“When I came out to take my grandson to school — around six thirty. Raymond goes to a magnet in the Valley, we need to leave early. She asked the same thing you did — had I seen him. Said she was his mother and he hadn’t called when he was supposed to. I told her I hadn’t seen him and she looked concerned and left. Is he okay?”

“You know Mr. Mancusi?”

“I see him once in a while, we’ve said hello, that’s about it. Mostly he keeps to himself.”

“What did his mother look like, ma’am?”

“I really didn’t get a good look at her, because I was busy with Raymond and his backpack, getting him to eat his sweet roll and drink his milk. She sounded worried, I felt sorry for her. That’s why I came back. So you could contact her.”

“Appreciate it, Ms. Duran. She didn’t by any chance leave a number?”

“No, sorry.”

“Do you remember anything about her appearance?”

“Um… tall. And she had a nice car. White Lexus, I saw her driving away. That was a little surprising.”

“What was?”

“Her having money. Because he looks like he shops at a thrift store. Now that I think about it, she was just the opposite.”

“Well dressed.”

“Classy,” said Irma Duran. “In an old-fashioned way. Like one of those women you see in old movies, all put together. Suit, stockings, shoes, big leather handbag. Like that Agatha Christie detective?”

“Miss Marple,” he said.

“I love those books,” said Irma Duran. “Exactly like that, conservative — sensible. Except for her scarf, that was different — really colorful. Big like a shawl, all kinds of wild colors. Is the son a drug dealer?”

“Why would you suspect that?”

“He doesn’t do anything all day. Never had a visitor that I’ve seen — oh, I guess that means he isn’t a dealer. At least not out of his apartment.”

Milo said, “Mom’s his first visitor.”

“Moms care,” said Irma Duran. “She seemed so… as if she’d been putting up with him for a while.”

Milo kicked the door hard. The rip of splintering wood cut through trumpets and guitarrón but the panel remained shut. His second attempt broke it free of the frame.

We stood back.

Mancusi’s Murphy bed listed from the wall at an acute angle, propped in place by a nightstand. A pair of arms extended from the sides of the mattress.

Gray mattress except where it was reddish brown.

Most of it, reddish brown.

Splotches the same color topped the nightstand, ran down the drawers, spread on the carpet.

One of the hands was missing two fingers. The severed digits sat in their own pool of blood, shriveled and white, desiccated grubs. A blood trail led to the shabby kitchenette.

Milo got closer to the threshold, kept his feet in the hall but stuck his head inside the apartment.