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Garcia smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kennedy said half embarrassed, remembering he was talking to a detective. ‘I guess you know all this already. Anyway, most of our old yearbooks were taken.’

‘You didn’t order new copies?’

‘Yes, once.’

Garcia leaned back in his chair. ‘Stolen again?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘We thought about reordering them one more time, but the printing company we used for several of our early yearbooks burned down a few years ago.’

Garcia let out a defeated sigh.

‘A lot of them were stolen, but not all. Let me check if we’re in luck.’ Kennedy reached for the phone on his desk and dialed the library internal line, replacing the receiver on its cradle after a quick conversation. ‘Mrs. Adams, our librarian, will check and let us know. Can I offer you a drink in the meantime? Coffee, water?’

Garcia declined with a quick head shake.

The phone on Principal Kennedy’s desk rang and he answered it promptly. His conversation was restricted to – ‘OK’ and ‘I see’.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That whole decade is gone, not a single yearbook left.’

Garcia pinched the bridge of his nose as he wondered what to do next.

The phone rang again. Kennedy excused himself and answered it. He looked at Garcia and lifted both eyebrows. ‘That’s a good idea, Mrs. Adams. Thank you.’

‘Some hope?’ Garcia asked.

‘Mrs. Adams suggested you take a look at the basement storage rooms in the main building. I forgot about them. We keep a lot of very old stuff there. Mrs. Adams reminded me that there are boxes and boxes of old photographs taken by the photography clubs. The ones that didn’t make the yearbooks.’ He smiled confidently. ‘I’d say that’s your best bet.’

Garcia’s eyes lit up. ‘How do I gain access to them?’

‘You need to talk to old Mr. Davis. He might even help you look through them. He’s been the janitor here at Gardena High for over forty years. He still takes care of the gardens. He’s the only one who’ll have the keys to the old storage rooms.’

‘Where can I find him?’ Garcia asked, standing up.

‘He lives in the staff quarters, number 3C if I’m not mistaken.’ Kennedy intuitively gestured towards the large window. ‘You can try his door, but today is his day off. If he’s not around, try the Roosevelt Memorial Park. It’s about a five-minute walk from here.’

Garcia’s brow creased. ‘Memorial Park?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘His wife is buried there. He spends most of his free time talking to her.’ He shrugged as if that was a crazy thing to do.

Seventy-Nine

Darnell Douglas observed the man checking out the raven-black Cadillac Escalade in the lot with eager eyes. He’d been a cars salesman for fifteen years, and if there was one thing he was proud of, it was his ability to split the real buyers from the bull-shitters just by looking at them. And the tall gentleman wearing the dark, expensive-looking overcoat was as real as they got.

Darnell quickly checked his reflection against the shop window. He was a good-looking black man with a shaved head and a perfectly trimmed goatee over a squared jaw. He centered his blue and white checked tie and made his way towards the customer.

This one is all mine. ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ he said, giving the customer a welcoming but not overenthusiastic smile.

The man nodded and walked around to the front of the car.

‘It’s only got four thousand miles on the clock. The owner had to get rid of it. Financial problems.’

The customer walked over to the driver’s door and pulled it open. Both the exterior and interior were in pristine condition.

‘It still has that new car smell, doesn’t it?’ Darnell said, but kept his distance. He knew good buyers didn’t like to be crowded. He waited a few more seconds before offering a new piece of information. ‘The great thing is that this is a new car with a used-car price tag.’

‘OK to sit inside?’ the man finally asked in a Texan twang.

‘Of course.’ Darnell nodded. ‘You won’t find a more comfortable car. Cadillacs are the American Rolls-Royces.’

The man took a seat and held the steering wheel with both hands just like a kid in a playground. A pleased smile graced his lips for a split of a second and Darnell knew he had him.

‘What kind of mileage do I get with this?’ the man asked, his hands still on the wheel.

‘Twelve miles per gallon in the city, nineteen on the highway.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m telling you, this bad boy rocks.’

The smile returned to the man’s lips.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Darnell said, coming up to the open driver’s door. ‘I’ll go get the keys and we can take this baby for a spin. What do you say?’

The man paused for a moment, considering it. ‘OK.’ He nodded.

‘Great, I’ll be right back, Mr…?’

‘Turner.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Ryan Turner.’

Eighty

Garcia knocked on the door numbered 3C for a whole minute without a response. Roosevelt Memorial Park was literally across the road from Gardena Senior High. With the description of Mr. Davis Principal Kennedy had given him, it didn’t take long for Garcia to find the kind-looking man in his late sixties sitting alone on a stone bench in front of a very peaceful rose garden. He wore a flop-brim hat that reminded Garcia of his grandfather. His wrinkled lips were moving, murmuring something only he could hear.

‘Mr. Davis?’ Garcia asked, coming up to the bench.

The old man looked up, startled at hearing his name. He saw Garcia towering over him and squinted as if looking directly into the sun, searching the thousands of faces in his memory for a match.

‘My name’s Carlos Garcia.’

The squinting intensified. The old man’s memory now searching for the name.

‘You don’t know me,’ Garcia said, displaying his badge and ending the old man’s struggle to remember. ‘I’m a detective with the LAPD.’ For the moment he thought it was better not to mention he was with Homicide Special. Those two words together tend to make most regular citizens nervous.

‘Is there a problem?’ Mr. Davis asked in a frail and worried voice. ‘Has there been an accident in the school?’ The concern in his eyes was touching.

Garcia smiled gently and told him that there was no need for alarm. He explained the reason for his surprise visit but was careful not to mention that Amanda Reilly had been murdered.

‘Principal Kennedy said you could allow me access to the storage rooms and maybe even help me look through the pictures.’

‘I’d love to help if I can.’ The old man nodded before forcing his tired body to stand up. His gaze went back to the rose garden, and he raised a liver-spotted hand in a half wave. ‘Goodbye, Bella. I’ll be back in two days.’

The large rose garden at the Roosevelt Memorial Park is where cremated remains are scattered. In a respectful gesture, Garcia nodded at it as if also saying goodbye.

The storage rooms were at the end of the long, dimly lit, brick-walled basement corridor of the main building in Gardena Senior High. The cobwebs and the heavy stale smell were a clear indication that not many people ventured down here.

Mr. Davis unlocked the door of the main storage room and pushed it open. ‘Most of the old photograph boxes are stored in here,’ he said, flicking on the light switch.

They stood at the entrance of a large room cluttered with old desks and chairs, disused gym equipment and hundreds of cardboard boxes stacked on wooden shelves that covered three of the four walls. Dust was everywhere, and the corridor’s stale smell had intensified five-fold inside the room. The light bulbs that hung from the ceiling on thin wires were old and dim.