“Five,” she said, looking even more tired.
Hardin saw movement over the mother’s shoulder. The woman looked. Behind her, leaning against the wall like she was trying to hide behind it, was a girl—a young woman, rather. Sixteen or seventeen. Wide-eyed, pretty. Give her another couple of years to fill out the curves and she’d be beautiful.
“This is my oldest,” the woman said.
“You mind if I ask her a few questions?”
The young woman shook her head no, but her mother stepped aside. Hardin expected her to flee to the back of the house, but she didn’t.
“Hi,” Hardin said, trying to sound friendly without sounding condescending. “I wondered if you could tell me anything about Ms. Manuel.”
“I don’t know anything about her,” she said. “She didn’t like kids messing in her yard. We all stayed away.”
“Can you remember the last time you saw her?”
She shrugged. “A few days ago, maybe.”
“You know anyone who had it in for her? Maybe said anything bad about her or threatened her? Sounds like the kids around here didn’t like her much.”
“No, nothing like that,” she said.
Hardin wasn’t going to get anything out of her, though the girl looked scared. Maybe she was just scared of whatever had killed Manuel. The mother gave Hardin a sympathetic look and shrugged, much like her daughter had.
Hardin got the names—Julia Martinal and her daughter Teresa. She gave them a card. “If you think of anything, let me know.”
Two houses down was an older, angry white guy.
“It’s about time you got here and did something about those Mexicans,” he said when Hardin showed him her badge.
“I’m sorry?” Hardin said, playing dumb, seeing how far the guy would carry this.
“Those Mexican gang wars, they got no place here. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
She narrowed her gaze. “Have you seen any Mexican gangs in the area? Any unusual activity, anything you think is suspicious? Drivebys, strange people loitering?”
“Well, I don’t get up in other people’s business. I can’t say that I saw anything. But that Mexican broad was killed, right? What else could have happened?”
“What’s your name, sir?” Hardin said.
He hesitated, lips drawing tight, as if he was actually considering arguing with her or refusing to tell. “Smith,” he said finally. “John Smith.”
“Mr. Smith, did you ever see anyone at Dora Manuel’s house? Anyone you’d be able to pick out of a lineup?”
He still looked like he’d eaten something sour. “Well, no, not like that. I’m not a spy or a snitch or anything.”
She nodded comfortingly. “I’m sure. Oh, and Mr. Smith? Dora Manuel was Filipina, not Mexican.”
She gave him her card, as she had with the others, and asked him to call her. Out of all the people she’d left cards with today, she bet Smith would be the one to call. And he’d have nothing useful for her.
She didn’t get much out of any of the interviews.
“I’m sorry, I never even knew what her name was.”
“She kept to herself, I didn’t really know her.”
“She wasn’t that friendly.”
“I don’t think I was surprised to hear that she’d died.”