“Is she okay?”
“Physically, she’s fine. Just come out; we’ll talk once you get here. Here’s the address.”
The street was three blocks north of Ventura Boulevard. The block was treeless and sun-fried, all apartments, mostly mega-units with underground parking and security gates that would give an experienced burglar pause for about twenty seconds. FOR RENT banners and real estate brokerage signs on most of them. Promises of “move-in incentives.”
Lucy’s building was older and smaller, a two-story quadriplex of flesh-tone stucco and dark red wood. Two units on top, two below, each open to the street, with individual entrances set back from a covered walkway. Another FOR RENT sign staked in the lawn near the ground-level mailbox.
Her apartment was number 4, upstairs. Number 3 was vacant. Her welcome mat featured a chipmunk saying “Hi!” The windows through which Ken had seen her kneeling in the kitchen were masked by shades. The doorjamb around the hinges was splintered a bit and nailed together—Ken’s breaking in to save her—but the door was locked. I rang the bell and Milo parted the shades, then let me in.
The front of the apartment was divided into living and dining areas. The kitchen was a cubby with avocado cabinets and white appliances. Barely enough room to kneel. All the walls were off-white, not that different from the Psych unit at Woodbridge.
The oven was a squat little two-burner Kenmore, maybe fifteen years old. The dining room table was fake oak surrounded by three folding chairs. In the living room were a tufted blue velvet love seat and two matching chairs, a glass-topped coffee table, and a 14-inch television and a VCR on a rolling stand.
On top of the TV was a single photo, of Lucy and Peter. Head shots, no identifying background. She was smiling, he was trying to.
Lucy sat on the blue couch, barefoot, wearing jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt that said L.A.’s the One. Her hands gripped each other, and she looked up and gave me a struggling smile. Milo went and stood behind her. His jacket was over a chair. He wore his revolver in a waist holster.
He looked at the coffee table. “Look, but please don’t touch.”
A short stack of magazines had been pushed to one side. Next to it was a sheet of yellow ruled legal paper; next to that, a white envelope.
On the paper was a note, typed off-center, crowding the left margin and the top of the page:
FUCK YOU BITCH IN HELL
JOBE DIES, YOU DIE TWICE
Below that was something affixed to the page with transparent strips of cellophane tape.
Dark shriveled things, the size and shape of olive pits.
“Rat turds,” said Milo. “Pending lab analysis. But I don’t need a tech to tell me.”
“Mailed or delivered?”
“Delivered.”
“Delivered right inside,” said Lucy. “I found it on the table when I got home last night.”
“What time was that?”
“Three in the morning. They let me out at one, but then there was paperwork and I left some clothes up in my room and had to go back. When I got here, the door was unlocked, but I just figured Ken or the paramedics had forgotten to lock it.” Trying to be calm. Her hands were white.
“You came home alone?”
She nodded. “I didn’t notice it because I was tired, just wanted to sleep. I fell off, then I woke up around five to get a glass of water and saw it.”
“Who has keys to the apartment?”
“Just Peter and myself. And the landlord, I guess.”
“Who’s the landlord?”
“Some old woman who lives in Port Hueneme,” said Milo. “Her handyman patched the jamb. I just spoke to him, and he claims he locked it when he was through.”
“Anything weird about him?”
“Mr. Gonsalvez?” said Lucy. “No, he’s a sweetie—and he couldn’t have written that, he barely speaks English.”
Milo nodded. Lucy hugged herself.
I found his eye. “Is the lab on its way?”
“Not yet.” To Lucy: “Why don’t you pack those few things.”
“Can I take a shower? I really don’t think anyone was in the bathroom.”
“Sure.”
She left. A door closed and a few moments later the sound of the shower filtered through, like heavy distant rain.