made his way towards the customer.
The man nodded and walked around to the front of the car.
‘It’s only got four thousand miles on the clock. The owner had to get rid of it. Financial problems.’
The customer walked over to the driver’s door and pulled it open. Both the exterior and interior were in pristine condition.
‘It still has that new car smell, doesn’t it?’ Darnell said, but kept his distance. He knew good buyers didn’t like to be crowded. He waited a few more seconds before offering a new piece of information. ‘The great thing is that this is a new car with a used-car price tag.’
‘OK to sit inside?’ the man finally asked in a Texan twang.
‘Of course.’ Darnell nodded. ‘You won’t find a more comfortable car. Cadillacs are the American Rolls- Royces.’
The man took a seat and held the steering wheel with both hands just like a kid in a playground. A pleased smile graced his lips for a split of a second and Darnell knew he had him.
‘What kind of mileage do I get with this?’ the man asked, his hands still on the wheel.
‘Twelve miles per gallon in the city, nineteen on the highway.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m telling you, this bad boy rocks.’
The smile returned to the man’s lips.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Darnell said, coming up to the open driver’s door. ‘I’ll go get the keys and we can take this baby for a spin. What do you say?’
The man paused for a moment, considering it. ‘OK.’ He nodded.
‘Great, I’ll be right back, Mr . . .?’
‘Turner.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Ryan Turner.’
Eighty
Garcia knocked on the door numbered 3C for a whole minute without a response. Roosevelt Memorial Park was literally across the road from Gardena Senior High. With the description of Mr. Davis Principal Kennedy had given him, it didn’t take long for Garcia to find the kind-looking man in his late sixties sitting alone on a stone bench in front of a very peaceful rose garden. He wore a flop-brim hat that reminded Garcia of his grandfather. His wrinkled lips were moving, murmuring something only he could hear.
‘Mr. Davis?’ Garcia asked, coming up to the bench.
The old man looked up, startled at hearing his name. He saw Garcia towering over him and squinted as if looking directly into the sun, searching the thousands of faces in his memory for a match.
‘My name’s Carlos Garcia.’
The squinting intensified. The old man’s memory now searching for the name.
‘You don’t know me,’ Garcia said, displaying his badge and ending the old man’s struggle to remember. ‘I’m a detective with the LAPD.’ For the moment he thought it was better not to mention he was with Homicide Special. Those two words together tend to make most regular citizens nervous.
‘Is there a problem?’ Mr. Davis asked in a frail and worried voice. ‘Has there been an accident in the school?’ The concern in his eyes was touching.
Garcia smiled gently and told him that there was no need for alarm. He explained the reason for his surprise visit but was careful not to mention that Amanda Reilly had been murdered.
‘Principal Kennedy said you could allow me access to the storage rooms and maybe even help me look through the pictures.’
‘I’d love to help if I can.’ The old man nodded before forcing his tired body to stand up. His gaze went back to the rose garden, and he raised a liver-spotted hand in a half wave. ‘Goodbye, Bella. I’ll be back in two days.’
The large rose garden at the Roosevelt Memorial Park is where cremated remains are scattered. In a respectful gesture, Garcia nodded at it as if also saying goodbye.
The storage rooms were at the end of the long, dimly lit, brick-walled basement corridor of the main building in Gardena Senior High. The cobwebs and the heavy stale smell were a clear indication that not many people ventured down here.
Mr. Davis unlocked the door of the main storage room and pushed it open. ‘Most of the old photograph boxes are stored in here,’ he said, flicking on the light switch.
They stood at the entrance of a large room cluttered with old desks and chairs, disused gym equipment and hundreds of cardboard boxes stacked on wooden shelves that covered three of the four walls. Dust was everywhere, and the corridor’s stale smell had intensified five-fold inside the room. The light bulbs that hung from the ceiling on thin wires were old and dim.
Garcia coughed a couple of times and waved his hand in front of his face like a fan, but that just circulated the dust even more. ‘Jesus!’ he said as his eyes scanned the disheartening number of boxes. ‘Where do we start?’
Mr. Davis gave him an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not so bad. I spent many of my free days in these rooms, trying to organize what we have.’
Garcia arched an eyebrow.
‘I hate not having anything to do.’ He started moving around the many broken, old-fashioned wooden desks. ‘It’s a way of keeping busy.’ He shrugged.
The damp and cold room made Garcia’s fingers hurt, and he rubbed the scars on the palms of his hands for a few seconds.
‘What year are we looking for?’ Mr. Davis asked, approaching the boxes stacked on the east wall.
‘She dropped out of school in ’85.’
Mr. Davis’s eyes scanned the boxes in front of him. ‘It should be right at that end.’ He pointed to the opposite wall.
It didn’t take Garcia long to find four large boxes marked ‘1985’. ‘Here we go.’ He pulled them out of the shelves and placed them on the floor. From his pocket he retrieved a photograph of Amanda Reilly they’d gotten from Tania Riggs. ‘This is the only picture I have of Amanda. It was taken just a year ago. Let’s hope she hasn’t changed much.’
The old man took it from Garcia’s hand and studied it for a few seconds. ‘She does look familiar,’ he said, nodding at the picture.
There must’ve been over two thousand photographs inside the four boxes. Individual ones, group pictures, whole classes together, students having fun and goofing around, playing sports, studying and eating lunch. Some were clearly posed and some captured the students naturally – laughing, angry, crying. Garcia and Mr. Davis started the lengthy process of going through them and trying to identify someone they’d never really met. The school janitor would stop every once in a while as flashes of memory came back to him and he’d tell Garcia a quick story concerning the students in the picture. They’d been flipping through photographs for hours when Mr. Davis stopped and squinted at one, bringing it up closer to his face.
‘Let me see that picture you have of this Amanda girl again,’ he said, extending his hand.
Garcia handed him the photo and waited impatiently.
‘Here she is,’ M r. Davis said with a pleased smile after just a few seconds. He handed Garcia both photos. The picture in question was of a group of four girls dressed in what looked to be expensive, designer clothes. All of them in full makeup. Two of them were laughing, one had an amused look on her face and the last one was sideways, looking down. They were standing by one of the school’s basketball courts where several kids were bouncing a ball behind them. Garcia didn’t have to ask. She had certainly changed, but there was no doubt the second girl from the left was Amanda Reilly. They were all stunning in their own right, but Amanda certainly stood out. She was drop-dead gorgeous. A light wind was blowing her shoulder-length blond hair away from her face. She was one of the girls who were laughing, and even frozen in time her laughter seemed contagious.
