Guilt By Degrees

81

By the time we got back to my room, we were wrung out-and somewhat inebriated-dishrags. If Gary and the other investigators noticed our condition when we left the bar, they were cool enough not to mention it. We said a blurry good night. I showered and was about to get into bed when I found a message on the hotel phone. That was weird. No one ever called me on that phone. I punched in the number to retrieve the message and listened.

“Hi, it’s Daniel. It’s about…six thirty p.m. I tried you at the office, but they said you were out in the field. I was just wondering, if you don’t have plans for dinner, maybe you’d like some company. Here’s my number…”

I reflexively picked up a pen and wrote down the number on the notepad I kept next to my phone. I hung up and stared at what I’d written. I knew the message was about more than just an impromptu dinner invitation. What I didn’t know was what to do about it.

Too tired to ponder the question after the day we’d had, I fell into bed and hoped for a dreamless sleep. So of course I dreamed all night that I was being chased by giant, faceless, machete-wielding monsters.

Over breakfast the next morning, I pulled out the brochures I’d found in one of Simon’s boxes.

“He’s got a pamphlet for a place in Glendale, and one in Venice.” I read from the latter. “Venice Community Housing. It has low-cost housing as well as transitional housing for the homeless. Got a couple of names written on it.” I squinted at the jagged writing. “Looks like…Diane?”

“Glendale’s probably just a place close to home,” Bailey said. “Venice’s more interesting.”

“And if it doesn’t pan out, we can hit the Glendale shelter.”

The weather was a little cooler than yesterday, and a few clouds had moved in, but it was still fairly mild for December. I wore a crewneck sweater, jeans, and a leather jacket. I figured the layering would let me adapt if it got warmer. We were on our way out the door when my cell phone played the opening bars of “The Crystal Ship.” “It’s Toni,” I said. “Probably calling to see what we want to do tonight.”

Bailey shrugged. “Let’s see how the day pans out.”

I nodded and let it go to voice mail. “I’ll call back later.”

The transitional-housing facility in Venice turned out to be a charming house with blue wood siding and brick-colored trim. Since there was no parking lot, Bailey waved the investigators toward the open spot in front of the house while we drove farther down the street to park in a red zone.

I looked pointedly at the red-painted curb. “It’s not just me this time, Keller,” I said. “We’ve got other sworn law-enforcement officers on the scene. They might actually bust your scofflaw ass.”

She strode up the sidewalk ahead of me. Gary had gotten out of his car and was watching the foot and vehicle traffic, looking up and down the street.

When we drew close, Gary leaned toward Bailey. “I was going to take that spot,” he said.

She gave me a smug smile.

“This is me ignoring you,” I said.

We moved up the walk, and Bailey knocked on the door. It was answered within seconds by a short, slender blond woman in her fifties, dressed in dark slacks and a long-sleeved cream-colored shirt. She had a kindly face-the sort you’d be glad to see if you’d lost your place in the world.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Bailey introduced us, and we showed our IDs.

“Come on in,” she said. “I’m Teresa Solis.”

Teresa ushered us into a front room with windows that faced the street. It was lined with photographs of women and children, singly and in groups.

“We’re looking for a man who was homeless and who might’ve stayed here a few months ago,” Bailey said.

She looked at us, her expression puzzled. “That’s not possible.”

“Because?” I asked.

“It’s a shelter for homeless women and their children,” Teresa replied.

Aha. Thus the photographs of women and children. But now it was my turn to be puzzled. Why did Simon have a brochure for a women’s shelter?

“Does anyone named Diane work here?” I asked, remembering the handwriting I’d seen on the brochure.

Teresa’s brows knitted, and she shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, and I’ve been here for the past six years.”

I paused and stared over her shoulder at the photographs on the wall.

“Maybe someone named Diane lived here?” I asked.

“We do have a Diane living here. I’m not sure how long she’s been here, though. When were you thinking this man made contact?”

“I’m thinking sometime in the past couple of months,” Bailey replied.

Teresa turned from her desk to a short metal filing cabinet under the window. She put on a pair of green-and-black-framed reading glasses and opened the top drawer. She looked through a stack of folders and pulled out a slender red file.

“Diane Nguyen,” she read. “She and her daughter have been here for the past two months. Apparently she was also here four or five years ago.” Teresa read some more, then looked up. “She had a young boy with her back then.”

I got one of those chills you get when you just know an unexpected connection is coming.

“Is the boy’s name listed?” I asked.

Teresa looked down at the file and shook her head.

Bailey began to look around. She was feeling it too.

I knew this had to pan out somehow. I went at it another way. “Does it say about how old he was?”

Teresa looked down at the file again. “Fourteen.”

But boys, especially small ones, can look younger than their years. “Are there any photographs of them?” I asked.

“Not in the file,” she replied. “Sorry.” She looked at me sympathetically, then put the folder back in the drawer and took off her glasses.

“Is this Diane?” Bailey said, pointing to an Asian woman in a group photograph on the wall near the window.

Teresa and I both went over to the photograph. She put her glasses back on.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s her.”

Bailey and I looked at each other, then turned back to the photograph, where, next to Diane, the smiling face of Tran Lee beamed back at us.