Duncan looked back at her as they reached the front door. “I’m looking for someone to clean my house.”
Eve and Duncan were silent until they got into his car, then he turned to her and said, “Remember what I said about keeping an open mind?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you find it odd that she’s struggling to have a kid and she’s picked today to repaint, two days after her pregnant maid never left Oakdale and Anna McCaig found a baby in her dumpster?”
“You think Anna was telling the truth and that Daphne Grayle killed Priscilla for her baby, it went bad, so she tossed the baby in Anna McCaig’s dumpster?”
“I think after meeting Daphne Grayle,” he said, “it’s a much stronger possibility.”
“It crossed my mind, too, but there’s too much that doesn’t track. Why not dispose of the baby with the mother’s body?”
“To shift suspicion to Anna McCaig, who Daphne Grayle knew was even more desperate than her to have a baby.”
It seemed far-fetched to Eve. How could Daphne know that Anna wouldn’t immediately call the police when she found the baby in her dumpster rather than try to pretend it was her own? Eve didn’t believe the killer was Daphne and they were running out of time to hold Anna on the 5150. “I still think Anna McCaig did it.”
“We searched her place and it was clean. I want to search Grayle’s property,” Duncan said. “But to convince a judge to give us a warrant, we’re going to need more evidence.”
“Like confirming that Priscilla Alvarez is actually missing and not safe at home or cleaning someone else’s house today,” Eve said. “We should check if there are any new reports of missing pregnant women.”
“I checked this morning. There weren’t any. But we can check again.”
“We could also reach out to the cellular provider for Priscilla’s phone and ask them to track her movements.”
“We don’t have enough grounds for that warrant, either. But there might be a faster way to find out where she lives.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Duncan drove around the corner and two streets over to 23780 Park Venice, the home where Daphne Grayle told them that Priscilla’s friend worked for the Greenberg family.
They parked in front of the two-story house, went to the door, and knocked, provoking what sounded like a pack of wild dogs to start barking and shrieking. Eve heard the scratching of dog claws on a tiled floor, a woman saying “shut the fuck up,” and a door slamming, slightly muffling the barks.
The front door opened and they were greeted by a woman who was as young and fit as Daphne Grayle, but her hair was completely gray.
“Who are you? I didn’t get a call from the gate,” the woman said.
Duncan flashed his badge. “Mrs. Greenberg? I’m Duncan Pavone with the sheriff’s department. Could we have a word with your cleaning lady?”
“Fernanda? What has she done?”
“Nothing, ma’am. We’re trying to reach one of her friends.”
Greenberg looked over her shoulder and yelled, “Fernanda, could you please come here? Be careful not to let the dogs out of the kitchen.” She looked back at Duncan and Eve. “If the dogs get out, don’t run or they will chase you.”
Fernanda opened the kitchen door a crack and squeezed herself out, the dogs trying to nose their way through, too. But she managed to get out without the dogs escaping and nervously approached the door, obviously picking up their cop vibe.
She’s illegal, Eve thought. Fernanda was round faced and round bodied, wearing a T-shirt and floral leggings, her hands in rubber gloves. Eve recognized her immediately as one of the women she saw in the gate video.
Duncan smiled warmly and addressed her in Spanish and she answered. The only word Eve understood was “Priscilla.” They exchanged a few more words, then Duncan thanked her and turned to go. Eve followed him to the car.
“I didn’t know that you speak Spanish,” Eve said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. For instance, did you know I’m a magnificent ballroom dancer?”
“You are?”
“No, but I could be, because I’m a mystery to you. Fernanda doesn’t know where Priscilla lives, but she knows it’s in a motel and what bus stop she gets off at each day.” Duncan gave Eve the address on the valley stretch of Sepulveda Boulevard that ran parallel to the 405 freeway north of Burbank Boulevard.
Eve knew the area. A lot of undocumented immigrants lived in the many cheap motels and low-end apartments that lined that end of Sepulveda. It was also a hot spot for drugs and prostitution.
“If Priscilla and her family are here illegally,” Eve said, “that would explain why nobody reported her missing. We better call the LAPD and let them know we’ll be in their backyard again.”
“Not this time,” Duncan said. “If they send a black-and-white and some uniforms to the motels, people will scram or clam up.”
“You don’t think the same thing will happen when we start flashing our badges?”