Coming up empty on Cynthia Vega, Kane turned his attention to Vega himself. There was little to nothing on the man, mostly public citations of cases he’d worked on. Kane frowned at the lack of information, then called up the Vegas’ fostering records.
“They only took in boys, usually between the ages of eight and fourteen. He had Miki the longest. Some only stayed for a few weeks before being placed out elsewhere.” Kane looked up. “Shit. Why the fuck didn’t anyone see what this guy was doing? He had a total of eleven boys placed with him. Out of the eleven, seven tried to kill themselves. Four succeeded. This guy’s a walking time bomb.”
“From the sounds of things, I’m going to guess he split because he heard about Shing, or he’s not walking anymore,” Kel replied as he turned up a hill toward the Presidio. “I’m not going to cry over that either.”
“How far out are we?”
“Another minute. Why?”
“’Cause Casey’s coming across with a warrant for Vega’s house. Just got the clearance. Let’s hope the printer in this unit works, or I’m going to set some asses on fire in motor pool. I can deal with puke and cat piss, but if those fuckers cost me search time on this, then we’re going to have some words.”
DESPITE the high-end zip code, the Vega house straddled the edge of a middle-class neighborhood and a lower rent district. The residence itself was an unassuming, small adobe-style ranch set far back on its elevated tiny lot. Its front lawn was clipped down to a brutal half inch and thick, prickly hedges ran along either side of the house, effectively cutting off the view to the neighbors’ homes. There was nothing to soften its harsh lines, no flowers or bright colors to ease the sandy adobe or browning grass. To Kane, the place shouted temporary, even though their records said the Vegas lived there for years.
Sanchez parked the car on the slight incline in front of the house and waited as Kane fought with the printer controls in their car. After a phone call to a computer tech and a few choice swear words, Kane finally got the printer to spit out the warrant. Spreading the accordioned paper on his thigh, Kane worked out the creases and shook his head in disgust.
“You talk to them when we get back,” Kel said, getting out of the car. He adjusted his tie and flicked off a piece of hair from his sleeve. Stealthily sniffing at his arm to see if he carried the car’s odors with him, Sanchez was satisfied he’d been spared at least some of the motor pool’s revenge and nodded.
“Fuck talking to them,” Kane growled. “I’m going to find a baseball bat and threaten the shit out of someone if we get that car again.”
Sanchez stepped around a plastic three-wheeler left on the sidewalk and waited for his partner to join him. “Let’s go talk to Mrs. Vega and see what she’s got to say.”
It was hard to imagine Miki’s horrific childhood amid the rambling rose bushes and tall juniper trees, but they both knew some of the prettiest wrappers hid the foulest packages. Kane studied the house, wondering what other nightmares were forged inside of its walls.
Turning to Kel, he nodded, “Yeah, let’s do this.”
The door was newly painted, an earthy red that still smelled fresh. Sanchez rang the bell and they waited, listening to the chimes echo through the house. After a few moments, there was no sign of anyone coming to answer the door.
“She knew we were coming, right?” Kane asked as Kel rang the bell for the third time.
“Yeah, I had dispatch call ahead. She said she’d be waiting for us but that was over an hour ago.” Sanchez nodded. “Think we should do a welfare check?”
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” Sanchez ducked his shoulder down and Kane grabbed him before Sanchez shoved at door. Reaching over, he took hold of the knob and turned it. The door swung open. “Always check the door, Kel. We went over that.”
They drew their guns, holding them down as they entered the house. Kane took point, stepping to the right. Kel followed, sniffing at the air as he stepped in. The overpowering paint smell from the door did little to mask the dankness of the shadowy interior. Slivers of light came through the living room curtains where they did not meet, catching on dust motes stirred up as they moved through the house.
The front room was an empty shell, a formal parlor of rose-patterned settee and wingchairs covered in a fine layer of dust. Across the hall, the kitchen echoed the house’s desolate feel. A bowl of wax fruit took up most of the banquette in the breakfast nook by the back door, and a single line of tumblers sat sentry on a rubber dish tray.
“Cynthia?” Kane called out. “I’m Inspector Kane Morgan from SFPD. If you can hear me, come out, please.”
“Valens, our uniform, said she wasn’t lucid. Maybe she passed out since she talked to Dispatch?”