The three of us worked our phones. We each came up with the same thing. Half a dozen ratings, between five and seven years ago, all by students in magnet programs. Mostly five stars, a few fours.
Sean said, “Looks like he taught the smart ones.”
Milo said, “Maybe one’s too smart for his own good.”
He clapped Sean on the shoulder. “Here’s proof I’m benevolent, kid. Besides the phone and the computer, you get to go to Hamilton and see what you can learn from the administration. I’ll do the fun job.”
“Notification.”
Milo exhaled. “Nothing like it. Though if Dr. D. doesn’t mind, I’ll have some sensitive psychological backup.”
I said, “I’m relegated to third person?”
“Hey, that’s how royalty’s addressed. Is Your Highness up for a drive to North Hollywood?”
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.”
