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“Don’t harsh my mellow,” Brogan directed.
As the big jet taxied to an auxiliary runway and stopped in front of a private terminal across from the heliport, she finally let go of Lucien’s hand. “Even so, this is huge. Maybe the key to overcoming my fear has always been to take shorter trips, not spend the interminable four or five hours in the air.”
“That’s a thought,” Lucien said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s do this again this afternoon and test that theory.”
Outside the terminal, the morning’s heat had already tipped toward ninety. A dusty gust of wind hit them as they piled into a black SUV. The driver headed west of the airport using the service road that paralleled the 405 before turning left into the heart of Carson.
Fifteen minutes later, they drove down a tree-lined street and pulled up to Helene Toussaint’s one-story home, a traditional ranch built in 1964 on a generous corner lot. The front yard was a neglected patchwork of dirt and dying grass. A park and a community center with a pool across the street made the area more appealing to a family with growing kids.
Lucien’s eyes took in the neighborhood and the recreation center. “This is where Vincent grew up. It looks like every Southern California boy’s dream place to play—a baseball field around the corner, a basketball court almost in his backyard, and a hockey rink within ten minutes of his house. No wonder he was an all-star athlete.”
“What did you expect?” Brogan asked. “We already knew his childhood seemed typical, a kid who grew up around animals and doting parents. He’d never been in trouble with the law, never posed a problem to anyone, was praised as a hero who saved a kid’s life on the 405 and had a great rep as a nurse. This man is not the ruthless killer who grew up with a bad start in life.”
Lucien scratched the side of his jaw. “Yeah. But how did a guy go from this to killing two people?”
The driver shifted in his seat. “What did you say?”
“We’re here about a cold case,” Lucien clarified. “We’re trying to talk to an older lady who lives here that might know something about it.”
“She’s not dangerous,” Brogan added, hoping it was true. She prodded Lucien to make the call. “Let’s stick to what we discussed on the plane. I’ll get out and walk the dogs so she can see that we’re no threat while you explain why we’re here.”
“Let’s hope this works,” Lucien muttered as he dialed Toussaint’s number.
Brogan opened the car door with the dogs and stood on the sidewalk before walking a few feet away from the car. She watched Lucien’s body language to see if he had made any headway with Helene. She breathed a sigh of relief when he gave her a thumbs up. A few minutes later, a woman in her seventies with thinning white hair opened the front door.
“You can bring the dogs inside,” Helene announced from the doorway in a distinctive New Orleans drawl. “My house is animal friendly. I have a cat named Sylvester and a golden retriever named Holly.”
“Poppy and Stella are very well-behaved,” Brogan promised before approaching the house. She introduced herself as Lucien joined her on the porch. “Thanks for talking to us.”
Helene let out a prolonged sigh. “I’ve been expecting someone to show up on my doorstep for twenty years. I just thought it would be cops, not regular people. Come on inside. Don’t mind Holly. She’s big but harmless.”
As they headed into the house’s interior, Holly proved how friendly she was by sniffing Stella and Poppy from head to butt.
“I was about to let Holly outside in the backyard. Will yours follow her?”
Brogan took a seat on the couch. “Sure. If there’s nothing outside they can get into or mess up.”
“There’s nothing but a few blades of grass and dirt. Drought,” Helene grumbled, sliding open the patio door. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, we’re fine. Thank you, though.”
“Okay, then suit yourself. What have you got to tell me about my son?”
“Pardon?” Lucien uttered. “We were hoping you could tell us about him.”
“What? Aren’t you here to tell me you’ve found Vincent?”
“Well, no,” Brogan began, “We were hoping you could tell us where he is.”
“I’m confused,” Helene admitted. “I assumed you were looking for him and had information forme.”
“You don’t know where Vincent is?” Lucien prompted.
“Of course not. Why would I report my son missing if I knew where he was? June 10th, 2001, a Sunday. That was the day my Vince walked out that front door at six-thirty in the evening. He’d just mowed the lawn. That was when I had grass. Vince told me goodbye like always, reminded me he’d be back on Wednesday night to take me to the potluck at the community center, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
16
The dogs, tired of the heat outside, had lapped up water before settling down on a rug in the living room.
