“Because you cared.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You want me to make you some tea?”
Her kitchen wasn’t much larger than the closet of a master bedroom in a middle-class home. It was the size and shape of a hallway with a window at the far end, looking out over a yard that had a decorative pond and a very green lawn.
There was a small dinette table, which was complete with two simple chairs. This table was set by the window. We sat opposite each other, sipping our jasmine teas.
Cosette allowed me to start the tea, but after a few minutes she came in and took over. I think she knew that doing a familiar task would calm her.
By the time we were enjoying the afternoon sun and shortbread biscuits, her whiteness had regained its glow.
“So, how can you help the police, Mr. Oliver?”
“It’s kind of up to me. That detective, Van Arc, wanted me to tell him what I knew. After he’d heard me out, he said that if I come up with anything I should tell him.”
“Oh. Have you found something?”
“Not really. All I have is a few questions.”
“What?”
“Do you, I mean, did you make calls for Paulie?”
“No. Not too much. People usually called him direct through the automatic switchboard; either that or he called them.”
“How about letters or packages?”
“For what?”
“Did he have you send any Fed Ex or UPS packages yesterday?”
“No, but…” She looked up at the ceiling.
“What?”
“Last night, just when I was getting ready to go home, Mr. Antonucci—Paulie—asked me to order groceries for a Laura Bloom, on, um, on Arnaz, north of Wilshire.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Yeah. We didn’t have any clients, that I knew of, from out of town. That’s usually the only time that we do a grocery order.”
“Do you remember the address?”
“No.”
“What delivery service did you use?”
“Gourmet Services. That’s the one we always use when we’re, you know, attending to the, um, personal needs of clients.”
“And Laura Bloom was one of those?”
“I guess.”
“Had you ever heard of her before?”
“No, and that’s unusual. Most of the time I know everybody we’re working for. Does that help?”