“Me? I didn’t know her at all, just cashed her check.”

“Did Tony talk about her?”

“Never. Tony didn’t talk much.”

“Quiet guy.”

“Really quiet,” said Park.

“How often did his mother pay his rent?”

“Hmm… I’d say about half the time. Maybe more the last few months.”

“How much more?”

“I believe out of the last six months, she paid four.”

“Did she mail you the checks?”

“No, Tony gave them to me.”

“What was the nature of Tony’s disability?”

“You mean was he crippled or something like that? No, he looked normal. But that doesn’t mean anything. A few years ago I had a ruptured disk. It was painful but I kept it to myself.”

“Tony suffered in silence.”

“You don’t suspect him, do you?” said Park. “He was never violent.”

Uncomfortable with the notion that he might’ve rented to a killer.

Milo said, “These are just basic questions, sir.”

“I hope so. He was really no trouble at all.”

The mail drop was in a litter-strewn strip mall on Vermont just above Sunset, one of those metallic-smelling mini-vaults lined with brass boxes, where the renters get keys and twenty-four-hour access.

A sign in the window said, In case of problems check with Avakian Dry Cleaners next door.

At the cleaners, a man unraveled a pile of crumpled shirts and said, “Yes,” without looking up. William Saroyan mustache, quick hands.

“Police. We’re looking for one of your box holders. Anthony Mancusi.”

Time to look up. “Tony? He brings his bulk laundry here. With the price of water and soap, we can do it just as cheap and you don’t need your own machine. What’s up with Tony?”

“His mother died, Mr….”

“Bedros Avakian.” Tongue click. “Died, huh? Too bad. So how come the police are here?”

“It wasn’t a natural death.”

“Oh… that’s real bad.”

“Could we have that address, please?”

“Yah, yeah, hold on, I get it for you.”

Avakian walked to a small desk and clicked a laptop. “Got a pen? Give Tony my condolences.”

Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s new digs were in a grubby three-story box on Rodney Drive, not far from the strip mall. No landscaping, no charm, inquiries to be directed to a real estate firm in Downey.

The front door was key-locked. The directory listed eighteen tenants, each with a mail slot. No one answered at A. Mancusi’s unit.

I said “Bit of a step-down from his last place. That and his mother taking on more of his rent says money issues.”

Milo tried the button again, pulled out a business card, and dropped it into Mancusi’s mail slot. “Let’s get over to the rental lot.”

As we headed for the car, movement up the block caught my eye. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants shambled toward us.