would bring back memories of the house and his wife. ‘I know this is hard . . .’
Tyler shook his head and returned to his desk. ‘It’s OK, detective.’
Hunter placed several photographs on Tyler’s desk. They all showed the main living room of the house in Malibu. ‘We were wondering if you could have a look at these pictures. See if anything strikes you as odd or being out of place?’
Tyler allowed his eyes to study each photograph for a few seconds. ‘It’s hard to say. I haven’t been to the house for eight months. The cleaning company might’ve moved things around.’
‘We understand that,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But maybe there’s something that really catches your eye.’
Tyler finished his drink, gathered all the photographs into a single pile and sat back in his chair. He flipped through them carefully, sometimes frowning, sometimes squinting as if trying to remember. Both detectives sat quietly observing his reactions. Halfway through the pictures he stopped. Something had grabbed his attention.
‘Do you see something?’ Hunter asked.
Tyler lifted his right index finger, asking for a minute. He then searched through the rest of the photos until he found the one he was looking for.
‘What do you see?’ Hunter pressed.
Garcia leaned forward, stretching his neck.
Tyler placed the photo on his desk facing the detectives. It showed the large river rock fireplace.
‘Something different about the fireplace?’ Hunter asked.
‘On the mantelpiece,’ Tyler replied.
Both detectives’ eyes shot to the photos. The fireplace mantelpiece was decorated with several objects – small vases, a couple of picture frames, a few figurines . . .
‘What’s different about it?’
‘My memory can be hazy at times, but one thing I remember well is that Kate never kept any picture frames in the living room.’ He tapped the picture with his index finger. ‘In the reception entrance yes, but not in the living room. She was superstitious like that. She thought it was unlucky. Those picture frames on the fireplace—’ he shook his head vigorously ‘—they certainly weren’t there when we lived in the house.’
Fifty-Eight
‘Excuse me, honey,’ the tallest of the four men sitting at the corner table in the old-fashioned diner said to the brunette waitress as she walked past.
‘Yes?’ Mollie turned to face him, trying her best not to look annoyed. The four of them had been pestering her for the past fifteen minutes.
‘Are you tired?’ he asked. The other three were already giggling.
‘Why?’ she replied, a little puzzled.
‘Because, babe, I want you to know that as long as I gotta face, you gotta place to sit.’ They all burst into laughter.
‘Order up,’ came the call from the busy kitchen. Mollie walked back to the counter to collect the order and felt their eyes burn a hole in the back of her red and white dress.
Every table in the small diner was taken. Most of them by sleazy scumbags like the four in the corner who thought every waitress in south LA was dying to go to bed with them. She didn’t like her job and all the abuse that came with it, but she didn’t have a choice. She desperately needed the money.
She took the order to a middle-aged man sitting by himself, and as she placed the plate on the table he grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Excuse me, Miss Candy Pants, but this ain’t what I fucking ordered.’
‘Didn’t you order a double cheeseburger and fries?’
‘Yes, but I specifically said no goddamn pickles. I hate pickles. What the fuck do you call these?’ He lifted the top bun and pointed to three long pickle slices.
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, embarrassed, reaching for the plate. ‘I’ll get the cook to take them off.’
‘No, not take them off,’ he said angrily between clenched teeth. ‘I want him to cook me a new one. This one is ruined.’
‘No problem, sir. I’ll get you a new one right away.’
‘Stupid bitch,’ he murmured as she took the plate.
On her way back to the kitchen, Mollie noticed a Mexican-looking man in his early thirties wearing old, dirty and ripped clothes standing by the entrance door. He caught her eye and as she walked past he asked in a timid voice: ‘Excuse me, miss. Is it OK if I come in for some food? I have some money.’ He tapped his trouser pocket and she heard the rattle of coins.
‘Yes, of course.’ She frowned at the strange question. Turning around, she scanned the busy diner. A table had just vacated by the door where they were. ‘Why don’t you take this table right here and I’ll get you a menu.’
He smiled a sincere smile. ‘Thank you very much, miss. That’s very kind of you. I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick.’
Mollie smiled back, not understanding why he sounded so thankful. She got to the kitchen and was about to explain to Billy, the large Texan cook, about the whole pickle incident when she heard loud yelling coming from the diner floor.
‘Who the hell told you you could sit in here?’ Donna Higgins, the restaurant owner was standing by the entrance table, yelling at its occupant.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Mexican man said shyly. ‘The waitress said it was OK.’
‘Which waitress would that be?’
He looked down shyly without answering. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick, I promise.’
‘I don’t care how you eat, as long as it’s not in my restaurant.’
‘I’m not asking for charity, miss. I have money. I can pay for my food.’
‘Of course you have money,’ Donna shot back, gesticulating frantically. ‘You probably stole it.’
‘No, I didn’t. I helped someone push his car out of the road and he was kind enough to give me a few bucks.’ He showed her a handful of coins and one-dollar bills. ‘I can eat outside or out the back, miss. I don’t mind. I just want a hot meal, maybe some eggs and bacon and a glass of milk. I haven’t eaten in a few days.’
‘Well, you ain’t getting it here. I bet you’re a fucking illegal immigrant, aren’t you?’
The man tensed.
‘That’s what I thought. Get your stinking self outta my restaurant—’ she pointed to the door ‘—before I call immigration on you.’
His sad eyes wandered the diner. Everyone was looking at him. Without a word, he returned the little money he had back to his trouser pocket and left.
‘Hey!’ He heard someone call as he turned the corner. ‘Hey, wait!’ The female voice called again. He stopped and looked back. The brunette waitress had come out of the diner’s back door carrying a brown paper bag.
‘Do you like pickles?’ Mollie asked.
He frowned.
‘You know, pickles. Like cucumbers.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, they’re nice.’
‘Here.’ She offered him the paper bag. ‘It’s a double cheeseburger with fries and a bottle of milk. There’re pickles in the cheeseburger.’ She smiled.
He stared at her with thankful eyes before reaching into his pocket.
‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to pay me. It’s OK.’
‘I don’t want no charity, miss. I have money to pay for my food.’
‘I know. I saw your money.’ A new comforting smile. ‘But this ain’t charity. They made me too much food for my dinner break. I’m on a diet,’ she lied and offered him the bag once again. ‘Here, take it. I can’t eat all this food. It’d only be thrown away.’
He hesitated for a moment before taking the bag and smiling. ‘Thank you very much. You’re a very kind
