Since it was going on late afternoon but too soon for Jones to return home, we drove over to the building on Cheswick Avenue that Fonseca had been inspecting. With only on-street parking in front, I took the alley between 1480 and 1500 and pulled into the parking lot behind 1480.
Before we got out, I retrieved the file Gordon had given us and reviewed the list of Fonseca’s most recent jobs. Sure enough, one was listed at 1480 Cheswick Avenue. It appeared to be an old gas station that was in the process of being renovated to some kind of commercial establishment or restaurant. At the moment, it was boarded up, no noticeable activity.
“I take it you want to retrace the steps the victim said he took when he noticed the guy next door?” Val asked as I stood there gazing across the way to the back of the building at 1500.
“We need to verify that it was possible for him to even see someone at the trash barrel as well as how clearly he could’ve seen what the person was doing. I need you to go over there and stand at the far end of the trash barrel.”
Val trudged over. “I’m not reaching inside,” she called over her shoulder.
I hadn’t even considered that possibility, but why tell her? Let her sweat. “Only if that’s necessary,” I called back.
I took a couple of pictures with my phone for future reference. Fonseca’s spotting the man was what appeared to have begun his journey toward death, so it was critical we be able to prove it possible.
“Take a couple items of varying sizes out of your purse,” I said.
She removed the case for her sunglasses. “This okay?”
“Yes. Hold up the top of the trash barrel and act like you’re about to throw in the case.”
“I’m not throwing it in.”
“You won’t have to. Just hold it in front of you like you’re about to toss it in.”
She did as asked, and I shot a couple more photos. I wasn’t exactly sure where Morty had stood when he spied the man, so I took photos from three more positions closer to the front of the building. We repeated the process twice more, the first time with her car keys and the second with a small vial of pain relievers.
“Stay there,” I said. “Put your stuff back in your purse and pull out your phone.”
“Now what?”
“I’m going to change my expression twice. Take a photo with each and be prepared to tell me what each expression was.”
She didn’t protest because she’d figured out what I was doing.
My first expression was bland, like I was glancing that direction but not really seeing anything. The second was that of interest. And the third was concern.
I motioned for her to rejoin me. “Well? Could you tell any difference in my facial expressions?”
“The first time you were just looking toward me. The second time was like whatever I was doing caught your attention. And the third time you were alerted that I was up to something questionable.”
“Then it’s possible his killer could’ve clearly seen Fonseca watching him,” I said.
“Provided his eyesight was okay.”
“Good point. I should check out Fonseca’s eyesight as well. I don’t think that personal information was in his file.”
Val snorted. “I can’t imagine a building inspector with poor eyesight.”
“You’re probably right, but I’ll call back to the office and have someone verify it.”
“Are we done here?” she asked.
I was ready to say yes and then got another idea. “Let’s take some photos of the building, back, sides and front. It’s not laid out exactly like the building next to where Fonseca lived, where someone might’ve seen the car parked, but someone in that building may have seen something.”
“More door-to-door?” Val asked, her voice guarded.
“Not yet. We don’t know what we’re looking for. But speaking of door-to-door, I guess we can’t put off the building next to Fonseca’s apartment complex any longer.”
We had a little better luck finding occupants home this time, but only half the apartments faced the back of the building, nine in total, and we’d already talked to two residents. The first three we now talked to had nothing to add because they weren’t home during the day except on weekends. The fourth had come home for lunch and a short nap. He thought he’d seen a dark car parked in back on the day in question, but that was all he remembered.
The next occupant, a Mrs. Eloise Quinn, gave us our best lead yet. “You probably think I’m a little old lady playing Miss Marple,” she said after we asked about the car. “I’m not usually at home during the day, but that particular day I had a bit of a hangover from drinking too much wine at a birthday party for a friend the night before. I was out here in my living room lying down, watching television. I’m not much for game shows, so I was bored.” She was drawing this out, enjoying her sudden position in the spotlight.
“Something compelled you to glance out to the parking lot,” I said. “What was it?”
“Oh, right. I said I was bored, right? And I was feeling much better, so I didn’t need to lie down. I got up and attended to several small chores like starting the dishwasher and folding the towels I’d laundered the day before. As I was heading from the kitchen to my stacked washer and dryer near the bedroom, I passed the windows that face the parking lot. Normally, I wouldn’t pay any attention to the area when I’m here in the apartment, but a few cars have had their windows broken lately. We think kids, but you never know, so I gave it a look to make sure no one was hanging about.
“That’s when I noticed this dark car that I hadn’t seen before. It looked like someone was in it. I thought it might be our window smasher, so I kept checking it every so often the rest of the afternoon. It was parked toward the building, so I couldn’t see the license plate. Still, I took a couple photos on my phone, just in case I might need them later.
“I suppose I could’ve gone out to my own car and driven away so I could see the plates, but I didn’t feel comfortable going out there. Then I remembered my friend in the building on the other side of the alley. I called her and asked her to take a photo and send it to me. She thought I was crackers until I explained it could be the window smasher I’d been complaining about. She took a few photos from her own back window and sent them to me.”
Val and I sat through this dissertation not quite believing we might have found the clue we needed.
“I have all the photos here on my phone if you’d like me to send them to you?”
“That would be very helpful, Mrs. Quinn,” I replied, trying not to show my eagerness.
“How long did the car remain in the lot?” Val asked.
Mrs. Quinn went over to a secretary, removed a small spiral notebook and flipped it open. “I first noticed it at 1:17 p.m. It was no longer there at 4:05 p.m. I couldn’t tell you what kind of car it was except it was a sedan. I was much better when my son was in his teens. It gave us something to talk about. But the photos should help you pin down that information.”
I couldn’t wait to get out of there now that we had the photos. But she’d been so observant, we needed to stay long enough to let her know she’d done well and we appreciated her work.
We lingered a few minutes more. Val seemed to pick up on my intent and threw in a few compliments of her own. Finally, having thanked her profusely, we took our leave.
“As much as I want to pass this info along to Watkins,” I told her, “we need to follow through and try that last door.”
She made a face but didn’t object. Construction had to follow certain protocols too, so she understood.
The man who came to the last door was dressed in sweats, a towel draped around his neck. “Sorry, you caught me on my exercise bike. Hope you’re not selling anything, because solicitors aren’t allowed in this building.”
I introduced Val and myself and told him why we were there. He said he was Harry Mooney. “Did you notice such a car in your parking lot that day?”
“Funny you should ask. I think I parked next to it. I get home from work around three every day and that day noticed a different car in the lot. We don’t have assigned spots, but the one I usually take was right next to his. Didn’t notice anyone was in there until I got out. It was a guy, and he was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. I thought he might be sick or for some other reason unable to get out of his car, so I knocked on the passenger window. No response. He stayed focused straight ahead. I called out to him, although there was no doubt in my mind he heard me the first time. Finally, he raised his right hand and waved me off.”
“But it was a man?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure. I suppose it could’ve been a very athletic woman or a transsexual. You never know these days.”
“Could you describe him for us?” Val asked.
He massaged the back of his neck. “Not very well. He was white, I think. He had a deep tan. He was all covered up, dark jacket, dark slacks, ball cap that covered most of his hair.”
“How about distinguishing marks?” I asked. Now that he was remembering the details, perhaps something else would occur to him the longer he thought about it.
He screwed up his eyes. “Wish I’d known then I’d have to describe him at some later date. I would’ve paid more attention. Give me a few secs. There was something about him. His hand, like he was flipping me off.”
“Jewelry?” Val asked. “A ring? A bracelet or watch?”
He thought some more. “No, nothing like that. But it was on his hand. A bandage, that’s it.” He beamed. “Does that help?”
“It certainly could,” I returned, not promising anything, although like with Mrs. Quinn, my heart was beating faster. We might’ve gotten another key detail.
I pulled up the photos of the four male suspects Herc had named and showed Mooney one at a time. “Do any of these look like the guy you saw?”
He studied each before having me move on the next. “It’s definitely not the first one, but I can’t rule out any of the others, although this one guy has a rather full face, not as slim as the one I saw.”
The one he eliminated was George Karolla, the building maintenance supervisor. The fat face belonged to Ronnie Lively. That left Kevin Rollins, the physical therapist, and Leonard Adams, the nephew.
We thanked him and reconvened back at the car, where Val was bursting to talk. “Are we circling in on our killer, Mom?”
“Perhaps. But we only have Mooney’s word that he actually saw that guy.”
She twisted around to offer a confused expression. “How do we prove he’s for real?”
“Usually that involves a second and third confirmation. So far, we’ve got three women who saw the car in the lot at the same time as that guy, but none of them saw him up close like Mooney claims he did. Before I report back to the boss, let’s check out the license plate.”
I retrieved the photos of the back of the car taken by Mrs. Quinn’s friend, zeroed in on the plate number and entered it into the motor vehicle ID data bank. Stolen the day of Fonseca’s death.
I sank back into the seat. “Couldn’t find it?” Val asked.
“I found it all right. Stolen the same day Fonseca was killed. Coincidental? I don’t think so. My guess is that, after following Fonseca to where he lived in what I’m assuming was his own car, he found one that couldn’t be traced to him. In other words, he’d already made the decision to eliminate Fonseca. But even if we located it now, the prints and any other identifying information would probably have been wiped. Still, it’s more than we had an hour ago when we met with the Super Cops.”
“Okay, but we verified it was a man,” Val said, attempting to put a positive spin on our door-to-door survey. “And don’t forget his hand was supposedly bandaged. That could be a major identifier.”
I texted this update to Watkins, also mentioning that we’d restaged Fonseca’s observance of the man at the trash barrel and proved it was possible, Fonseca’s visual acuity notwithstanding, for each to see the other’s expressions. I also asked if the letter had been fully validated yet.
We had one more stop to make. Calvin Jones. We caught him just after he’d returned home. He stood at the door, a bottle of beer in hand. “What? You haven’t found out who killed Morty yet?” At that point he noticed Val. “Who’s this? That other guy get fired?”
“My partner is on temporary assignment on another investigation, so Mrs. Kowalski is assisting me now.”
“Much better,” he said, eyeing Val with more interest than he’d looked at Herc or me. “Want a beer?”
“I’d love one, but I can’t while I’m on duty,” she said.
Offer refused, he turned his attention to me. “My mom got on my case for not telling you more about the guy when you were here earlier. I’m, uh, not used to helping the police. She told me it was about time I did my civic duty. So ask away. Like I told you before, I didn’t know him well, but maybe I’ll remember something I didn’t know I knew.”
Thank you, Mama! “We understand Mr. Fonseca asked you about the trash barrel behind the building at 1500 Cheswick Avenue.”
“How’d you hear about that? It was just between Morty and me,” he asked.
That’s right. He didn’t know about Morty’s letter. “He left some notes,” I replied, improvising.
That seemed to pacify him. “It happened so quickly, I wouldn’t have remembered it at all had it not been so unusual for him to talk to me. I wasn’t aware he even knew where I worked.”
“Yes, everyone we’ve talked to has mentioned his attention to detail,” I said. I needed to keep him talking, keep his brain sifting through what happened. “Where were you when this exchange happened?”
He thought a bit. “He was coming up the stairs to our floor. I was going out. In a hurry, my mind elsewhere. Had a date with this chick who’d finally agreed to meet me for drinks at a bar down the street.” He shot a glance at Val, like he’d just remembered he’d been trying to hit on her a few seconds earlier. “He seemed so intent about seeing that guy behind the condo building on Cheswick. I didn’t understand why. Sounded like a perfectly normal event to me, even if it wasn’t the maintenance guy in the building.”
“He was sure it wasn’t?” I asked.
“Not unless the maintenance guy typically wore a jacket and dress pants. That’s what got his attention. The guy seemed out of place.”
Jones hadn’t told us anything new, but he had confirmed some of what Fonseca had written in his letter. And that was critical to proving the letter’s authenticity.
“Do you remember anything else?” I asked.
“That guy? Do you think he’s the one who offed Morty?” he asked.
“We think he could be the killer, Mr. Jones. Big difference. We have to prove it first. But you’ve helped us move a step closer.”
He snorted. “Me. Calvin Jones. Helping the police.”
“Everyone has their day. This was yours.” I shook his hand, and then Val and I left.
I tried to breathe normally as we walked to the car. Not easy, because I could see the whole thing coming together. We still needed to prove it was the nephew and not the physical therapist, but a few questions of the nurse and the housekeeper would hopefully pin down what each man was wearing the day before Nora Adams died.
“We’re almost there, Val. But the next part will be the most difficult. We have to nail our murderer.”