Page 58 of Tested
The Montebello neighborhood is more suburban than the places we’ve been in LA. The lots are bigger, and while the houses all have a hacienda influence, they’re larger, newer, and they sprawl over their lots like piles of tumbled bricks. I let Trajan take the lead, since he’s met Bobby before. My investigator skills might have impressed him, but I don’t want to push my luck.
The door is opened by a man. He’s not much taller than I am and while there’s a sprinkle of grey in his dark hair, his face isn’t lined and his body is firm. He might be forty. Maybe.
“Are you Bobby’s son?” Trajan asks, and the guy nods without speaking. “We’re here to talk to your dad.”
He steps aside and motions us to follow him. We do, down a long hallway with a tile floor and into a huge room with a ceiling that has to be two stories high. There’s a kitchen at one end, separated from the rest by a large, faux-antique island. At the end closest to us, a couch and two overstuffed chairs are pulled up close to a fireplace. Two people are side by side on the couch, and they stand up when we walk in.
The man is an older version of the guy who answered the door, and weirdly, the woman is an older slightly-more-feminine version. They all share thick, curly dark hair, dark eyes, and the skin tone that the southern California sun keeps permanently tanned.
Trajan introduces us, and the old guy, Bobby, asks us to sit down. We do, though I’m so nervous I’m twitching like a cat in a rainstorm.
“We’re working with Adam Smith, the supernatural liaison to the LAPD. He’s looking into a series of murders where all the victims were supes,” Trajan says.
“I heard about Addy Nosaka,” the woman says, her voice the kind of well-modulated purr that fits the palatial setting. “Have there been others?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. Bobby and his wife share a glance. The younger guy sits at the long dining table. It’s in between us and the kitchen and could easily seat twelve or fourteen.
The current mood in the place doesn’t fit a large, boisterous gathering.
Trajan gets them talking about mutual friends, and I take stock of all the scents. The two most prominent are old roasted meat and a light, unfamiliar fragrance that is likely biscione. I’ve never met one before – hell, I’d never heard of one until Trajan mentioned them half an hour ago – so I make a mental note and stick a pin in it for later.
“I understand you have a daughter.” I wait for a pause in the conversation and float the comment out there.
“We did, yes.” Mrs. DelMarco’s tone deepens, as if sadness is weighing her down.
“She died about forty years ago, actually,” Bobby DelMarco says. “She drowned out at the Santa Monica pier right after graduation.”
“What school did she go to?” I ask.
“Beverly Hills High.” Mrs. DelMarco has picked up the baton. “We moved out here after Donna….” She makes a weak wave and I fill in the blanks.
“Joey went to Montebello High,” she finishes sadly.
Okay, so the younger guy is Joey DelMarco. I make another mental note.
“Do you remember who her friends were?” I’m hoping against hope that some of the victims come up.
Bobby DelMarco reaches over to his wife and takes hold of her hand. “Addy Nosaka was her best friend,” she says. “I got to be pretty good friends with Akira, Addy’s mother. That’s how we knew about her death.”
“There was that Monica girl,” Bobby mumbles, and his wife nods.
“Yes. Monica Johnson and Kitten Fletcher. The four of them were very close.” Mrs. DelMarco smiles but even that is weighed down with sadness. “We used to call them the brat pack after the kids who were in all those movies.”
I’m not sure if I should tell the DelMarcos about Monica and Kitten or not. Trajan’s expression is carefully neutral. No help there. I decide not to – the evening news can do the job for me – but then Bobby sits up straighter.
“You said Smith is looking into a series of murders. Is Addy one of those?” he asks.
Trajan nods calmly. “Yes.”
The color rises in Bobby’s cheeks. “And who else?”
“Monica and Kitten.” Trajan sounds calm, but his posture firms, as if he’s ready to wrestle a snake if necessary.
“All of Donna’s best friends.” Mrs. DelMarco finds a new depth of sadness.
“So why didn’t you lead with that, tell us right up front?” Bobby’ss’s have taken on an extra hiss.
“Because we didn’t know they were your daughter’s best friends.” I hold my hands out, palms up. “We didn’t know until you told us.”
