T Is for Trespass

3:15.
    I spent the next couple of hours being a good secretary to myself, typing, filing, and tidying my desk. At 2:45 I locked the office and headed for the Metropolitan Transit Authority barn, which is located adjacent to the Greyhound bus station. I left my car in the pay lot and took a seat in the depot with a paperback novel.
    The ticket agent pointed out Jeff Weber as he exited the locker room, a jacket over one arm. He was in his fifties, his name tag still affixed to the pocket of his uniform. He was tall, with a blond crew cut shot through with gray, and small blue eyes under bleached-blond eyebrows. His large nose was sunburned and his shirt sleeves were two inches too short, leaving his bony wrists exposed. If he were a golfer, he’d need clubs especially tailored to his height and the length of his arms.
    I caught up with him in the parking lot and introduced myself, handing him my card. He scarcely glanced at the information, but he was politely attentive while I launched into the description of the man I was looking for.
    When I finished, he said, “Oh, yes. I know exactly who you mean.”
    “You do?”
    “You’re talking about Melvin Downs. What’s he done?”
    “Nothing at all.” Once again, I laid out the details of the accident.
    Weber said, “I remember, though I didn’t see the accident itself. By the time I pulled up at that stop a police car and ambulance had arrived at the scene and traffic had slowed to a crawl. The officer was doing what he could to move cars along. The delay was only ten minutes, but touchy business nonetheless. That hour, none of my passengers complain, but I can sense when they’re annoyed. Many are just off work and anxious to get home, especially at the start of a long holiday weekend.”
    “What about Mr. Downs? Did you pick him up that day?”
    “Probably. I usually see him two days a week—Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
    “Well, he must have been there because both victims remember seeing him.”
    “I don’t doubt it. I’m just saying I can’t remember for sure if he got on the bus or not.”
    “You know anything about him?”
    “Just what I’ve observed. He’s a nice man. He’s pleasant enough, but he isn’t chatty like some. He sits near the back of the bus so we don’t have much occasion for conversation. Bus is crowded, I’ve seen him give up his seat to the handicapped or elderly. I catch a lot in the rearview mirror and I’ve been impressed with how courteous he is. That’s not something you see much. Nowadays people aren’t taught the same manners we learned when I was growing up.”
    “You think he works in the neighborhood up there?”
    “I’d assume so, though I couldn’t tell you where.”
    “I talked to someone who thought he might do odd jobs or yard work, that sort of thing.”
    “Possibly. There’s a fair number of older women in the area, widows and retired professional ladies, who could probably use a handyman.”
    “Where do you drop him?”
    “I bring him all the way back here. He’s one of the last passengers I carry at the end of my route.”
    “Any idea where he lives?”
    “As it happens, I do. There’s a residence hotel on Dave Levine Street near Floresta or Via Madrina. Big yellow frame place with a wraparound porch. Weather’s nice, I sometimes see him sitting out there.” He paused to glance at his watch. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but my wife’s on her way.” He held up my business card. “Why don’t I hang on to this? Next time I see Melvin, I’ll be glad to pass your message along.”
    “Thanks. Feel free to tell him what I want to talk to him about.”
    “Well, good. That’s good then. I’ll be sure to do that. Best of luck to you.”

    Once in my car again, I circled the block, making a long loop up Chapel and down on Dave Levine, which was one-way. I did a slow crawl, watching for sight of the yellow residence hotel. The neighborhood, like mine, was a curious combination of single-family dwellings and small commercial enterprises. Many corner properties, especially those closer to the heart of town, had been converted to mom-and-pop-style businesses: a minimart, a vintage-clothing store, two antique shops, and a secondhand bookstore. By the time I spotted the hotel, there were cars stacked up behind me, the closest driver making rude hand gestures I could see in my rearview mirror. I turned right at the first corner and drove another block before I found a parking space.
    I