T Is for Trespass

  “What about signs of dementia?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that. Solana Rojas reports signs of dementia, but I haven’t seen any myself. His niece in New York talked to him on the phone one day and thought he sounded confused. The first time I went over, he was sleeping, but when I stopped by the next morning he seemed fine. Crabby, but not disoriented or anything like that.”

  I went on, giving her as much detail as I could. I didn’t see a way to mention the financial issues without admitting I’d snitched his bankbooks. I did describe his shakiness earlier that day and Solana’s report of a fall, which I hadn’t personally witnessed. “I saw the bruises and I was horrified at how thin he is. He looks like a walking skeleton.”

  “Do you feel he’s in any immediate danger?”

  “Yes and no. If I thought it was a life-or-death matter, I’d have called the police. On the other hand, I’m convinced he needs help or I wouldn’t be on the phone.”

  “Are you aware of any incidents of yelling or hitting?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Emotional abuse?”

  “Not in my presence. I live next door to the guy and I used to see him all the time. He’s clearly old, but he managed to get around fine. He used to be the neighborhood crank so it’s not like any of us were close to him. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We’ll send out an investigator in the next one to five days. It’s too late to get anything on the books until first thing Monday morning, and then someone will be asked to look into it. Depending on the findings, we’ll assign a caseworker and take whatever action seems necessary. You may be called on to answer additional questions.”

  “That’s fine. I just don’t want his caregiver to know I was the one who blew the whistle on her.”

  “Don’t worry. Your identity and any information you give us is strictly confidential.”

  “I appreciate that. She might make a guess, but I’d just as soon not have it confirmed.”

  “We’re well aware of the need for privacy.”

  In the meantime, come Saturday morning, I had other business to take care of, chiefly locating Melvin Downs. I’d made two trips to the residence hotel without results and it was time to get serious. I took the Missile off-ramp and swung over to Dave Levine Street. I parked around the corner on the side street, passing the same used-car lot I’d seen before. The converted milk truck/camper offered at $1,999.99 had apparently been sold and I was sorry I hadn’t stopped to take a closer look. I’m not a proponent of recreational vehicles, in part, because long-distance driving isn’t a means of travel I find amusing. That said, the milk truck was adorable and I knew I should have bought the damn thing. Henry would have let me park it in the side yard and if I’d ever found myself in financial straits, I could have given up my studio and lived in style.

  When I reached the hotel I took the porch steps two at a time and went in the front door. The foyer and downstairs hall were empty so I took myself to Juanita Von’s office first floor rear. I found her shifting the past year’s files and financial records from the cabinet’s drawers to a banker’s box.

  “I just did that,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Tired. It’s a pain, but it has to be done and I do enjoy the feeling of satisfaction afterwards. You may be in luck this time. I saw Mr. Downs come in a while ago, though he could have gone out without my noticing if he used the front stairs. He’s a hard one to catch.”

  “You know what? I really think I’ve earned the right to talk to him even if it is upstairs. This is my third trip over here and if I miss him this time, you’ll have to explain yourself to the attorney who’s handling this case.”

  She considered my request, taking her time about it so it wouldn’t appear she was moved by the threat. “I suppose just this once. Hold on a second and I’ll walk you up.”

  “I can manage it,” I said. Secretly, I was longing for the opportunity to snoop. She was having none of it, perhaps imagining I ran a drop-in hooker service for down-at-heel old men.

  Before she left the office she paused to wash her hands and locked up her desk against the possibility of thieves. I followed her out of the office and toward the front door, responding politely as she pointed out features along the way. She began to climb the stairs, pulling herself along by the handrail. I stayed two steps behind her, listening to her labored breathing as we reached the second floor.

  “This sitting area on the landing is where the tenants gather of an evening. I provide the color television set and I ask them to be considerate about what they watch. Can’t have one individual making all the choices for the group.”

  The landing was large enough to accommodate two couches, a wide-armed upholstered chair, and three smaller wooden chairs, all with padded seats. I pictured a bunch of old guys with their feet on the coffee table, commenting on sports and cop shows. We turned to the right into a short corridor at the end of which she showed me a big glass-enclosed sunporch and a laundry room. We went down two steps to a hallway that extended along the length of the house. All the room doors were closed, but each had a small brass slot with a card in it, printed with the name of the occupant. I watched the brass numbers climb from 1 to 8, which meant that Melvin Downs’s room was probably at the rear of the building, near the top of the back stairs.

  We rounded the corner and started up the next flight. It felt like it took six minutes getting from the first floor to the third, but eventually we reached the top. I sincerely hoped she didn’t intend to hang around to supervise my conversation with Downs. She accompanied me to his room and had me step to one side while she knocked on his door. She stood politely, with her hands crossed in front of her, giving him time to assemble himself and answer the door.

  “Must have gone out again,” she remarked, as though I wasn’t bright enough to figure that out myself. She tilted her head. “Hold on a minute. That might be him now.”

  Belatedly, I caught the sound of someone coming up the back stairs. A white-haired man appeared, carrying two empty cardboard wine boxes, one tucked inside the other. He had a long face and pointed elfin ears. Age had eroded channels in his face, and there were deep creases worn into each side of his mouth.

  Juanita Von brightened. “There you are. I told Miss Millhone it might be you coming up the stairs. You have a visitor.”

  He was wearing the rumored black wing tip shoes and the brown leather bomber jacket I’d heard about before. I felt myself smiling and realized until now, I hadn’t been convinced that he existed at all. I held my hand out. “How are you, Mr. Downs? I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m delighted to catch up with you.”

  His handshake was firm and his manner friendly, underlaid with an element of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I know what this is about.”

  Mrs. Von stirred, saying, “I’ll get back to my work and leave the two of you to talk. With respect to the house rules, I don’t allow young ladies to visit in the tenants’ rooms with the doors shut. If you’ll be more than ten minutes, you can have your conversation in the parlor, which is more appropriate than standing in the hall.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  “No trouble,” she said. “Long as I’m up here, I’ll look in on Mr. Bowie. He’s been under the weather.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I know my way out.”

  She moved down the stairs and I turned my attention to Downs. “Would you prefer to talk in the parlor?”

  “The bus driver on my route told me someone had come around asking questions about me.”

  “That’s all he said? Well, I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I told him he could fill you in.”

  “I saw a flyer that said something about a car crash, but I’ve never been in one.”

  I took a few minutes to go through my oft-repeated tale about the accident, the lawsuit, and the questions we had about what he’d seen at the time.

  He stared at me. “How did you ma
nage to locate me? I don’t know anyone in town.”

  “That was a stroke of luck. I distributed flyers in the neighborhood where the collision occurred. That must have been one of the ones you saw. I included a brief description, and a woman called me saying she’d seen you at the bus stop across from City College. I called MTA, got the route number, and then chatted with the bus driver. He was the one who gave me your name and address.”

  “You go to this much trouble for something that happened seven months ago? That can’t be true. Why now, after all this time?”

  “The lawsuit wasn’t filed until recently,” I said. “Is this upsetting you? Because that wasn’t my intention. I just want to ask a few questions about the accident so we can figure out what went on and who was at fault. That’s all this is about.”

  He seemed to pull himself together and shift gears. “I don’t have anything to say. It’s been months.”

  “Maybe I can help refresh your memory.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have something I need to take care of. Maybe another day.”

  “This won’t take long. Just a few quick questions and I’ll be out of your hair. Please.”

  After a pause, he said, “All right, but I don’t remember much. It didn’t seem important, even at the time.”

  “I understand,” I said. “If you’ll recollect, this was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “You were on your way home from work?”

  He hesitated. “What difference does that make?”

  “I’m just trying to get a feel for the sequence of events.”

  “After work, then. That’s right. I was waiting for my bus and when I looked up I saw a young woman in a white car pull forward, preparing to turn left out of the City College parking lot.”

  He came to a stop, as though calculating his responses so he could offer the least information possible without being obvious.

  “And the other car?”

  “The van was coming from the direction of Capillo Hill.”

  “Heading east,” I said. I was trying to encourage a response without too much prompting. I didn’t want him simply feeding back the information I fed him.

  “The driver was signaling a right-hand turn and I saw him slow.”

  He stopped. I shut my mouth and stood there, creating one of those conversational vacuums that usually goads the other guy to speak. I watched him avidly, willing him to proceed.

  “Before the girl in the first car completed the turn, the driver in the van accelerated and rammed right into her.”

  I felt my heart give a thump. “He accelerated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deliberately?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why would he do that? Didn’t it seem weird?”

  “I didn’t have time to think about it. I ran out to see if I could help. It didn’t look like the girl was seriously hurt, but the passenger, an older woman, had big problems. I could see it in her face. I did what I could, though it didn’t amount to much.”

  “The younger woman, Ms. Ray, had wanted to thank you for your kindness, but she says the next thing she knew, you’d disappeared.”

  “I’d done as much as I could. Someone must’ve dialed 9-1-1. I could hear the sirens so I knew help was on the way. I went back to the bus stop and when the bus came, I got on. That’s as much as I know.”

  “I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been. This is just what we need. The defendant’s attorney will want to take your deposition…”

  He looked at me as though I’d struck him in the face. “You never said anything about a deposition.”

  “I thought I mentioned it. It’s no big deal. Mr. Effinger will go through this again for the record…the same sort of questions…but you don’t have to worry about that now. You’ll get plenty of notice and I’m sure he can set it up so you won’t have to miss work.”

  “I didn’t say I’d testify about anything.”

  “You might not have to. The suit might be dropped or settled and you’ll be off the hook.”

  “I answered your questions. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Look, I know it’s a pain. Nobody likes to get caught up in these things. I can have him call you.”

  “I don’t have a phone. Mrs. Von isn’t good about messages.”

  “Why don’t I give you his number and you can contact him? That way, you can do it at your convenience.” I took out my notebook and scribbled Lowell Effinger’s name and office number.

  I said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I should have made myself clear. As I indicated, there’s an outside possibility the matter will be resolved. Even if you testify, Mr. Effinger will make it as painless as possible. I can promise you that.”

  When I tore off the leaf and passed it to him I caught sight of his right hand. A crude tattoo was visible in the webbing between the thumb and index finger. The area was rimmed with what looked like lipstick red that had faded over time. Two round black dots sat on either side of his knuckle. My first thought was prison, which might explain his attitude. If he’d had legal problems in the past, it could account for his balkiness.

  He put his hand in his pocket.

  I glanced away, feigning interest in the decor. “Interesting place. How long have you lived here?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have time to chat.”

  “No problem. I appreciate your time.”

  As soon as I reached my desk I put a call through to Lowell Effinger’s office, which was closed for the weekend. His machine picked up and I left a message for Geneva Burt, giving her Melvin Downs’s name and address. I said, “Don’t let it wait. This guy seems antsy. If you don’t hear from him first thing Monday, call his landlady, Mrs. Von. She’s a tough old bird and she’ll crack the whip.”

  I gave her the number that rang into Juanita Von’s office.

  23

  Having made the call to the county agency that dealt with elder abuse, I expected to feel relieved. The matter was out of my hands and the investigation of Solana Rojas was someone else’s responsibility. In reality, I was uneasy about running into her. I’d worked hard to ingratiate myself in an effort to gain access to Gus, but if I cut off all contact and the investigator showed up asking pointed questions, the obvious conclusion would be that I’d made the call, which of course I had. I didn’t know how to maintain even the semblance of innocence. In my heart, I knew Gus’s safety took precedence over the risk of Solana’s wrath, but I fretted nonetheless. Consummate liar that I am, I was now fearful she’d accuse me of telling the truth.

  This is how the system works. A citizen sees an instance of wrongdoing and calls it to the attention of the proper authorities. Instead of being lauded, an aura of guilt attaches. I’d done what I thought was right and now I felt like skulking around, avoiding the sight of her. I could tell myself all day long I was being silly, but I was afraid for Gus, worried he’d pay the price for the call I’d made. Solana wasn’t a normal human being. She had a ruthless streak and the minute she figured out what I’d done, she was going to crawl up in my hair and take a shit. It didn’t help that we lived in such proximity. I unburdened myself to Henry sitting in his kitchen at the cocktail hour—he with Black Jack over ice, me with my Chardonnay.

  “Don’t you have business that might take you out of town?” he asked.

  “Don’t I wish. Actually, if I were gone, suspicion would fall on you.”

  He waved that worry aside. “I can handle Solana. So can you, if it comes down to it. You did the right thing.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself, but I do have one teeny tiny transgression to confess.”

  He said, “Oh, lord.”

  “It’s not that bad. The day I was helping Solana with Gus, I took advantage of the moment to lift his check register and one of the passbooks for a savings account.”

  “‘Lift,’ as in stole?”

  “Well, yes, if
you want to be blunt. That’s what prompted me to make the call to the county. It was the first proof I’d seen that she was draining his accounts. The problem is, now that she’s changed the locks I don’t have a way to put them back.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “‘Oh boy’ is right. What am I supposed to do? If I hang on to the documents, I can’t keep them at my place. What if she figures it out, calls the cops, and gets a search warrant?”

  “Why can’t you put ’em in your safe-deposit box?”

  “But I’d still risk getting caught with them. At the same time, I can’t destroy them because if Solana’s charged with a crime, that would be evidence. Actually if I’m charged with a crime, it’s evidence against me.”

  Henry was shaking his head in disagreement. “Don’t think so for three reasons. The documents are inadmissible because they’re ‘fruit of the poison tree.’ Isn’t that what it’s called when evidence is illegally obtained?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Besides which, the bank has the same records, so if push comes to shove, the DA’s office can subpoena the records from them.”

  “What’s number three? I can hardly wait.”

  “Seal ’em in an envelope and mail them to me.”

  “I don’t want to put you in jeopardy. I’ll figure it out. Really, it’s enough to make me want to reform,” I said. “Oh, yeah, and there’s something else. The first time I went in…”

  “You’ve been in twice?”

  “Hey, the second time she invited me. That’s when Gus was stranded in the shower. The first time, I used his house key and made a note of all the medications he was on. I wondered if maybe a drug combination was causing his confusion and making him sleep. The pharmacist I talked to suggested possible pain pill or alcohol abuse, which is neither here nor there. This is the point. When I was cruising through the house, thinking Gus and Solana were gone, I opened the door to the third bedroom and there was this three-hundred-pound goon asleep in the bed. Who the hell was he?”