Chapter 33
Chapter
33
I heard nothing from Milo for the next two days, which worked out perfectly; I was swamped with consults and report-writing.
During spare moments, I’d found myself drifting back to Paul O’Brien’s murder. If the Boykinses had hired a killer twice, no problem. But Vicki Saucedo’s family as contractors raised a question: With no criminal case filed, how had they known O’Brien was the one who’d O.D.’d and dumped their daughter?
The only answer I could come up with was that a witness had come forward but had been ignored in favor of a financial settlement. On the face of it, that seemed mercenary, but who was I to judge the monumental grief of a family left with a grievously damaged daughter?
Either way, I had nowhere to go with it.
At ten a.m. on the third day, Milo called.
“You have time for a summary?”
“Absolutely.”
“First item: Walt Swanson. Buxby learned he had indeed been dismissed from the Boykins job due to a complaint. The company offered to put him on another gig but he told them he was packing it in to care for a sick wife. Apparently she’s got some sort of cancer. Top of that, Swanson has no Ohio connections, California born and bred. So looks like ol’ Walt’s off the radar. Next: Ballistics tech identified the probable spot in the alley where the shooter stood but nothing forensic showed up there. In fact, there was evidence of some surface dirt being swept away in order to obscure shoe prints.”
“Our boy brings a whisk broom along with his rifle.”
“Huh. Some image. No one in Rosales’s neighborhood heard any gunshots, though a couple of people thought they heard a car backfiring. The canvass pulled up one witness, a woman walking her dog, who saw a guy in a hoodie going into the alley about ninety minutes before the body was discovered. She didn’t think much of it because he was carrying what looked like a garbage bag. She assumed he was headed for the trash. Which he was, but for a whole other reason.”
I said, “Big bag’s a good way to pack gear without attracting attention. Maybe that’s why no one in Hollywood saw a rifle case. Any other details?”
“Not overly short or tall, just a guy taking out the trash. Video surveillance turned out to be a bust. Most of the homes don’t have systems, though a surprising number have dummy cameras and warning signs. The few that are operative are narrowly focused on front porches with no view of the sidewalk. Top of that, there are no overnight parking restrictions so we can’t cross-check violations with the ones Petra found. Speaking of which, she’s checked out twelve of the remaining thirty-one solid citizens and none of them are viable suspects. Now the possibly interesting stuff. Possibly with a small p.”
He paused for breath. “Mr. Rosales’s use of the internet was pretty much limited to online chess, word games, math games, and puzzles. He spent hours a day on brainy stuff. There were also some searches of local restaurant menus but no sign he followed through on actually ordering. The only other sites that came up were for porn. Hetero, conventional, and not frequently used, we found ten searches over six months.”
I said, “Life of the mind. What about his phone?”
“Also barely used,” he said. “Zero texts and there were days at a time with no calls, in or out. The few personals he did make were to his brother’s house and a number in Culver City that we traced to a woman named Hannah Gardener. I’ve left her three messages but she hasn’t responded. I looked her up and found out she’s also a teacher, but not at Hamilton, at Fairfax High. Forty-nine years old, clean record, big shock.”
“How often did Rosales contact her?”
“Last time was two months ago, the previous four months he reached her eleven times and she initiated six times. Relatively long calls—five, ten minutes.”
“Despite what Laura and Frank said, maybe a relationship.”
“I just phoned Fairfax and found out she called in sick. Figured I’d drop by her place, maybe get lucky. You up for it?”
“A teacher?” I said. “Always happy to be educated.”
—
I drove to the station and we continued in his Impala to Hannah Gardener’s address. Four-unit mocha-colored box west of Overland and south of Washington. Twenty-minute ride from Butler. Less from Manny Rosales’s house.
Entry was blocked by a glass security door. Four buttons, Gardener in Apartment 2.
Milo said, “Here goes nothing.”
We got something.
—
A woman said, “Yes?”
Milo identified himself.
She said, “About Manny.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Buzz.
—
Unit 2 was on the right side of a minimal lobby. By the time we got to the door it was open.
The woman who watched us, nodding, was short, plump, with a pretty, round face under henna-red curls. She wore a pink Scripps College sweatshirt over brown leggings and bare feet. Red toenail polish, pearlescent white for her fingers. Hoop earrings the size of drink coasters dangled from her ears. Dusting of freckles on a pixie nose.
Like Laura Rosales, her eyes were weary and raw, pink sclera rimming bright-blue irises.
She said, “Please come in,” in a barely audible voice. As we followed her inside, the nods turned to head shakes.
—
Hannah Gardener’s apartment was compact, made cozier by oversized, overstuffed seating. A coffee table with barely enough room to avoid feet was topped by glass that shielded a dense array of seashells. Copies of antique maps took up most of the wall space. Images conjured centuries ago from fancy, not fact.
That and a carved floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with hardcovers, some of them leather-bound, and lilac fragrance in the air, evoked a library in an esoteric club.
“Something to drink?” she said, without enthusiasm.
“No, thanks, Ms. Gardener.”
“Hannah’s fine. I just found out about Manny and I’m having trouble processing it.” She bit her lip, kept gnawing it, worried one hand with the other. “Please. Sit.”
We faced her across the seashells. Scores of them, jumbled, as if deposited by a giant wave.
Milo said, “How’d you find out?”
“They called me from Hammie. I used to work there before I transferred to Fairfax in order to teach AP history and geography.”
She touched her breast. “I threw up then I called in sick.”
I said, “You worked with Mr. Rosales at the Hamilton magnet.”
Hannah Gardener grimaced. “I wish. No, I worked at the regular school, which was not very stimulating and sometimes downright unpleasant. Magnet jobs are impossible to get, once people score, they stick around. I’d given up and was just about to go private at Buckley, despite having to drive into the Valley plus losing some of my pension. Then the position at Fairfax came up. Did you find me on Manny’s phone?”
Milo said, “Good guess.”
“Well, there’d be no other way, Lieutenant—this must be an important case for a lieutenant to be involved. That’s good, Manny deserves it. Manny and I didn’t talk often but we did chat so I figured I’d be on his call log and it was just a matter of time. Not that I have anything to offer.”
Milo said, “Anything you can tell us about Manny will be helpful. Starting with your relationship.”
Hannah Gardener’s chest heaved. She crossed her legs, then thought better of it and placed her feet on the floor.
“Relationship.” Her mouth twisted. As if trying out a new word in a foreign language. “Primarily, we were friends. I was widowed three years ago, shortly before Manny transferred to Hammie. We met in the teachers’ lounge and ended up talking. He saw how low I was and was extremely supportive. I really needed that. David had been ill for years but still, when it happened.”
I said, “Primarily but not exclusively friends.”
She shot me a sharp look. “My, you’re a precise one, linguistically. If you’re asking did it ever extend to something beyond friendship, I’m not sure I want to get into that level of detail about my personal life. It certainly can’t be relevant.”
I said, “No offense.”
“None taken.” Spots of color on her cheeks said otherwise. “Look, guys, I understand, you’ve got to delve. But nothing that transpired between Manny and myself will help you solve this.”
We remained silent.
Hannah Gardener fooled with her hair. “Let’s just say that there was a brief time—months ago—that we did attempt to…stretch the friendship. But we ended up mutually deciding pure friendship would be preferable. Then I began dating and though I assured Manny that it wouldn’t affect our friendship, he apparently thought differently and reduced our contacts. I tried calling him but he never responded. That would have to be a couple of months ago.”
She gulped. “I didn’t want to hurt him but he…it just wasn’t in the cards, Manny was all about ideas, not the physical world.”
The blush had spread down to her neck. “This is so embarrassing.”
I said, “Sorry, but thanks for the information. What was it like when you were friends?”
“Like? I don’t get the question.”
“Did you socialize in person—”
“Of course we did,” she said. “We’re not automatons or online freaks. We’d go out to dinner or brunch on Saturday. He’d come here and we’d do Saturday crosswords together in ink, they’re the hardest. Manny was great company. Which, from a woman’s perspective, means he knew how to listen.”
She crossed her legs again, this time maintaining the position. “Now may I ask some questions? What exactly happened? All Jeanine—the secretary at Hammie—told me was a cop showed up and said he’d been murdered. Was it a home invasion? A burglar who went nuts?”
Milo said, “Neither, ma’am.”
“Then what ?”
He gave her the bare minimum.
She grimaced. “Someone shooting him and running off and not taking anything? That’s nuts. That sounds like what I guess you people would call a hit.”
The flush had spread to her entire face. Her hands clasped and her eyes rounded, widening the pink halo.
Milo said, “Can you think of anyone who’d target him?”
“Of course not—oh, crap. No, couldn’t be.”
She sprang up, ran to the kitchen, uncapped a pale-green glass bottle and brought it back.
Topo Chico mineral water from Mexico.
“Manny introduced me to it. Great bubbles. You sure you don’t want some?”
Milo said, “No, thanks. What couldn’t be, Ms. Gardener?”
“That there was someone actually out to get Manny.”
“If something has come to mind, please tell us.”
“Oh my,” she said. “Here I was thinking I had nothing to offer and I still probably don’t. But I suppose there could be one thing. Not that it’s factual, it’s not even close to factual, just—and I can’t even give you details.”
She gulped water. Put the bottle down, picked it up and drank some more.
Breathing hard, looking away.
We waited.
Hannah Gardener said, “You won’t quote me on this, okay? I don’t want to get myself into something.”
Milo said, “We deal with facts, Hannah, not theory. There’d be no reason to get you involved. But a lead, even one that doesn’t pan out, would sure be helpful.”
“You can’t even call it a lead,” she said. “It’s just a possibility. Theoretical…oh, crap…fine. Let me preface this by saying that Manny was a great teacher, devoted, fair, but he had standards and he could be firm. You need to be firm with kids, especially the smart ones. They must understand that the real world isn’t perpetual daycare where everyone coddles—oh, crap, I’m blathering.”
She picked up the bottle, drank long enough to empty it. Let loose a soft burp and said, “Great, like you needed to hear that. ”
Scooting forward, she said, “Okay, let me get this out. Around a year ago, right before Manny retired—I’m sure it played a role in his retiring—a terrible thing happened. Not Manny’s fault, not remotely his fault, but I suppose if someone thought so…it’s far-fetched, but with what you’ve told me about how someone was out for him specifically…okay. Here’s what happened. One of his students committed suicide. Manny was devastated, he had no idea it would get that far.”
Milo said, “There was a problem with that student?”
“Nothing earth-shattering,” said Hannah Gardener. “Not in a normal world but nowadays…the kid was a great student except for physics. He got consistently bad grades on the AP physics tests and Manny wasn’t one to grade-inflate. He was compassionate, he was understanding, but in the end you got what you earned.”
I said, “He failed the student?”
“No, no, nothing like that, he gave him a B minus, which according to Manny was more than what was merited, it should’ve been a C. But the kid went ballistic. Until then, he’d had straight A’s and was convinced it would ruin his future forever. He begged Manny to change it. Manny tried to explain that he’d already been generous and couldn’t go further. The kid went home and hung himself. Disgusting. Tragic.” She shuddered. “Over a stupid grade !”
I said, “Did the family blame Manny?”
“They blamed everyone. The school, the entire magnet program, and yes, Manny. He told me they even made noises about suing but of course that went nowhere, what would be the grounds? In any event, Manny retired. Refused to talk about it but it’s pretty obvious why.”
She pointed a finger. “I’m sure the family is devastated forever so I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble. But if anyone had a bone to pick with Manny, it would be them. And let’s face it, they probably created the situation in the first place.”
I said, “Putting pressure on the boy.”
“That’s what Manny said. It’s like that with most of the smart kids. Crazy parents giving them an either/or view of the world: get into the Ivy League or end up homeless. That’s where the problem lies, not with teachers doing our job. We are not paid to delude.”
Milo said, “What was the student’s name?”
“All I know is his first name. Errol. That’s all Manny told me and I resisted the temptation to find out more. Because frankly, I was horrified, and after what I’d gone through with my husband I’d developed a severe allergy to horror.”
She played with an earring. “Not going to get into detail but David had some sort of neuromuscular disease. Not ALS, nothing they could even put a name on.”
“So sorry you had to go through that.”
“So am I,” said Hannah Gardener. “That’s why I’ve changed my life. I’m also allergic to bullshit and so I concentrate on what’s important. That’s why I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Now or in the future.”
She got up, walked to the door and opened it. “Sorry if this seems rude, but end of discussion. I appreciate what you’re doing and hope you succeed but I want nothing to do with it and I trust you’ll respect my wishes.”
Milo said, “We appreciate your talking to us.”
“Sure,” said Hannah Gardener. “But I hope it turns out to be useless and you solve it some other way.”
—
Walking through the lobby, Milo said, “A kid gets a bad grade. Go Buck, out of the mouths of babes and old cops.”
In the car, he said, “Errol. That shouldn’t be hard to find.”
—
It wasn’t.
A call to the Coroner’s pulled up the death certificate, filed fourteen months ago.
Errol Morgan Moffett, seventeen. Cause of death: asphyxiation due to hanging. Manner of death: suicide.
Home address in Woodland Hills.
Milo said, “That’s an hour’s drive from Hamilton each way, minimum.”
I said, “It was probably the only magnet he got into.”
“Dedicated parents.”
“Like she said, devastated parents. It’s easy to see them blaming Rosales. The question is, how far did they take it.”
“Let’s try to find out. Starting with who are these people.”
“Facts, not theory,” I said. “Unlike the maps on her walls.”
“Huh?”
“She collects antique reproductions from when cartographers just made stuff up. The largest one had the world shaped like a cloverleaf. Another had an octopus—”
“You notice stuff like that? And could still concentrate on the main topic?”
“It’s not that hard.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t tell me about your physics tests.”