LOUISE AUGUST LIVED six blocks from the beach, in an area filled with turn-of-the-century bungalows built as weekend getaway homes for affluent Angelenos fleeing the inland heat. Back then, the drive from the mansions of Bunker Hill or West Adams to the milder clime of the beach was a two-hour trek through orange groves, palm orchards, and stretches of undeveloped land. A hundred years later, we had freeways and electric cars, but little had changed. The drive from downtown L.A. to Venice at rush hour took just as long, but passing through scenic orange groves had been replaced by creeping bumper-to-bumper traffic and vengeful drivers. This was called progress.
I called the people with phone numbers as I searched for Ms. August’s address. Nancy Hummell’s voice mail answered. I left a message asking her to call back, and dialed Carlos Gomez next. His phone rang, and kept ringing. Strike two. Victor Pitchess answered on the first ring, but Victor was annoyed. He didn’t remember a young couple at the flea market, didn’t like being harassed by strangers, and threatened to sue if I called him again. No wonder Cassett and Rivera had come up with nothing.
I found her street, turned, and saw a homeless man with a skinny brown dog sitting on the curb across from a blue Craftsman house. The man was watching a workman lower a FOR SALE sign into the house’s front yard. A woman in a purple pants suit was directing him. The Craftsman had a peaked roof, a covered porch, and a blue picket fence with a blue picket gate. The address belonged to Louise August.
The dog saw me approaching, and whined. Its eyes were fearful. The man saw me, and his eyes were fearful, too. He struggled to his feet, and ducked his head.
“This poor dog is hungry. Spare a dollar for kibble? I swear to God and Jesus Above I will not buy alcohol.”
I gave him five dollars, and crossed the street.
The woman said, “To the left. No, it’s leaning to the right, bring it more left.”
The workman straightened the post.
The woman said, “Better. That’s good. Plant it.”
BURGESS REALTY. FOR SALE.
The woman was blocking the gate, and didn’t move.
I said, “Excuse me.”
She glanced at the homeless man, and arched her eyebrows.
“If you give them money, they won’t leave. I’m trying to sell this place.”
“Sorry. I’m looking for Louise August. Is she home?”
The woman faced me, and hesitated.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
“When will she be back?”
“Not that kind of gone. Amy Burgess, Burgess Realty. Are you a friend of the family?”
She gave me a card.
“No, ma’am. I need to see her about something. Business.”
Amy Burgess hesitated again, and shrugged.
“Okay, well, I should tell you. Louise is dead. One of these addicts murdered her.”
She waved toward the homeless man. He put his arm around the dog, and averted his eyes.
I flexed her card, and studied the house. The front yard was tangled with overgrown rubber trees and banana plants. A concrete walk from the gate to the porch was lined with garden gnomes, terra cotta pots, and quirky, sun-bleached signs. The signs said things like UNICORNS WELCOME, I BRAKE FOR RAINBOWS, and PLEASE BE KIND. I slipped the card into my pocket.
“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”
“Last week. They wanted drugs. Broke in through a window there, and killed her with a steam iron. Blunt force trauma, the police said. It must have been awful.”
The homeless man bellowed.
“FORGIVE ME, FATHER, I DID NOT SIN.”
Amy Burgess ignored him.
“I told her daughter, you’re going to take a hit on the price. I have to disclose. It’s a murder house.”
She frowned at the murder house, then considered me.
“Interested? Her daughter wants a fast sale.”
The workman interrupted.
“What do you think, straight?”
Amy Burgess studied the sign.
“Perfect. Thanks, Armando.”
The workman gathered his tools and let himself through the gate. Amy Burgess smiled, and gave me a second card.
“If you change your mind, you’ll get a great buy. Believe me, she’s over a barrel.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
So much for Louise August. All I had left were names with no way to reach them. I turned, and headed back for my car.
The homeless man stared at the ground as I approached, and spoke with a very soft voice.
“The lady was kind.”
I knew he meant Louise August.
“She left water for thirsty dogs. The occasional treat. Kind.”
He petted the dog. I glanced at the sign in the little front yard. PLEASE BE KIND.
“Good to know. Kindness is in short supply.”
He nodded.
“Two men.”
He glanced up, met my eyes, and looked away.
“We told the police. Her kindness, avenged.”
“What about two men?”
“Well dressed, ties. Young men with authority. One large, one larger. We saw them open the gate.”
“The day she was killed?”
He stared at the ground, and stroked the dog.
“We cannot be sure. Forgive us.”
The two men he saw could have been detectives, come to see what she knew after leaving the Crenzas.
“Were they policemen, you think? Detectives?”
“Government men. Clandestine agents. Obvious.”
Obvious.
“Did you see them leave?”
“We did not. Forgive us. Urgent business required us elsewhere.”
He stroked the dog.
“But you told the police?”
“We did, and now you. Her kindness, avenged. Your kindness, repaid. Could you spare a dollar for kibble? This poor dog is hungry.”
I gave him ten dollars, and walked back to the Crenzas. Charlotte was at her desk, but I didn’t see Martin or Marge. Charlotte lurched to her feet when I opened the door. She probably thought I was Marge.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Are your aunt and uncle here?”
She touched the base of her neck, and closed her collar.
“They went to lunch.”
“Okay. Maybe you can help.”
“I’ll try.”
“The detectives your uncle called asshats. Were you here when they talked to him?”
“Yeah, me and my aunt and uncle. I don’t remember their names, though. I told you.”
“I understand. What did they look like?”
She thought for a moment, and made a halfhearted shrug.
“I dunno. Like the others, I guess. Nice clothes, shiny shoes. They were kinda big. Good builds, like they work out.”
“How old?”
“In their thirties? The one guy, he was about your height, maybe, or a little bigger. Dark. He did most of the talking, and smiled a lot. The other was a lot bigger, and kinda mean. He stood too close. I didn’t like him.”
One large, one larger. Young men with authority. They were probably the two men the homeless man saw.
“Were they going to see Louise August when they left here?”
She made a face. Uncertain.
“I dunno. I don’t think they said. They just left.”
“Did they leave a card?”
“I dunno. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Charlotte. You’ve been a big help. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I smiled. She smiled back, but she looked uncomfortable. I turned to leave when she stopped me.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
She looked even more nervous, and checked the door. Worried that Martin and Marge would catch us.
“You work with the police?”
“Sometimes. I usually work for a client, or myself. Like now.”
“But you know the police who were here?”
“I know Cassett and Rivera. Not the asshats.”
She touched her neck again, and seemed even more nervous.
“Are they nice?”
I didn’t know how to answer, but I knew she was worried.
“Depends, I guess. How can I help?”
She opened her collar and lifted her chin. A simple pendant necklace hung around her neck.
“He gave it to me.”
The gold chain was delicate. The pendant was classic, and beautifully simple. A facet-cut ruby was ringed by smaller diamonds. The ruby was a deep blood red with a glint of blue, and the diamonds sparkled with colorless light.
“I kept it, and now I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The boy in the picture. Alec.”
She took a breath, and straightened herself.
“I know who he is. I know how to find him.”
I locked the door, and asked her.