DEATH BY PARKING from Page 49


Guillermo had just arrived. Jose was nervous. I couldn’t tell if it was because he’s always


nervous, his lack of immigration status, or if he was involved in the murder. “Jose,” I said, “we are not from the police, and could care less


about your immigration papers. We only want to understand how things work at the Bowl and how it happened that I was directed to a particular spot.” He visibly relaxed. My guess is that he came to the U.S. in the


back of a sealed camper. But that’s a story for another time. “It’s really quite simple,” Jose said. “We stack-park the cars so


we can get a maximum number in the lot. When a car comes in, we check the parking permit or collect the money and then direct them to the proper area based on the permit number or what they paid. “Those who get there first get the spots in the front so they


can leave quickly. If you come later, you end up waiting for all the cars in front of you to leave before you can go.” “But I ended up in a spot that required the car behind me to


leave before I could move. How did that happen?” I asked. “It would take two of them,” Jose said, “working together to


direct a particular car to a specific spot. I brought my records of who worked where.” Jose looked through his records and handed me two cards. “These are the two most likely. One worked near the entry and would direct you after you paid. The other was down the line,


positioning cars as they came in. If they worked together, they could have directed you to anywhere on the lot.” We took the IDs of the two parking attendants and told Jose


that we might be back with more questions. I was still puzzled. How did they know where I would be? “Dad, they needed to discover that you would be out so they


could leave the ransom note at your house. Tons of people knew that we were going to the Bowl to celebrate my engagement to Grace.” Paulo was right, of course, but I still wasn’t convinced. This


seemed much more complicated than that. We drove back to the office and agreed to split up. He would


go to the Bowl and find out who had bought the parking permit used on the car with the body. And I would find the two parking attendants. There wasn’t going to be any gunfight or high-speed chase. It


was going to be slow, boring, detective work. As I got up to leave, a big man with a dark suit, white shirt,


navy tie, a bulge on his hip, and an attitude came into my office. “Manning? I’m FBI Special Agent in Charge Leon Peyton. We


need to talk.” My phone rang at that moment, and Bill Vose said, “Paul, the


Feds are in on this. You’re going to get a visitor.” To be continued ...


PT


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