I again thought about the meeting Joe had here with the three others. Had all four of them been involved with whatever happened with Joe’s client thirty-five years ago and the stolen money that had pushed my father-in-law to go completely off the grid?
Ms. Marley reappeared from the back, walked over to the bar, and handed me a scrap of paper with something written on it. She’d scribbled down a name: Al Del Luca.
I looked up at her. “Tattoo guy?”
She nodded. “He paid his bar tab with a credit card.”
“I really appreciate this.”
“No sweat. I feel like I owe your father-in-law something. The man helped keep my baby girl in school this next semester.”
I returned to the hotel lobby, grabbed a chair in a quiet corner, and began searching Google for the name Al Del Luca on my phone. It was a unique enough name to not have to wade through several pages of hits. But I still couldn’t find much. Nothing on social media or LinkedIn. But I did find a mention of an Al and Gloria Del Luca on a DC city data website that listed a property valuation on a small single-family home in the metro area. Jumping onto Facebook, I searched for Gloria Del Luca instead. A page of a woman with black hair who lived in DC and looked to be about the same age as the man with the tattoo appeared. About halfway down her page, I spotted a photo of Gloria with the same man who’d been following me around the past couple of days. I quickly went back over to the property valuation web page. The property appraisal on the single-family home was from over five years ago. I wondered if the Del Lucas still lived at the residence. I clicked on a link, and it brought up a pin location on a map. The house was about twenty minutes from the hotel. There was only one way to find out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The pin in the map led me to a neighborhood called Woodridge, where I parked in front of an old gray-brick house with a small front porch, a nothing yard, and no garage—just a short driveway leading up to a simple carport. I sat in my rental car for a few minutes and studied the house. There were no vehicles in the driveway or under the carport. Did that mean no one was home? I had hoped to find Gloria Del Luca here and perhaps talk my way into getting more information about her husband. I checked my rearview mirror. There were no cars behind me on the street. On the entire drive out of DC proper, I’d been monitoring my mirrors, wondering if Del Luca could have possibly followed me from Austin back to DC and was now watching me stare at his own house. But I saw no signs of anyone staying on my tail. I’d even circled the streets of this neighborhood a couple of times to be sure.
I got out of the rental car, moved toward the house, and trotted up the porch steps to the front door. Before knocking, I took a casual peek in the front window. I didn’t see any signs of movement inside. I gave three firm raps on the door, waited. I heard nothing. I rang the doorbell. Still nothing. A black mailbox hung on the brick next to the front door, so I reached inside and found a few mail items. A utility bill, a women’s magazine, and some junk mail. All were addressed to either Gloria or Al Del Luca. This at least confirmed they still lived here. I wondered what to do next. I needed to know more about Del Luca and how he was involved in my father-in-law’s situation. I couldn’t just turn around and leave. There had to be answers inside. But what was I supposed to do? Break into the house? I glanced behind me, looking for nosy neighbors. Then I put my hand on the door handle and tried to turn it. Locked. I was almost relieved. Was I really willing to walk right into a stranger’s house?
Turning around, I eased down the front steps but paused on the sidewalk before returning to my rental car. Would the back door also be locked? I briskly walked up the driveway toward the carport, where I found a wooden gate to the backyard of the house. No lock on it. I clicked the latch on the gate, pushed it slightly open, glanced inside. Thankfully, no signs of any dogs. As I stepped through the gate, my heart started racing a bit. Because the house had neighbors on both sides, I felt exposed with each step up a gravel path to a back door. Cupping my hands together, I peered inside a small window in the middle of the door. A laundry room that led into the kitchen. I put my hand on the door handle and tried to turn it. Also locked. I cursed. But then my eyes drifted down to several potted plants situated right outside the back door.
Kneeling, I began shifting pots around to see if any of them might have a spare key hidden beneath them. I found a key under the fourth pot. Now my heart was really pumping. It was one thing to step inside someone’s backyard. That didn’t quite feel like a crime. But it was another thing to use their key to enter their house uninvited. Everything sensible in me told me to turn around and leave. But I was desperate for answers. Joe was killed for a reason. I had to know that reason. So I put the spare key in the lock and turned the door handle. The door opened. Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped inside and shut the door behind me.