Kitty's Mix-Tape (Kitty Norville 16)
Across the street, a guy was on his front porch taking pictures of the house, the police tape, her. Fine, she’d start with him.
She crossed the street and walked to his porch with an easy, nonthreatening stride. His eyes went wide and a little panicked anyway.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t hurting anything, I’ll stop,” he said, hiding the camera behind his back.
Hardin gave him a wry, annoyed smile and held up her badge. “My name’s Detective Hardin, Denver PD, and I just want to ask you a few questions. That okay?”
He only relaxed a little. He was maybe in his early twenties. The house was obviously a rental, needing a good scrubbing and a coat of paint. Through the front windows she could see band posters on the living room walls. “Yeah . . . okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pete. Uh . . . Pete Teller.”
“Did you know Dora Manuel?”
“That Mexican lady across the street? The one who got killed?”
“Filipina, but yes.”
“No, didn’t know the lady at all. Saw her sometimes.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Maybe a few days ago. Yeah, like four days ago, going inside the house at dinnertime.”
Patton’s background file said that Manuel didn’t own a car. She rode the bus to her job at a dry cleaners. Pete would have seen her walking home.
“Did you see anyone else? Maybe anyone who looked like they didn’t belong?”
“No, no one. Not ever. Lady kept to herself, you know?”
Yeah, she did. She asked a few more standard witness questions, and he gave the standard answers. She gave him her card and asked him to call if he remembered anything, or if he heard anything. Asked him to tell his roommates to do the same.
The family two doors south of Manuel was also Filipino. Hardin was guessing the tired woman who opened the door was the mother of a good-sized family. Kids were screaming in a back room. The woman was shorter than Hardin by a foot, and brown-skinned, and her black hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore a blue T-shirt and faded jeans.
Hardin flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Hardin, Denver PD. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Is this about Dora Manuel?”
This encouraged Hardin. At least someone around here had actually known the woman. “Yes. I’m assuming you heard what happened?”
“It was in the news,” she said.
“How well did you know her?”
“Oh, I didn’t, not really.”
So much for the encouragement. “Did you ever speak with her? Can you tell me the last time you saw her?”
“I don’t think I ever talked to her. I’m friends with Betty Arcuna, who owns the house. I knew her when she lived in the neighborhood. I kept an eye on the house for her, you know, as much as I could.”
“Then did you ever see any suspicious activity around the house? Any strangers, anyone who looked like they didn’t belong?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, not really, not that I remember.”
A sound, like something heavy falling from a shelf, crashed from the back of the house. The woman just sighed.
“How many kids do you have?” Hardin asked.