22
Pam Buttons raced down the stairs ahead of us. When we got to the station door, she sighed and said, “Margarita time,” and speed-walked north on Butler.
We returned to Milo’s office, where he looked up Lynne Gutierrez, found several women with the name, winnowed the list to the right one, saved and printed and stashed everything in his attaché case.
“Time for Mr. Le Gallee, hopefully he’ll know more.”
We exited the station, crossed the street to staff lot, got in the Impala, and drove to a place we couldn’t enter.
—
Safe Place occupied a corner lot in a quiet residential neighborhood. No signage on or near the two-story Spanish house painted generic beige. The stucco was impeccable, the front door arched and hand-hewn, the entry presaged by a low wrought-iron fence and gate at the sidewalk followed by a lush green lawn. A row of healthy succulents lined up like toy soldiers against the house’s frontage.
The kind of place three wealthy families would’ve approved of fifty years ago. Grandfathered in back when zoning was more plastic. Still, keeping up appearances continued to matter. When you’re housing people easy to stigmatize, it pays to be discreet.
We arrived on time, had been sitting in the car for five minutes with no sign of David Le Gallee.
Milo texted.We’re here.
Ping.Right out.
Cupping the nape of his neck with both hands, Milo craned forward, set off audible crackles, and winced. He hooked a thumb at the house. “Ms. Buttons clearly doesn’t want me in there.”
“You could call her dad and have him recommend it.”
He laughed. “Something tells me he’d groan. Unfortunately, at this point the strings are hers to pull. With the little I’ve got so far, no grounds for any type of warrant, suspect or victim. Think she’s hiding something or just being protective?”
I said, “Hard to say. I did find her description of Lynne’s room interesting.”
“Stacks of magazines,” he said. “Like mother, like daughter, until maybe the relationship took a bad turn? So far Lynne’s the only person ever seen entering Martha’s house and she’s been conveniently gone since soon after Mama got cut up. So despite Buttons claiming she’s pure as milk, I’m sniffingeau de suspect—okay, here he is.”
The arched door had opened and a man stepped out. Spotting us, he waved and came forward.
David Le Gallee was forty or so and compact. Five-six, one fifty, with a head shaved clean and an angular face so free of extra flesh it looked carved out of modeling clay. He wore tiny oblong eyeglasses, a black mock-turtle, jeans, and white tennis shoes.
We were out of the car before he reached us. Milo made the introductions.
Le Gallee said, “Police and a psychologist, yes, Pam filled me in.”
“She warned you, huh?”
Le Gallee laughed. “She’s like that, detail-oriented. Which is great for us, she inherited a mess and turned it around. Did an incredible job. Lynne being gone has really gotten to her. To all of us. It’s the first time I can recall anything like this happening and I’ve been here eight years.”
I said, “During that time, did you ever meet Lynne’s mom?”
“Never. Which isn’t common but it does happen.”
We looked at him.
He said, “Sorry, don’t mean to be vague. The sad truth is, sometimes Safe serves as a repository.”
I said, “Families abandoning children who don’t fit the mold.”
“Adult children, we don’t deal with anyone under twenty-five. But it’s best not to judge. Getting old and having to worry about your own health plus a dependent adult can be a nightmare. Most of our residents are here because their parents have grown infirm or have died. Twenty-five’s the minimum age but some are considerably older when they come here. In many cases, it’s siblings who set up the move. Some stay in touch, others don’t.”
I said, “Martha Matthias never visited.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons,” said Le Gallee. “Maybe the fact that Lynne could visit her satisfied both of them.”
