Mrs. White stared at them in alarm from behind the security chain. Based on the little they could see Bob guessed her to be at least seventy, height about five three, black, fond of the color yellow.
“Tomás? That’s not possible!”
“May we come in, Mrs. White?” asked Kay.
Mrs. White unhooked the security chain and opened the door. Bob and Kay followed the yellow-clad figure into an apartment that was a little larger than Gomez’s. It had at least one extra door, which Bob assumed was to a bedroom.
“Tomás gave me this,” she said and pointed to the yucca palm standing in a pot in a corner of the room. She shuffled into the kitchen area. “Tea?”
“No thank you, Mrs. White, we’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Well, all right. But I can tell you right now you’re mistaken. Tomás would never shoot at anybody.”
“What makes you say that?” said Bob as he looked around. It was the apartment of a lonely elderly woman. With old and probably much-loved objects and family photos, to remind her of their existence. Well-looked-after but antiquated furniture. There was a cage with a chirping canary to keep her company.
“Tomás was the very spirit of neighborliness. If there was some shopping that needed to be done, or something in the apartment that needed fixing, he was always there to help.”
“One and the same person can be helpful at the same time as being capable of shooting someone,” said Bob. He knew he couldn’t stay here long, could feel the anger building up inside him already. It wasn’t so much Mrs. White’s naive replies as that yellow bird sitting so stoic and unmoving on its perch and singing that high-pitched monotonous song that was drilling its way inside his head, drilling into an exposed nerve and on the verge of precipitating an irrational outburst of anger. Damn that Alice!
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Tomás?” Kay asked quickly.
“Anything else?” Mrs. White poured tea into two cups. “Hm. Funny when you ask like that, we talk together so much I ought to be able to tell you a whole lot. But the truth is, Tomás doesn’t talk a lot. And never talks about himself.”
“What work does he do?” asked Bob.
“Casual work. Construction jobs, that’s the impression I get. He’s a real handyman. And an artist as well.”
“What kind of artist?” asked Kay.
“Some kind of sculptor. He made something, I have it in the cabinet here, would you like—”
“No thanks,” said Bob. “Did he say anything about where and who he worked for?”
Mrs. White stuck out her lower lip, shook her head and handed one teacup to Kay.
“He didn’t talk much, you say; it never occurred to you it wasbecause he might have something to hide?” Bob ignored Kay’s warning look. She was of the newer school of investigative theory that believed the open question would yield a more informative answer. Bob was old school. That meant no theory, just go ahead and ask anything you’re curious about.
“No,” said Mrs. White. “I don’t think Tomás is selling dope, if that’s what you mean. Tomás is silent by nature. I guess you could say I do most of our talking. Don’t get me wrong, when Tomásdoesopen his mouth he speaks like a schoolteacher. He uses so many words I’ve never heard before. Did you know this used to be a nice neighborhood?”
“Did it?” said Kay.
“Oh indeed. Then came the crack epidemic of the eighties. Because it was an epidemic. A plague, that’s what it was. It swept across the whole country, and overnight we were back in the dirt again.”
“I know,” said Kay.
“Do you?”
“I grew up between two crack houses.”
“Yeah, well, then I guess you do know.”
Bob glanced down into the courtyard again. The techs should be here anytime now. If not, that was just more ammunition for those who claimed the police took their time about things when the neighborhood involved was black or Latino. A few kids were throwing pebbles at the patrol car down below and the officer stepped out and yelled at them, but the kids just ran off, laughing.
“Now there’s more shooting, guns and gang wars here than ever before,” said Mrs. White. “But what does Mayor Patterson do? Right, he pulls the police out of here because he knows that after Minnesota made private prisons illegal it’s cheaper for the authorities if the folks down here shoot each other than if they have to be responsible for locking them up. Or am I wrong?”
Bob gave Kay a pleading look, which she responded to with an imperceptible nod.
“I don’t know how the mayor’s office thinks about these things, Mrs. White,” said Kay. “But back to Tomás Gomez. When was the last time you saw him?”
