Nothing with which to play the tapes. Milo examined them. More spy stuff, action blockbusters, comedies.
Milo said, “Probably lives by himself but so far, no porn. Maybe he keeps it where he sleeps.”
The larger bedroom — generous relatively but not actually — was set up with a single closet and king-sized bed that left scant passage on one side, barely enough room for a pecan-finish rococo nightstand on the other. On the stand was a plaster-based lamp — off-white, corrugated, resembling an oversized larva — sunglasses, reading glasses, a set of keys, and a tissue box.
In a top drawer a laptop and a cellphone. Milo removed them and set them on the bed.
A six-drawer dresser facing the bed matched the stand in style and color. In the center, an identical lamp. Flanking the lamp on both sides were four photos in standing frames.
Emmanuel Rosales, at least a decade ago, his lush hair black and longer, his mustache a drooping Zapata, standing next to an older couple, each no taller than five-three.
Then Rosales, in his twenties, bearded and grinning, wearing a cap and gown. UC Berkeley insignia on the bottom of the frame.
The third shot featured a broadly smiling Rosales already graying, with a slightly younger couple and five children. Two boys, three girls, my guess, eight to fourteen.
Clear resemblance between Rosales and the man. The woman was petite and blond.
I said, “Bachelor uncle.”
Milo said, “I know the drill.”
Photo four was a full-color shot of gorgeous mountains and sky. Probably the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. Likely clipped from a calendar.
Milo went through the dresser drawers. Boxer shorts folded neatly, socks rolled meticulously, T-shirts, sweats, and polo shirts arrayed precisely.
Under the shirts, a framed Cal diploma proclaimed that Emmanuel Garcia Rosales had graduated thirty-three years ago cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in physics. Below that, in a legal-sized manila envelope, was a California state teacher’s certificate issued two years after the diploma.
The closet was small, with a single aluminum rack from which hung a blue suit and a gray suit, both from Men’s Wearhouse, a couple of pairs of slacks, and three pairs of jeans pressed with precise creases. A folding ironing board was propped against a wall; a steam iron sat on the floor, its cord coiled into a meticulous circle.
On a shelf above the hanging garments were two boxes. Milo opened them eagerly.
Unused pairs of white New Balance walking shoes.
He felt around the shelf, said, “Not even dust,” and turned to me. “What are we talking about, Nowhere Man?”
We left and just reached the back door as Sean approached.
“He doesn’t seem to ever have been married, Loot, and he’s got no record, not even a parking ticket. I was able to access the basics of his employment records. He began teaching in some tough schools — Dorsey, Fremont, Jefferson — transferred to Hamilton three years ago, retired last year. On his pension docs, he lists a contact number in North Hollywood. Francisco and Laura Rosales.”
Milo said, “Brother and sister-in-law, there’s a photo of them inside.”
Sean said, “Anything interesting inside?”
“Feel free to check it out yourself, kid, but unless he’s got something stashed under the floorboards, nadissimo. We’re talking someone who lived a very spare life. I left his phone and his laptop on the bed for you to take.”
I said, “Maybe an outwardly spare life. But an honors degree in physics plus science and math books on the shelf say he could’ve been someone whose headspace was taken up by abstractions. Which wouldn’t necessarily go over with a class full of teens.”
Milo said, “Mr. Brain trying to convince the savages the beauty of ergs and joules? Yeah, I can see that leading to problems. So maybe ol’ Buck was actually onto something and he gave the wrong kid an F.”
Sean said, “He hasn’t worked for a year, Loot. Don’t see someone waiting around that long.”
Milo said, “Someone sure didn’t like him. Let’s see if any teacher ratings are still online — you know the web, infinite dirt.”
The three of us worked our phones. We each came up with the same thing. Half a dozen ratings, between five and seven years ago, all by students in magnet programs. Mostly five stars, a few fours.
Sean said, “Looks like he taught the smart ones.”
Milo said, “Maybe one’s too smart for his own good.”
He clapped Sean on the shoulder. “Here’s proof I’m benevolent, kid. Besides the phone and the computer, you get to go to Hamilton and see what you can learn from the administration. I’ll do the fun job.”
“Notification.”
Milo exhaled. “Nothing like it. Though if Dr. D. doesn’t mind, I’ll have some sensitive psychological backup.”
I said, “I’m relegated to third person?”
“Hey, that’s how royalty’s addressed. Is Your Highness up for a drive to North Hollywood?”
Chapter 32
Just as we were about to leave, a new person entered the crime scene. C.I. named Gloria Mendez, whom we both knew well.
Milo told her who the victim was and the highly probable cause of death.
She said, “How much commission do I owe you?” kneeled, went through the pockets of the black sweatpants and came up empty. Then she removed the white sneakers and examined them. Same result.
“Nothing, Milo, sorry. The shoes don’t even smell.”
Milo said, “Clean living. A lotta good it did him.”
It was close to four p.m. when we set out for the home of Francisco and Laura Rosales. Nice part of North Hollywood bordering Toluca Lake where movie stars avoiding the Westside used to live.
Trying to avoid commuter clog, Milo took Benedict Canyon and fared reasonably well.
“Don’t even know if they’re home,” he said. “But calling and then having to explain...” He shook his head, took a curve fast, and said, “God, I’ll never stop hating this.”
Google’s spy camera said the residence was a two-story brick-faced Colonial and Google hadn’t lied.
Generously proportioned, green-shuttered house, skillfully landscaped, on a quiet, pretty, magnolia-shaded street. High-end vehicles predominated up and down the block. Perched in this driveway was a silver-gray Land Rover.
Milo said, “Not exactly Emmanuel’s setup. Wonder if there was tension.”
“Not according to the photo he kept.”
“Hmmph. Okay, here goes.”
The front door was deep green, paneled, and set up with a peephole and a shiny bronze lion’s-head knocker. He lifted the ring and let it collide with the strike plate.
Seconds later, a child’s voice said, “Mo-om, the door.”
“Who?”
“I dunno.”
“Hold on.”
Movement behind the hole. Maybe one of those peephole cameras. Milo showed the little glass sphere his badge, then stepped back so his face was visible.
The door opened on the blond woman from the family photo, now brunette streaked with ginger.
Milo gave her his name, then mine.
“Police? Is Frank—”
“Frank’s fine, ma’am. It’s about your brother-in-law.”
“Manny? What happened to him?”
“Could we come in?”
Laura Rosales’s hand clawed her cheek. “That sounds bad. Is it — is it?”
“Unfortunately—”
“Omigod omigod. I have to call Frank!”
She seated us in a spotless, out-of-a-magazine living room and rushed off to get her phone. A couple of kids appeared, staring from the neighboring dining room. Familiar faces from the photo in Manny Rosales’s bedroom, a few years of maturity tacked on.