She smiled. Hazel eyes segued back to the water. “What I did was no big deal. I keep thinking of that little guy. Sitting there, next to her.”
Chapter
17
Shari Flores’s Tahoe backed out, reversed, drove off. Milo stashed the box file in the Impala’s trunk and we returned to the water’s edge, shielding our eyes from glare.
Milo said, “Weirdly peaceful…thoughts?”
I said, “Like you said, smooth and professional. It firms up the hit man scenario, and nothing gets people angrier than child custody battles.”
“Accountant in a boat. Can’t see Whitney linking to Parmenter or O’Brien so the work we’ve been doing trying to connect them could be a waste. Then again, wouldn’t it be interesting if Whitney had donehiscorporate audits, too? Maybe learned something she shouldn’t and it has nothing to do with the ex.”
“Easy enough to find out,” I said. “Most likely she worked for a firm and CPAs don’t have confidentiality.”
“There you go with that positive-attitude thing again. Yeah, will do. Anything else?”
“After twenty-six months, Whitney’s mother will be frustrated and eager to talk.”
He retrieved the box, spent a while thumbing through, said, “Herewe go, she lives in West Hills, right on the way back. I’ll take that as an omen.”
He called the listed number, spoke briefly, listened for a long time, hung up and patted his ear as if cooling it.
“Beyond frustrated. She’s waiting.”
As we got back in the car, he said, “Here I was, ready for some grub at the Ventura Harbor, there’s this great place, fresh catch. Alas, duty calls.”
Words of regret but spark in his eyes. It takes a lot to steer him away from lunch.
—
Thirty-five miles to the Valley Circle exit on the 101 was a forty-one-minute drive. Once we got past the businesses facing the freeway, we were in leafy suburbia.
Milo continued to Roscoe, hooked left for half a mile, then turned right on a gently sloped street lined with ponderosa pines and marked by aNo Outletsign. Wide, low-slung houses were arranged around a ladle-shaped cul-de-sac. Basketball hoops were a regular feature and several of them were being put to good use. A few toddlers rode plastic tricycles under the gaze of watchful parental eyes. One man washed a vintage gold Corvette with exquisite care.
Milo said, “No lake. Seems like a good thing today.”
Before beginning the drive, he’d done some background on Whitney Killeen’s mother, Donna Batchelor. Fifty-four years old, living at the Brunswick Court address for twenty-one years, zero criminality.
Her house was two lots short of the dead end, one-story, teal-sided, with a beige door. The front was a cement parking area divided into diamonds with clover filling the seams. Flowers and shrubs fluffed up every border save the one leading to a double garage. No evident architectural style but a nice-looking, well-tended home.
Milo parked at the curb and we got out. The moment the Impala’s doors closed, the beige door opened and a woman marched toward us.She wore a sleeveless black top and jeans that ended mid-calf. Thin and tan, with ash-colored hair cut short, a pixie face, and wiry arms.
She continued her approach until we met midway, said, “Donna,” in a husky voice, shook my hand first, then Milo’s, folded her arms across her chest, and examined us.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”
“Glad someone’s interested, it’s about time. Not that I get what LAPD has to do with Whitney but I’m sure you’ll tell me. C’mon in, I made iced tea but if you want coffee, I can fix some.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned her back on us and hurried toward her house.
Milo mouthed, “Frustrated.”
I thought,That could be helpful.
—
Donna Batchelor’s house had white walls and high, angled ceilings. Hand-scored mesquite floors gleamed. Beige couches were spotless; red, orange, and rust accent cushions had been dimpled perfectly. Glass sliders looked out to a meticulous garden centered by an oval pool and let in soft, northern light. The color of the water was a close match to the teal siding. More glossy leaves and pastel petals abounded.
