Milo said, “We’ll definitely look into it, ma’am. Did Mr. Braun do similar work when he moved to Ventura?”
“As far as I know, he stayed in sales, but not in shoes. A store in Old Town, selling olive oil. He sent me a couple of samples.”
I pointed to the vials on the counter. “Those?”
“Garlic-infused and jalapeño. I never opened them because I’m not into heavy seasonings. Hal should’ve known that but that’s Hal. Once he’s into something, he can’t imagine anyone else not seeing the light.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
“No one. But I’m not the one to ask, we haven’t been in touch for years. Still, when I heard the description on TV, the injuries...” She shook her head. “I really hope it’s not Hal. Maybe you’ll find him right on his couch, snoring. Or off doing one of his adventures.”
“Do you have a current number for him?”
“I have his cell from three years ago.” She recited from memory. Not in touch but remembering.
“Thanks. Is there anything else you can think of, Ms. Braun?”
“I’m actually Mrs. Braun,” she said. “Never got into the ms. thing. No, that’s it.”
“Do you have a photo of Mr. Braun? Also, anything that belonged to him — for DNA.”
“I have old photos, somewhere,” she said.
“If we could borrow a couple.”
“Hold on.”
She got up and walked into a short passageway left of the kitchen. Milo was finishing another muffin when she returned with two color snapshots.
“These were taken soon after we got married. Before the whole digital thing. You had to pay Fotomat, so you actually held on to them.”
Milo gloved up and took the photos. Both captured the same scene. In one a younger, slimmer ash-blond Mary Ellen Braun stood holding hands with a sandy-haired, moon-faced man. Both wore sunglasses, matching green windbreakers, jeans, and sneakers. In the second, Hal Braun had his arm around his wife’s shoulder and her fingertips clasped his waist. The background was pines and mountains so dark they verged on black. The sky was murky gray swirled with white, tipped at the corners with sooty clouds.
“Sequoia,” she said. “We went for a weekend, stayed at some lodge, it rained almost the whole time. I did crosswords while Hal did his thing. He came back soaked because of course he wouldn’t take an umbrella. He did get me outdoors for these right before we left. Do you need both of them?”
“One’s fine, Mrs. Braun.” Taking the hand-holding shot and returning the other to her.
“If you could get it back to me,” she said.
“We’ll make a copy and do that. In terms of a physical object Mr. Braun might have—”
“No, sorry, can’t help you there.”
I said, “How about the olive oil bottles?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Hal did send them to me so I guess he touched them. Unless someone else at the store packed them. Can you get DNA from glass?”
“We can, ma’am,” said Milo.
“Well, then sure, I’m never going to use them.”
He retrieved the bottles. Brown paper label from The Olive Branch, Main Street, Ventura, Ca.
As we walked to the door, Mary Ellen Braun said, “Garlic-infused and jalapeño. Once you know, can you tell me? Either way.”
“Absolutely. And if you think of anything else—”
“I won’t,” she said. “Before you came I tried to come up with anything I knew that could possibly help you. Maybe she can clear it up.”
Outside, Milo said, “Battle of the Marys.” He popped the unmarked’s trunk, put the bottles in an evidence bag, and sealed it. Before doing the same with the photo, he studied it again.
“Size and age are right. So’s the hair.”
I said, “A risk-taker.”
“With a mean wife.” He laughed. “If we’re lucky, Mary Two will be a real Medusa.”
Chapter 13
The car idled as Milo made calls.
Hargis Raymond Braun had an active California driver’s license. A ten-year-old brown Jeep had been registered three years ago. Address on Barnett Street in Ventura.
Fifty-one, then, five-ten, one seventy-five, green eyes, the sandy hair self-described as blond. No active wants or warrants but Braun had been arrested for drunk driving eight years ago, no jail time.
Milo said, “Big deal.”
I said, “Ain’t that the truth. Robin was on jury duty last year. Seven of the twelve people on the panel had DUIs.”
Milo said, “It’s a miracle any of us are alive. Okay, let’s find out if Not-as-Cool Mary’s still living there.”
The house was a seven-hundred-seventy-nine-square-foot bungalow on a tenth-acre lot on the west side of town. Deeded to Maria Josefina Braun seven years ago, appraised value of two hundred fifty-nine thousand dollars. GPS pinned the location far from the beach, the foothills, Old Town, the Mission of Santa Buenaventura, anywhere scenic. Google photos showed a gray box hemmed by a white picket fence.
Neither of us knew anyone at Ventura PD but a couple of years ago we’d worked a multiple murder case with cops from the neighboring town of Oxnard. Milo phoned the lead detective, a bright, jovial man named Francisco Gonzales.
Gonzales said, “That’s the tough part of town but not by L.A. standards. Some gentrification, some gang problems, mostly just working class trying to get by.”
Milo thanked him and called the number given by Mary Ellen. Inactive. The reverse directory offered no landline. The woman who answered at the Olive Branch had no idea who Hal Braun was.
Milo said, “Would there be anyone who’d remember?”
“I’ve been here for five years, we’ve never had a guy, just gals.”
“The Olive Branch. Too peaceful for testosterone, huh?”
“Pardon?”
“Thanks.” Click.
He sat back, checked his Timex. “One oh eight. If I drive all the way to the lab, drop off the bottles and the photo, by the time we head north, we’re talking a three-hour nightmare coming back and nothing says Mary Two will be home. On the other hand...”
I said, “If we leave now and hop on the 101, it’s an hour. And if she is there, she’ll have Braun’s clothing, a toothbrush, maybe medical records that’ll match the corpse.”
“The other thing,” he said, “if she’s not there, we can have a late lunch, I’m thinking seafood.”
“Consolation prize.”
“Tsk,” he said. “More like meeting basic needs.”
The trip took fifty-four minutes, spurred by Milo’s lead foot and livened by his frequent indictment of other drivers. (“Seven out of twelve, huh? There’s a drunken asshole for sure.”)
Exiting the freeway took us through mixed retail, light industry that was mostly car-related, and plain-wrap apartment buildings. The occasional rash of graffiti but nothing ominous. Single-story houses appeared a couple of blocks later.
Like its neighbors, the home shared by Hargis and Maria Josefina Braun was small, prewar, simply built. No cameras or alarm signs on the block but plenty of security bars. Sidewalk trees were irregularly placed and sized. Many struggled in the drought.
The structure was still gray stucco, the fence still white paint, both showing wear. An empty driveway was cracked; the tar-paper porch roof struggled with gravity. A collapsible metal ramp stretched from the top of three stairs to brown dirt.
Milo toed the ramp. “Maybe our boy’s injuries were worse than we thought.”
We climbed, setting off a bongo duet on metal. One of two screws holding the bell-push in place was missing and Milo had to fiddle to produce a sound.