“True,” said Petra. “So?”
A half block of silence.
Stahl said, “Let’s give his apartment another try.”
It was close to 6 P.M. Petra, used to working nights, often found herself showering at this hour, then wolfing a bowl of cereal. All the paper and meetings on the Armenian case and breaking in Stahl and today’s lunch with Milo and Alex and this entire futile afternoon had played havoc with her bio clock. She felt queasy and fatigued.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
Kevin Drummond was still out, but a press of the manager’s button produced a high-pitched “Yes?”
Petra identified herself and the door buzzed open and the detectives found themselves face-to-face with a short, stout woman in her fifties, wearing a white blouse over black leggings and sneakers. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck. A jumbo roller topped a mass of too-black hair. Freshly waved locks hung down to her shoulders. She said, “Is everything okay?”
“Mrs. Santos?”
“Guadalupe Santos.” Open smile. Someone with a pleasant demeanor. Finally.
“We’re looking for one of your tenants, Mrs. Santos. Unit fourteen, Kevin Drummond.”
“Yuri?” said Santos.
“That’s what he calls himself?”
“Yes. Is everything okay?”
“What kind of tenant is Yuri?”
“Nice boy. Quiet. Why do you want him?”
“We’d like to talk to him as part of an investigation.”
“I don’t think he’s here. I saw him . . . hmm . . . maybe two, three days ago. I met him out back, taking out the garbage. I was. He got into his car. His Honda.”
DMV had reported a five-year-old Civic. But remembering the red Accord in Frank Drummond’s driveway, Petra said, “What color?”
“White,” said Guadalupe Santos.
“So Mr. Drummond’s been gone for three days.”
“Maybe he goes in and out when I’m sleeping, but I never see him.”
“No problems from him.”
“Easy tenant,” said Santos. “His daddy pays his rent six months in advance, he don’t make noise. Wish they were all like that.”
“He have any friends? Regular visitors?”
“No girlfriends, if that’s what you mean. Or boyfriends.” Santos smiled uneasily.
“Is Yuri gay?”
Santos laughed. “No, just kidding. This is Hollywood, you know.”
Stahl said, “No visitors at all?”
Santos turned serious. Stahl’s contagious amiability. “Now that I think about it, you’re right. No one. And he doesn’t come and go much. Not the neatest guy, but that’s his business.”
Petra said, “You’ve been up to his apartment.”
“Twice. He had a leaky toilet. And another time I had to show him how to work the heater—not too mechanical.”
“A slob, huh?” said Petra.
“Not like dirty,” said Santos. He’s just one of those—howyoucallit—holds on to everything?”
“Pack rat?”
“That’s it. It’s a single, and he’s got it all filled up with boxes. I couldn’t tell you what’s in them, it just looked like he never throws anything out—oh yeah, I did see what was in one of them. Those little cars—Matchboxes. My son used to collect them but not as many as Yuri’s got. Only Tony outgrew it. He’s in the Marines, over at Camp Pendleton. Training sergeant, he spent time over in Afghanistan, my Tony.”
Petra offered a congratulatory nod and a moment of respect for Sergeant Tony Santos. Then: “So Yuri collects stuff.”
“Lots of stuff. But like I said, not dirty.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“I don’t think he does any,” said Guadalupe Santos. “With his daddy paying the rent and all that, I figured him for . . . you know.”
“What?”
“Someone with . . . I don’t want to say problems. Someone who can’t work regular.”
“What kind of problems?” said Petra.
“I don’t want to say . . . he’s just real quiet. Walks with his head down. Like he doesn’t want to talk.”
Big difference from the pushy guy who’d hectored Petra. Kevin chose his moments.
She showed Kevin Drummond’s DMV picture to Santos. Blurred picture, five years old. Skinny kid with dark hair and a nondescript face. Brown and brown, 6’2″, 150, needs corrective lenses.
“That’s him,” said Santos. “Tall—he wears glasses. Not such good skin—some zits here and here.” Touching her jawline and her temple. “Like he had it bad when he was younger, you know, and it didn’t all heal up?”