Rosa concurred. Field tests of the first vaccine didn’t happen until 1954.
“Juan’s illness progressed differently from yours, I assume?” Rosa said.
Rod Jeffers slowly nodded. “His lungs got paralyzed.”
Miguel tapped his pen on the table. “From what I understand, an iron lung could have prolonged his life?”
Mr. Jeffers answered darkly. “It could’ve saved his life.”
“But there was none available,” Rosa said. “Is that right?”
Rod Jeffers hesitated. “Apparently not.”
“From what we heard,” Rosa said gently, “the charity foundation tried to get him one, but it was expensive. By the time they decided to place an order, Juan was dead.”
Rod Jeffers shifted in his seat, grimacing. “Something like that, yes.”
“Was Florence Adams in on that decision-making process?” Miguel asked.
“I didn’t kill her,” Rod Jeffers said forcefully.
“We didn’t say that you did,” Miguel returned.
“But you’re obviously thinking it. Look, I was furious with Florence Adams—enraged beyond words. She stalled and stalled while my friend slowly suffocated to death! I bet you anything that if he hadn’t been from south of the border, those funds would have come much faster.”
His bitterness was a heavy weight in the room. Rosa inexplicably found it challenging to breathe.
“I hated Flo Adams for what she did,” Mr. Jeffers said. “I held her responsible for the death of my friend. I never forgave her. There’s your motive if that’s what you’re looking for, so go grab your handcuffs and take me away if it makes you think your job is done. But the real killer, whoever he is, would still be at large.” He narrowed his eyes on Miguel. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t kill her.”
18
Miguel pulled the police cruiser away from the curve in front of Jimmy’s Gym. “What do you think?”
Rosa removed her compact lipstick with its attached mirror, turned her back to Miguel, and covertly applied some before facing him again. “I can’t quite decide if I believe him about not murdering Florence Adams. I mean he’s pretty convincing but . . .”
“I agree. He’s a hard guy to read.”
“He is lying about the steroids, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I wrote down the name on the pills I found in his bag.” Rosa retrieved her notepad from her purse. “I’ll have to check with Dr. Rayburn to confirm, but as far as I know, Dihydroboldenone is a steroid used by bodybuilders and the like. From what I’ve read, it’s kind of a new fad in the world of athletics. If that’s true, then Mr. Jeffers is lying.”
“Dihydroboldenone isn’t illegal,” Miguel said. “So, the only reason I can think he’d lie would be about how he got them.”
“Or from whom?”
Miguel’s eyes registered understanding. “Jason Brewster.”
“Exactly,” Rosa said. “It’s possible that Jason Brewster supplied Rod Jeffers with steroids. I noticed Mr. Jeffers appeared to be physically fit when I first saw him that night on the beach.”
Miguel nodded. “That makes sense. I’d just read the report from Detective Sanchez when you arrived at my office today. They found steroids in Jason Brewster’s bathroom. A rare kind—apparently, you need a connection to the black market for it. Now the postmortem didn’t find any in his blood, so he may or may not have been using them. But if Jeffers is lying, it means he didn’t want us to know that he had any connection to Jason Brewster.”
“Precisely. Did the police find anything else there?”
“No, not much. They’re still going through some articles, but nothing really stands out.”
“Hmm, perhaps something will still turn up,” Rosa said. She hoped evidence that connected either Rod Jeffers or Raul Mendez to Jason Brewster would be found.
“Well . . . there is one thing come to think of it,” Miguel said.
Rosa glanced sideways over her sunglasses. “What’s that?”
“From what we can tell, Jason Brewster wasn’t a smoker. There was no telltale odor in the house or any ashtrays, and Dr. Rayburn’s autopsy report confirmed it. However, on the back sundeck, someone had taken a bowl from a matching set they found in the kitchen and used it as an ashtray. A single cigarette butt was found on an outdoor table along with ashes in a bowl. If the ashes had been there for a couple of days, they would have either been blown away by the slightest breeze or been soaked from that rain we had the night before. The ashes were dry.”
“That means the cigarette was probably smoked the evening before.” Rosa tapped her lips with a fingernail.
“Correct.”
“And our killer is a smoker.”
“Very likely.”
“I can’t imagine Rod Jeffers smoking,” Rosa said.
Miguel turned onto the main street of the town. “A guy with polio whose best friend died of asphyxiation? I should think not.”
“Wait, what kind of brand was the cigarette?” Rosa asked.
“It was a weird Mexican brand of menthols. I didn’t let him smoke at rehearsal but the smell came anyway.” He grinned at Rosa. “I hang out with a lot of Mexicans. It took our guys a whole day to track down the brand, Delicados.”
Her mind jumped to Raul Mendez at the Legion and their awkward yet informative encounter.
“That’s the brand Raul Mendez smokes!”
Miguel hit the steering wheel with his palm. “You’re right. I’ve seen him smoke menthols at rehearsals. They smell terrible.”
Rosa and Miguel stared at each other as the implications resounded. Miguel’s friend could be involved.
“I need to get back to the station,” Miguel said, his brow etched in dismay. “On the way, I’ll stop to pick up the bass guitar from our rehearsal space downtown.”
“Why?”
“Raul’s fingerprints will be all over it. If we can match it to the fingerprints on the cigarette butt—”
“Of course,” Rosa said. A match of fingerprints would be strong evidence.
“I’ll get Sanchez to expedite the lab. He can be quite pushy when he wants to be.”
“Good thinking.” Rosa tapped the toe of
