So much for a forwarding address the easy way, Mendez thought.
“How long ago did Mr. Ballencoa move out?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I went home to Australia for six weeks the end of April. When I got back, he was gone.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“I certainly don’t. I wouldn’t give him the time of day. Nor would he engage me in conversation. I told him in no uncertain terms when he moved here, if he thought he might get smart with me, I’d introduce Ol’ Hick’ry here to his kneecaps. Bloody wanker.”
“What did he say when you told him that?” Hicks asked.
“Nothin’. Not a word. He just looked at me like he was lookin’ through me, then went on about his business.
“I grew up in the Outback,” she said. “My dad was a miner, and a rough sort they are. Plenty of men like this one out there, walkin’’round with no souls. You wouldn’t walk beside them, I’ll tell you that. You’d go out in the bush and you’d never come back.”
“Did Mr. Ballencoa live here alone?” Mendez asked.
“I never seen nobody go in nor come out but him. Never saw a friend nor a girlfriend—’course he may have had one in a box in there. He’s that sort, ain’t he?”
“What kind of car did he drive?” Hicks asked.
“A white van. Plain as Jane. No windows.”
“Do you happen to know if he owned this house or rented?” Mendez asked.
“Rented. I called his landlord up and gave him a piece of my mind, I’ll tell you that. What kind of decent individual rents to a pedophile? And with the school right there? I called the police and gave them what for as well. It shouldn’t be allowed, but they told me he hadn’t been charged nor convicted and there weren’t nothin’ they could do about it.”
“Do you have a phone number for the landlord?” Hicks asked.
“Carl Eddard. Scum Lord I call him,” Mavis Whitaker said. “I do indeed. Come next door and I’ll get it for you.”
Mavis Whitaker’s home was identical in style to the one Ballencoa had lived in, but her yard was cute and tidy, and showed the fruits of her green thumb. Iceberg rosebushes loaded with big fat white blooms encircled the property inside the low black iron fence. Flower beds flanked the sidewalk and made a colorful border around the house itself.
A bell jingled as she let them in the gate. There were bars on her front door and grates over the windows. Ms. Whitaker did not leave her security to chance. And if an assailant made it past the first line of defense, she had Ol’ Hick’ry for her backup.
The house was immaculate and smelled of lemon furniture polish. The décor was a mix of antique pieces draped in doilies, shelves loaded with knickknacks, and a seventies plaid sofa and chair from a discount furniture mart. Two big brown tabby cats sat in an open window, taking in the sun.
“I’ve got it here in my address book,” Mavis said, going to a little writing desk in her dining room. “I even filed it under Scum Lord so I wouldn’t have to tax m’self sayin’ his name.”
She put her ax handle down on the dining room table, then turned to the desk and picked up the address book from beside her telephone.
“He’s a rude one, I’ll tell you,” she went on. “No regard for anyone but his banker. I said to him, what if this perv comes over in the night and attacks me. He says, considering what an old bitch I am, I shouldn’t have to worry ’bout anyone wanting to lay a hand on me.
“Can you imagine?” she said, offended.
“That’s uncalled for,” Hicks said. “Some people have no manners.”
“None whatsoever,” she said, perching reading glasses on her nose. “I told him he could kiss my puckered old arse. Here it is. Scum Lord Eddard.”
Mendez jotted down the number and name in his spiral notebook.
“He said it weren’t his job to keep an eye on Ballencoa. That was up to the police.”
“Were they around much?” Mendez asked. “The police?”
“At first they came ’round, but then the perv threatened to sue, and that was the end of that. Never mind if he makes off with some young lady from the high school or kills his cranky old neighbor. God forbid he should sue the city.
“It’s a sad day when the criminals have more rights than the rest of us,” she said.
“But as far as you know, Mr. Ballencoa never got into any trouble?” Hicks asked.
She frowned, clearly disappointed. “Not that I’m aware. Although he might have been up to something before I went away to Australia.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because there was a strange car in the neighborhood a week or so before I left,” she said. “I didn’t like it. I thought maybe it was some thief casing the neighborhood. The car was sitting at the curb across the street one day, so I marched right over to it and asked the man what his business was.”
“What did he say?”
“Told me he was a special investigator with the police.”
Mendez shared a glance with his partner. According to Detective Neri, the SLOPD hadn’t been watching Ballencoa at all. As far as Neri had known, Roland Ballencoa was still living next door to Mavis Whitaker.
“Did he show you a badge?” Hicks asked.
“Not a badge,” she said. “But he opened an ID.”
“What did it say?”
“I couldn’t say,” she admitted. “Didn’t have me readers on. I figured it was all right or he wouldn’t have shown it to me. Right?”
“You didn’t happen to get a license plate number on the car, did you?” Mendez asked.
“Of course I did.” She set her address book aside on the desk and took up a purple spiral notebook. “I wrote it down the first time I saw the car, of course. A strange car in the neighborhood—that’s the first thing I do as part of the watch. I write it all down in my book here.”
She turned through the pages, looking for the right one. Each page had the date written at the top in spidery old-lady handwriting. Notes were jotted down on each page, with the time of day noted beside each entry.
“Here it is,” she said, and she read off the tag number aloud.
Mendez put it in his notebook.
They thanked Mavis Whitaker for her time and her diligence and left the house.
“Why wouldn’t Neri have said they had started watching Ballencoa again?” Mendez said as they walked back to the car. “After all the shit I gave him?”
“I’ve gotta think he would have,” Hicks said. “If he’d had a way of not looking like a slacker, I think he would have taken it.”
“Me too.”
They got back into the car and sat there for a moment, both of them letting the wheels turn in their brains.
“He wasn’t a cop,” Mendez declared, starting the car. “Let’s go find a pay phone.”
12
From the corner of her eye, Leah watched her mother come into the kitchen. She said nothing, just kept her head down as she brought food to the breakfast table. Hard-boiled eggs, orange juice, a bowl of sliced melon.
Her mother looked terrible. Leah knew why.
Her own eyes had been puffy and red when she got up. She had held a cold cloth over them for a long time before coming downstairs. If her mother had done the same, it hadn’t worked.
Leah remembered when her mom had been beautiful. She could have been a model or an actress. Her eyes were so blue, her dark hair as smooth and shiny as hair in a shampoo commercial. Now there was gray in her hair and lines beside her eyes and around her mouth. Her skin was pale and dull. Her hand was trembling as she reached for a coffee cup.