In fact, the manager of the apartment complex did not appear to understand how the patterns of transition had brought her to her current circumstances. Her name was Lana Haverby. She was in her forties, a well-tanned blonde in shorts and halter. She had a good opinion of her sexual attractiveness. She walked and stood and sat as if she were posing. Her legs were okay, but the rest of her was far from prime. She was thicker in the middle than she seemed to realize, too big in hips and butt for her skimpy costume. Her breasts were so huge that they were not attractive but freakish. The thin halter top exposed canyonesque cleavage and accentuated the large turgid nipples, but it could not give her breasts the shape and uplift they so desperately needed. When she wasn’t changing her pose or adjusting it, when she wasn’t trying to gauge what effect her body had on Frank and Tony, she seemed confused, distracted. Her eyes didn’t always appear to be focused. She tended to leave sentences unfinished. And several times she looked around in wonder at her small dark living room and at the threadbare furniture, as if she had absolutely no idea how she had come to this place or how long she’d been here. She cocked her head as if she heard whispering voices, just out of range, that were trying to explain it all to her.
Lana Haverby sat in a chair, and they sat on the sofa, and she looked at the mug shots of Bobby Valdez.
“Yeah,” she said. “He was a sweetie.”
“Does he live here?” Frank asked.
“He lived … yeah. Apartment nine … was it? But not any more.”
“He moved out?”
“Yeah.”
“When was that?”
“This summer sometime. I think it was….”
“Was what?” Tony asked.
“First of August,” she said.
She recrossed her bare legs, put her shoulders back a bit farther to elevate her breasts as much as possible.
“How long did he live here?” Frank asked.
“I guess it was three months,” she said.
“He live alone?”
“You mean was there a chick?”
“A girl, a guy, anybody,” Frank said.
“Just him,” Lana said. “He was a sweetie, you know.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“No. But I wish he would have.”
“Why? Did he skip out on the rent?”
“No. Nothing like that. I’d just like to know where I could….”
She cocked her head, listening to the whispers again.
“Where you could what?” Tony asked.
She blinked. “Oh … I’d sure like to know where I could visit him. I was kind of working on him. He turned me on, you know. Got my juices running. I was trying to get him into bed, but he was, you know, sort of shy.”
She had not asked why they wanted Bobby Valdez, alias Juan Mazquezza. Tony wondered what she would say if she knew her shy little sweetie was an aggressive, violent rapist.
“Did he have any regular visitors?”
“Juan? Not that I noticed.”
She uncrossed her legs, sat with her thighs spread, and watched Tony for his reaction.
“Did he say where he worked?” Frank asked.
“When he first moved in, he worked at some laundry. Later, he got something else.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“No. But he was, you know, making good money.”
“He have a car?” Frank asked.
“Not at first,” she said. “But later. A Jaguar two-plus-two. That was beautiful, man.”
“And expensive,” Frank said.
“Yeah,” she said. “He paid a bundle for it and all in cold hard cash.”
“Where would he get that kind of money?”
“I told you. He was making good bread at his new job.”
“Are you sure you don’t know where he was working?”
“Positive. He wouldn’t talk about it. But, you know, as soon as I saw that Jaguar, I knew … he wasn’t long for this place,” she said wistfully. “He was moving up fast.”
They spent another five minutes asking questions, but Lana Haverby had nothing more of consequence to tell them. She was not a very observant person, and her recollection of Juan Mazquezza seemed to have tiny holes in it, as if moths had been nibbling at her store of memories.