“When did Neptune tell you this?”
“I don’t know…maybe right after it happened.” Porter slowly started to rise from the couch. When it was clear he was having trouble, Marge stood and lent him a hand.
“What can I get for you?”
“Well, if you’re asking, you could get me more tea with a little milk.”
“I could do that.” She poured him a fresh cup. She set the mug down on an end table. “On the night of the murders, do you know what time you received the phone call with the news?”
“I was sleeping, missy. Next thing I know, Neptune’s shaking my shoulder and telling me that there’s been an emergency and he has to leave right away.”
Oliver said, “Would you mind if we looked at a copy of your phone records?”
“You can have a copy, but it won’t do you any good. Neptune always used his cell phone. Kept the damn thing glued to his ear even when we were watching the game.”
“You’re probably right,” Marge said. “He probably didn’t use your phone. But my boss likes us to be thorough.”
“You can have a copy as soon as I get it.”
“We can just call up the phone company,” Marge said. “You don’t have to bother as long as I have your permission and your account number.”
“I don’t know my account number, but I just paid my bill. The receipt is still on the kitchen counter in the mail slot.”
Oliver got up. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks.” Marge turned her attention back to Porter. “Anything else we can do before we leave?”
“Yeah, find this Martin guy. This whole mess is weighing real heavy on my boy.”
“We’re doing what we can.” Oliver proffered his hand. “We have a plane to catch. Thanks so much for your time.”
The old man took the hand and gave it a dead-fish shake. Probably not so long ago, the man had an iron grip. Oliver handed the old man a card. “Here’s my office number at the station house and here’s my cell number.”
“Here’s mine as well,” Marge said.
“What are these for?”
“If you think of something you want to tell us,” Oliver said.
“Or even if you want to talk,” Marge said.
“Call you up just to talk?” Porter gave her a wide grin. “I’m an old man and spending a lot of time alone. Be careful what you offer, missy. You might not know it, but I’m the king of gab.”
TWENTY-THREE
AS SOON AS the plane took off, Oliver reclined the seat and stared out the window. He and Marge were the only ones in the row, so they had some privacy. Still, Marge kept her voice low. “The younger Mr. B’s phone records are clean, right?”
“Yes. And since B is not a stupid man, I don’t think the old man’s phone records will show anything. But we should look at them just in case.”
“Agreed,” Marge said. “What about Mr. B’s childhood? Is it even relevant?”
“How about a black who can pass as white who hates rich white people?”
“But according to the grandfather, the mother did a good job,” Marge said. “Besides, what makes you think that B is trying to pass? He was up-front about using his black grandfather as an alibi. And he went up to Oakland to take care of him.” Oliver nodded. “Point taken.”
Marge took out her notebook. “I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“Tell you when I find it.”
Oliver rubbed his head. “Man, what a depressing day. The ciudads were one ugly place after another.”
“You’re still there?”
“I never left.”
She scanned her scrawls as she spoke. “Still it must be better than where they came from. Otherwise people would be going the other way.”
“Sometimes they do.”
Marge looked up. “Someone stretching their retirement dollar or buying a second house on the beach doesn’t count as going the other way. Last I heard there wasn’t a plethora of Americans trying to sneak across the border.”
Oliver said, “Hard ass.”
“Bleeding heart.” Marge patted his knee. “Actually I find your empathy very touching.”
“I keep seeing that young girl…looking after her brother and sisters while trying to fend off a hormone-driven idiot. What kind of life is she going to have?”
“Don’t even go there.” Marge returned her attention to her notes. “She reminded me of a hundred cases I saw when I worked Juvenile with the rabbi. All those beautiful little faces saying help me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. Homicide is crushing, but juvenile is day in and day out of heartbreak.”
A flight attendant came by with the beverage cart. “What can I get for you today?”
Marge looked up. “Diet Coke, please.”
“One dollar.”
Marge’s eyes got wide. “You charge for soft drinks?”
The woman’s eyes glazed over. “Water and orange juice are complimentary.”
“Orange juice,” Marge said.
“Pretzels or peanuts?”
“Are they free?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m paralyzed by such choice. How about pretzels. What do you want, Scott?”
“OJ and peanuts. Do you think the department will reimburse me if I add a little vodka to the OJ?”
“Probably not,” Marge said.
“Department?” the flight attendant asked.
Marge pulled out her badge. “Official business. Do we get any perks?”
The flight attendant didn’t hesitate. “Don’t tell anyone I did this.” She opened up a can of Diet Coke and gave it to Marge. “My dad was a cop.” She turned to Oliver and handed him OJ with a tiny bottle of Skyy. “On the house.”
“Thank you very much,” Marge said. But the woman was already on down the aisle. “I do believe that’s the first time my badge ever got me a freebie.”
Oliver poured the vodka into his OJ. “Wow, that’s good. Want a sip?”
“In a minute…Okay, I found it!” Marge dropped her voice to a whisper. “Edna’s daughter said that Mr. RM used to go down to the northern district of the ciudads for a little R and R?”
“More like Puss and Cee, but why quibble.”
“Edna asked T who lived there and I wrote down the names: Gonzales, Ricardos, Mendez, Alvarez, Luzons. Any of those names sound familiar?”
Oliver sat up. “Paco Alvarez?”
“It’s Albanez. But how about the maid-Ana Mendez?”
Oliver nodded. “Her alibi checked out, but that doesn’t mean anything.” A pause. “Neither does her name. There are lots of Mendez surnames in the Hispanic world.”
“Yeah, for sure, but picture this. RM and Ana meet in Ponceville. They come down to L.A. together. Certain ideas start hatching. We both feel it’s an inside job. Why not those two? Someone knew the layout to move so quickly.”
“I’m sure Mr. RM knew the layout.”
“The layout of the main house but not the layout of the servants’ quarters. It doesn’t look like there was forced entry. It looks like the shooters came busting in from down below. Ana said that the help was usually locked out of the kitchen by twelve, right? It was set up that way so that the help couldn’t enter the house through the servants’ quarters while everyone was sleeping. But someone breeched that point of entry.
“Say that Ana comes home but she’s not alone. She opens the servants’ quarters for the shooters, they kill whoever is down below, then they go upstairs to the kitchen door where Mr. RM lets them in. He tells the guys where everyone is and the shooters do their thing. Then they all leave via the servants’ quarters and Ana fakes like she just came home.”
Oliver shrugged. “She was at the church. People remember her. But maybe she left earlier and no one noticed.”
“Or, Scott, it could be that she gave RM the code to get in. Then her alibi would be righteous and no one would think she was involved.”
“That would work.” He sipped his spiked OJ.