Rosenfield smiled again. Hard to know what that meant.
Reed said, “Who lives in the other unit?”
“A man from France who’s almost never here. A professor, French, I think. Mostly, he’s in France. He’s in France now.”
“Name?”
Head shake. “Sorry, you’d have to ask Elizabeth. I don’t see him five times in two years. Nice-looking man, long hair — like that actor, the skinny one… Johnny Depp.”
Milo said, “Sounds like things are pretty quiet around here.”
“
Very
quiet.”
“Ever see Selena with a friend?”
“A friend, no. Once, I saw a guy,” said Luz. “Waiting out by the curb for Selena and she got into his car.”
“What kind of car?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see.”
“Could you describe him?”
“He had his back to me and it was dark.”
“Tall, short?” said Reed.
“Medium — oh, one thing — I’m pretty sure he had no hair — shaved, like those basketball players do. Light bounced off his head.”
“Was he a white man?” said Reed.
“Well,” said Luz, “not black, that’s for sure. Although I guess he could’ve been a
light
black guy. I’m sorry, it was just his back, I guess he could’ve been anything. Did he do something to Selena?”
“Ma’am, at this point, we’re not even close to a suspect. That’s why anything you did see is important.”
“A suspect… so she’s… ”
“Afraid so,” said Reed.
“Oh, no.” Her eyes watered. “That’s very sad, such a young one… oh, my… I
wish
I could tell you more.”
Milo said, “You’re doing great. Could I please have your full name for the records? As well as a contact number?”
“Luz Elena Ramos — is it dangerous to stay here?”
“There’s no reason to think that.”
“Wow,” said Luz. “This is a little scary. I’d better be careful.”
“I’m sure you’re fine, Ms. Ramos, but careful’s always good.”
“When you showed up, I guess I knew something happened. I work in a hospital for eight years, know what bad news looks like.”
Selena Bass’s four hundred square feet of space couldn’t shrug off its automotive origins.
Cracked cement floors had been painted bronze and lacquered but oil blotches peeked through the gloss and a faint petro-reek lingered. A dropped ceiling of whitewashed drywall panels compressed the room. The same material was used for the walls, tacked haphazardly to the underlying lath. Tape seams were visible, nailheads erupted like prom-night acne.
“High-end construction,” said Milo.
Reed said, “Maybe the piano wasn’t bringing in the bucks.”
We gloved up, stood in the doorway, took in the entire space. No obvious signs of violence or disorder.
Milo said, “We’ll call in the techies, but I’m not seeing this as the operating room.” He stepped in and we followed.
A right angle of black Masonite cabinets sectioned off a tiny, corner kitchenette. Space-saver refrigerator, microwave, two-burner electric cooktop. In the fridge: bottled water, condiments, a rotten nectarine, limp celery, a single carton of take-out Chinese in a generic carton.
Moe Reed checked his gloved hands, inspected the box. Sweet-and-sour chicken, tinted Caltrans orange. He tilted the box. “Gelled stiff. Got to be at least a week old.”
A queen mattress sat on the floor, sheathed by a brown batik throw and piled with too many overstuffed madras pillows. Milo peeled back a corner of the throw. Lavender sheets, clean, unruffled. He sniffed. Shook his head.
“What, sir?” said Reed.
“No smells — no detergent, body odor, perfume, zilch. Like it was changed but not slept in.”
He moved on to an almost-birch nightstand, containing lightweight sweats, a white flannel nightgown, a cheap digital alarm clock, a comb.
Milo peered at the comb. “No hair I can see but maybe the tweezer squad’ll find something. Speaking of which, Detective Reed.”
Reed phoned the criminalists and Milo continued his circuit of the room. He checked out a
Reed said, “Who lives in the other unit?”
“A man from France who’s almost never here. A professor, French, I think. Mostly, he’s in France. He’s in France now.”
“Name?”
Head shake. “Sorry, you’d have to ask Elizabeth. I don’t see him five times in two years. Nice-looking man, long hair — like that actor, the skinny one… Johnny Depp.”
Milo said, “Sounds like things are pretty quiet around here.”
“
Very
quiet.”
“Ever see Selena with a friend?”
“A friend, no. Once, I saw a guy,” said Luz. “Waiting out by the curb for Selena and she got into his car.”
“What kind of car?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see.”
“Could you describe him?”
“He had his back to me and it was dark.”
“Tall, short?” said Reed.
“Medium — oh, one thing — I’m pretty sure he had no hair — shaved, like those basketball players do. Light bounced off his head.”
“Was he a white man?” said Reed.
“Well,” said Luz, “not black, that’s for sure. Although I guess he could’ve been a
light
black guy. I’m sorry, it was just his back, I guess he could’ve been anything. Did he do something to Selena?”
“Ma’am, at this point, we’re not even close to a suspect. That’s why anything you did see is important.”
“A suspect… so she’s… ”
“Afraid so,” said Reed.
“Oh, no.” Her eyes watered. “That’s very sad, such a young one… oh, my… I
wish
I could tell you more.”
Milo said, “You’re doing great. Could I please have your full name for the records? As well as a contact number?”
“Luz Elena Ramos — is it dangerous to stay here?”
“There’s no reason to think that.”
“Wow,” said Luz. “This is a little scary. I’d better be careful.”
“I’m sure you’re fine, Ms. Ramos, but careful’s always good.”
“When you showed up, I guess I knew something happened. I work in a hospital for eight years, know what bad news looks like.”
Selena Bass’s four hundred square feet of space couldn’t shrug off its automotive origins.
Cracked cement floors had been painted bronze and lacquered but oil blotches peeked through the gloss and a faint petro-reek lingered. A dropped ceiling of whitewashed drywall panels compressed the room. The same material was used for the walls, tacked haphazardly to the underlying lath. Tape seams were visible, nailheads erupted like prom-night acne.
“High-end construction,” said Milo.
Reed said, “Maybe the piano wasn’t bringing in the bucks.”
We gloved up, stood in the doorway, took in the entire space. No obvious signs of violence or disorder.
Milo said, “We’ll call in the techies, but I’m not seeing this as the operating room.” He stepped in and we followed.
A right angle of black Masonite cabinets sectioned off a tiny, corner kitchenette. Space-saver refrigerator, microwave, two-burner electric cooktop. In the fridge: bottled water, condiments, a rotten nectarine, limp celery, a single carton of take-out Chinese in a generic carton.
Moe Reed checked his gloved hands, inspected the box. Sweet-and-sour chicken, tinted Caltrans orange. He tilted the box. “Gelled stiff. Got to be at least a week old.”
A queen mattress sat on the floor, sheathed by a brown batik throw and piled with too many overstuffed madras pillows. Milo peeled back a corner of the throw. Lavender sheets, clean, unruffled. He sniffed. Shook his head.
“What, sir?” said Reed.
“No smells — no detergent, body odor, perfume, zilch. Like it was changed but not slept in.”
He moved on to an almost-birch nightstand, containing lightweight sweats, a white flannel nightgown, a cheap digital alarm clock, a comb.
Milo peered at the comb. “No hair I can see but maybe the tweezer squad’ll find something. Speaking of which, Detective Reed.”
Reed phoned the criminalists and Milo continued his circuit of the room. He checked out a
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