Chapter 49
Friday morning
JP started with the closest address to the laundromat.
The tired fourplex sat on a narrow street lined with cars, trash cans, and small front yards that had given up on grass.
The building had once been beige but had faded into something less committed.
Two upstairs balconies faced the street.
One held a bicycle with a flat tire. The other held three plastic chairs and no people.
A woman in a purple robe answered the manager’s door with a cigarette in one hand and suspicion in both eyes.
JP tipped his hat. “Mornin’. Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for someone who may have lived around here.”
“That so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t rent to trouble.”
“Good policy.” That softened her by half a degree.
He showed her Bay’s photo first. “Have you seen this young woman?”
The manager shook her head. “No.”
“Take your time.”
“I did.”
“She may have had different hair. Might’ve been with another girl, blonde, about the same age.”
“No.”
“She ever come by asking about renting without paperwork?”
The woman’s face tightened. “I keep paperwork.” She handed the photo back. “Not here.”
JP showed her Maddox’s picture next. “This man?”
She made a face. “Him I seen.”
JP waited.
“He came around asking if anybody needed junk hauled. I told him no. He smelled like beer.”
“When?”
“Few months ago. I never gave him any work. I don’t let men like that past the gate.”
There was no gate, but JP understood the sentiment.
“Did he talk to any tenants?”
“Not that I saw.”
JP glanced past her into the small courtyard. Four doors. Nowhere to disappear. Too much visibility, too much manager attention. She was telling the truth.
“I appreciate your time, ma’am.”
He crossed off the address before he got back to the truck.
The second property sat behind a chain-link fence two blocks west, a converted Craftsman house with a detached garage apartment in back. The front porch sagged a little. Wind chimes hung from the eaves. A lemon tree shaded the driveway.
A man in his seventies answered the door wearing suspenders and a hearing aid that whistled when he turned his head.
JP introduced himself and raised his voice just enough. “I’m trying to locate two young women who may have stayed nearby.”
The old man frowned. “Police already came about that dead fella.”
“I’m not police.”
“Then why you asking?”
“Because sometimes people talk easier when there’s no badge.”
The man considered that, then opened the door wider but didn’t invite him in.
JP showed Bay’s photo.
The man squinted. “Pretty girl.”
“Seen her?”
“No.”
“She could’ve been here with a blonde girl. Quiet. Kept to themselves.”
“No girls here.”
“Who rents the back unit?”
“My nephew.”
“How long?”
“Six years.”
“Anyone before him?”
“My sister was there, but she died.”
JP nodded. “Anyone use the garage, storage, anything like that?”
“No.”
He showed Maddox’s photo.
The man’s face showed instant dislike. “That one I know.”
JP’s pulse nudged. “How?”
“He came asking for work. He said he could fix my fence.”
“Did he?”
“No. The fence is still broke.”
“Did he ever work on the back unit? Plumbing, hauling, painting?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
The old man leaned closer. “Son, I’m old, not absent. Nobody works on my place without me knowing.”
JP believed him. The property had too much ownership. Too much history. The kind of place where every footstep belonged to somebody’s story. Bay and Hannah had not lived there.
JP thanked him and returned to the truck. He made a second line through the list.
The third address looked more likely from the street.
A low stucco duplex sat behind a taller hedge, with a detached unit barely visible down a narrow driveway.
No sign. No manager’s office. No posted rules.
Just two mailboxes, a cracked walkway, and window blinds that stayed closed because everyone had something to keep out. This one felt possible.
He parked half a block away and walked in.
A woman in scrubs was loading a toddler into a car seat in front of Unit A. JP waited until she finished buckling the child before approaching.
“Ma’am. Sorry to interrupt.”
She looked up, guarded. “Yes?”
He kept his voice gentle and showed his card. “I’m looking into a homicide involving a man named Todd Maddox. I’m trying to find out where he did odd jobs.”
“I don’t know him.”
JP showed Maddox’s photo.
She barely glanced. “No.”
“Could he have done work here before you moved in?”
“We’ve been here three years.”
“Any young women live in the back unit? Dark-haired girl, blonde girl, around fifteen?”
“No.”
Too quick. But not false, probably just annoyed. He showed Bay’s photo.
“No,” she said again, firmer.
“Anyone here move suddenly in the last few months?”
She closed the car door. “People move all the time. Not here.”
“Who owns the place?”
“Man named Luis. He lives in Santee.”
“Is the back unit rented?”
“Yeah, to an older lady. She’s been there longer than me.”
JP smiled. “Do you think she would mind if I asked her?”
“She won’t answer. She thinks everyone is selling solar.”
JP walked down the driveway anyway.
The detached unit was small, shaded, and private—a good hiding place.
After the third knock, an elderly woman answered, holding a television remote like a weapon. “I’m not buying anything.”
“Neither am I.”
He showed Bay’s photo. “Have you seen this young woman?”
“No.”
Then he held up Maddox’s photo.
“No.”
“Any young women ever stay in the front unit? Or visit here?”
“No. I watch that driveway more than I watch television.” She lifted the remote. “And I watch TV all day.”
JP looked past her. The back unit had lace curtains, a porcelain cat on the windowsill, and the smell of soup drifting out, but no hint of Bay or Hannah.
He thanked her.
Back in the truck, he sat with the engine off and looked at the three crossed-out addresses. His three best possibilities had struck out.
He took out the map again and stared at the circle around the laundromat. Then he circled the remaining eleven addresses. It was time to widen the net.