The Breakers

by Marcia Muller

  1:03 p.m.

  I finally heard from Julia. The cell service from Costa Rica was spotty today, but except for brief fade-outs we could understand each other well enough.

  “I’ve located the Curleys,” she said. “They’re about to fly to Washington, D.C., and then to SF.”

  “Have they heard from Chelle?”

  “No. That’s the downside—she never contacted them or her brother.”

  “Damn! So what was this disappearing act they pulled all about? They were concerned with where she was, and then they just vanished—”

  “Shar, do you know what they do?”

  “You mean for a living? They own a print shop near the Panhandle.”

  “That’s not their primary occupation, not for the past several years.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Government intelligence operations in Central and South America.”

  “What!”

  “It’s true. I wormed it out of a guy in the diplomatic service down here. That’s why all the trips. That’s why their sudden disappearance.”

  I still had a hard time believing it. “I lived next door to the Curleys for a number of years, took my printing jobs to their shop, entertained them frequently. Now you tell me they’re spies?”

  “Evidently they were recruited twelve years ago by one of the alphabet agencies—the covert kind that only top government officials know exist.”

  “The Curleys? Why them? What on earth made them recruitable?”

  “Seems they met in the military, where they were engaged in similar activities. Their friend said they’re highly addicted to adventure.”

  “Who’s this guy in the diplomatic service you talked to?”

  “His name’s Peterson. He was assigned to perform liaison services for them.”

  “Why’d he out them to you?”

  “He didn’t out them exactly. Seems they’ve had enough of undercover work—they’re going to D.C. to resign. Chelle still being missing is what did it. They decided her life is worth more to them than adventure.”

  “Too bad they didn’t figure that out years ago.”

  “I agree. Say, didn’t you once have contact with an alphabet agency?”

  “Yeah—CENTAC—years ago. If I hadn’t stumbled across them in connection with another case, they’d still be playing their dirty tricks deep in the subbasement of D.C. politics.” I paused, then asked, “Was Chelle aware of her folks’ covert activities?”

  “They say no, but I find that hard to believe.”

  So did I. The Curleys had always been a close-knit family. Jim and Trish wouldn’t have been able to keep their government activities a secret from Chelle once she was an adult. She was too smart and inquisitive.

  “Anyway,” Julia said, “Mrs. Curley said for me to tell you she’ll call you from D.C.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Ungraciously, I cut the call short with a terse thanks and goodbye. Sort of a kill-the-messenger moment.

  Immediately I tapped out Mick’s cell number. “You’re not going to believe what Julia just told me, calling from Costa Rica.”

  “These days I believe anything. What?”

  I explained.

  “Doesn’t surprise me all that much,” he said after a pause. “You know that drawer of crap you had me take from the Curleys’ kitchen? Well, I finally got to looking through it this afternoon. Nothing interesting except for a beat-up travel wallet; in one of its inside pockets there was a set of orders dated ten years ago on a MATS flight to Brazil.”

  MATS: Military Air Transport Service. Used to ferry military personnel to hot spots around the world. And spies?

  “Find out all you can about their spook activities,” I said, and made another ungracious disconnect.

  1:52 p.m.

  So what was I supposed to do now? Wait around for Trish to call and her and Jim to get back? It could be a long time; from what I knew of government agencies there would be debriefings and more debriefings. And according to Julia, there wasn’t anything they could tell me about Chelle’s disappearance anyway. My investigation was at a standstill, I was frustrated and restless, but there had to be something I could do…

  My eyes lighted on the reports on the alleged victims of the Carver in the San Luis area. There was something I could do that might bring results, and would also get me out of the smoky San Francisco air. I copied the parts of the reports containing the names and addresses of friends or relatives of the victims. Then I deposited the documents on Mick’s desk and left M&R.

  5:18 p.m.

  The problem with this case, I thought as I navigated the tricky downhill curves of Highway 101 leading into San Luis Obispo, was that it had started out only about Chelle being missing, but now had lost its focus and seemed centered not on her but on the Carver. If I didn’t turn up a lead on the Central Coast…Well, worry about that if and when the time came.

  San Luis is a Mission town, founded by Franciscan Junípero Serra. Serra’s reasoning—that the native Chumash Indians were friendly and the cool Mediterranean climate pleasant and amply supplied with fresh water and game—was proven out, and over the years the town grew to a population in the mid-forty-thousands, augmented every fall by the influx of students at Cal Poly, one of the west’s best polytechnic institutions.

  The town was crowded on this mid-August Friday, even though classes hadn’t yet started: tourists walked slowly, snapping photographs; beachgoers hustled across the hot streets, sunburned and wrapped in towels; people ate ice cream cones and by-the-slice pizza. There were rollerbladers and skateboarders and bus tours for the elderly, their leaders bellowing through microphones. An overpowering aroma of sea air, popcorn, and frying oil filled the air.

  Ted—after several tries—had gotten me a reservation at the Seaside Inn, only a short walk from the Port San Luis Pier. An attractive, comfortable place with Wi-Fi. I set up my laptop and checked in with the agency. Ted had managed to schedule me appointments with two of the victims’ relatives for this evening.

  7:10 p.m.

  Alida Washington, aunt of Christopher Wickens, lived in the foothills on the eastern side of the freeway. She was young to be the aunt of a fortysome-year-old man, clad in tight-fitting shorts and a halter top, with dark crescents under her nails that showed she’d been working in the garden.

  “Fall veggies,” she said, leading me to a screened porch at the rear of her house. “You’ve gotta get them in the ground on time. Would you like a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  She went into what must be a kitchen and came back with two frosty Heinekens. “So you’re here about Christopher?” she said, sitting down. “Why? It’s old news.”

  “Maybe not as old as it might seem.”

  “You’ve found out something about who did this horrible thing to him?”

  “Possibly. Tell me about Christopher.”

  “He was a good man. One of the best. And talented. Have you seen any of his photographs?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  She motioned at the wall across from us. “Those two are his.”

  Black and white with impressive shadowing. The nearby hills as few had ever seen them, one taken in early morning, the other near dusk.

  “He was talented,” I said. “And, I understand, well liked.”

  “Very well liked. I don’t think he had an enemy in the world. How someone could just…cut him up like that…”

  “Can you think of anything he might’ve done to provoke it?”

  Many people would have said an immediate no, but Alida Washington stopped and thought. The no came a moment later. “Random, the sheriff’s department said.”

  “Perhaps he tried to take the wrong person’s picture?”

  Her eyes widened. “Maybe. He liked to take candid shots. But he always got permission and a signed release.”

  “Did you tell law enforcement that?”

  “Oh, yes. They searched his files and office, but found nothing.”

&n
bsp; “What happened to Christopher’s camera—the one he was using that day?”

  “The Leica? The Santa Lucia County Sheriff’s Department still has it. They’re supposed to return it to me if they ever close out the case.” She snorted disdainfully.

  “Did Christopher ever use another camera?”

  “Just the Leica. I let them take it, but I didn’t give them his camera bag. I needed to have something to remember him by.”

  Camera bag: a repository for all kinds of items. “May I see it?”

  “Certainly.” She got up and went into the house. I relaxed for a moment, listening to a pair of jays quarreling in the pines at the back of the lot.

  Alida came back out. “Here it is.” She thrust the bag at me.

  It was in bad shape, caked with mud, its shoulder strap torn.

  “Where was this found?”

  “I myself found it in the wheel well of the trunk of his car after the police returned it to me. They either hadn’t noticed it or didn’t realize what it was.”

  “And where was the camera?”

  “Downhill from his body, in the Santa Lucia Mountains. He had an assignment to do a photo essay on the area for the local paper. There’s a packet of photos of that wilderness area inside. I suppose the bag was in the trunk because he wouldn’t want it hanging off him in such rough terrain.”

  “May I take this with me?” I asked. “I promise to bring it back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Keep it. I can’t be forever clinging to the past. Better yet, give it to Clive. I’ve been meaning to.”

  “Clive?”

  “Chris’s partner.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that,” I said.

  7:53 p.m.

  I opened the bag in my car, found the packet of photos. Redwoods, light filtering down through their high branches; three young deer playing in a meadow; exotic mushrooms and ferns; crystal water rippling over smooth stones; a rustic bridge with something dark lurking under it; an ancient willow tree, splitting apart except where an iron bar held its two main trunks together.

  Something dark there too. Figures—males, I thought. The shadows under the footbridge and in the tangle of tree limbs obscured them, but I got the sense of leanness and flexibility from the way they stood. The juxtaposition of light and shadow cast a threatening aura over the otherwise pastoral scenes. The two dark figures seemed to be waiting for something or someone.

  Christopher Wickens, who had stumbled into their territory? Christopher, who was soon to become their prey?

  The rest of the bag’s contents didn’t tell me much. Extra lens caps—a necessity for most pros because the caps have a habit of falling off and vanishing forever. Lens-polishing cloths, carefully folded in an inside pocket. Four canisters of unexposed film. Kodak infrared, ISO 400. Good for use in poor visibility or at night. Had there been film in the Leica when it was found? If so, the sheriff’s department technicians would have developed it long ago.

  In the other pockets: Nail clippers. Comb, retaining few of its teeth. Small baggie of marijuana. Rolling papers and Bic lighter. Magnifying glass and jeweler’s loupe for examining prints. Kleenex packet. ATM withdrawal slip for a hundred dollars. Map of Santa Lucia County, with Santa Marta Creek—a village in the Santa Lucia Mountains, judging from the tiny size of the dot—circled in black felt tip.

  Santa Marta Creek. I’d go there tomorrow.

  8:20 p.m.

  According to Mick’s detailed information, a cocktail waitress named Dana Stutz had been the girlfriend of bartender Ronald Brower. She worked at Water’s Edge, an upscale bar near my motel. She was on duty tonight, and willing to sit down with me during her break. She was tall but fragile looking, with pale skin that seemed nearly translucent. Her black hair was restrained tightly at the nape of her neck.

  “I can’t imagine why you want to talk to me about Ron after all this time. Unless there’s new evidence about his murder…?”

  “Potentially there is, but I can’t discuss it yet.”

  “The police said Ron didn’t know the crazy person who killed him, that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That seems likely. Will you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

  “We were working different shifts—he was just coming on, I was going home—so we only had time to talk in passing.”

  “About…?”

  “Plans for the weekend, nothing special. Maybe dinner with friends, maybe a movie. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Were you two living together, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “No, we weren’t.” She wrinkled her nose. “His mother wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She needed him at home, she said.”

  “I take it you and his mother weren’t close.”

  “That’s an understatement. I haven’t had anything to do with her since Ron was killed.”

  “How did he cope with the situation?”

  “By walking a tightrope. He couldn’t quite break loose of her, and I was at the point that I’d had it. In fact, I was going to break up with him that weekend. But then…a friend of mine saw it on the news the next noon and called me. I couldn’t believe it until I turned on the TV. His body was found in an alley two blocks from here. They had his mother on the broadcast for a few minutes, and she was wailing and screaming, saying something about his awful companions. They cut her off before she could get to me.”

  “Grief does weird things to people.”

  “And makes weird people even weirder. She called me up the next day and made all sorts of ridiculous accusations.”

  “Such as?”

  “That I’d cast some sort of spell on Ron. Said that I’d put the ‘evil eye’ on him.”

  That startled me. What did Ron Brower’s mother know of the evil eye?

  “Did she explain what she meant by that?”

  “No, she wasn’t in any explaining mode.”

  “Did Ron ever mention an evil eye to you?”

  “Never. I don’t even know what it is.”

  9:05 p.m.

  Ronald Brower’s mother, Mrs. Celia Brower, consented to see me at nine o’clock. On the phone she came across as anything but the “mother from hell” Dana had made her out to be. She was pleasant enough and willing to talk to me tonight, despite the lateness of the hour, and readily provided directions to her home near the Cal Poly campus.

  The Brower house was redwood and glass, nestled among pines on a large lot. I rang the bell. The woman who came to the door had short gray hair cut in a chic style and wore an elegant dark-green silk lounging outfit. She shook my hand and ushered me into a large foyer overlooked by two stories of railed galleries. The furnishings of the foyer were minimal—a bench here, an ornamental urn there—but the hardwood floors were partially covered by luminous Oriental carpets in rich shades of red, cobalt blue, orange, and vermillion.

  Celia Brower led me to a formal living room. Uncomfortable-looking sofas and chairs were grouped in front of a fireplace, tables with parquet designs protected by glass interspersed between them. The fireplace showed no sign of use. My hostess motioned for me to sit. The sofa felt as it looked—rock hard.

  I said, “As I explained on the phone, I have a reason for reopening the investigation of your son’s death—”

  “Has the maniac who killed Ronald begun slaughtering people again, if he ever stopped?”

  “He may have. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Do you know or suspect who he is?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I pray to God you find out. But I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “I know seven years is a long time, but there may be something you can tell me that might be useful. I’ve already spoken with Dana Stutz—”

  “That woman!” Celia Brower’s face contorted with anger. “She’s to blame for what happened to Ronald!”

  “In what way?”

 
“She talked him into taking that ridiculous bartending job. He told me he needed the money, but I’d have gladly given it to him. No, he said, he wanted to pay for his college on his own. That damned independent streak—he got it from his father. Then the hussy wanted Ronald to move in with her. I told him I needed him here—it was true; I have a weak heart. He was a dutiful son and he stayed. The night he was attacked and murdered, he was walking back to his car from that dreadful bar.”

  “Dana told me you claimed she put the evil eye on your son. What did you mean by that?”

  “The evil eye? How dare she! I said no such thing to her.”

  “She seemed positive that you had.”

  “Nonsense. I never did. She’s a terrible liar, that woman, among her other faults.”

  I didn’t press the issue. If Mrs. Brower had used the term “evil eye,” it could have been in the heat of the moment—the raving of a grieving mother.

  I let a few seconds pass and then asked, “What can you tell me about your son? His studies, his interests, his leisure time activities?”

  For a moment she looked blank. “Well…he was majoring in psychology. Personally, I didn’t think that was right for him.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Ronald wasn’t a people person. He was all right behind a bar, I suppose, where the rules are clearly defined, but in a social situation he was hopeless.”

  “Hopeless?”

  “He didn’t relate. At parties—I give many parties—he would simply sit apart from the group and watch people. If they spoke with him, he was perfectly polite, but he had a reserve that—one of my friends described it as icy.”

  “Yet he was a good son to you?”

  “Very good. Dutiful, as I said.”

  “What about interests, hobbies?”

  “He had none. He was always studying.”

  “Was he a sports fan?”

  “He didn’t care for spectator sports. He did play tennis with his father.”

  “I understand his father was no longer in his life.”

  “He is no longer in this life. He died in an auto accident ten years ago. It was nowhere near as great a loss to me as Ronald’s death, I assure you.”