“Probably the same as every day. I liked to watch the local news before Good Morning America starts at seven.”

“So you woke up around six a.m. What time did you go to bed the night before?”

“Early. I’m usually asleep by nine.”

I sort it out in my head. Beau said he arrived at Cassandra’s at about ten after Mrs. Wheeler was asleep, so she wouldn’t have seen him. He left just after one in the morning. Some time after one a.m. the delivery guy got there and then he left around four the next day, according to Mrs. Wheeler. LeFeaux said he saw Beau leaving Cassandra’s apartment around two, but his testimony is bullshit, so I can’t count that.

“Do you know if he delivered to only Cassandra’s apartment or to any of the other tenants too?” I ask.

“My window rattled just the slightest whenever she closed her front door. That day it rattled and then the man came down the stairs. I figured I missed his arrival. It happens. I get caught up in my shows sometimes. I couldn’t ever hear when the door opened, just when it closed.”

“And you told all of this to the detective with the ugly tie?”

“Yes. All of it.”

“What else did you tell him?”

“He asked me a lot about what the man looked like—height, build, hair color, that sort of thing.”

I tap open the notes app on my phone. “How tall would you say he was?”

She looks me over. “About your height, I’d say. It’s hard to tell from the angle of my bed.”

“About six-two. How was he built? Was he fat, skinny, muscular?”

“About like you except he had a little more around the middle, but that might’ve been because his uniform was a little small for him.”

If he stole a uniform to get into and out of Cassandra’s apartment it wouldn’t be a surprise it didn’t fit him.

“What color was his hair? Was he black, white, Asian…”

“White with brown hair. He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. And he had a tattoo.”

“Where? What was the tattoo of?”

“I could only see the last half of it. The sleeve of his shirt covered a good part of it. It came to a point at the bottom.”

“Like a triangle?”

“More like a shield.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m guessing that because of the shape, and it was gold with lines and words.”

“Which arm was it on?”

“The side that was closest to me—his left upper arm.”

“Could you draw it if we had paper?”

“There’s some in the drawer there.”

I find a pad and pen and hand it to her. She sketches for a few minutes, then hands me the pad back.

“It does look like a shield. You’re pretty talented.”

“I used to teach art.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the detective? Did he have an accent? A habit, like clicking a pen over and over? Did he smoke? What were his teeth like? What kind of car did he drive?”

“No accent, but he did smoke…cigars, I think. No habits. I don’t remember his teeth. His car…now, that’s what’s interesting. I didn’t notice it at the time because I was so upset over poor Cassandra. It wasn’t until later when I went over it again—as I like to do—that I noticed the duplicates.”

She’s been pretty lucid up until now, but I wonder if maybe she’s getting tired.

“The duplicates?” I ask.

“In my book. It’s right over there.” She points to the dresser on the other side of the room. “There’s no point in my keeping it anymore. No cars drive past my window. The third drawer.”

Now I’m sure she’s losing it. If she even had it in the first place. I open the third drawer as she directed. There are some clothes and a stack of spiral-bound notebooks.

I hold them up. “These?”

“Yes. Bring them here.”

I do ask she asks.

She pulls out the second one from the top. “This’ll be the one. What was the date Cassandra was killed?”

I give her the date and she flips through the pages.

She taps a line with her finger. “Right here is the day he came over to talk to me. 6TPW001.” She turns back a couple pages. “Then see here it is again—6TPW001. There are so many on this day. The neighbors across the street had a lot of parties back then.” She points it out a few more times. “Right here is the first time. A couple of months before the last time. All told, 6TPW001 is here twelve times.”

“What is 6TP whatever it is?”

“A California license-plate number.”

“Hold on. You’re telling me you have his license-plate number?”

“I have just about every license-plate number parked on our street that I could see from my window.” Her gaze goes to the window. “There are no cars now to keep track of.” There’s nothing on the other side except the blank brick wall of the building behind the care center.

Chapter 31 Cora

I’m sitting outside in a little patio at the front of the care center. It’s hotter than the surface of the sun, but I’m not bothered by it. I can’t believe we came all this way for nothing. Now that my tears have all dried up, I want to scream in frustration. I thought for sure Mrs. Wheeler would be the answer to all my prayers. I’d held out too much hope. I should know better than that by now. Just when I gather the strength to pick myself up, life strolls by and kicks me in the teeth.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Leo exiting the care center. He’s probably looking for me.

I jog to catch up to him. “Hey.”

“There you are.” He takes me by the hand. “Come on. We gotta make this quick so we can get back to San Diego before dark.” He tows me across the street to a little market.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m getting Mrs. Wheeler a present. You won’t fucking believe what she told me.” He grabs a couple spiral notebooks and heads to the cashier.

I help translate and then we’re heading back to the care center.

“Why are we going back here?”

“It’ll be quick. Wait here.” He leaves me at the front desk and jogs down the hall. In a few minutes, he’s jogging back.

“What are you doing?”

“Come and help me talk to the lady at the front desk.”

“What is going on?”

“I’ll explain everything in the car. Ask her if there’s an empty room with a window that looks out on the street.”

Giving him a What-the-fuck? look, I do as he asks. “She says there is one. She wants to know why we’re asking. I’d like to know why too.”

“Ask her if Mrs. Wheeler can have that room.”

I relay the message. “She says it costs fifteen hundred pesos more a year than the rooms she’s in now.”

“How much is that American?”

I ask the lady and she taps on her computer. “She says it’s a little over a hundred dollars, depending.”

Leo pulls his wallet out and peels off three hundred-dollar bills. I can’t help but gawk that he has that much on him.

He hands it to the lady. “Tell her that’s the difference for two years and there’s a little something there for her if she can have Mrs. Wheeler moved today and her bed set up near the window.”

“What are you doing?”

“Repaying a favor.”

“What did Mrs. Wheeler tell you after I left?”

“Will she move Mrs. Wheeler or not?”

I chat with the lady at the desk, who is so thrilled at her sudden windfall she picks up the phone and makes the arrangements. “She’s having her moved right now.”

Leo flashes a wicked smile. “Muchas gracias.” He takes my hand again. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

We jump in the car. It’s the most animated I’ve seen Leo, and that’s saying something, since the guy is practically an anime cartoon. He tells me about Mrs. Wheeler’s notebooks and the photos and a bunch of other stuff I can’t believe. I was so sure this trip was a monumental waste of time.