Rosa and Miguel caught up to Mr. Jeffers just as he reached the door to the men’s changing room.
Miguel called out, “Rod?”
Rod Jeffers’ eyebrows collapsed into a V. “Miguel?”
“Yes. Sorry to interrupt your workout.”
Mr. Jeffers glanced a Rosa with a look of disdain and sniffed.
Miguel jumped to an introduction. “This is Detective Rosa Reed from London’s Metropolitan Police. I believe you met at the event where Miss Adams died?”
Rosa held out her gloved hand. “Hello, Mr. Jeffers.”
Rod Jeffers hesitated then leaned an arm crutch against his body, shook her hand, then re-engaged the crutch before it toppled to the floor. Rosa had to admire his agility, even though she felt terrible that she’d thoughtlessly made him perform it.
Mr. Jeffers turned to Miguel. “What’s up?”
“We are hoping to have a few words with you if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Jeffers looked surprised. “Oh . . . sure . . . but . . . I have to use the restroom first.” He pointed with one of his crutches to the men’s room door.
“That’s fine,” Miguel said. “We can wait.”
After Mr. Jeffers had disappeared into the restroom, Rosa grabbed Miguel’s arm and nodded towards the gym bag Mr. Jeffers had left on the floor.
“I can’t just look through that,” Miguel said quietly. “That’s against police protocol.”
“Good thing I’m not a member of your police force,” Rosa said slyly. “Go and distract the man at the desk for a minute.”
“We can’t let Rod know we looked in his bag.” Miguel narrowed his eyes at her then turned towards the reception desk which, thankfully, was partially hidden from view.
Rosa rushed to look inside the bag. Inside were two towels, some toiletries, and a large bottle of pills. The word Dihydroboldenone was written on the label. Rosa quickly took out her note pad and wrote the word down. She then closed the bag and walked over to Miguel just as Rod Jeffers came out of the men’s room. Together, they walked into the lounge area and sat down. Miguel closed the door, and the boom of the rock and roll lessened to a level more conducive to conversation.
“Looks like you keep in pretty good shape,” Miguel said.
Rod Jeffers smiled with a cocky grin. “Thanks, it’s pretty much necessary for me to keep my upper body strength. It helps me in terms of walking and stuff.”
“I’ve heard that athletes or people who are serious about conditioning their body sometimes use steroids,” Rosa said casually.
Miguel shot her a questioning look. Rosa continued, unfazed. “Apparently, they are quite helpful when one wants to build muscle mass.”
Mr. Jeffers didn’t blink. “I’m just interested in staying strong enough to drag these legs around.”
“Certainly, I’m not suggesting that someone like you would use steroids.” Rose smiled, hoping to disarm the man. “I understand they’re rather hard to get hold of.”
“Yeah, so?” Rod Jeffers glared back then focused on Miguel. “What gives, Miguel?”
“Just humor the lady, my friend.”
Rosa’s chest warmed at Miguel’s show of trust.
“If one were interested in obtaining steroids, Mr. Jeffers, do you know how one would go about it?”
“Well, ma’am, I for one, wouldn’t know,” he said snidely. “Now, tell me why you’re askin’?”
“Rod, your manners,” Miguel chastised.
“I don’t get why she’s asking me questions.”
“I didn’t get a chance to interview you the other night at the beach,” Miguel said
“Yeah, well, wasn’t feeling great, so I took a taxi home.” His eyes darted from Miguel to Rosa and back. “Is that what this is about? The fact that I left the beach before you could talk to me? Miguel? We’re friends. You can talk to me anytime. No need to ambush.”
“We didn’t mean to offend,” Miguel said, “but I’m afraid I have to take this matter seriously. Florence Adams was murdered.”
The muscles around Rod Jeffers’ mouth twitched. “What? I thought she fell off the pier.”
“The evidence proves otherwise,” Miguel said. “There was also another murder in Santa Bonita just yesterday. Does the name Jason Brewster mean anything to you?”
This time Mr. Jeffers did blink. Twice. “No, I don’t think so. Do you think he’s the killer?”
“Where were you two nights ago between the hours of six p.m. and three a.m.,” Miguel pressed, ignoring Rod’s question. The time represented the estimated time of death of Jason Brewster that Dr. Rayburn had provided.
“I was at home, of course. I don’t really get out that much, as you can understand.”
“Were you with anyone?” Rosa asked.
Rod Jeffers met her gaze with reluctance. “Raul and I were playing crib on my back patio. We do every Monday night.”
“Just you and Raul? No one else?” Miguel asked.
“Yes, and nope.”
Miguel and Rosa looked at each other.
“Tell us about Juan Mendez,” Rosa said.
Rod Jeffers raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and looked sincerely surprised. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“We don’t know yet,” Rosa said. “Perhaps you can tell us.”
Mr. Jeffers scowled at Rosa. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Mick, that you don’t already know. I mean, you must have heard about Juan.” Staring at Miguel, he added, “He was Raul’s cousin.”
“I’ve only known Raul since he joined my band,” Miguel said. “About a year. I’d heard he had a cousin who died from polio, but I didn’t know the whole story.”
Rod Jeffers leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m not sure what you mean by the ‘whole story’.”
“You and he were quite close, weren’t you?” Rosa asked.
“Juan and I grew up together in Mansfield. We were the same age,” Rod Jeffers replied.
Rosa remembered that Mansfield was a small town just north of Santa Bonita.
“Isn’t that where Raul grew up as well?” Miguel had now taken out his notepad and started writing.
“We all went to elementary school there. Raul is two years older than Juan and me.”
“When did polio enter the picture?” Rosa asked.
Rod Jeffers sighed
