Cutter went to Hubbard and recovered his Durango, which showed no signs of having been searched by the cops. He drove past Covarra’s house, which still had a sizable police presence, took Eastman Avenue and hung a right on Whittier Boulevard.
The late evening was spectacular, with streaks of orange in the sky. Dark clouds roiled in the distance, hanging heavy, and for a moment he thought they were smoke from California’s fires.
Nope, he shook his head. Nearest one is Bobcat, in the Angeles National Forest. The county’s fire department was battling it, not close yet, but every resident of the city was aware of the burning devastation and cast their eyes to the sky frequently, as if expecting to see smoke and flames.
He put the disaster out of his mind and drove through the city towards his destination.
Salazar Park was a large recreation area on Whittier Boulevard. It had open spaces with play equipment, tennis and basketball courts, and an indoor center for various activities.
He circled it once. Whittier, Ditmar Avenue, Dennison Street, Alma Avenue and back to Whittier. No bangers that he could spot.
He drove down Verona and checked out the various houses on each side. Didn’t spot anyone who looked like hoods. He went all the way to Eastman Avenue and returned, slowing down on his second pass.
Brae said the house was on a corner and near the park. That could be either of the two houses on the two sides of the street. One had a wooden fence, a large tree on the corner of its front yard, pale walls and a flat roof. No garage that he could see, or driveway. There was an old Toyota parked on the street in front of it. The residence had a forbidding air.
The one opposite was more cheerful-looking. Chain-link fence, front yard with a child’s tricycle on it and a slide, potted plants and a drive that had a wooden gate.
Cutter parked his Durango behind the Toyota and got out and stretched. He crossed the street to Salazar Park, found an empty bench and began his recon.
Lights turned on in both houses while he bought a vegetarian burger from a food truck. A man came to the Toyota from the house with the wood fence. He reached into its trunk, brought out a grocery bag and went inside. Cutter snapped photographs discreetly with his phone and turned his attention to the other house, which also showed activity. The man looked like he was in his sixties. Would bangers be that old?
A young man came out into the yard of the other house, picked up the tricycle and took it inside. He fits the profile. Looks Hispanic. Did he have a family? Was he a single parent? Or did he live alone and have some child visiting him during the day?
Cutter grunted as he got to his feet and made a show of trudging back to his Durango. He was still in the transparent-glasses disguise that Brae knew him by but had added a gray streak to his hair to give him an elderly look.
I’ll have to come back with another drone. Thermal imaging would tell him how many occupants were in each house.
He drove back and, at the last minute, changed his mind and headed to Vienna’s house instead of the Sycamore Avenue one.
Much later, he would wonder if it was that whimsical move that led to everything that followed.