Her smile furled—packed up and stowed for better climes. “I think you need a warrant for that.”
She had me there. For a moment I hesitated, thinking of Noah’s dress, the words carved into his chest, and a cross and necklace in an empty field. I had to wonder what I was drilling for at Top-A Cleaning. Would finding the women who’d cleaned Noah’s house months earlier shed light on his killer?
The truth was, maybe.
“I’ll get a warrant,” I said. “You might check in with your manager, see if he really wants it to be that difficult.”
“Well.” She blinked. Clearly, I’d gone off script. She said, “I really need to break for lunch. Eating at irregular times isn’t healthy.”
“Just a couple more things.” I showed her the picture of the Milkshake Lady. “Is she in your employ?”
A headshake. “I don’t recognize her.”
“And these men?” I handed over the picture of the Superior Gentlemen.
She blinked. “Um, no.”
That was that. “All right. Thanks for your time.”
I stood. Clyde followed suit. Kaylee rose on well-oiled hinges.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said.
We stopped by Candy’s desk. The receptionist had dyed-pink hair, a pink blouse over white jeans, and glittering pink sandals. Miniature silver-and-pink ice-cream-cone earrings hung from her lobes. I wondered if Candy was her real name or a lifestyle choice.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Kaylee told her. “Just text if something important comes up.”
Candy’s raised eyebrow suggested the chance of something important happening lay at the intersection of two parallel lines. But she offered a nod and a thumbs-up, and Kaylee looked satisfied.
Outside, at the picnic table, which had been empty upon my arrival, were three women—one Caucasian and two Latinas. They wore matching blue polo shirts, khaki pants, and tired expressions. Kaylee gave them a wave, and they raised their hands half-heartedly.
I turned to Kaylee. “If you think of anything, or if you talk to your manager, give me a call. You have my card.”
“Of course.”
I waited while she slid into a white Volkswagen convertible, revved up the engine, and disappeared down the block. Then Clyde and I headed toward the picnic table.
The women looked up as we approached. I’d caught them at a lunch of filled tortillas, soup, and Cokes. They took in my suit and Clyde’s K9 harness, and alarm shone in the eyes of the Latinas. The white woman—older than the other two by a couple of decades—just looked pissed.
“I’m not here about immigration,” I said, showing them my badge. “I’m Detective Parnell, and this is my partner, Clyde. We’re investigating a murder. I’m hoping to talk to someone who might have cleaned the victim’s house.”
If telling them that I wasn’t with ICE was supposed to be reassuring, then the mention of murder clearly had the opposite effect. Or maybe they just didn’t buy my line. The younger women put down their drinks and folded their hands in their laps. The gringa pulled a carrot out of a plastic baggie, made eye contact, and snapped off a piece with her teeth.
I got the message. Bite me.
I gestured toward the soup. “Pozole rojo, ¿sí? Uno de mis favoritos.”
The women said nothing.
“I had pozole verde when I was in Mexico. At El Pozole de Moctezuma. Mi amigo, a Cuerpo de Infantería de Marina, he took me there.”
“¿Pollo o cerdo?” one of the women asked.
I laughed. “Piel de cerdo frita. Always cerdo. Plus my partner here, he’s partial to pork.”
The women turned their attention to Clyde, who was grinning in the heat, his tongue a long strip of pink.
“Él es bello,” said one of the women. He is beautiful.
“Don’t say it too loudly,” I said. “His ego is already demasiado grande.”
The younger women laughed. The gringa held on to her frown.
With the ice a little bit broken, I offered Noah’s DMV photo to the gringa, who was nearest.
“His name is Noah Asher,” I said. “He lived near Yale Station. Someone from Top-A cleaned his home and washed the linens for a few months from November to February.”
The women passed around the photo. Gringa handed it back. I saw now that under their jackets they had name tags pinned near the collars of their shirts. Helen was the gringa. The other two were Erica and Lupita.
Helen said, “What happened to him?”
“His body was found inside a train car. He was beaten to death.”
All three women flinched.
“Any of you know him?”
A great wall of silence rose.
“I don’t care what anyone’s immigration status is,” I said softly. “I’m just hoping someone saw something that might help. Maybe one of the cleaners opened the door to a visitor or overheard a phone conversation. Any small bit of information could make the difference.”
“Where was the house again?” This was Lupita. None of the women were big—neither tall nor heavy. But Lupita was like a songbird—petite and fragile looking with a beautiful, lilting voice.
I told them the address. The women all shook their heads.
“I’ve never been there,” Erica said.
“Do you know who might have cleaned Mr. Asher’s home?”
Helen looked at the other two, then shook her head. “I guess not. But we can ask around.”
“We only clean a few houses,” Erica offered. She had long, thick braids and a smoker’s rasp. She’d taken off her scuffed white tennis shoes and placed them neatly next to the table.
Helen nodded. “The biggest share of our work is businesses. Office parks.”
I thought of the cross in the field—two paper clips yoked together. Paper clips were found in office buildings.
But I had no idea what this might signify.
I set the picture of the Milkshake Lady on the table. “Have you seen this woman?”
The women bent their heads over the photo. A minute ticked by, then another.
“You know her,” I said.
Lupita jumped and shook her head. “I thought so for maybe a minute. But no.”
“Erica?”
“Sorry.” She didn’t meet my eyes.
Helen picked up the picture, then pulled a pair of readers out of
