Free Evidence by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

twenty-five.”
    She
extended a hand. “Amy Thal. This is my parents’ place. Beforethey left, they told me what happened. Mom didn’t even
want me to stay but I told her to chill. I always house-sit the cats when they
go to Paris.”
    “When
did your parents leave?”
    “Early
this morning.” Widening smile. “Don’t worry, they’re not fugitives from
justice, the trip was planned months ago. But if you want to interrogate them,
I can give you the number, even the address of their apartment. Ernest and
Marcia Thal, Rue Saint-Honoré. I guess it’s possible they’re traveling as
Bonnie and Clyde.”
    She
giggled.
    Milo
didn’t.
    “Sorry,
I don’t mean to make light of it; to be honest, it’s a little scary. Though I
guess it’s not hugely surprising.”
    “A
murder?”
    “Something
creepy happening there.”
    “There’ve
been problems before?”
    “That
entire dump is a problem. Just sitting there, gathering mold, no security
lights at night, the chain’s wide open, anyone can walk in. Everyone hates it.
My dad wanted to sue whoever owns it.”
    “Who
owns it?”
    “I’ve
heard some Arab,” she said. “Or maybe a Persian. Some Mideast type, I’m not
sure. No one seems to be able to find out. It’s not that we’re prejudiced,
we’re certainly not. That place”—pointing up the block—”that big apricot thing,
is owned by the Nazarians and they’re Persians and they’re great people. I just
don’t see the point of framing up and not following through for two whole
years. No one does.”
    “Any
neighborhood rumors about why it’s just sitting there?”
    “Sure.
Money. Isn’t it always about money? So why not sell? As in to someone who’ll
actually build something tasteful.”
    “Yeah,
it is a little over-the-top,” said Milo.
    “A
little?” said Amy Thal. “It’s gross. I’m not talking size-wise, who’re we
kidding, this isn’t South Central. But the style, no one can figure it out,
that stupid third floor stuck up there like a wart. I’m a design
student—fashion, not interior—but you don’t need design training to recognize
awkward and ostentatious and plain old butt-ugly.”
    “I don’t know design from badgers and chipmunks,” said
Milo, “and even I can tell.”
    Amy
Thal smiled. “Badgers and chipmunks, that’s cute—coatis and raccoons, too?
Anyway, that’s all I can tell you, Lieutenant. I’m just doing the parentals a
favor because one of the felines is almost nineteen and we don’t want her
stumbling into the pool.”
    “Could
I show you a picture?”
    “Of
who?”
    “One
of our victims.”
    “There
was more than one?”
    “Two,”
said Milo.
    “Oh …
you’re not saying it was some psycho Manson thing, are you?”
    “Nothing
like that.” Out came Jane Doe’s photo.
    Amy
Thal wrinkled her nose. “Oh, wow.”
    “Ms.
Thal?”
    “I
can’t be sure but I think I’ve seen her around. Not regularly, she doesn’t live
here.”
    “Could
she work here?”
    “I
doubt it, everyone knows everyone else’s staff and I’ve only seen her twice and
she just looked like she didn’t belong.” Taking another look. “It definitely
could be her.”
    “When
and where did you see her?”
    “When
would that be … not recently. A month ago? I really can’t say. Where would be
right there. Walking near that dump. That’s what caught my eye. No one walks
here, there are no sidewalks.” Smile. “Which is the point, keep the riffraff
out, God forbid it should be a real neighborhood. I didn’t grow up here, we
used to live in Encino, my brothers and I had sidewalks for lemonade stands,
rode our bikes. Once the parentals had empty nest they decided fourteen
thousand square feet for two people was a nifty idea.” Shrug. “It’s their
money.” Dropping her eyes to the photo, once more. “I’m really feeling it was her I saw. I remember thinking she was cute but her clothes weren’t.”
    “You
saw her twice.”
    “But close together—like twice in