by Sue Grafton
I combed the rest of the reel, but nothing much stood out. I went back to the beginning and made copies of everything except the print ads and the classifieds. I rewound the film and tucked the reel of tape back in the box. I paid for the copies at the main desk on my way out, thinking about the people whose whereabouts I’d have to question for those couple of days. How much would I remember if someone quizzed me about the night Isabelle was killed? One fragment had been restored, but the rest was a blank.
4
I retrieved my car from the public lot and drove out to the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department Detention and Corrections Facility. Morley’s interview with Curtis McIntyre was one of the documents I’d found in the proper file, though the subpoena had never been served. He’d apparently spoken to Curtis mid-September and no one had talked to him since. According to Morley’s notes, McIntyre had been in a holding cell with Barney his first night in the can. He claimed they’d established a friendship of sorts, more on his part than Barney’s. He’d found himself intrigued because Barney was a man who seemed to have everything. Curtis, accustomed to doing jail time with losers, had followed the case in the papers. When the trial came up, he’d made a point of being in attendance. He and Barney hadn’t talked much until the day he was acquitted. As David Barney left the courtroom, Curtis McIntyre had stepped forward to offer his congratulations. At that point, according to the informant, David Barney made the remark that implied he’d just gotten away with murder. I couldn’t tell if Curtis had elaborated on that or not.
I parked out in front of the jail, across the lot from the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department with its fleet of black-and-whites. I moved up the walk and pushed through the front door into the small reception area, approaching the L-shaped counter with the glass partition along the top. I’d done an overnight at the jail nearly six weeks before and I was glad to be returning in a legitimate guise. It felt much better walking in the front door than it had going in the back in the company of an arresting officer.
I signed in at the desk and filled out a jail visitation pass. The woman at the counter took the information and disappeared from the window. I waited in the lobby, perusing the bulletin board while she called down for someone to bring Curtis up to the interview room. On the wall near the pay phone, all the better bail bondsmen were listed, along with the Santa Teresa taxicab companies. Getting yourself arrested is usually an unexpected piece of misery. Once your bail’s been posted, if your car’s been impounded, you find yourself stuck out in the boonies—an added element of distress after a night of humiliations.
The woman behind the counter caught my attention. “Your client’s coming up in a minute. Booth two.”
“Thanks.”
I traversed the short hallway and passed through the door leading to the visitors’ booths. There were only three in that section, set up so that inmates could confer in private with their attorneys, probation officers, or anyone else they had a legitimate reason to consult. I let myself into the second “room,” which was maybe four feet wide, furnished with a glass window, a four-foot length of counter, and a footrail of the sort you’d find in a bar. I hied myself up to the counter and put my foot up, leaning on my elbows. Beyond the glass was a roomette that mirrored the one I was in, with a door in the back wall through which the inmates were brought. Within minutes, the door opened and Curtis McIntyre was ushered in. He seemed puzzled at the unscheduled visit, perplexed at the sight of me when he’d probably expected his attorney.
He was twenty-eight, lean and long-waisted with hips so narrow they hardly held his pants up. He looked good in jail blues. His shirt was short-sleeved, showing long, smooth arms, the perfect epidermal canvas for a dragon tattoo. My guess was that somebody’d once told Curtis he had soulful eyes because he seemed determined to make deep, meaningful eye contact with me. He was clean-shaven, with an innocent-looking face (for a convicted felon). His hair was ill cut, which was no big surprise as the man had been in jail for months. I didn’t picture his having a regular salon cut and blow-dry in the best of circumstances.
I introduced myself, explaining my purpose, which was to get his written statement. “From Mr. Shine’s notes, I gather you met David Barney in a holding cell the first night after his arrest.”
“You single?”
I checked behind me. “Who, me?”
He smiled the kind of smile you’d have to practice in the mirror, eyes boring into mine. “You heard me.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
His voice softened to the coaxing tone reserved for stray dogs and women. “Come on. Just tell me. I’m a nice guy.”
I said, “I’m sure you’re very nice, but it’s none of your business.”
This amused him. “How come you’re afraid to answer? Are you attracted to me? Because I’m attracted to you.”
“Well, you’re very forthcoming and I appreciate that, Curtis. Uh, now, could you tell me about the time you spent with David Barney?”
He smiled faintly. “All business. I like that. You take yourself serious.”
“That’s right. And I hope you’ll take me serious, too.”
He cleared his throat, sobering, clearly trying to make a good impression. “Him and me were in a cell together. He was arrested on a Tuesday and we didn’t go before the judge until Wednesday afternoon. Seemed like a nice guy. By the time his trial come up, I’se out, so I figured I’d sit in on it and see what all the fuss was about.”
“Did the two of you talk about the murder at the time of his arrest?”
“Naw, not really. He was upset, which I could understand. Lady got shot in the eye, that’s ugly. I don’t know what kind of person’d do a thing like that,” he said. “Turns out it was him, I guess.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. Nothin’ much. He was asking what all I was in for and stuff like that, what judge I thought we’d pull for the arraignment the next day. I give him a rundown on which ones are tough, which is most of ’em. Well, that one guy’s a pussy, but the rest is mean.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it.”
“And on the basis of that, you sat through the whole trial?”
“Not the whole trial. You ever sit through a whole trial? It’s boring, idn’t it? I’se glad I never went to law school.”
“I’ll bet.” I checked through my notes. “I’ve read the deposition Mr. Kingman took—”
“You single?”
“You asked me that before.”
“I bet you are. You know how I know?” He tapped himself on the temple. “I’m psychic.”
“Well, then, you can probably tell me what I’m going to ask you next.”
He flushed happily. “Not really. I don’t know you that well, but I’d like to.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to intuit the answers to some questions I have.”
“I’ll try. Absolutely. Go ahead. I’m all ears.” He lowered his head and his expression became serious.
“Tell me again what he said to you once the acquittal came down.”
“Said . . . let’s see now. He goes, something like . . . ‘Hey, dude. How you doin’? How about that? Now you see what a high-priced attorney buys?’ And I’m like, ‘Way to go, man. That’s great. I never thought you done her.’ He just got this big shi—pardon me—this big grin. He kind of leaned over close and said, ‘Ha ha ha, I guess the joke’s on them.’ ”
This seemed like an improbable conversation to me. I’d never met David Barney, but I couldn’t believe he’d talk like that. I watched Curtis’s face. “And from that, you concluded what?”
“I concluded he done her. You have a boyfriend?”
“He’s a cop.”
“Bullshiiiit. I don’t believe you. What’s his name?”
“Lieutenant Dolan.”
“What’s he do?”
“Homicide. STPD.”
“Don’t you never date anybody else?”<
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“He’s too jealous for that. He’d rip your head right off your neck if he found out you were hustling me. Did you talk to David Barney any other time?”
“Besides jail and court? I don’t think so. Just them two occasions.”
“It seems odd that he’d say that.”
“How come? Let’s discuss that.” He put his chin on his fist, ready to engage me in protracted discourse.
“The man hardly knows you, Curtis. Why would he confide something so significant? And right there in court. . . .” I cupped a hand to my ear. “With the sound of the judge’s gavel still ringing in the air.”
Curtis frowned thoughtfully. “You’d have to ask him that, but if you’re asking me, I’d say he knows I’m a jailbird. He might have felt more comfortable with me than all his high-tone friends. Anyhow, why not? Trial was over. What’s anybody going to do? Even if they heard him there’s no way they can touch him on account of double jeopardy.”
“Where were you when this conversation was taking place?”
“Outside the door. It was Department Six. He come out and I clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand—”
“What about reporters? Wasn’t he being mobbed at that point?”
“Oh, God, yes. They were everyplace. Yelling his name, stickin’ microphones in his face, asking how he felt.”
I could feel the skepticism rise. “And in the middle of it he stopped and made that remark?”
“Well, yeah. He leaned over and spoke in my ear just like I said. You’re a private detective? Is that really what you do?”
I shrugged to myself and began to print his account of events. “That’s really what I do,” I said.
“So like when I get out, if I have a problem, I can look you up in the phone book?”
I wasn’t paying much attention to him since I was in the process of converting his version into a written statement. “I guess so.” If you can read.
“How much do you charge for a service like that? What’s that cost?”
“Depends on what you want.”
“But about what?”
“Three hundred bucks an hour,” I said, lying automatically. At fifty bucks an hour he might possibly afford me.
“Go onnn. I don’t believe it.”
“Plus expenses.”
“Goddamn, I can’t believe it. Are you shittin’ me or what? Three hundred an hour. Every hour you work?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You sure make a lot of money. For a girl? Lord,” he said. “How about if you lend me some? Fifty dollars, or a hundred. Just till I’m out and then I can pay you back.”
“I don’t think men should borrow money from women.”
“Who else you gonna borrow from? I mean, I don’t know dudes with dough. Unless they’re drug kings, something like that. Santa Teresa, we don’t even get the kings. We get more like the jacks.” He snorted out a laugh. “You have a gun?”
“Sure I do,” I said.
He rose halfway off his seat and peered down through the glass like I might have a six-shooter strapped to one hip. “Hey, come on. Let me see.”
“I don’t have it with me.”
“Where’s it at?”
“My office. I keep it down there in case somebody should refuse to pay a bill. Could you read this and see if it accurately reflects your recollection of your conversation with Mr. Barney?” I passed it under the glass partition, along with a pen.
He barely glanced at it. “Close enough. Hey, you print pretty good.”
“I was a whiz in grade school,” I said. “Could I ask you to sign it?”
“How come?”
“So we’ll have a record of your testimony. That way if you forget, we can refresh your memory in court.”
He scribbled a signature and passed the statement back. “Ask me something else,” he said. “I’ll tell you anything.”
“This is fine. Thanks a lot. If I have any other questions, I’ll be in touch.”
After I left Curtis, I sat out in the parking lot watching cop cars come and go. This was too good to be true. Here’s Curtis McIntyre driving nails into David Barney’s coffin and it just didn’t sound right. David Barney refused to talk now, nearly five years after the fact, two years since his acquittal. From what Lonnie’d said, extracting the most benign information from the man had been like pulling teeth. Why would he blab a makeshift confession to a dimwit like Curtis? Oh, well. It’s hard to reconcile the inconsistencies in human nature. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
According to the files, Isabelle Barney’s sister, Simone Orr, was still living on the Barney property in Horton Ravine, one of two exclusive neighborhoods favored by the Santa Teresa well-to-do. Promotional materials from the Chamber of Commerce refer to Horton Ravine as a “sparkling jewel in a parklike setting,” which should give you some idea how puffed up these pamphlets can get. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains dominate the sky. To the south lies the Pacific Ocean. The views are always described as “breathtaking,” “stunning,” or “spectacular.”
In the real estate ads describing the area words like serenity and tranquillity abound. Every noun has an adjective attached to give it the proper tone and substance. The “lush, well-manicured” lots are large, maybe five acres on average, and zoned for horses. The “elegant, spacious” homes are set well away from the roads, which wind through hills “dotted” with bay, sycamore, live oak, and cypress. Lots of dotteds and amids.
I found myself rhapsodizing in salespeak as I drove up the long, circular drive to the stately, secluded entrance to this classic Mediterranean home with its sweeping, panoramic views of serene mountains and sparkling ocean. I drove into the splendid flagstone courtyard and parked my used VW amid a Lincoln and a Beamer. I got out and entered a walled garden, passing along the handsome paved gallery. The entire four-acre parcel was dotted with seasonal perennials, lush ferns, and imported palms. Also, two gardeners trailing four hundred yards of hose between them.
I’d put a call through to Simone in advance of my arrival and she’d instructed me carefully how to reach her little cottage, which was situated on the lower terrace amid lush lawns and assorted outbuildings, like the poolhouse and the toolshed. I rounded the eastern wing of the house, which I’d been told was designed by a well-known Santa Teresa architect whose name I’d never heard. I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built, black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a flagstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.
The house was tiny, built of board and batten, with a steeply pitched shingle roof and wooden decking on three sides. The exterior was Shaker blue, the trim painted white. Wood frame windows formed the upper portion of the walls on all sides. The top half of the Dutch door stood open. December in Santa Teresa can be like spring in other parts of the country—gray days, a bit of rain, but with a lot of blue sky shining through.
I stopped in my tracks, completely smitten with the sight. I have a special weakness for small, enclosed spaces, a barely disguised longing to return to the womb. After the death of my parents, when I first went to live with my maiden aunt, I established a separate residence in an oversize cardboard box. I had just turned five and I can still remember the absolute absorption with which I furnished this small corrugated refuge. The floor was covered with bed pillows. I had a blanket and a lamp with a fat blue ceramic base and a sixty-watt bulb that heated the interior to a tropical pitch. I would lie on my back, reading endless picture books. My favorite was about a girl who discovered a tiny elf named Twig who lived in an overturned tomato-juice can. Fantasies within fantasies. I don’t remember crying. For four months, I hummed and I read my library books, a little closed-circuit system designed to deal with grief. I ate cheese-and-pickle sandwiches like the ones my mother made. I fixed them myself be
cause they had to be just right. Some days I substituted peanut butter for the cheese and that was good. My aunt went about her business, leaving me to work through my feelings without intrusion. My parents died Memorial Day. That fall, I started school. . . .
“Are you Kinsey?”
I turned to look at the woman as if waking from a sleep. “That’s right. And you’re Simone?”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.” She carried a pair of gardening scissors and a shallow wicker basket piled with cut flowers, which she set down. Her smile was brief as she held out her hand for me to shake. I judged her to be in her late thirties or very early forties. She was slightly shorter than I with wide shoulders and a stocky build, which she managed to minimize by the clothes she wore. Her hair was a reddish-blond, a fine flyaway shade much darker at the roots, cut shoulder length and crinkled from a perm. Her face was square, her mouth wide. Her eyes were an unremarkable shade of blue with mascara-darkened lashes and fine reddish brows. The outfit she wore was a black-and-white geometric print, a washable silk jacket over a long black tunic top, her long loose skirt brushing the tops of black suede boots. Her fingers were blunt and there was clear polish on her nails. She wore no jewelry and very little makeup. Belatedly, I noticed that she used a cane. I watched while she transferred it from her left hand to her right. She adjusted her stance and shifted some of her weight to the cane as she leaned down and picked up the basket at her feet.
“I have to get these in water. Come on in.” She opened the bottom portion of the Dutch door and I followed her in.
