"But I will pay him," Ali insisted. "Can you put me in touch with him?"
"My uncle's English isn't so good," Andrea said. "He'll need someone to translate."
"Would you?"
"I guess," Andrea agreed.
"So where is he?"
"Here," she said. "Well, a few blocks away."
"Where's here?" Ali asked.
Andrea didn't answer the question directly. "Let me ask him if he wants to talk to you. I'll call you back."
Ali hung up and turned to face Dave. "Now how do I find Henrietta Jackson?"
"Who's she? The cook?" Dave asked.
Ali nodded.
"And that's all the information you have on herjust her name? No address? No phone number?"
"Paul probably had more information than that, but it would be in his office and"
"And the house is a crime scene," Dave finished for her.
"Exactly."
Dave busied himself with making phone calls, but Ali didn't listen to what he was doing. She was thinking about Paul Grayson. She had always had her own money, but Paul had handled the bill paying for everything, including the household accounts. She had never realized until today that the help had been paid in cash. Despite the fact that they had been in this country for years, it probably meant that either Jesus or his wife, Clemencia Sanchez, or both of them were illegals, living and working beneath the INS radar.
For the first time Ali wondered about Elvira Jimenez, Paul's former cook. Was the same true for her? Was she, too, working without proper papers? And what had happened to her? After years of working in the household, why had she been let go? And what about Henrietta? The woman's distinctive accent placed her as being from somewhere in the southern United States. She certainly wasn't an undocumented immigrant, so was she working in an underground economy simply to avoid paying taxes? And if Ali did manage to find Jesus and Henrietta and offer them their jobs back, what kind of liability would she be incurring?
"Your cook has no driver's license as far as I can find," Dave announced a few minutes later. "At least, she doesn't have a California driver's license."
"How did you do that?"
"I know people who know people," he said.
"What about Jesus Sanchez? Could you find him?"
"I thought his niece was going to put you in touch with him."
"What if she doesn't? What if I need to find him on my own?"
A moment later, when Ali's phone rang, her concern about locating Jesus Sanchez proved entirely accurate. "My uncle doesn't want to see you," Andrea Morales announced.
"I just want to talk to him," Ali began.
"He doesn't want to talk to you," Andrea returned forcefully. "He said no, and that means no." With that, she hung up.
Ali was stunned. Because of Jesus's limited English skills and because Ali spoke only rudimentary Spanish, communications between the two of them had always been minimal at best. As far as Ali knew, however, there had never been any kind of ill will.
"Andrea Morales," Dave was saying into his phone as Ali put down hers. "You've dozens? Give me the addresses."
Minutes later, though, armed with a phone book and the list of addresses, Dave was able to match one specific Andrea Morales with the received call number logged into Ali's cell phone. "There you are," he said triumphantly. "Andrea and Miguel Morales, two-twenty-four South Sixth, Pico Gardens."
Ali knew from her days on the news desk that Pico Gardens had a reputation for being a center of gang-related activities. It was also known as a haven for newly arrived illegal aliens.
"Let's go," Ali said. She went over to the wall safe, opened it, and removed both her Glock and the small-of-back holster she had purchased to carry it.
"Go where?" Dave asked. He eyed her weapon uneasily. "And is that really necessary?"
"In Pico Gardens?" Ali returned. "Yes. If a couple of gringos are going there, being armed is probably the only sensible idea. Andrea told me that Jesus lives somewhere nearbywithin a few blocks of where she and her husband live. Jesus drives an old blue van. If it's parked on the street, I'll recognize it."
"It didn't sound as though Jesus is eager to talk to you," Dave pointed out.
"Doesn't matter," Ali said. "I want to talk to him." Ali turned to her mother. "Are you coming along?" she asked.
"I don't think so," Edie said. "If you don't mind, I think I'll hang around here. I'll use your computer to surf the Net."
The idea of her mother, Edie Larson, "surfing the Net" was still strange to Ali. Amazing even. "Be my guest," she said.
"I'll also look in on April from time to time," Edie added. "Just to make sure she's okay."
When Dave and Ali left the hotel, they attempted the back door exit that had worked flawlessly for them the day before, but the media folks had wised up. A reporter, one lowly enough to be relegated to hanging around by the reeking kitchen Dumpster, and her equally low-on-the-totem-pole photographer were lying in wait just outside the door.
"Hey, Ms. Reynolds," the reporter called, holding her microphone aloft and rushing up to the car. "Is it true you've been brought in for questioning in two homicide cases? Do you have any comment?"
Of course I don't have a comment, Ali thought. She said nothing as Dave opened the door on his Nissan. It was too bad they hadn't taken her Cayenne on this trip. Now the media would have information on what had previously been their stealth vehicle.
The photographer focused his camera on Dave. "Out of my way," he said with a snarl, but the photographer didn't take the hint. He was still snapping away as Dave scrambled into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him.
"What jackasses!" he exclaimed. "Were you ever that bad?"
"I don't think so," Ali said. I hope not, she thought.
The reporter and photographer were legging it for the front of the building and, presumably, some vehicle, when Dave peeled out of the back driveway and bounced over the edge of the curb into the street.
"Are they going to catch us?" Ali asked.
"Not if I can help it," Dave returned. "Now which way?"
Without her GPS or a detailed map to rely on, Ali had to think for a moment before she was able to get her bearings and direct him onto the southbound ramp of the 405 and from there onto the 10.
"How's your Spanish?" Ali asked as they sped down the freeway.
"I speak menu Spanish fairly well. Why?"
"Because Jesus speaks almost no English and I speak almost no Spanish."
"Maybe his niece, Andrea Whatever, would translate for us."
"I doubt that," Ali said. She picked up her cell phone and scrolled through her phone book until she located the name Duarte.
During her time as a newscaster in L.A., one of Ali's PR roles had been serving as the station's goodwill ambassador to the cancer community. Because of her own tragic history with Dean's death from cancer, she had been a likely and willing candidate. She had served on boards and walked in Races for the Cure and Relays for Life. But she had also done a lot of hands-on caregiving, work that had nothing to do with public relations and never made it into the news. One such case had been a three-year-old leukemia patient named Alonso Duarte.
Lonso's father, Eduardo, had worked at Ali's television station in the capacity of janitor. His wife, Rosa, had worked as a maid for a series of hotels. Once Lonso was diagnosed, the station had broadcast a series of stories about his battle and about his family's plight as well. They had helped raise money to fill in the gap between the bills and what medical insurance actually paid. The station's official involvement had eventually ended, but Ali had remained a part of the family's support system during Lonso's many hospitalizations and chemo treatments. The last Ali had heard, the boy had been in remission for four years.