“Both. He’s been using the same combination for years.” The sides of my dress stuck to my ribs and a bead of sweat trickled down my back. I excused myself and went to the condiment station for a pile of napkins to blot my face and neck.
Carla waited, composed. If she sweltered in her suit, she didn’t show it. When I got back to the table she said, “Who else has the combination to Mr. Cooper’s garage?”
“He never changes the code, so the list is likely long. You should ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
“When we moved in, we gave the combination to the housekeeper, his trainer, and contractors. It’s been years. I have no idea who else has it now.”
“Let’s go back to what you saw after you entered the house.”
I shifted to unstick my sweaty thighs. Her repetitive questions were annoying but I understood her goal: get me to tell my story, and then ask again to see if the facts change.
“I saw nothing,” I said. “I picked up the box and left.”
“Humor me. Describe the room.”
Carla knew exactly what was in Jarret’s kitchen. She probably had an inventoried list in her notebook.
“I saw appliances and dirty dishes,” I said.
“What kind of dirty dishes?”
“A blender pitcher in the sink, some glasses on the counter. Empty bottles,” I said. “I went in and out of there so fast it’s difficult to remember. As I said, I picked up the box and left.”
“Where did you go?”
“Home, to meet my plumber.”
“I need his name and contact information.” She wrote as I recited Stan’s number then she said, “Where’s the box now?”
“At my house.”
“I’d like to see it.” She flipped her notebook closed.
I had the right to demand she get a warrant, making an old carton of books appear far more meaningful than it was. Or I could grant her permission. I had nothing to hide. The sooner our interview ended, the better I would feel.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m parked on Tujunga. Do you want to follow me home?”
“I’ll meet you there. I have your new address.”
The streetlights flickered on at twilight as I made the right turn into my driveway. Carla parked her steel blue, four-door Chevy Caprice across the street. She came up the brick path, waiting under the porch light while I used my key to open the front door.
Switching on the lamp on the small table by the living room sofa, I pointed at the brown carton on the floor in front of the fireplace. “There it is.”
Carla snapped on a pair of latex gloves and crouched next to the quarter-folded box. “Did you open it?”
“Nope.”
“Anyone aside from you touch it today?”
“Jarret, obviously. My plumber’s assistant carried it in here from my car,” I said. “Why the curiosity about the box? A bunch of old books are inside.”
“If strangers entered Mr. Cooper’s house, they may have touched it. Any foreign prints may be a clue. With your permission, I want to take the box in and have it checked for prints.”
Made sense. The knot of tension at the back of my neck eased. Good. Carla sought suspects aside from Jarret. “You have my permission, as long as my literary taste won’t be judged by the contents. The books have been in that box since our move from Atlanta.”
With a half-grin on her face, she pulled a square of plastic from her purse and unfolded it into a large evidence bag. She covered the carton, sealed the edges, then took off her gloves and wrote out a receipt. “I’ll need a set of prints from you for elimination since you touched it.”
“I’m on file. The DOJ and FBI ran my prints when I applied for my license to practice psychology.” I walked her to the vestibule.
As I opened the door, she stopped. “I’m curious about something, Liz.”
“What’s that?”
“You didn’t ask for the identity of the victim.”
I flinched. If I didn’t know, or if the victim was a stranger to me, of course I would have inquired. Anyone would. Damn it.
“I already knew,” I said lowering my eyes. “Ira Ryback told me when I called Jarret’s house this morning after I saw the news reports. I didn’t ask you because I assumed you couldn’t say much.”
Carla lifted her chin, squinting, and then she nodded slowly. I followed her outside to the porch. She stopped and turned. “One more thing. Did you know Mrs. Huber?”
What was she doing? Playing Columbo? Wasn’t the damn box heavy? If Carla did her homework she already knew the answer.
“I used to,” I said. “We were neighbors in Atlanta.”
She started toward her car. “I’ll be in touch.”
I went inside, wondering if “in touch” meant a second interview. According to Dave, Carla wasn’t likely to contact me again unless she doubted my story. I told her the truth, yet as she drove off my heart pounded in my throat.
Erzulie perched on the top of the sofa, watching me turn on lights from room to room. The cool air inside the house dried the sticky hair at the nape of my neck. My dress, wrinkled and wilted, was a lost cause. Too hungry to change, I pulled out my phone.
“Hey,” Nick answered with the sound of computer keys clicking and soulful music playing in the background.