A Killing in the Valley

by JF Freedman

  “This is a great place,” she enthused. “It must be expensive, especially since you live here by yourself.”

  “Yeah, it’s pricey,” Jeremy agreed laconically. He took another drag and pinched the blunt out with the tips of his fingers.

  “How come you have two bedrooms, if it’s just you?” she asked. She had looked into the other bedroom. It was fully furnished, but wasn’t being used—it was too neat, nothing was out of place.

  After not answering for a moment, he said, “I had a roommate.”

  “Another guy?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened to him?”

  He shook his head as if he didn’t want to think about it. “He bailed out. Dropped out,” he clarified.

  “He was going to UCSB, too?” She didn’t want her prying to be too obvious, but he didn’t seem to be noticing.

  He didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he said, “It’s all screwed up.”

  “What is?”

  “Everything,” he said darkly. “My life.”

  She stifled a laugh. “That’s kind of dramatic, isn’t it, Jeremy?”

  His look at her was intense. “Not really.”

  She took on a look of sympathy. “Did someone die? The friend who was living here with you?”

  “No, he didn’t die. Nobody died,” he said doggedly. “It’s just…” He drank some more beer. “Forget it. You’re right, it’s not that terrible.” He forced a smile. “Some date I turned out to be, huh? Mister doom and gloom.”

  “It was great until a minute ago,” she said cheerfully. “Hey, I’m sorry I brought up whatever it was that ticked you off.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t you,” he told her. “It has nothing to do with you.” He sighed. “Let’s drop it, okay?”

  “Sure.” She went inside and got herself another Snapple out of the refrigerator. The contents were typical male student—lots of beer and other drinks, and almost no solid food. In the freezer (she checked) were stacks of frozen pizzas and Mexican foods—burritos, tamales, taquitos. Two bottles of vodka. All the basic college food groups.

  She came back outside and sat down again, moving closer to him. “Your parents must be rich for you to afford to live in a place like this by yourself,” she commented. “What kind of mogul is your dad?” she asked jokingly.

  “I wish,” he replied. “My old man works for county government in L.A., and my mom teaches school. We’re barely middle-class. I’m here on scholarship.”

  “A brain.” She was impressed. Scholarships to UCs were super-competitive.

  “Or is it for sports?” He had a decent build, but he didn’t carry himself like an athlete. And if he was a jock he wouldn’t be living like this. This pad was too neat. She knew some athletes from Stanford, friends of her sister’s. A jock’s apartment was an animal house.

  “Not sports,” he confirmed. “I play club lacrosse, though.”

  “Cool. Maybe I’ll come watch you sometime.”

  He looked at her. “You would?”

  “Sure. I like lacrosse.”

  “There’s a game next week. Can you come?”

  “I’m in a play that opens in a couple of weeks, and we have a busy rehearsal schedule,” she explained. “But if I’m available, I’d like to.”

  He stared at her. “You’re awfully mature for a girl who’s still in high school.”

  She felt a catch in her throat as she flashed to the years of Wanda and her living apart from her mother, and all the turmoil over her parents’ divorce and her mother’s downhill slide before she corrected herself. “I’ve had some tough times, like everyone else,” she said. “I’ve had to take care of myself a lot.”

  Why are you telling him this, she thought, rebuking herself. You’re here to find out about him, not the other way around. You don’t want him to know about you.

  “But nothing really heavy,” she added. “I’ve got it pretty good.” She thought about Tina, living in constant fear of being deported. Compared to people like Tina, she had it damn good. She swung the conversation back on course. “You were telling me how come you can afford to live in such fancy digs.” She jumped in her seat. “Aha! I’ve got it. You’re a dealer.”

  Jeremy recoiled. “Jesus, don’t say shit like that!”

  “I was kidding.”

  That was an overreaction to an obvious joke. Maybe she was onto something. Could Maria’s killing be tied to drugs? She would ask her mother about that.

  “It isn’t funny,” he declared hotly. “I’ve had friends who have been busted. And I’m not a dealer. For one thing, I’m too chickenshit. I couldn’t handle the tension.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “But anyway,” she pressed him, “how do you pay for this place?”

  “Peter pays for it.”

  “Who’s Peter?”

  “My roommate who jumped ship. His father pays for the whole thing.”

  She whistled low through her teeth. “Even though he’s not here?”

  Jeremy nodded. “His father signed the lease. When Peter decided to drop out this quarter his dad assured me he’d keep on paying. He knew I couldn’t afford it.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Peter’s dad’s a great guy.” He frowned. “Peter doesn’t treat him as good as he should.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “He’s just…” He waved off the rest of what he was going to say. “Let’s say Peter can be self-consumed and leave it at that.”

  She looked at him. “You sound like you’re angry with him.”

  He turned away. “Not really. You can’t be angry with people for being who they are.”

  She let that go. Instead, she asked, “Why did he leave school? Was he doing poorly?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “No. Classes had barely started.” He sighed. “Peter was burned out and needed to take a quarter off. He’s not the first one.”

  “So he’ll be back after Christmas?” she asked.

  “I guess,” he answered, “I’ll see him when I go home at Thanksgiving. See what his plans are.” He drained his beer. “At least I don’t have to worry about the rent. His father’s paying for the whole year.” He indicated with his arm. “This place costs more than my tuition and books.”

  “That must be a relief to you,” she said.

  “It is,” he agreed. “Although I’m not doing very well this quarter. I have to keep a 3.0, or my scholarship’s in danger. This is the first quarter I won’t be dean’s list,” he lamented.

  There’s something weird going on here, Sophia thought. Something connected to Jeremy’s having been with Maria Estrada that day, it had to be. Maybe—this was a real reach—he was connected with her getting killed. Or maybe his old roommate was.

  Jeremy had freaked out when she had jokingly brought up the idea of his being involved with drugs. She had heard enough about Maria’s family to know that before Steven was arrested the police and others had thought drugs could be part of why she was killed.

  Whatever the reason, something very heavy was bothering Jeremy. Something deeper than his roommate flaking on him.

  If Tina was right about what had happened that day, she now knew two people who had been with Maria Estrada on the day she disappeared. Two people who hadn’t talked to the police about being with her. Tina had a reason to stay clear of the police. But what could Jeremy’s be?

  She needed to talk to her mother about this. “I need to be going,” she said. “My mother will be getting antsy.”

  “Okay.” He got up. “Listen. What we talked about, me not feeling good and that? It’s no big deal. Sometimes school gets under your skin, you know?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “I get bummed all the time. I have to send my college aps in next month—talk about pressure! How come it isn’t fun to be young all the time, like your parents keep telling you?”

  “It never was, that’s my theory,” he answered. “They j
ust don’t remember. Or they want you to find out that life’s a bitch for yourself, like they had to.”

  She smiled at that. “It isn’t always a bitch.” She linked her arm in his.

  “No,” he agreed, smiling back. “Sometimes it’s pretty damn good.”

  Kate was already asleep when Sophia got home. She’d left a note in the kitchen: “Have to be up and out early. Left you money for lunch. See you at dinner, unless you have play practice. Let me know. Love, Mom.”

  Sophia was impatient to tell her mother about Jeremy Musgrove, but it could wait until tomorrow. No one was going anywhere, and the trial was still months away. She watched The Daily Show and Leno’s opening monologue, and went to bed.

  26

  LUKE DROVE RIVA’S BMW station wagon down the long access road to Juanita McCoy’s house. The GTO hadn’t been running smoothly for the past week, which was why he was using his wife’s car. Over the weekend, he’d take the head off the engine block and put a new gasket on, and it would be good to go again. That was another nice thing about old cars—you could work on them yourself. You practically need a Ph.D. in physics and access to a million-dollar shop just to change the spark plugs on a modern car.

  He parked in front of Juanita’s house, got out of his car, stretched his legs, and looked around. God’s country, he thought to himself, or an excellent facsimile. What would it be like to raise a family on a place like this—a throwback Norman Rockwell existence, yet less than an hour from downtown Santa Barbara. Financially, he didn’t need to work anymore—he’d had some big scores over the past decade, and Riva was a frugal and savvy money manager. If he quit working today they’d be in good shape for the rest of their lives.

  But he wasn’t going to quit—he wasn’t close to burning out. He loved the combat, the impact he had on people’s lives, being in the mix. It might be a relief, though, to pull over into the slow lane in the other parts of his life.

  Someday, they might do that. But not yet. Riva wouldn’t want to live this far away from town while the kids were growing up. That’s how she’d been living when he first met her, up in Mendocino County, the big house in the redwood forest. He was barely in the profession then; he had been on a self-imposed sabbatical, after his first wife had divorced him and his life was in shambles. Riva, too, had been in her own exile, and like him, had wanted nothing more than to cocoon. But once they connected, and brought each other out of the darkness, she was happy to rejoin civilization.

  Life was better than ever. A smart man doesn’t reinvent the wheel. Next summer they could rent a place out in the valley for the weekends, see how they liked it, without committing to anything permanent.

  He looked at the hills surrounding him. There was something glorious about the silence, the majesty of size. He would talk to Riva about his idea, if they ever found time to be alone.

  Juanita came out of the house. She had been cooking or baking; an apron was tied around her waist. She smiled in greeting.

  “Aren’t you early?” she asked. “Steven said nine o’clock.”

  He glanced at his watch. 8:45. “There was hardly any traffic,” he said.

  “Come in. There’s fresh coffee and cornbread muffins, hot out of the oven.”

  “Homemade muffins?” That would make the drive up here even more worthwhile.

  “I wouldn’t brag on them, but yes,” she answered modestly.

  He sat at the kitchen table while she poured him a cup of steaming coffee and set a plate of fresh muffins in front of him. He topped the coffee with half-and-half, sipped off the foam, and bit into a muffin.

  “Delicious,” he exclaimed, his mouth full.

  She smiled. “Steven should be here in a few minutes. He was up early. Some work out on the range. He’s becoming an honest-to-God rancher,” she said pridefully. She paused for a moment. “Is there a reason you came to see him today?” she asked. “I mean, specifically?”

  He nodded through his second mouthful of muffin. After he swallowed, he answered, “Yes.”

  “What about?”

  “Sorry, Juanita, but I can’t tell you. It’s privileged, between Steven and me.”

  Her expression was one of doubt and annoyance about being shut out. “I’m his caretaker,” she reminded Luke; not that he needed reminding.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I can’t. If he wants to tell you later, that’s up to him, not me.”

  Her lips formed a thin, tight line. “Is this more trouble?”

  He shook his head. “Strategy, mostly. I can’t say anything more.”

  She nodded. “I understand. I just want to make everything right.”

  “You’re doing the best you can. He would be in a much worse situation if it wasn’t for you.”

  “I know that,” she said without false modesty. “That doesn’t relieve the anxiety.”

  Luke started to offer some pithy cliché that would superficially placate her, but the high whine of a motorcycle engine cut through the air like the approach of a swarm of hornets. He looked out the window as Steven rode into sight. He cut the engine of the Honda ATV, dusted himself off, and came into the house.

  “Good morning,” he said to Luke. He kissed his grandmother on the cheek. “The north well pump’s frozen up,” he told her. “I’ll help Keith fix it this afternoon. He went into Goleta to pick up the parts.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and snagged two muffins off the plate.

  “Do you want anything else?” Juanita asked him. “I could make you eggs.”

  “This’ll do fine,” he said, sitting down with them. He smiled at Luke as he buttered a muffin. “Nobody in the world can bake like this woman.”

  She waved a shy, girlish hand at him. “Anybody can make biscuits.”

  “Not that taste like these,” he said. “You’re the best.”

  Juanita almost blushed from the compliment. She got up and fussed with the coffee pot.

  She acts as if she has a crush on him, Luke thought, as he watched their teasing bantering. Her own grandson.

  That was the reason he was here this morning—Steven’s sexual attractiveness, and how it could blow up in their faces. “Let’s get down to business,” he said to Steven. “Will you excuse us, Juanita?”

  She took a sunhat off a hook that was set by the back door. “I’ll be in the stable, if you need me.”

  “I’ll check in with you before I leave,” he promised her.

  She walked out. Luke sipped his coffee. Steven polished off his first muffin and started on the second.

  “You look damn fit,” Luke commented. “Ranch life agrees with you.”

  He needed to amp up his own workout routine, he thought, as he looked at Steven. This kid made him look like a pussy. Granted, he was more than twice Steven’s age, but he took pride in his fitness. Sitting across from him was live proof that he needed to push himself harder.

  “There’s nothing to do out here except work, and work out,” Steven said. “I’m running seven miles a day, I’m down to a six-minute mile. A hundred push-ups, two hundred crunches. And working with Keith, he’s like the Energizer bunny, he keeps on going and going and going.” He got up and drew a glass of water from the tap. “And read. I’m reading some of the books in the old library. Dickens, guys like that. Stuff you don’t read when you’re in pre-med.”

  “That’s one benefit of confinement. If you could call it that.”

  “It is,” Steven agreed. Surprisingly, he wasn’t showing hostility about his situation today. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life,” he said. “Where it’s been, and especially where it’s going. I won’t be the same person I was after the trial’s over, that’s for sure.”

  Meaning after you’re acquitted, which you think is a foregone conclusion, Luke thought. Steven was either in deep denial, or he didn’t want to let anyone see through the cracks in his façade.

  He took the file that contained Kate’s Tucson interviews out of his briefcase and set it on the table in fron
t of him. Steven sat back down. “Have you come up with anything new?” he asked.

  “Kate Blanchard was in Tucson, talking to friends of yours,” Luke told him. He tapped the file. “People from college, kids you grew up with, people you worked with. They said you were the salt of the earth. Every one of them.”

  Steven smiled. “That was nice of them.”

  “You have a lot of people in your corner back there. A lot of people here, too,” Luke added.

  “Is that what you want to talk about?” Steven asked. He seemed puzzled.

  Luke shook his head. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “We think you’re holding out on us, Steven.”

  Steven looked startled. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, specifically,” Luke answered. “That’s why I’m here. Not for the first time on this subject,” he added.

  “I don’t get you,” Steven said. “What would I be holding out on by now? What would I gain by not telling you everything I know?”

  “That’s a good question, which only you can answer.” Maybe they were getting somewhere on this—finally. “Kate Blanchard and I have been doing this for a long time, Steven. We both have good instincts for what’s real, and what isn’t—what Hemingway famously called the bullshit detector. And our bullshit detectors tell us you haven’t told us the whole truth yet.”

  Steven threw up his hands. “I can’t believe you’re still beating this dead horse.”

  Luke looked at him calmly. “Who were you with that afternoon?”

  Steven shook his head. “I’ve told you. No one.”

  Luke leaned forward. “You’re protecting someone, aren’t you?”

  “Like who?” Steven threw back at him.

  “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, would I?” Luke answered. “Look, Steven,” he continued, “I don’t mean to be brusque. But we’re losing the war. I need you to help me.”

  “I am helping. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to make something up?”