Looking for Yesterday

by Marcia Muller

  Somebody yelled, “Jesus Christ, look out there!” and I knew they’d sighted Green’s body.

  I whispered to Mick, “Did you disarm the front door?”

  “No. It’s not linked with the others.”

  “So whoever it is has a key and the code.”

  Now the intruders were on the stairs. Two of them, I thought, but I didn’t dare look to be sure. A man’s voice said, “This is where he stores the stuff,” and they went into the adjoining room.

  Mick moved his head, indicating we should try to escape while they were inside.

  I shook mine firmly, rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Someone was still walking around upstairs.

  Voices came from the room where the arms were stored, but I couldn’t make out the words. After a short while they became clearer.

  A hoarse-sounding man said, “But why was that alarm off and the door open? And if it’s not in there, where did he put it?”

  “Maybe whoever shot him got the code out of him first,” his companion suggested.

  “Maybe. Better hope not.”

  A third man’s steps came down the stairs. “Doesn’t look like anybody’s gone through the rest of the house. Whoever blew Green away either got what he wanted down here or took off when we arrived.”

  “It’s not in there with the guns.”

  “Did you look for it? Really look?”

  “Whaddaya think we are, imbeciles?”

  Long silence. Then all three laughed with varying degrees of nervousness.

  “Ah, shit,” the hoarse-voiced man said, “let’s get outta here before somebody else shows up.”

  “Amen to that, brother.”

  7:43 p.m.

  Mick and I waited fifteen minutes after they were gone before we wormed our way out of our hiding place and stretched the kinks from our cramped bodies.

  “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” I said.

  “Me too, or at least I’d like to,” he replied. “What now? Search the house for whatever they wanted?”

  “They knew what it was and didn’t find it. What chance does that give us?”

  “Virtually none.”

  “Okay, now we’ll turn this over to the cops and the feds.”

  9:58 p.m.

  I leaned my forehead against my left hand, eyes burning from the light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs of an interview room at the Atherton Police Department. So far I’d spoken with officials of the FBI, the ATF, and other interested agencies; been given four cups of bad coffee and a turkey sandwich with a suspiciously rancid smell; and phoned my criminal defense attorney, Glenn Solomon, who was now on his way down the Peninsula. I’d asked about Mick, but had been told nothing; I’d volunteered to have my case files messengered down from my office and been told that wasn’t necessary; and I’d been subjected to various scathing comments—from both men and women—about my professional life and style.

  “Don’t respect the rules much, do you, McCone?”

  Nope, not when they’re the wrong rules.

  “Think you can get involved in any kind of mess and walk away unscathed.”

  Not when you’ve been beaten up, stabbed, shot in the ass, and shot in the head, and you’ve ended up in a coma for over two weeks.

  “Shield your clients whether they’re guilty or not, don’t you?”

  I’ve turned in every guilty client I’ve ever had.

  “Trade on the fact you’re a woman, I’ve heard.”

  Come on, this is the twenty-first century. I trade on the fact that I’m damn good at what I do.

  “That husband of yours, he’s a loose cannon. Doesn’t play by the rules either.”

  Then why have your agencies relied on him time and time again?

  “That attorney who killed himself last year—wasn’t that your fault?”

  No, it was his, because he was a child molester.

  “That crazy druggie brother of yours who’s locked up in an institution—was he a molester too?”

  Darcy. My half brother whose bad genes came from a heroic, idealistic, charismatic, but ultimately unstable leader of the American Indian Movement. Darcy, who was working hard to overcome his inherited problems…

  The latter comment tipped the scales. Up till then I’d conducted myself in a reasonably calm and courteous manner. But now…

  “I’m not listening to any more of your shit,” I said evenly. “I’m the party who offered her assistance to you, and for some reason—probably because I do my job better than any of you do yours—you’re harassing me. I’m leaving now, and I’m taking my nephew with me.”

  “You can’t—” one of the suits began.

  “Yes, I can, unless you decide to charge both of us. And just what would you charge us with?”

  One of them began, “Obstruction—” and then was shut up by a warning look from a colleague.

  “I’ll be going now,” I told them, “and I’ll expect to meet Mr. Savage on the front steps. My attorney, Glenn Solomon, is waiting there with selected members of the press.” Even though he hadn’t said anything about summoning the press when I talked with him, I knew that was what he’d done.

  The atmosphere in the room became flat and subdued. There were a few coughs and a rustling of folders in the room. They knew very well what the consequences of this rude interrogation would be.

  10:23 p.m.

  Flashlights popped and video cams and microphones were pushed into my face. I kept saying, “No comment, no comment,” as Glenn ushered Mick and me to the waiting limo.

  He’d done his usual Solomon-style thing, but I wasn’t at all sure I appreciated it. It would only strain my relations with the various law-enforcement agencies and make me more visible in a profession where anonymity is an asset.

  As we got settled and the limo took off, I said, “All I tried to do was share what I knew with the cops and the feds. They jumped all over me.”

  Glenn put a big arm around my shoulders. “State of the world these days, my friend. We’re more paranoid than we have been since the humanoids were battling the Neanderthals.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “This limo wouldn’t happen to have a bar, by any chance?”

  Glenn laughed, opened the bar built into the back of the driver’s seat, and poured three large portions of something that looked dark and strong, handing one to me and one to Mick, and keeping the third for himself.

  “As I see it,” he said, “they didn’t want to believe your story that something other than those stockpiled weapons was the reason Jake Green was murdered, so they focused on you and Mick and your presence on the property.”

  “And how long will it take for them to leave Mick and me alone and do their jobs?”

  “As long as it takes for the media to have its way with them, and for me to call them to the attention of my intelligent—and I use that word loosely—contacts in DC.”

  “In the meantime, what do I do?”

  “Business as usual, my friend. But I would advise caution. Extreme caution, until this case is over with.”

  I looked at Mick. “You hear that? Extreme caution.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That means for both you and Alison.”

  “What about Alison?” His tone was curiously blank.

  “You saw her and talked things over, right?”

  “She talked, I didn’t.”

  “And?”

  “Look, today’s been all I can take for now. Just let it be, and take me back to my condo.”

  “For tonight I’ll let it be, but you’re coming to my house.”

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 13

  5:46 a.m.

  Friday the thirteenth. Thank God I’m not superstitious.

  That was my first thought upon waking early; then I lay in bed thinking about all that had happened before and after Caro Warrick had hired me.

  Amelia Bettencourt, murder victim. Jake Green, now also a victim but previously Caro’s and then Bettencourt’s boyfriend and, mo
re recently, a money launderer and dealer in illegal firearms. Caro, acquitted of the murder of her friend, but intent on having the case reinvestigated in the hope, I suspected, of finding out who really killed Amelia. Caro, fatally injured outside my home while attempting to bring me documents she’d removed from her self-storage unit. The dysfunctional Warrick family…I’d tended to discount them because my own family was so out of whack, but maybe I should look at them more seriously.

  Ben and Betsy: experts in denial. Acting as if their son Rob hadn’t accidentally shot his baby sister with a loaded gun his father had carelessly left in an accessible place. Acting as if Marissa had never existed. Rob, they claimed, hadn’t been shattered by the event, nor had Patty or Caro. Caro had had a bit of trouble when her best friend was killed, but that was over. And Ben and Betsy were now free to travel the world and meet exciting people.

  Rob had received no significant help from his parents after he killed Marissa, nor had Patty. And Caro…? She had been the most vulnerable of them all.

  A sad, grotesque family drama, but what did it have to do with arms smuggling and money laundering? If anything?

  Okay, go on—to Dave and Kayla Walden. Dave had been mentioned in the retrospective about Caro’s trial. Why? I’d have to ask the reporter who had written the piece. Caro had twice called the Waldens’ home, but to me they had denied knowing her. They were outgoing with visitors to their winery but remote from their neighbors in a valley where fellow residents were usually close. Russ Hewette was a good example of that: they bought his grapes, but he’d had no direct contact with them for at least two and a half years. Had they a connection with the rest of the Warrick family? Jake Green? The Bettencourts?

  The Bettencourts. Now, there was an angle I hadn’t explored. Amelia’s mother, Iris, was dead, but her father, James, lived down in Monterey County. If I could reach him later this morning, and he agreed to see me, I could be there in a couple of hours.

  I told myself to go back to sleep for a while, but my thoughts and suppositions went on and on.…

  9:54 a.m.

  Mick was gone when I went to look for him. Another elusive exit from my house by one of the Savage offspring. Last night he’d refused to talk about his meeting with Alison, and now he was avoiding me. That was okay; I’d wring the story out of him sooner or later. Right now I needed to get on with my investigation.

  I was soon on the road to James Bettencourt’s home in Pacific Grove, the top down on the BMW, the wind whipping my hair around and slowly sweeping away the sluggishness I’d felt upon awakening. Amelia’s father had been gracious when I called and seemed eager to talk with me. I took the 280 freeway, cut across on the connector to Highway 17, then dropped down to Santa Cruz and followed the coastal route through Monterey to Pacific Grove.

  As I drove down Lighthouse Avenue, I remembered the man I’d once thought to be my birth father, Austin DeCarlo. My connection with him had proved to be false, but for a while we’d bonded. Then I’d discovered he’d killed his own father—because of circumstances connected with my birth—and I had decided, out of compassion for Austin, to let the truth remain dormant. Last year Austin had died of a massive heart attack and, because there was no one else, had left the bulk of his estate to me—as well as the responsibility of having him cremated and his ashes scattered over Monterey Bay. I’d sold his house on the hill above Lighthouse Avenue and donated the proceeds to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. They’d named a sea otter in his honor.

  It wasn’t a responsibility I’d wanted, but it had been his way to express his gratitude.

  I’ve always found Pacific Grove a charming place. The pace of life seems slower there, the close proximity of the Bay refreshing. A few streets of shops and restaurants, narrow lanes, houses perched on the hillside. One of my favorite writers, John Steinbeck, had lived there, and his descriptions of the gulls soaring over the sea and the thunder of waves on the offshore rocks are as fresh today as they were sixty-some years ago.

  The directions that James Bettencourt had provided me led me up to a point much higher on the hill than Austin’s former house. As I climbed, the view of the Bay became more and more spectacular. As a native Californian I’m familiar with the coast, but the variety of its more than seven hundred miles continues to amaze me. In San Diego, where I was born and raised, the beaches are very much like those pictured in the beach-blanket movies of the fifties and sixties. It’s the same in the suburbs of LA and up to Santa Barbara. Farther north you’ve got more twists and turns in the road, steeper cliffs. When you get to Big Sur, you need to watch out for sleeper waves and landslides. The coast gentles at San Francisco, but once you reach the mouth of the Russian River at Jenner, whitecaps predominate. The road turns inland on a steep grade for miles, then emerges on a sheer cliff face that can be harrowing even to the most experienced driver. Heavily forested land and large, barren-looking ranches alternate. Finally the small town of Gualala—population some 900—slips by; later Point Arena—half Gualala’s size—and a few other hamlets interspersed among the redwood, cypress, and oak trees.

  And then there’s our cove at Touchstone.

  It’s protected on three sides by cliffs, but the water conceals hazards: rugged rocks, kelp beds, and an ever-changing topography as the earth’s tectonic plates shift and the tides erode. Some days the waves are placid, even at high tide; some days they roar and thrust upward, trying to reclaim the land. In a vicious winter storm I’ve seen logs four times the size of your average utility pole thrown three-quarters up the side of our cliffs.

  The rest of the California coastline and up into Oregon and Washington is much the same: placid beaches, huge sea stacks, scalloped coves. And above all, it is as unpredictable as most of the people who live along it.

  11:05 a.m.

  James Bettencourt was slender—too thin, really—with thick gray hair and a face whose lines told of his grief and sorrow. He welcomed me into his attractive brown-shingled home, to a living room with a wall of glass overlooking the town, bay, and sea. He urged a glass of wine upon me, which I accepted in spite of the earliness of the hour, because I sensed he badly needed both a drink and someone to drink with. We settled on opposite ends of a sofa, looking out at a glorious day.

  Bettencourt said, “I’m so glad someone’s finally taking a serious interest in my Amelia’s death.”

  “No one has before?”

  “The police in San Francisco were too quick to jump on a suspect. They made ridiculous assumptions. There is no way that Caro Warrick would have killed my daughter. After her acquittal they put the case on the back burner, still claiming Caro did it and there had been a miscarriage of justice. They’ve never looked at it again, as far as I know. And now Caro’s gone.”

  “You seem to have been very fond of Caro.”

  “Both my wife and I were, yes. She was a stabilizing influence on Amelia. I thought of her as holding fast to the string of a kite as it was buffeted by strong winds.”

  “And those strong winds were…?”

  He rubbed at his tired eyes. “Amelia was always a problem child. As soon as she was put in her crib, she’d scream until one of us picked her up and rocked her; when she went to sleep and we put her down, the screaming would start all over again. By the time she got over that, she’d become very aggressive toward the other children in the neighborhood—pulling hair, kicking, biting. Next thing we knew she was destroying other children’s toys at preschool. Of course, they told us she must leave.

  “After that there were a few years of what my wife and I called the ‘quiet time,’ but next she was caught shoplifting and keying expensive vehicles.”

  “How old was she then?”

  “Eleven.”

  “And what did you do about it?”

  “Sent her off to a school for problem children. They, ah, returned her to us after she smashed a mirror and cut her wrists. The cuts, they said, weren’t life-threatening, but a cry for help they weren’t equipped to give.”
<
br />   “And then?”

  “She seemed to settle down again. We took her to a good therapist, enrolled her in a private school. She got decent grades, made friends, Caro Warrick being the closest. They did homework together, spent weekends at each other’s houses. Amelia had poor grades; if she had gotten into college, she wouldn’t have done well. Caro was very bright, but disorganized. She tried City College, but that didn’t work out. So both girls took nothing jobs in the city—low-level temp work, some modeling—and played around in the evenings. Caro did all right, but Amelia didn’t have good judgment about boys.”

  “In particular, Jake Green.”

  He nodded somberly. “And now he’s dead too.”

  “Mr. Bettencourt, can you think of any connection between the murders of your daughter, Caro Warrick, and Jake Green?”

  After a few seconds of reflection he replied, “No, I can’t think of a single one. Do you think they’re connected?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Somehow, some way.”

  “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  “On her last visit home, Amelia hinted to my wife and me that she was seeing someone other than Green. Someone who, if things worked out, would provide her with a wonderful life.”

  “Those were her exact words?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe there was something about a place, too. Frankly, I didn’t take it all that seriously. My daughter spent much of her life wrapped in daydreams.”

  3:43 p.m.

  I’d stayed too long in Pacific Grove to make my two o’clock appointment with Richard Gosling, Caro’s therapist, so I called him and he agreed to reschedule for four. I stopped for lunch at a favorite restaurant on the water in Monterey—monster artichoke stuffed with marinated shrimp—and then got caught in a traffic jam in Santa Cruz. The news reports were saying that people were moving out of our overtaxed and underemployed state in droves, but you couldn’t prove it by my experience.

  Gosling’s office was in the 450 Sutter Street building—a twenty-six-story Art Deco creation much favored by doctors, dentists, and other professionals. I rode the elevator to the nineteenth floor and located his suite, waited five minutes—too bad; his magazines were a cut above most found in anterooms—and was ushered by his receptionist to the inner sanctum.