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FROM THE WAREHOUSE, Ballard took Sunset Boulevard over to Angeleno Heights. The two neighborhoods were five minutes apart by car and a century apart in design. Atop a steep hill at the edge of downtown, Angeleno Heights was the oldest unchanged neighborhood in Los Angeles. Only Bunker Hill was older, but that was all glass and concrete now, the future having plowed the past under.
Angeleno Heights was the same as it ever was. The neighborhood had long been designated a historic preservation zone by the city, so the place was frozen in time, its streets lined with pristine examples of the evolving architectures of early Los Angeles. Queen Anne and Victorian homes 150 years old stood side by side with turn-of-the-twentieth-century Craftsman and bungalow masterpieces. Ballard was counting on nothing having changed because of the strict rules regarding any modifications to homes in the neighborhood. She pulled in behind Maddie Bosch’s car in front of the house at the Kellam Avenue address Emmitt Thawyer had given, a one-story Craftsman with a driveway running down the left side to a garage in the back.
Maddie was leaning against her car, checking messages on her phone. She put the phone away when Ballard got out.
“You’ve already done some good detective work,” Ballard said. “Let’s keep it going. You do the door knock, show your badge, see if you can talk our way in.”
“Really?” Maddie said. “But you’re the real detective.”
“I’ll back you up. If needed.”
“So, we’re looking for information on the man who used to live here, but we’re not sure when he moved.”
“That’s a start. We want to get in, look around, see if anybody knew or remembers Thawyer. And I want to get into the garage in the back.”
“The garage? Why?”
“To see if there’s a drain.”
“Oh. Got it.”
As they went up the steps to the wide porch that ran the length of the front of the house, Ballard pulled her phone and opened the Zillow app. She had used the real estate database when looking for her place in Malibu. She plugged in the address of the Kellam Avenue house and scrolled down to the sales history. It showed that the house had not changed hands since 1996. The app did not provide the identity of current or previous owners.
Maddie knocked forcefully on the front door’s glass.
“The owner’s had it since ’96,” Ballard said, showing Maddie her phone.
“Got it,” Maddie said.
Through the glass they could see a woman slowly approaching. Maddie held up her badge. The woman cautiously opened the door. She was at least eighty, with gray hair, and she was wearing a baggy housedress.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hello, ma’am, we’re investigators with the LAPD,” Maddie said. “Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Did something happen?”
“Uh, no. We’re investigating an old case, a crime that may have happened in this neighborhood. Have you lived here very long?”
“Almost thirty years.”
“That’s a long time. Did you buy this house?”
“My husband did. He’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you happen—”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I see. Uh, do you happen to know who the previous owner was?”
“Uh… I used to but I can’t remember. It’s been too long.”
“Does the name Emmitt Thawyer sound familiar?”
“Yes, that’s it. I remember because we got his mail for a long time after that. My husband used to take it to him.”
“Where was that?”
