“Bob,” she said, as they sat down, “will you say the blessing?”
Impromptu speech being second nature, Bob tossed off a few sentences of heartfelt and appropriate thanks for the meal and their gathering together. Brenda had fixed pork chops, lightly seared, then slow-cooked in a crock pot with apple slices, dried apricots and Gallo Tawny Port, served with boiled and buttered red potatoes and green beans from the backyard garden. Everything was delicious.
“Too late in the season for fresh beans, but we had a bumper crop this summer,” Brenda said. “We put up enough to get us through the winter. Bi-Rite Grocery’s loss.”
After assuring her the fishing had been wonderful, Bob began to outline what they had learned about Jessica Milland from the sheriff and deputy district attorney. Once he’d made his tight and accurate presentation of the information, Brenda frowned.
“Bob, that’s awful. I can’t wrap my head around this. What’s going on in our town?”
“I don’t know, but you’re hardly the only one asking.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. Bob rose to get it, but Brenda put a hand on his arm.
“I told the girls to answer it. It makes them feel important.”
A minute later, Sarah came in.
“Dad, it’s for you?”
“Who is it?”
“Didn’t say.”
“All right.” He rose, walked into the kitchen, and picked up the extension. “You can hang up now, Sarah,” and with that he pulled the door shut, allowing only muffled and incoherent sounds from his end of the conversation to reach the dinner table.
Brenda turned to Gordon, clasped fingers together with elbows on the table, and rested her chin on them.
“Would you boys like to come to church with us tomorrow morning?”
Gordon looked at Sam, then back at Brenda.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to pass. Sam and I are involved in the aerial search tomorrow.”
She gazed at him for a moment.
“I see. And would you come if you didn’t have to do that?”
He took a sip of iced tea and replied, “Probably not.”
“Fair enough. It’s just an offer and it’s up to you. It just seems to me, well, that you’re a good man, but there’s room for some spiritual growth there. Maybe one of these days, we’ll get you to renounce your heathen ways.” She smiled. He did, too.
“I certainly hope so, but I’m afraid it won’t be tomorrow.”
Bob opened the door and came in, looking preoccupied. He sat down, looked around at everyone at the table, and leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I may have a lead on the case.”
“Who were you talking to?” asked Sam.
“Don’t want to say just yet, but I think it could really be something.”
Brenda shook her head slightly.
“It’s great that you care, Bob, but we have a sheriff to look into this.”
“I know that, honey, but it’s my town, too. If I can help in any way, move things forward, well, I’ve got to do it, don’t I?”
“It’ll always be your town, Bob. But that doesn’t mean you have to do everything.”
He put a hand on her arm. “Just helping out,” he said. “Stand by your man.”
Dessert was pumpkin pie (Brenda’s recipe) with vanilla ice cream (store-bought). As she brought the plates, Eileen walked in.
“Mom, Jennifer just called. Can we go over to her place for a bit?” Bob and Brenda looked at each other. “Dad’ll probably be wanting to take his friends to the TV room to watch football anyway.”
“Well, aren’t you considerate,” Brenda said without a touch of irony. “Are her parents home?”
“Both of ‘em. Her dad’ll bring us back if you take us over. Please, Mom.”
Bob nodded slightly. “All right,” Brenda said, “but you have to be back by ten.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s less than two hours, and it’s Saturday night. Can’t we make it 11?”
“Ten-thirty.”
Eileen appeared to be giving the offer serious consideration.
“All right. Ten-thirty. Deal.”
Brenda ate dessert quickly (not difficult, as she’d taken only a small piece of pie) and left with the girls. The men heard the car’s engine start outside.
“Her friend lives just six blocks away,” Bob said. “A few months ago, we’d have told them to walk over, but now — we don’t want ‘em out alone at night.”
They finished their pie and coffee.
“You didn’t tell me Eileen was a basketball player,” Gordon said.
Bob perked up. “A good one, too. I expect her to be starting as a sophomore. Play her at your own risk, Gordon. She just might kick your butt.” He instinctively turned and looked at the chair Brenda had vacated. “If you’ll pardon my French.”
BOB TOOK THEM DOWN to the TV room. Down, literally. His house was three bedrooms, two baths, on a 10,000-square-foot lot on East Fourth Street, two blocks off Chaparral Boulevard and a four-block walk to the high school. It was built in the early 1960s and reflected the style of the period. The bedrooms, baths, kitchen, dining room, living room and appliance area used up 1,500 square feet. Underneath, however, was a large, windowless basement area. It had been made into a TV room/party room, with two folding tables in one corner, waiting to be brought out to hold refreshments at the next gathering.
“This is really nice,” Sam said. “Is this sort of basement common around here?”
“Not really,” Bob said. “Some of the older houses have basements you can get into from the outside, but this is what we call a Pinelli. Benny Pinelli was a contractor who bought up some lots around here and built houses on them from the late fifties to late seventies. This sort of basement was his trademark, and because most of the newer homes don’t have one, the Pinellis sell at a premium. We got lucky when this one came on the market ten years ago.” Bob turned to Gordon. “You’re the money man, Flyboy. You could probably tell me what this would cost in the Bay Area, but what would you guess I paid for it ten years ago?”
Gordon looked around the room, and squinted, trying to remember the layout of the main floor.
“Sixty?” he finally said.
Bob snorted. “Ten years ago, 60 would almost have bought The House That Shit Built. They were asking $44,900 and took our offer of $43,900.”
“A sweet deal. Looks to me like you’re set for life, Bob.”
“We feel pretty good about it.” He looked at the TV. “The late game isn’t exactly a must-see. Want to just have a beer and talk?”
“Works for me.”
Bob brought Budweisers for himself and Gordon; Sam, because he was flying the next morning, took a soft drink. Gordon and Sam sat on the couch facing the TV set, and Bob plunked himself down in one of the recliners flanking it. From the way he did so, it was clear that it was his chair. They drank silently for a few moments, basking in the afterglow of a good day fishing followed by an excellent dinner.
“That call you took during dinner,” Gordon said. “Want to tell us about it?”
“What makes you think it’s worth telling?
“When you came back to the table, you had that look — like you were thinking about something. You wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were a routine call.”
Bob laughed. “Remind me not to play poker with you. It may be something or it may be nothing. I don’t know, so I’d rather not say right now.”
“About the local crime wave, I’m guessing.”
“You’re getting warm. It could be a lead, but I don’t know. We’re meeting tomorrow after church.”
“Could I ask you something, Bob?” Sam interjected. “Just how jittery do you think the town is right now? You mentioned your daughters would have walked to their friend’s place a few months ago, but now Brenda’s driving them. And Sandy Steadman, the Highway Patrol officer, told us that every woman in town is terrified. So how bad do you think it is?”
Bob too
k a pull on his beer and looked at the ceiling for several seconds.
“Maybe not as bad as she says, but there’s no question people are getting edgy. With two young women gone missing, you can at least hope they just ran away and they’ll call home any day, unlikely as that is. But when the word gets out about Jessica, it’s probably going to be one coincidence too many. I was talking to Ken Burbage, who owns the sporting goods store, and he told me he’s been selling a lot of handguns in the last two weeks. Most people here own shotguns or rifles, but the bump in handgun sales is a new development.”
“And probably more business on Monday,” Gordon said.
“Exactly. Now how about you, Gordon? What kind of gun do you keep for protection?”
Gordon clearly hadn’t expected the question, and it took him several seconds to reply.
“I don’t own a gun, Bob. Never have.”
“You’re kidding. You live in a big, dangerous city and you don’t have a gun to protect yourself. Mind if I ask why not?”
Gordon took a long sip of his beer.
“I guess I’ve never felt I needed one. When you lead as blameless a life as I do … ” Sam stifled a snort.
“Come on, Flyboy. Anybody can be a victim.”
“That’s true. Anybody can. But I just don’t think I need one. There’s an element of self-selection in crime victims. A pretty large element, really. I avoid the company of people who traffic in illicit substances; I don’t fool around with women who have husbands or serious boyfriends; and when I’m out at night, I stick to crowded, well-lit neighborhoods. Right there, I figure I’ve eliminated about 95 percent of the reason for needing a gun to protect myself.”
“All right. But what about the other five percent?”
“Still a remote possibility. I’d rather play the odds and take my chances.”
Bob shook his head. “I guess we disagree. I’d still want the chance to defend myself.”
“How about you?” Sam said. “I see you have a rack of rifles on that wall …”
“Two of ‘em are shotguns.”
“Whatever. But do you have a handgun, too?”
“I have two. One’s upstairs in the bedroom closet, where I can get at it right away to protect the house. The other one’s in my locker at work, and when I go on the air, I put it in the desk drawer right under the mic.”
“And have you ever had to use either of them?” Gordon asked.
“Not yet. But let me tell you a little story. Three years ago, my morning guest, same slot you were in Friday, was the Highway Patrol commander, talking about tougher enforcement of the weight laws on commercial trucks. Not basketball, but in a small market you get the guests you can. Anyway, some trucker driving through the county was listening and didn’t like what the officer said. He showed up at the studio door five minutes after the commander left. He was as tall as you are and about 30 pounds heavier, and mad as I’ve ever seen anybody. I was able to talk him down, but you know what? If I hadn’t, he could have snapped me in two. That happened on a Thursday morning, and on Saturday afternoon, I went to Ken Burbage and bought a nine-millimeter for the office.”
GORDON LET IT GO, and I was glad he did. I’m not really comfortable with heavy discussions, especially when I don’t know one of the participants all that well.
Besides, there was something I’d been wanting to bring up. This seemed like a good time to do it and change the subject.
“Bob,” I said, “I’ve got a question or two about this afternoon.”
He and Gordon looked at me. I got the sense they were grateful for the interruption.
“I’ve never been here before, and maybe they do things different in this county, but I’m curious as to why the sheriff went to the home of the deputy district attorney. I mean if there was something big going on, wouldn’t she go to the district attorney himself instead of a deputy?”
Bob smiled. “Good point, Akers and Pains. But there’s a simple explanation. Carson Hawley, who’s been our DA for almost 20 years, suffered a massive stroke in the spring. He hasn’t come back to work yet, and just between us, I don’t think he ever will. He turns 65 next July, and since he can collect a full pension then, I expect him to resign the next day.”
“So Diane’s running the show?” Gordon said.
“Exactly. And to take it to the next step, I figure — and I’m not the only one — that since Carson won’t go for another term, she’ll run for the job next June.”
“Can she win?” I asked. “She doesn’t seem like much of a politician from what little I saw of her today.”
“Allowing for the fact that you never know what the voters are going to do until they do it, I think so. Not everybody likes her — and she’s probably OK with that — but almost everybody respects her. Plus, she was born and raised in this county, she’ll probably have Carson’s endorsement, and there aren’t a whole lot of hungry lawyers who’d want to run for district attorney and have to face the winner later in court if they lost.”
“Well put, Bob,” Gordon said. “Sounds like an argument my father would make.”
“Then my second question,” I said, looking at Bob, “is even if the sheriff was visiting the right prosecutor, why would she be there to discuss a missing person when there’s no case to prosecute at this point?”
“Hadn’t thought about that.” He nervously slapped his thigh several times with the palm of his hand. “Unless — yeah, that has to be it. She was there for another reason.”
“Am I right in guessing you think that reason is the football rape case?” Gordon asked.
Bob nodded. “I know for a fact Diane is really interested in it.”
“And it stands to reason,” Gordon said, “that the sheriff would have some questions early on. What kind of evidence would you want before you could prosecute? What would be probable cause for getting a warrant from the judge we’d have to deal with? That sort of thing.”
“With our judge, I don’t think a warrant would be a problem,” Bob said, “but yeah, you’re on the right track.”
“So,” I continued, “you said Diane is really interested in the case. Any reason for that beside the obvious?”
“You mean, enforcing the law? Good question, Akers and Pains. Yeah. That case, if it ever becomes a case, is a bit personal for Diane.”
“How so?” I asked.
Bob finished his beer, shook the bottle, and set it on the end table next to his chair.
“You remember when we got to the ranch this morning, there was a fellow named Jesus who greeted us?”
Gordon and I nodded.
“His full name is Jesus Rios. He’s Alicia’s father.”
Sunday November 9
SAM SAW HER FIRST, as they were walking through the main entrance to the Vienna Café. He gave Gordon a light jab in the ribs with an elbow and gestured with his head.
“Trouble,” he whispered.
Gordon looked up to see Elizabeth Macondray sitting in a booth near the back, with a clear view of the entry. She waved at them and followed the wave with a “come over” gesture.
He waved back, and they strolled through the dining area, sparsely populated at 7:30 a.m., to her booth.
“Quite a coincidence running into you here, and so early, Miss Macondray,” Gordon said.
“Nothing coincidental about it,” she said, “ and please call me Elizabeth. I was waiting for you. Have a seat.”
Gordon gestured for Sam to get into the booth. They sat side by side, facing her. A young waitress — a brunette who might have been pretty if she weren’t so obviously bored — appeared with a coffee pot. Two well-worn porcelain cups, upside down on paper coasters sat in front of Gordon and Sam. They turned the cups face up, and she filled them.
“Can I top yours off, Miss Macondray?”
“No thanks, Jenna. I’m fine. But check back in a few minutes. I think the gentlemen are in a bit of a hurry this morning.”
The waitress nodded and walked off. When she
was presumably out of earshot, Elizabeth leaned forward.
“One of my students. I run into them everywhere.”
“But you were looking for us,” said Sam. “Or at least Gordon.”
“Do you want to see the menu?” she asked.
“No need,” Sam said. “Gordon’s having what he’s always having. Sausage and eggs. I’ll have the same, just to speed things up.”
She smiled and looked at Gordon. “Bob did say you were a man of regular habits. Not necessarily a bad thing. In any case, it was Bob who told me you’d be here around this time.”
“Bob sees all, knows all,” Gordon said.
“In this town, anyway.”
“But I just mentioned it to him on the way out the door, and it was after ten. You called him that late?”
She shook her head. “He called me. He told me about your running into the sheriff and the DA yesterday afternoon, and about Jessica Milland being missing.” She stopped for a sip of coffee. “Jessica was in my first women’s studies class last year. Really nice, and very much someone who would stand up for herself.”
“That’s what Bob said, yesterday at the ranch.”
“I can hardly believe it, but, of course, it’s already happened before. Bob said Sam was going to lend his plane to an aerial search effort.”
Gordon nodded.
“What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
“The sheriff said Howard Honig would know what to do,” Sam said.
“I doubt that,” she said. “But I suppose he has to be deferred to. Anyway, that’s not what I’m here for. Bob said something else.”
She paused for effect, and Gordon nodded at her to continue.
“He said he may be onto something; that someone called him last night …”
The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4) Page 8
