The Old Blue Line: A Joanna Brady Novella (Joanna Brady Mysteries)

“Do you have a cleaning lady?”

 

 

I could see that in focusing on the employees of the restaurant, I had forgotten the one person who had total access to my home once a week, usually when I was downstairs working. Marina would show up early in the day, wrestling her vacuum cleaner and cleaning supplies up the stairs. When she finished, my apartment would be spotless. She would pick up the hundred dollar bill I usually left for her on the dining room table and disappear, sometimes without my having even laid eyes on her. But the idea that Marina would be spying on me or going through my files? That was ridiculous. For one thing, she barely speaks English.

 

“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I do.”

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Marina Ochoa.”

 

“Where does she live?”

 

“In Glendale somewhere.”

 

“You don’t have her address?”

 

“No, I don’t. I pay her in cash. There’s never been any paperwork.”

 

“No references, no nothing?” my interrogator asked.

 

“Look,” I said, “my other cleaning lady quit several months ago. I was getting ready to place an ad for another one when Marina showed up asking for a job cleaning the bar and the restaurant. She spoke so little English that I had to have one of the dishwashers interpret for us. I explained that I have a commercial company that comes in to do the heavy cleaning in both the bar and the restaurant.

 

“When I told her that, she looked absolutely crushed and burst into tears—she was that desperate to find a job. Turns out she’s a single mom supporting two little kids, ages five and three. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, and with her right there, ready and willing to work, I was happy to dodge the agony of having to place an ad and interview people. I asked her if she’d consider cleaning my apartment and hired her on the spot. She’s been cleaning my place ever since and doing a great job of it.”

 

“Tears,” Roger muttered. “They’ll sucker a poor guy every single time. How long has she worked for you?”

 

“Three months now, maybe. She started toward the end of August.”

 

“What days?”

 

“Sometimes on Fridays, sometimes on Thursdays, depending on her kids’ schedules. It doesn’t matter to me which day as long as she comes once a week. And like I said, she leaves the place spotless.”

 

“Who lets her in and out?”

 

That’s when I realized Roger wasn’t just an old duffer—he was a smart old duffer, too, just like his pal Harold.

 

“You were a cop, weren’t you?” I said.

 

He grinned. “Used to be,” he said, “homicide, but that was a long time ago. Harold and me used to be on opposite sides of the fence. He won more times than I thought he should have. I always suspected that he cheated, and now I know that for sure. These days, though, when someone needs a hand, we usually work together.”

 

“To help me?”

 

“Hell, I barely know who you are, you little whippersnapper. To help Tim, of course. Us old law enforcement types have to stick together—cops, attorneys, judges—you name it. The older you get, the less those old divisions matter. When somebody runs up the flag, we’re all there, Johnny-on-the-spot. So stop stalling and answer the question. Who lets your undocumented alien cleaning lady in and out of your apartment?”

 

“She parks out behind the restaurant, comes in through the kitchen, and goes up the stairs.”

 

“Is the upstairs door locked or unlocked?”

 

“Usually it’s unlocked. Look,” I added, sounding exasperated, “I’m right there the whole time.”

 

Roger replied by asking yet another question. “Does Marina have a cell phone?”

 

“Probably, but I don’t have the number. No point in my calling her. I don’t speak Spanish.”

 

“Which day did she come do the cleaning for the past several weeks?”

 

“She was there on Thursday this past week. I’m not sure about the others.”

 

“You got surveillance cameras?”

 

“You bet. Top of the line. They cover the front door, the back door, and both parking lots. There are also cameras over the bar and over the cash register in the dining room.”

 

“How long do you keep the files?”

 

“They go to my security company. As far as I know, they keep them indefinitely. After all, they’re just computer files. It’s not like the old days when there were miles of physical tapes taking up space.”

 

“Which security company?”

 

I gave him the name. If I’d had either my phone or my computer with my address book in it, I could have given him the phone number and the account number. Sitting in a jail cell, I didn’t have access to either one.

 

A new jailer came down the hallway. “All right, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Palmer. Someone has posted your bail. Can the two of you leave together, or do I need to take you out separately?”

 

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