny assured us his neighborhood was safe. What did they steal?”

“Apparently nothing, Ms. Rosales.”

“Then what ? You just shoot someone in cold blood who’s taking out his garbage ? What’s the point ? Who does that?”

“As I said, ma’am, we don’t know much.”

“Oh God, this is like a bad dream…how did you locate us?”

“Manny kept a photo in his bedroom—”

“That one,” she said. “We’d gone out to dinner and Frank said, ‘Let’s memorialize this.’ Because it was so rare.”

I said, “Manny going out with you.”

“Not for lack of trying. Of course he was with us on holidays—Christmas, Thanksgiving, and birthdays. The kids loved it, he was great with the kids. But after a while he’d want to leave. Said it exhausted him. That was Manny. Sweet, generous, but he had his own way of doing things.”

I thought: Fatigued by social contact: introvert. Said, “But that time you got him to agree to stay.”

“It was the tenth anniversary of his and Frank’s dad’s death, we all went to the cemetery and paid our respects and I guess Manny was feeling emotional. Not that you could really tell. He was such an even guy.”

Milo said, “Not the type to make enemies.”

“Of course not! Everyone loved Manny. He was sweet ! When he did come over, he’d let the kids crawl over him. When they got older, he’d give them math puzzles, physics stuff. That was his thing. Math. He was brilliant, could’ve gotten a Ph.D. and gone on to be a professor anywhere. He was certainly smart enough.”

I said, “Not interested in that.”

“Nope and don’t ask me why. His professors encouraged him but he turned them down. We have no idea why.”

Milo said, “I’m going to read you a list of names and if any of them ring a bell, please tell me. Whitney Killeen, Jamarcus Parmenter, Paul O’Brien.”

“No, no bells,” she said. “Who are they?”

“Sorry, can’t get into that.”

“They’re suspects?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then—oh forget it, none of my business and I don’t care anyway.”

The door opened and Dr. Frank Rosales hurried in wearing scrubs. Slim, graying and balding, younger than his brother with a fuller face, but the resemblance was strong. He walked past us, headed straight for his wife, and embraced her.

When he let go, his face was tight with fury.

“Someone hurt my brother.” Statement, not a question.

Milo said, “Unfortunately—”

“They killed him.”

“Sorry to say, Doctor—”

“A gang thing.”

Laura said, “That’s what I thought but—”

Frank Rosales said, “Of course you did. It’s logical.”

Milo said, “Did your brother have any problems with gangs?”

“No, not yet. But it was only a matter of time, they multiply like maggots. Not that your district attorney cares about that.”

He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and held them tight against his flanks. Breathing in and out deeply, he opened them and sat down. His wife followed suit, laid one slender arm over his shoulder.

“Thanks, honey—I’m sorry,” said Frank Rosales. “Don’t mean to do a kill-the-messenger thing, it’s just the shock, I mean there was no warning, no indication…Manny was the last person you’d think would be…in this situation.”

I said, “Peaceable.”

“Peaceable, kept to himself. Had nothing of any value to steal. Stuff wasn’t his thing, whatever money he had, he kept in the—Have you checked his bank accounts?”

“Not yet, Doctor, but it doesn’t appear to have been a robbery.”

“How do you know?” said Frank Rosales.

“No one entered his house.”

“Really? I assumed some sort of home invasion. Then what? This just doesn’t make sense.”

Milo said, “I’ll give you the few basics we have. Your brother was shot as he walked out to the alley behind his property to take out the garbage. As far as we can tell, the killer didn’t even enter the backyard, just fired once and fled.”

“That sounds,” said Frank Rosales, “like an assassination. I don’t understand.”

He stifled a sob, produced a gulping sound then several coughs. “?’Scuse me.”

Milo said, “We know this is a terrible, terrible time for you, Doctor, but solving cases depends on information. So anything you—or Mrs. Rosales—can tell us about Manny would be helpful.”

Frank said, “Like what? He never had conflict with anyone.”

I said, “He was a teacher. Sometimes students can be problematic.”

“Not Manny’s students. If he’d taught regular classes, I’d say sure, the public school system’s a joke. But he was in the magnet program, taught math and science to the smart kids. College-bound, motivated. Manny loved it. And they loved him. He’d never brag but I got curious and looked up his online ratings. Basically all five stars, a couple of fours because the subject matter was too hard. But no one complained about Manny.”

Laura said, “He really did love teaching.”

Frank said, “He could’ve earned a doctorate. Or gone to med school, dental school, anything. But after he graduated Cal, he pursued a high school teaching credential and that’s been it for thirty-plus years.”

Milo said, “Got it. Let’s move on to his personal relationships. Other than you.”

Frank and Laura looked at each other. She sighed. He turned to the side.

We waited.

Laura said, “There really were none. Relationships.”

Frank said, “And in answer to your next question, no, he wasn’t gay.”

Laura said, “That’s the assumption, right? A bachelor has to be gay. When our kids got old enough they asked. Is Uncle Manny gay? Because it is a normal question.”

“But he’s not,” said Frank. “He dated girls in high school and college. Then…it stopped. I didn’t understand it but obviously I wouldn’t ask. Because it was none of my business. Then one day, out of the clear blue, he was over for…probably Thanksgiving, this was a few years ago, and he drew me away and said, ‘If you’re curious, Little Bro, I’m not gay.’ Not that it would be a problem for me if he was but I was pretty shocked. That he brought it up. Manny never got personal. Even when we were kids he preferred to talk about ideas, not people.”

I said, “The definition of high intelligence.”

“To a T. Manny was all about ideas. Formulas, theorems. I was decent in math, he was a total whiz. Like our dad. He was uneducated, never made it past ninth grade but he could memorize columns of numbers…anyway, that’s what Manny told me. About his sexuality.”

“Any idea why he stopped dating?”

“The way he put it,” said Frank Rosales, “he didn’t want to spend energy on it. Maybe he’d been hurt by a girl, I don’t know. There’s eight years between us. When he started Cal, I was in fifth grade.”

Laura said, “Some people just aren’t interested. So what? It takes all types.”

Her husband looked at her then back at us. “Not going to lie, it was a little tough on our parents. They wanted what everyone wants for their kids. Settle down, raise a family. But they never bugged Manny, that wasn’t our family, we’re live and let live.”

“We have five kids,” said Laura. “You learn to respect their individuality.”

Frank didn’t respond. A moment later: “So no, there’d be no one who’d want to assassinate him. Unless it was one of those crazy things.”

Milo said, “What kind of crazy thing?”

“You know,” said Frank. “Some maniac on the street, you look at them the wrong way and voices tell them to get you. There’s homeless all over. Not in Manny’s neighborhood but Culver City? It’s a sty. Do you know how they’re going to deal with those people who camp out on the sidewalk? Spend taxpayer money to widen the sidewalk. You believe that? Lunatics running the asylum.”

“That makes sense,” said Laura. “A lunatic who for some lunatic reason targeted Manny.”

“I mean you just shoot and you don’t even bother to try to steal anything?” said her husband. “That’s totally irrational. But that’s the age we’re living in.”

Milo said, “Things have gotten complicated.”

“Not complicated,” said Frank Rosales. “Simple and crazy.”

—

Milo handed out his cards and we left them standing in their doorway, wet-eyed and clutching each other. A black Porsche Panamera sat next to the Range Rover. GUM DDS on the plates.

“American success story,” he said as he drove away. “Doesn’t insulate you—so what do you think?”

I said, “Frank was right, Manny was assassinated. Targeted just like the others. So it had to be personal and despite what they think they know, he may have had a relationship that went bad. I know there wasn’t any evidence of that in his house but that could just mean it was long over. And that can mean lingering anger. It’ll be particularly interesting to see what’s on his computer and his financials.”

“Not gay.” He smiled. “If they’re right and we don’t find any women in his life, where does that lead? He lied about it? Or he was some kind of voluntary celibate?”

I said, “Like the sister-in-law said, all types.”

“Except all types don’t get murdered just for fun. There’s got to be something in this guy’s past.”

He phoned Sean.

“Hey, Loot. Just got out of Hamilton High. Principal says Mr. Rosales was one of their best teachers, dedicated, high standards, taught the smart kids, everyone loved him.”

“That’s the picture we just got from his brother and sister-in-law. No issues at all?”

“Not that the principal would cop to. Only thing I did notice— and it might turn out to be nothing—is when we were walking out and he was assuring me of all that, his secretary gave me a look.”

“What kind of look?”

“That’s the thing, Loot, can’t really decode what it meant and it was just for a second. Basically, I’d call bothered. Almost like she was annoyed with him. But maybe I’m looking for something that isn’t there. I circled back and gave her my card. She said, ‘Why would I need this?’ so maybe she ended up tossing it in the circular file. But who knows?”

“Good thinking, kid.”

“Grasping at straws, Loot.”

“Aren’t we all,” said Milo. “Let’s get to work on Rosales’s phone and his financials.”

“The phone and the computer are both password-protected so I dropped them off with Layton—that new tech whiz D I—and told him I’d initiate the affidavits. Soon as I get back, I’ll go to work on them.”

Milo hung up. “So nice when the kids turn out right.”