Rosa left Miguel at the station and drove the Bel Air to Rod Jeffers’ home. Large drops of rain began to fall, and Rosa fumbled around to find the wipers. Just as she pulled up to the apartment building, it started to pour. Rain this heavy was likely a rare occurrence this time of year for California. She reached for the umbrella she’d stowed in the back seat of the car—a habit from her life in England—then hurried to the covered entrance.
Next door to Mr. Jeffers lived Mrs. Benson, a middle-aged widow who talked about Rod Jeffers in glowing terms. “He’s always friendly, and has a good attitude considering his condition.”
When Rosa questioned her about the regular crib nights, she replied, ‘Yes, that Mr. Mendez fellow comes every Monday night at seven, and they play in the back yard. He parks his little red car right in front of the building. Honestly, I don’t know how that thing keeps running, it’s a real rattletrap. You can hear it clunking as he comes around the block.”
Rosa had the feeling that watching the neighbors was a regular pastime for this lady.
“Can you hear them while they play?”
The game itself wasn’t loud, but players certainly could be if there was enough passion for the competition.
Mrs. Benson frowned. “I can, but I don’t eavesdrop, mind you.”
“No, of course not. But isn’t it annoying to you? I mean, having that go on every Monday night?”
“They often get quite excited and start talking pretty loud. I don’t mind though. I’m just glad Mr. Jeffers can have an enjoyable night with his friend.”
“Can you make out what they’re saying?”
“Only when they talk loud like that, even then it’s hard to understand every word.” She grinned. “It’s not like I lean against the fence.”
Rosa grinned back and wondered if the kind neighbor had just told her a little white lie. “Did they play last Monday night, Mrs. Benson?”
“No. But Mr. Mendez came back later that night around midnight, which is very unusual, and it woke me, which did annoy me a little.”
“How did you know it was Mr. Mendez?”
“I recognized the clunking of his old car.”
Rosa pursed her lips in response. Mr. Mendez had probably come by to let Rod Jeffers know the deed was done.
Returning to the Police station, Rosa parked and stepped out with umbrella in hand. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds on the horizon continued to threaten. Rosa found Miguel in his office in an in-depth discussion with another plainclothes officer.
“Ah, here she is. Rosa, I want you to meet Detective Bill Sanchez. Bill, this is Miss Reed, known in London as WPC Reed. She’s agreed to consult with us on this case.”
Officer Sanchez looked to be in his mid-thirties with unruly, dark hair, dark eyes, and a brown complexion like Miguel’s. His rumpled white shirt and crooked red tie looked like he’d slept in them. He had a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his mouth, but Rosa thought it looked unlit.
“WP—what?”
“WPC Reed,” Rosa said, extending her hand. “Woman Police Constable with Scotland Yard.”
“Well, imagine that!” Detective Sanchez stretched out his hand, “Miguel speaks highly of you.” He winked at Miguel. “You didn’t tell me she was a ‘looker,’ amigo.”
Miguel blushed, and Rosa shared his embarrassment.
Miguel cast a sheepish glance her way. “You’ll have to excuse this guy. He wasn’t raised with some of the finer sensitivities the way that I was.” Miguel slapped Detective Sanchez on the arm. “Officially, he’s my partner here at the precinct, but I think of him more as my mascot—fun at a ball game, but—”
“Very funny,” Detective Sanchez cut in. His cigarette remained gripped with the part of his mouth that wasn’t grinning.
“Anyway,” Miguel continued, “Sanchez is going to take the bass guitar over to the lab, and hopefully, we can get the results back quickly. If we have a match with both the cigarette stub and the guitar, and maybe even from some of those shards from the glass that your cat tipped over, that would be compelling evidence.”
“You had a cat at a crime scene?” Detective Sanchez’s forehead buckled dramatically. “Is that how they do it in Scotland?”
“Sanchez, she’s English, not Scottish,” Miguel said. “Can’t you tell from her . . . wait . . . is that an umbrella?”
Both Sanchez and Miguel looked down at the black umbrella Rosa had with her and then shared an amused look.
“Yes, I know it’s very British, but it is raining out, you know,” Rosa said defensively. “Any good Londoner always has one of these about.” She shook it at them both scattering drops of water onto the floor.
“Point taken,” Miguel chuckled.
“You were thinking of Scotland Yard, Detective Sanchez,” Rosa said turning to Miguel’s partner. “A common misconception.”
Detective Sanchez appeared sincerely stumped. “Why’s it called Scotland Yard if it’s not in Scotland?”
“Because the original building of the London Metropolitan Police was on a street called Great Scotland Yard.
“In Scotland.”
“In London,” Rosa corrected.”
Detective Sanchez opened his mouth and lifted a finger in the air as if to make a point, but then just dropped his hand and shook his head.
“To answer your question,” Rosa said, returning to the detective’s original query. “We don’t normally have cats on the job in London, but in this case, I had a kitten with me, but . . . it’s a long story.”
Detective Sanchez tipped his hat at Rosa. “I’ll head to the lab and get back to you both when I learn something.”
“So, what did you find out from Jeffers’ neighbor?” Miguel asked, once Detective Sanchez had left.
“Her name is Mrs. Benson. My suspicion was correct. Mr. Mendez wasn’t there on Monday night. Mr. Jeffers lied about that. But he did come late in the night for some reason. Mrs. Benson is quite certain about that.”
“Time to go talk to Raul,” Miguel said, reaching for his keys. He
