“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,Gardenerin 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 pinkScripps Collegesweatshirt 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.
—
