'How old would you say Payton was?' Monk inquired.
'Thirteen, fourteen.'
'So that was eight or more years ago. When was the last time you saw one of the brothers up close?'
'I don't know, Inspector—I cross the street to avoid them, and keep my eyes straight ahead.' Her tone became quiet. 'Like I saw that little Asian girl do.'
'So it's been years since you looked Rennell or Payton in the face.'
'Maybe that's been years. But I see them most afternoons across the street, preparing to do their filthy business.'
'What business would that be?'
'Selling drugs, Inspector. Turning other boys into them.'
Monk considered this. 'While all that's going on, what's their grandmother doing?'
'Mrs. Price? I barely see her anymore, except looking out on the street from the second-story window.' Lewis's tone assumed a measured compassion. 'She always seemed like a decent, churchgoing woman. I still see her walking to church on Sundays, sometimes with a flower pinned to her dress.
'Years ago, maybe we'd stop and talk. But now I think she just stays locked up on the second floor of the house, hiding from those boys and their lowlife friends. Sometimes I wonder how their music sounds to her.'
Monk was silent. The sense of kinship which he heard seemed to make Flora Lewis pensive. 'I suppose,' she reflected, 'that those brothers have turned us both into recluses. Eula Price only goes to church, and I only go to the corner store. So we don't speak anymore.'
'Do you have any black friends, Miss Lewis?'
'I don't have any friends, now. The ones I had are dead or gone.'
'Did they include black folks?'
'To talk to.'
'To invite to your house?'
Lewis looked him in the eyes. 'No. Does that make me a racist?'
'What you are for sure, ma'am, is a witness. What about friends or acquaintances who are Asian—at any time.'
'At all times,' Lewis said flatly, 'I'm civil. Have been my entire life, to anyone who deserves it. But I can't say that I've had Asian friends.'
'Just how long have you lived here, Miss Lewis?'
'I was born here. If you're curious, that adds up to seventy-two years. Thirty-three with my parents, thirty-nine alone, twelve since I retired from teaching school.'
She had lived here by herself, Monk calculated, since World War II, the time that Bayview had begun to change. 'How does this neighborhood seem to you now?'
Lewis sat erect. 'Like a nightmare,' she said harshly. 'Except that I don't wake up.' Abruptly, her voice trembled, and a film of tears glistened in her eyes. 'My parents left me this house out of love, to be my safety and security. Now I can't escape it.'
Monk drew a breath. 'I'm sorry, ma'am.'
Lewis paused to compose herself. 'Don't be. Just believe the truth of what I've told you.' Once more, she laid her finger on the mug shot of Rennell Price. 'This one's Rennell, the one who pulled the Asian girl off the street. The other one, Payton, closed the door behind her. Lord knows what they did to her.'
Monk and Ainsworth stopped for coffee at a dingy soul food restaurant on Third Street. No one else was there.
Ainsworth took a sip of coffee. 'So?'
'So I'm pretty damned sure she's sure of everything she thinks she saw. I'm also pretty sure Thuy Sen died inside that house.'
'Me, too. Why not get a warrant?'
Monk shook his head. 'Let's poke around a little—whatever we'd find at Grandma's house is likely to still be there in a day or two. I keep wondering about how Thuy Sen got from the house to the bay. Sure as hell didn't walk there, and the brothers don't own a car.'
Ainsworth propped his chin on folded hands. 'Wouldn't be smart to swipe a car for that, would it.'
* * *
'A tall guy in a light blue Cadillac,' Larry Minnehan repeated. 'That would be my man Eddie Fleet.'
He turned to the bulletin board and pointed out a mug shot, glancing at the notation beside it. 'You're in luck, guys—no overnight change in status. Eddie's still not dead.'
Monk studied the photograph—close-cropped hair, flat features, full mouth with one corner twisted in disdain. Even from a head shot Monk could guess that Fleet was tall and rangy. 'Tell me about this guy.'
'A real waste of talent—before crack got to him he was a playground hoops legend. But you know the story—all innates, no character.' Squinting, Minnehan called upon his memory. 'I'm remembering girlfriend violence, a concealed weapons charge, a couple of assaults, a dopedealing rap that got kicked for illegal search and seizure. Typical lowlife resume.'
'What's he got to do with the Prices?'
