The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights by Faye Kellerman

Author:Faye Kellerman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780446530392
Publisher: Warner Books
Published: 2005-12-31T05:00:00+00:00

Martina Cruz lived on Highland Avenue south of Washington—a street lined by small houses tattooed with graffiti. The address on the paper was a wood-sided white bungalow with a tar-paper roof. The front lawn—mowed but devoid of shrubs—was bisected by a cracked red plaster walkway. There was a two-step hop onto a porch whose decking was wet and rotted. The screen door was locked, but a head-size hole bad been cut through the mesh. I knocked through the hole, but no one answered. I turned the knob, and to my surprise, the door yielded, screen and all.

I called out a “hello,” and when no one answered, I walked into the living room—an eight-by-ten rectangle filled with hand-me-down furnishings. The sofa fabric, once gold, had faded to dull mustard. Two mismatched chairs were positioned opposite it. There was a scarred dining table off the living room, its centerpiece a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears. Encircling the table were six folding chairs. The kitchen was tiny, but the counters were clean, the food in the refrigerator still fresh. The trash hadn’t been taken out in a while. It was brimming over with Corona beer bottles.

I went into the sole bedroom. A full-size mattress lay on the floor. No closets. Clothing was neatly arranged in boxes—some filled with little-girl garments, others stuffed with adult apparel. I quickly sifted through the piles, trying to find Mr. Pollack’s robe.

I didn’t find it—no surprise. Picking up a corner of the mattress, I peered underneath but didn’t see anything. I poked around a little longer, then checked out the backyard—a dirt lot holding a rusted swing set and some deflated rubber balls.

I went around to the front and decided to question the neighbors. The house on the immediate left was occupied by a diminutive, thickset Latina matron. She was dressed in a floral-print muumuu, and her hair was tied in a bun. I asked her if she’d seen Martina lately, and she pretended not to understand me. My Spanish, though far from perfect, was understandable, so it seemed as if we had a little communication gap. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome by a ten-dollar bill.

After I gave her the money, the woman informed me her name was Alicia and she hadn’t seen Martina, Martina’s husband, or their two little girls for a few days. But the lights had been on last night, loud music booming out of the windows.

“Does Martina have any relatives?” I asked Alicia in Spanish.

“Ella tiene una hermana, pero no sé dónde ella vive.”

Martina had a sister, but Alicia didn’t know where she lived. Probing further, I found out the sister’s name—Yolanda Flores. And I also learned that the little girls went to a small parochial school run by the Iglesia Evangélica near Western Avenue. I knew the church she was talking about.

Most people think of Hispanics as always being Catholic. But I knew from past work that Evangelical Christianity had taken a strong foothold in Central and South America. Maybe I could locate Martina or the sister, Yolanda, through the church directory.

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