X

by Sue Grafton

  “He’s out of luck. I had the locks changed again and my alarm system went in today. I feel better having all those buttons to push.” She propped her chin on her fist. “So what’s the story you want confirmed? I hate when you say things like that without filling me in.”

  I gave her a synopsis of Taryn Sizemore’s tale about Morley Shine breaking into her psychiatrist’s office and stealing enough personal data to blow her lawsuit out of the water. I didn’t go into detail about the facts themselves, just the manner in which Morley acquired them. “Is the story true?”

  Ruthie held up a hand. “Gospel. Morley confessed to Pete one night when he was in his cups. He considered it a coup, and Pete said he was positively gleeful about it, chortling on at length. He compared the break-in to Watergate, only without the political fallout. Ha. Ha. Ha. What a card our Morley was.”

  “Did Ruffner know what Morley did?”

  “He made a point of not probing too deeply. He was happy to have the leverage and didn’t much care how it fell into his hands. Pete was horrified, of course, though he didn’t let Morley know how upset he was. I urged him to tell Ben, but Pete was unsure and he agonized for weeks.”

  “What was the debate?”

  “He knew he was skating on thin ice. Ben and Morley had been partners for fifteen years and fast friends for years before that. Pete was low man on the totem pole and hardly a pal to either one. He was well-trained—Ben made sure of that—but he didn’t have the social skills to pick up jobs on his own. They’d parcel out the odd assignments, but he was there on sufferance, especially where Ben was concerned. Pete and Morley got along okay, until this came up.”

  “So in the end, he decided to tell Ben.”

  “For better or for worse. You know what a stickler Ben was for the rules. What Morley did was a criminal offense, which put Ben in jeopardy and the agency at risk. But what bothered Pete as much as anything was the effect on the woman who filed the suit. Ned’s attorney presented her as a gold digger out for as much as she could get. His problem was he didn’t have anything to use against her in court. Then Morley provided Ruffner with all the ammunition he needed. Meanwhile, Pete came to believe Ned Lowe was dangerous and Byrd-Shine, in essence, had given him carte blanche.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I just did.”

  “Before now. Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  “You worked for the agency. I assumed you knew. I’m surprised Ben didn’t take you into his confidence.”

  “Not a word. It must have come close to the end of my tenure with them. I’m guessing Ben was too appalled to admit Morley’s breach. By the time the agency broke up, I was out in an office of my own. There weren’t any rumors around town about why they broke up.”

  “Weird, since that’s all Pete and I talked about. He ended up the bad guy, and that bewildered him. He hadn’t done anything, you know? Morley broke the law and Pete took the blame. I’m sure if you and I had known each other back then, we’d have chewed the subject to death.”

  “Wonder why Pete never mentioned it to me.”

  She studied me. “He was under the impression you had no use for him.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” I said. “I’ll admit I disagreed with some of what he did.”

  “Oh, come off it. You didn’t ‘disagree.’ You disapproved.”

  “Okay, fine. Maybe I did, but I never let on. What he did was his business. I kept my personal views to myself.”

  “No, you didn’t. Pete knew exactly what you thought of him.”

  “He did?”

  “Kinsey, the man wasn’t an idiot. You’re not that good at covering.”

  “But he was always so nice to me.”

  “Because he liked you. He thought the world of you, the same way Ben did.”

  I put my elbows on the table and put my hands over my eyes, saying, “This is not good. I truly had no idea my opinion of him was so obvious.”

  “Too late to worry about it now,” she said.

  I shook my head, saying, “Shit.”

  22

  I thought about Pete as I walked the half block home. Sometimes I turn to Henry for counsel and advice, but not in this case. I’d erred, and it was up to me to make amends. I’d misjudged Pete Wolinsky; not entirely, but in certain essentials. Even then, if you’d asked me what sort of man he was, I’d have said he was a crook, someone who chose self-interest over honesty and never hesitated to coax a few bucks from a deal if he could manage it. I did take note that even as I was exonerating him, I continued to condemn him in equal measure, proof positive that our prejudices are nearly impossible to scotch.

  The best I could manage for the moment was to concede he could be guilty of bad deeds and still retain a basic goodness at the core. Pete had done what he thought was right, which was to tell Ben Byrd that Morley was corrupt. The Byrd-Shine agency was dissolved, and while Ben never spoke to Morley again, he’d damned Pete in the bargain. I’d damned him as well, thinking myself clever for not revealing my true opinion. All the time Pete knew what I thought of him and yet he’d borne my disdain without complaint. Ruthie, too, had been aware of my scorn, and while she’d challenged my views, she’d continued to offer me her friendship. I was going to have to do something, wasn’t I? As Taryn Sizemore predicted, I now felt compelled to pick up where Pete left off and finish the job for him.

  And what was that job? Pete was in possession of the mailing pouch, which he’d gone to some lengths to conceal. As nearly as I could tell, the contents were intended for Lenore’s daughter, and I was curious why he hadn’t handed them over to her. I was hesitant to complete delivery until I understood what was going on. Twenty-eight years had passed, and April would want to know what the delay was about. What was I supposed to tell her when I had no clue? I’d have to drive to Burning Oaks and unearth the story before I did anything else.

  I’d just made an impromptu trip to Beverly Hills and the last thing I wanted to do was hit the road again, but if Pete had driven to Burning Oaks, I’d have to do the same. While I continued to whine internally, I was outwardly preparing for the inevitable. I hauled out my map of California, spread it on my kitchen counter, and decided on a route. This was a two-hour drive at best on winding back roads, which were my only choice. I’d take the 101 south as far as the 150 and then head east. Where the 150 met Highway 33, I’d drive north and east on an irregular path that would deposit me in Burning Oaks.

  I retrieved my overnight case from the car and replenished my supply of sundries. This time I packed a change of clothes, including three pairs of underpants and the oversize T-shirt I wear as a “negligee.” I added two paperback novels and a hundred-watt lightbulb. I was prepared for anything. Before I went to bed, I reclaimed the mailing pouch from its hiding place in Henry’s garage.

  I still carried the grid Pete had constructed with its alphanumerical code. The paper was in my shoulder bag along with Henry’s translation, which had netted me the list of six women’s names. Taryn Sizemore I knew. In addition to Lenore Redfern’s name, there was also Shirley Ann Kastle’s, she being his former high school sweetheart. Both were from Burning Oaks. The three remaining names would have to wait. Phyllis Joplin I knew about, which left Susan Telford and Janet Macy. I’d tend to them when I got back.

  • • •

  In the morning, I slipped a note under Henry’s door before I hopped in my car. It was by then 7:45 and I’d been through my usual exercise, shower, and breakfast routine. On the way out of town, I filled the tank with gas and then headed south, overnight bag on the passenger seat. I didn’t expect to be gone long enough to utilize the change of clothes, but I didn’t want to be caught short.

  During the early portion of the drive, I was traversing the Los Padres National Forest, which covers 175 million acres, spread out over 220 miles south to north. The road I was on
climbed from sea level to an altitude of 7,000 feet. To speak of the national “forest” doesn’t nearly convey the reality of the land, which is mountainous and barren, with no trees at all in this portion of the interior.

  On either side of the road, I could see wrinkled stretches of uninhabitable hills where the chaparral formed a low, shaggy carpet of dry brown. Spring might be whispering along the contours, but without water there was very little green. Pockets of wildflowers appeared here and there, but the dominant color palette was a muted gray, dull pewter, and dusty beige.

  The descent from the summit carried me into the westernmost reaches of the central valley. The big draw in the area was its recreational waterway, which had all but disappeared with the onset of the drought. All I saw were the wooden docks that extended onto an apron of cracked mud. Where the waters had receded, the metal dome of a partially submerged car sat like an island, baking in the sun. Beyond, in the empty channel that had once carried a tributary, there was only more mud and long sloping banks of rock, exposed now after years of being hidden. Wide flat fields, bordered by distant mountains, awaited spring planting. The drought had tapped out all the natural springs, and the man-made irrigation systems were silent. I missed the reassuring fft-fft-fft of water cannons firing tracers out over newly sown fields.

  I barreled along a straightaway where a series of signs boasted of asparagus, peppers, sunflowers, and almonds for sale. All of the farm stands were closed except one. The small wooden structure was set up on the right side of the road, a hinged panel lowered to form a shelf piled high with asparagus spears bundled with fat red rubber bands.

  A middle-aged woman sat in a metal folding chair. Beside her, on the dusty berm, an old man stood holding a hand-lettered sign. As I passed, he turned his face and followed me with his gaze. I missed the message, but I could see that his arms trembled from his efforts to hold the sign aloft. Just off the road, a thirty-foot-tall telephone pole had three signs attached, one at the top, one in the middle, and another close to the ground. I put on the brakes, slowed, and pulled to a stop. I put the car in reverse and backed up until I was twenty-five feet away. I parked and got out. I told myself I was interested in buying fresh asparagus for Henry, but in truth I was struck by the old man himself.

  I spoke to the woman, saying, “How much is the asparagus?”

  “Dollar a bunch.”

  My eyes strayed to the old man, who appeared to be in his late eighties. His weathered face was darkened by years of exposure to the relentless valley sun. His pants were too long, bunched across his shoes and tattered at the hem where they had perpetually dragged along the ground. His plaid flannel shirt had faded to a pale graph of gray lines, and where his sleeves were rolled up, his forearms were tanned.

  The message on the sign was rendered in a formal lettering he’d probably learned in elementary school. He’d been educated in an era when children were taught the value of good penmanship, good manners, a respect for their elders, and a love of country. The sign read:

  Behold, the waters shall subside and the

  land shall falter and collapse in its wake.

  I was guessing he was the one who’d posted the signs mounted on the telephone pole because the materials were the same: poster board and black ink. Each sign was approximately eighteen inches long and eight inches tall, large enough to be legible to drivers in passing cars as long as they weren’t clipping along as fast as I had been. Now that I was standing in range, I had to tilt my face and use a hand to shade my eyes in order to see the sign near the top, which read “1925.” Midway down, a sign read “1955,” and close to the bottom, “1977.”

  I gestured, saying, “What is this?”

  The woman sitting at the card table responded on his behalf. “Land subsided twenty-eight feet. Sign at the top shows where it was in 1925. Bottom shows where it sank to by 1977. Monitoring system’s down, so it’s been twelve years since anybody measured.”

  I was assuming she was his daughter, as they shared similar facial contours and the same electric blue eyes.

  The old man watched me with interest. I shifted my gaze to him.

  “Are you saying the land has literally sunk twenty-eight feet?”

  “Land don’t hardly rise unless an earthquake buckles her in two. My pappy and my pappy’s pappy farmed this valley from 1862 onward. My grandpappy was thirteen years old when he first put his hand to a plow. Youngest boy of ten. They worked the land through the terrible drought of 1880 and come out good enough from what I hear tell. In those days the land was a paradise on earth, and it looked like the bounty wouldn’t never end.

  “Then the government came along and proposed moving water from up yonder to down here and then on. They called it the State Water Project. More like Steal Water, you want my opinion. Good for growers. Good for flood control. A help to everybody is what they said. They built the Delta-Mendota Canal up north, the Friant-Kern Canal, and the California Aqueduct. Regulate and irrigate. Water flows. Water goes. The drought’s come around again and the water’s gone.”

  “Daddy, that’s enough. This lady don’t want to hear you yammer on about the end of the world.”

  “Actually, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  “The groundwater was once plentiful. Runoff from snowpack in the high Sierras. Rain and more rain and the rivers were full up. One hundred and fifty years back, water was diverted at People’s Weir on the Kings River. The Kern River was diverted as well. Drought came around again and the water was cut back again as well, so the farmers around here refurbished the old pumping plants and drilled new wells. Nobody thought about the consequences. But the shallow aquifer declined and the deep aquifer declined. Land sinks when there’s nothing under her to hold her up. Twenty-eight feet’s a fact.”

  His daughter said, “Compaction’s what it’s called, but all adds up to the same thing.”

  I handed her two one-dollar bills and she put two bundles of asparagus in a brown paper bag.

  “Where you from?” she asked.

  “Santa Teresa.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Burning Oaks.”

  “I was there once. Didn’t much care for it. Maybe we’ll see you on your way home.”

  “Always possible.”

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later, I hit the outskirts of Burning Oaks, where a sign indicated a population of 6,623. After the total, someone had added “give or take” in small print. The region was once known for its petroleum and natural-gas reserves and even now produced a continuous supply of crude oil. The local job economy had also enjoyed a boost from the Burning Oaks Correctional Institute, a privately operated low-security prison. The town itself was bigger than I’d imagined, covering fifteen square miles.

  I drove the twenty-block width and the eighteen-block length in a grid pattern, taking in the whole of it. There was one Catholic church, St. Elizabeth’s, constructed in the style of an old California mission, which is to say, a number of rambling one-story stucco buildings connected under a zigzagging red tile roof. All of the other churches were outposts of off-brand religions. Apparently, the good citizens of Burning Oaks did not hold with the Baptists, the Methodists, or the Presbyterians.

  The residential streets were five lanes wide, as generous as the commercial avenues that bisected the downtown. The homeowners seemed to favor raw board fences, picket fences, and tidy alleyways where trash cans had been set out waiting for the pickup. In addition to three mobile home parks, there were one-story frame and stucco houses of modest proportions. Neighborhoods were punctuated by tall palms, feathery pepper trees, paddle cactus, and telephone poles that listed to one side or the other, straining the overhead wires.

  I stopped at the first service station I saw and picked up a local map, where points of interest had been flagged with small representative drawings. There was a library, a movie theate
r, and four elementary schools, a junior high school, a high school, and a community college. In addition to numerous supermarkets, I spotted a hospital, two hardware stores, a feed store, a boot museum, a dry goods emporium, coffee shops, drugstores, a retail tire business, three beauty shops, a fabric store, and a store selling Western attire. I couldn’t think why anyone would choose to live here. On the other hand, I couldn’t think why not. The town was clean and well-kept with more sky overhead than scenic wonders at ground level.

  I was assuming that when Pete arrived in Burning Oaks the previous spring, he did so without the benefit of the mailing pouch. I couldn’t imagine how he might have acquired it unless he’d met with Father Xavier, who had delivered the items into his hands. Because of Pete’s preliminary work, I’d been provided with two critical points of reference: the name and address of the priest and the return address of the sender in the upper left-hand corner of the mailer.

  I circled back to the library and pulled into an empty slot in the fifteen-space parking lot. I locked the car and went in, mailing pouch tucked under my arm. The one-story structure was of an uncertain architectural style that probably dated to the years just after World War II, when the country was recovering from steel shortages and throwing together new construction with whatever materials happened to be at hand.

  I went into an interior made cozy with oversize paper tulips cut out of construction paper and mounted under a row of clerestory windows, like the flowers were yearning for the light. The space smelled of that brand of white library paste so many of us loved to eat in elementary school. Assorted preschoolers sat cross-legged on the floor while a young woman read aloud from a book about a bear who could roller-skate. To these tykes, the world was full of novelties and a skating bear was only one of many. Older adults, retired by the look of them, claimed the comfortable chairs along the far wall. Not surprisingly, much of the rest of the space was taken up by row after row of bookshelves, filled to capacity.

  I approached the main desk, where a librarian was sorting and loading books onto a rolling cart for a return to the shelves. According to her name tag, she was Sandy Klemper, head librarian. She appeared to be fresh out of graduate school; a blonde in her early twenties, wearing a mint green sweater over a white blouse with a green-and-gray tweed skirt.