T Is for Trespass

you aware of any incidents of yelling or hitting?”
    “Well, no.”
    “Emotional abuse?”
    “Not in my presence. I live next door to the guy and I used to see him all the time. He’s clearly old, but he managed to get around fine. He used to be the neighborhood crank so it’s not like any of us were close to him. Can I ask you a question?”
    “Of course.”
    “What happens now?”
    “We’ll send out an investigator in the next one to five days. It’s too late to get anything on the books until first thing Monday morning, and then someone will be asked to look into it. Depending on the findings, we’ll assign a caseworker and take whatever action seems necessary. You may be called on to answer additional questions.”
    “That’s fine. I just don’t want his caregiver to know I was the one who blew the whistle on her.”
    “Don’t worry. Your identity and any information you give us is strictly confidential.”
    “I appreciate that. She might make a guess, but I’d just as soon not have it confirmed.”
    “We’re well aware of the need for privacy.”

    In the meantime, come Saturday morning, I had other business to take care of, chiefly locating Melvin Downs. I’d made two trips to the residence hotel without results and it was time to get serious. I took the Missile off-ramp and swung over to Dave Levine Street. I parked around the corner on the side street, passing the same used-car lot I’d seen before. The converted milk truck/camper offered at $1,999.99 had apparently been sold and I was sorry I hadn’t stopped to take a closer look. I’m not a proponent of recreational vehicles, in part, because long-distance driving isn’t a means of travel I find amusing. That said, the milk truck was adorable and I knew I should have bought the damn thing. Henry would have let me park it in the side yard and if I’d ever found myself in financial straits, I could have given up my studio and lived in style.
    When I reached the hotel I took the porch steps two at a time and went in the front door. The foyer and downstairs hall were empty so I took myself to Juanita Von’s office first floor rear. I found her shifting the past year’s files and financial records from the cabinet’s drawers to a banker’s box.
    “I just did that,” I said. “How are you?”
    “Tired. It’s a pain, but it has to be done and I do enjoy the feeling of satisfaction afterwards. You may be in luck this time. I saw Mr. Downs come in a while ago, though he could have gone out without my noticing if he used the front stairs. He’s a hard one to catch.”
    “You know what? I really think I’ve earned the right to talk to him even if it is upstairs. This is my third trip over here and if I miss him this time, you’ll have to explain yourself to the attorney who’s handling this case.”
    She considered my request, taking her time about it so it wouldn’t appear she was moved by the threat. “I suppose just this once. Hold on a second and I’ll walk you up.”
    “I can manage it,” I said. Secretly, I was longing for the opportunity to snoop. She was having none of it, perhaps imagining I ran a drop-in hooker service for down-at-heel old men.
    Before she left the office she paused to wash her hands and locked up her desk against the possibility of thieves. I followed her out of the office and toward the front door, responding politely as she pointed out features along the way. She began to climb the stairs, pulling herself along by the handrail. I stayed two steps behind her, listening to her labored breathing as we reached the second floor.
    “This sitting area on the landing is where the tenants gather of an evening. I provide the color television set and I ask them to be considerate about what they watch. Can’t have one individual making all the choices for the group.”
    The landing was large enough to accommodate two couches, a wide-armed upholstered chair, and three smaller wooden chairs, all with padded seats. I pictured a bunch of old guys with their feet on the coffee table, commenting on sports and cop shows. We turned to the right into a short corridor at the end of which she showed me a big glass-enclosed sunporch and a laundry room. We went down two steps to a hallway that extended along the length of the house. All the room doors were closed, but each had a small brass slot with a card in it, printed with the name of the occupant. I watched the brass numbers climb from 1 to 8, which meant that