“Not as often as you might think,” said Sullivan. “Over the past few months I’d estimate J.J. and I have bumped into each other four or five times, tops. Always on the elevator, where else do people mix in an office building? We exchanged smiles but obviously one doesn’t converse in a compartment full of strangers. Now, if—”

I said, “Your father worked in aerospace. What did Jens’s father do?”

“That’s relevant to his alleged murderous behavior? Which I still find hard to believe, would you care to give me some details?”

Milo said, “Sorry, can’t.”

“One-way street?” said Flora Sullivan. “Then again, you’re men.”

I repeated the question.

She said, “I didn’t answer you the first time because I don’t know what J.J.’s father did and I wouldn’t be surprised if J.J. didn’t, either, because the bastard abandoned Leticia when J.J. was a baby. Mother was always talking about how she had to struggle just to get by.”

“No sibs?”

“No.”

“When did she pass on?”

“Hmm … a long time ago, she wasn’t that old. Heart attack. She smoked and drank and her diet wasn’t great. She worked in a diner—greasy spoon, you know? Probably ate the crap they served.”

I said, “She was a cook?”

“Short-order,” she said. “Poor Leticia spent her life literally slaving over a hot stove.”

CHAPTER

34

The elevator we boarded was packed. I thought of John Jensen Williams using the compartment as a stalking ground, wondered how many other women had qualified as prey.

We got off and walked to where Ursula Corey had met her death. Just another patch of concrete now. Milo stared for a while then we took the stairs up to where I’d left the Seville.

“What’d you think of Sullivan?”

“Probably clean but that doesn’t mean Williams won’t try to contact her again.”

“That’s why I told her he was suspected of homicide. He does call or show up, I want her to be scared shitless and rat him out.”

A block later: “Nifty how you used Bonelli to gain entry, then finessed the issue.”

“I hoped she’d appreciate the discretion.”

“She must’ve, because you also pried out that recap of Williams’s blighted childhood. Mama working the griddle.”

“Mama with a drinking problem,” I said. “Maybe angry and bitter about being abandoned by Papa.”

“Tsk tsk,” he said. “Toss in poor nutrition and it’s all explained.”

Stalled in a queue of cars snailing up the exit ramp, I phoned Robin and told her I’d be heading for Oxnard.

She said, “Now? You’ll sit on the freeway.”

“We’ll grab a bite first.”

“Come home, I’ll cook for both of you.”

“Love to see you but don’t bother, I’ll pick something up.”