The Trade. Shirley Palmer

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      CHAPTER 5

      7:00 a.m. on a Friday morning, and traffic on the I-10 from Santa Monica to downtown was moving steadily. In another hour, it would be gridlock. Matt listened to Coltrane, and restrained the impulse to jockey the Range Rover from lane to lane. He got off the freeway at 9th Street, and stopped to pick up a couple of caffe grandes at the Starbucks by Macy’s—he knew better than to risk the coffee on a construction job, which tasted as if it were made with iron filings, guaranteed to burn a hole in the lining of the stomach.

      By 7:30 he was at the Contessa, four hundred low-rise luxury apartments on what used to be a used-car lot before the neighborhood got too run-down even for clunkers. Swimming pools, tennis courts, running track, gym, all the bells and whistles, heavily landscaped, an urban refuge, and close to major freeways and the Staples Center. The city was jubilant, already counting on the tax base to revitalize the surrounding area. Lowell Brothers was gambling the company shirt on the project, their first venture into new construction, but so far it looked good. Ned had negotiated leases with both teams that called the Staples Center home, NBA basketball and NHL hockey, the Lakers and the Kings.

      Half a dozen trucks loaded with large boxed jacaranda trees were lined up on Bixel Street outside the Contessa. By the time the job was finished, a hundred prime specimens would be in the ground.

      “Good morning, Ben.” Matt handed Ben Pressman, the landscape architect, a container of coffee, popped the lid on his own and took a sip. He and Ben circled the trucks, checking out the jacarandas.

      “Pretty nice, huh?” Ben said.

      “Yeah. Not bad, Ben.” He and Pressman had personally selected each one, shopping half a dozen tree farms to get what they wanted. “Let’s get them in the ground.”

      He stayed on through the morning, ate enchiladas with the Hispanic work crew gathered around Roxanne’s Hot Lunch, the roach wagon that made the rounds of downtown construction sites.

      It was almost four when he got back to the office in Brentwood.

      Two men, flipping without much interest through magazines devoted to the construction business, looked up as he walked in. Matt raised an inquiring eyebrow at Marni behind her desk in the front office.

      “These gentlemen are waiting to see you, Matt. They’re from the sheriff’s department.”

      The men replaced the magazines on the table, got to their feet. The elder of the two said, “Mr. Lowell? I’m Detective Jim Barstow. My partner, Detective Eduardo Flores.”

      Matt glanced at the proffered shields, noted the nicotine-stained fingers and the smell of tobacco that clung to the two men. He shook hands with each in turn, conscious of Marni’s ears straining to hear every word, and ushered them into the office. Ned, frowning at the computer screen on his own side of the partners’ desk, looked up as Matt introduced the detectives. They refused coffee. Matt settled himself behind his desk, indicated a couple of chairs on the other side.

      “So, what can I do for you?”

      “Just a few questions. You are the Matthew Lowell who found the child on the beach, is that right?” Barstow asked. Late forties, thinning fair hair, deep set blue eyes. Slim, sharp tailoring.

      Not much got past him, Matt guessed. “Yes. During the fire.”

      “That would be last Monday?”

      “Yes. Monday.”

      “She was alive when you found her?”

      Matt nodded. “Yes.”

      “About what time of day was that, Mr. Lowell?”

      “Sometime between four and five. It’s hard to say exactly. The smoke from the fire was black and covered the entire sky, so it was dusk long before the sun started going down. And sunset these days is at five. So I can’t say for sure. I didn’t look at my watch.”

      Barstow’s СКАЧАТЬ