The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Sam said. “Gordon, does this change anything with …”

  “No, Sam, it doesn’t. It’s over. I’ve made my peace with that.”

  BY THE TIME THE SHERIFF ARRIVED, Gordon and Sam had got the hotel room looking as good as a room occupied by two men on a fishing trip could be expected to look. They heard three raps on the door and opened it to find Chris and Diane Brinkley in the hall. The women sat at the two chairs by the round table in the room; Sam pulled up the room’s third chair, and Gordon sat on the edge of his bed.

  “It looks like Howard’s out,” Chris said.

  “I gathered as much from your call,” Gordon said.

  “Jessica Milland was last seen alive a little after 3:30 last Thursday. You guys — well, Sam, anyway — heard the shot at five o’clock. Howard was at a meeting of supervising officers from 3:30 to about 5:15 that day. Some of my best people can back up his alibi.”

  “That seems pretty solid.”

  “I did ask him about Ponderosa, though. I framed it as a case of the sheriff there looking into a disappearance similar to ours, and I was wondering if he’d seen or heard anything while he was down there.”

  “And?”

  “He said he was in court all morning, then had a two-hour lunch with a Ponderosa detective who used to work in this county. And he volunteered that the community college was on the far side of town from here and that he never passed it. Nor saw or heard anything unusual.”

  “The more I thought about it,” Gordon said, “the less Howard seemed to fit the part. But you have to admit even the wariest hitchhiker would probably be comfortable taking a ride from a peace officer.”

  “Nothing jumped out about our three officers on campus, either. It was a good idea, Gordon, but it doesn’t look like the answer here.”

  “Have you thought about the possibility the killer could be a woman?” Sam asked.

  “Actually, I have,” Chris said. “But only briefly. It doesn’t fit too well, either. Diane, you want to tell them about the other case?”

  She nodded.

  “We won on the restraining order this morning, though I think it was all a waste of time. I had a one-on-one meeting afterwards with Owen Waterman. He’s the attorney for Kyle Burnett. It was, shall we say, interesting.”

  “Did he say anything about the video?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, he had quite a bit to say about it. Youthful high spirits and gross-out humor that his client now regrets, but it doesn’t prove anything. And, of course, his client, while acting like a clod, perhaps, was the soul of respect toward Alicia Rios after she passed out. He came back out the door five seconds after the video stopped and never laid a hand on her, consensually or otherwise.”

  “Do you believe that?” Gordon said.

  “Of course not. But I’m 99 percent sure that one out of 12 jurors would, unless we have more evidence than we do now.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “We keep investigating. Talk to every kid we see in that video. Hope something breaks our way. The problem is that it’ll take days, which gives them all a chance to get their stories straight.”

  “So you think Burnett and Jarrett will get away with it?”

  “Plenty of men have. Unfortunately, rape and perjury are the two toughest crimes to prove. But I won’t give up until I’ve pursued every last lead there is. That’s all I can do.”

  The four of them spent a minute in reflective silence, before Diane continued.

  “I did pull off one neat trick yesterday, though. I got Burnett to have a glass of water while we were talking and saved the paper cup with his saliva on it. It’s on its way to the state lab for testing as we speak. Our budget for this fiscal year, from July 1 until June 30 allows for two DNA tests, and I made the call to spend one of them on Burnett.”

  “That was a neat trick,” Gordon said. “Where did you get the idea?”

  “Actually, I saw it on Law & Order.”

  Chris laughed. “Our budgets are so tight, we’re using Law & Order episodes as training videos.”

  They all laughed, and the women rose to leave. As they reached the door, Chris turned back.

  “Oh, Gordon! I almost forgot the other big thing I was going to tell you. The ballistics tests came back this morning, and the bullet that killed Bob was fired from the same gun as the bullet that killed Jessica. That leaves no doubt at all that the killer is local. He’s one of us.”

  AFTER CHRIS AND DIANE LEFT, Gordon got up from the bed and went to the window. It was only 2:45, but with the rain still falling, it was dark as twilight. Nearly every car driving down Chaparral Boulevard had its lights on. For the first time since they’d arrived, the lights in the hotel room seemed inadequate.

  Gordon unwrapped Elizabeth’s painting and carried it to the window, where the light was less awful than in the rest of the room. He looked at it for several minutes before taking it back to his bed and rewrapping it.

  “Tell me, Sam, do you think it’s possible to see into a painter’s soul by looking at her paintings?”

  “It’s all I can do to look at a painting and decide if it’s good. I think that one is.”

  Gordon grunted.

  “So what are we doing the rest of the afternoon?” Sam asked.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “We haven’t had lunch, and I’m a bit hungry, but dinner will be in a couple of hours. What about going to Kemper’s Bakery for coffee and a snack?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  They decided to walk the two blocks, and arrived mostly dry under their rain gear. The lunch crowd was long gone, and not many people felt like braving the rain for an afternoon coffee and treat. Most of the customers while they were there consisted of people coming in to get a pie or cake for the evening’s dessert. Gordon and Sam each ordered a cinnamon roll and coffee, and they repaired to a corner booth that afforded privacy from the eight or nine other customers scattered throughout the facility.

  “Is it too early to ask what the three of us are doing for dinner tonight?” Sam said as an opener. “Elizalde’s again?”

  Gordon took a sip of coffee to let the implied rebuke slide.

  “There’s an Italian restaurant in town, Castagnola’s. It’s only open Thursday to Sunday in the winter, but Elizabeth says it’s pretty good. You all right with that?”

  “I’m all right with a change of pace.”

  “And it may be a party of four. Sandy Steadman is off today, and Elizabeth was going to ask her to join us.”

  Sam nodded. “A good hostess wants gender balance at the table.”

  “Tell me about it. I could write a book about my life as the balancing man at dinner parties in San Francisco.”

  “Ever take a tumble for the woman you were balancing?”

  “They’re usually old enough to be my mother, but quite a few are excellent conversationalists. That can make the evening fun, with no pressure.”

  “It must be good to be you.”

  “Sometimes.”

  They ate and drank coffee for a couple of minutes before Sam tried again.

  “How serious are you about Elizabeth, Gordon?

  “Too soon to say.”

  “Are you starting to think it might be serious?”

  “Ask me when we get back to San Francisco.”

  “Aren’t you a bit nervous that she’s such a strong feminist?”

  “Every woman’s a feminist. Most of them just don’t say so.”

  “How do you think your mother would like her?”

  “Ask me when it gets that far.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Gordon? As a friend who’s known you a long time?”

  “You can always ask.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. My question is, doesn’t it bother you to get involved with a woman in a situation like this, where you know you’re going to be going home on Sunday?”

  “Monday, actually. Remember, I have to say a few words
at Bob’s funeral Monday morning.”

  “The point’s the same. You know it’s going to be over in a few days, so why start in the first place?”

  “I don’t know any such thing. And when two people are attracted to each other, it makes sense to follow the attraction as far as it goes. You never know what’ll happen, and you might be surprised.”

  “Come on, Gordon. How are you going to carry on with someone who lives more than 300 miles away? On roads that can be shut down by snow in the winter?”

  “I could always get a pilot’s license.”

  “Get real.”

  “And you seem to be forgetting that there was another long-distance relationship a few years ago that went on for quite a while.”

  “I’m still dying to hear the whole story. But all that affair did was drive her into the arms of an undertaker.”

  “You give me too much power, Sam. Knowing the lady in question, I’d say she weighed all the options carefully and made the best decision she could. I wish her nothing but love. Now can we change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  Gordon rose and went to refill his coffee cup. When he returned, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out Mountain Bob’s list.

  “I’m not going to be satisfied until I get to the bottom of Wheaties,” he said. “That was probably the last word Bob ever wrote, and my gut tells me it means something.”

  He closed and put it back in his pocket.

  “But what? Do you have any ideas, Sam?”

  Sam shook his head.

  WHENEVER GORDON GETS SLIPPERY AND EVASIVE, like he did about Elizabeth, I know the subject’s bothering him, and he hasn’t worked out his feelings. The fact that he dressed for dinner in crisply pressed khakis, a dark blue Brooks Brothers shirt with a bold white stripe (I have the same shirt, but it doesn’t seem to do as much for me as it does for him) and his Navy blazer was an indication that he wanted to build on the good impression he thinks he made last night.

  Elizabeth apparently had a similar idea. She showed up at the restaurant with a burgundy dress that suited her well, nicely cut (as far as I can tell, which isn’t saying much) with a neckline low enough to suggest the possibility of cleavage below. We’d gotten there first, and when she walked to the table, she did it with confidence, and, I must say, a bit of grace and elegance.

  “You look great,” Gordon said, holding the chair for her.

  Sandy arrived a minute later, and the contrast was unavoidable. She was wearing slacks and a light blue blouse that were functional, but no more; when she entered the restaurant, she stood rigidly by the door and cased the room like a cop; when she walked to the table, she was all business.

  “Hi, Sandy,” Gordon said. He held the chair for her, too.

  The place was pretty nice. There were photographs of Italy on the wall and burgundy tablecloths on the tables and the background music was eclectic and low enough that it didn’t drown the room. We hunkered down at a table for four against the wall to the right as you came in.

  “I’ve been working overtime,” Sandy said, after the drinks were ordered. “I’m out of the loop. Fill me in.”

  Gordon and Elizabeth brought her up to speed on the rape case, and also about the missing students and the investigation into Bob’s murder. She listened intently and asked no questions until they’d finished.

  “Sounds like things are bogging down on both fronts,” she said. “But at least in Alicia’s case there’s something to go on. If they keep after it, something might come out of the video. That was good work you did to find out about it.”

  “Bob was onto it first,” Gordon said. “We just did the follow-up. What really bothers me is that it looks like whoever abducted Jessica shot Bob, too, and it was probably a mistake. Bob’s killer must have been on the road, listening to the radio, and he heard Bob talk about a break in the case. The killer must have panicked and not realized it was the wrong case. We’ll never know for sure, but I don’t think Bob had any leads at all on the disappearing students.”

  “The killer may have panicked about what Bob said, but he was a pretty cool customer when he committed the crime. He drove up to the radio station in broad daylight, parked outside, went in and shot Bob, then came right back out and drove off without being seen. That took balls.”

  “Let me throw something out,” I said. “Are you sure the killer was a man? Is it possible the killer is a she?”

  Sandy and Elizabeth looked at each other.

  “Anything’s possible,” Sandy finally said, “but not everything’s likely. I’d put that theory in the unlikely category. You don’t see very many lesbian serial killers, period, and I’d say the odds are even less around here. Just my take, though.”

  At that point, Howard came through the front door with a middle-aged woman I presumed to be Mrs. Honig. He waved at our table and took a seat on the opposite side of the restaurant. The place wasn’t all that big, but it was big enough that neither of our tables could hear the conversation at the other. And the restaurant was beginning to fill up and get noisier. We chatted aimlessly for a while, and when the salad plates had been cleared, Gordon excused himself for a few minutes to check in with Howard about spotting at the game tomorrow night.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Elizabeth pounced.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, Sam. Is the undertaker still in the picture?”

  “Undertaker?” Sandy said.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  And I was sitting there thinking that among the other indignities Gordon has subjected me to, I’m now taking on the role of a go-between in a French bedroom farce.

  “The undertaker’s definitely still in, and Gordon’s come to terms with that.” I looked across the room, where Gordon and Howard were in a spirited discussion. “But I’d caution you against falling for him too hard. It hasn’t worked for anybody yet.”

  “You’re so sweet, Sam, but don’t worry about me.” She took a sip of wine. “When I was growing up, my father always told me, ‘Lizzie, don’t wait around for some man to pick you. Pick the man you want.’ Good advice for a daughter, don’t you think? And I am so much my father’s daughter. When I saw Gordon talking to Harry two days ago, leading him to his own decision about doing the right thing, I realized that this was a man I could be serious about. Even if it’s a long shot, I’m ready to bet some emotional currency on it. How about you, Sandy? Your father ever give you any advice about men?”

  “My father was a cop. The only thing he said was, ‘If some guy asks you out, give me his name and I’ll run his records.’ But I went into law enforcement, so I guess I’m my father’s daughter, too.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about what’s going on around here,” Elizabeth said. “We have students going missing from Homestead College; we have a high school student getting raped when she was unconscious. It’s as if the daughters of Alta Mira are under siege and nobody wants to come out and say it. The other fathers don’t seem to realize that if it’s happening to those young women, it could happen to their daughters, too. There’s more denial than outrage. Why do you think that is, Sam?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a sociologist. All I know is that what I’ve seen here is making me very fearful for my own daughter — especially for what may be coming up in the next few years. And seeing what’s happened here makes me realize there’s no such thing as a safe place anymore. Here comes Gordon.”

  He stopped as he reached the table and looked at the three of us, sitting silently.

  “I won’t ask what you were talking about,” he said.

  “You, of course,” Elizabeth said. “Do you want to know what we were saying?”

  He sat down without answering. Wise man.

  THREE QUARTERS OF AN HOUR LATER, as they were finishing dinner, Gordon reached into his shirt pocket and took out Mountain Bob’s list. He pushed his plate aside and smoothed it out on the paper placemat.

  “I�
��m still hung up on Bob’s list,” he announced. “Sam and I had another go at it this afternoon and got nowhere.” He looked at Elizabeth on his right and Sandy sitting next to me. “I was wondering if four heads might not be better than two. The puzzler here is ‘Wheaties.’ What does that mean? It just might tell us something.”

  “Are you sure it’s not just the start of a grocery list?” Sandy asked.

  “Positive. Bob didn’t eat cold cereal.”

  “Something to do with advertising?” Elizabeth said.

  “National food brands generally don’t advertise on small radio stations like KNEP,” Gordon said.

  It was a little after seven o’clock, and the restaurant was beginning to thin out. The early diners, and those who were eating with more purpose than the foursome, had left, or were about to leave. Howard and his wife waved goodbye on the way out.

  “This is a bit weird, but then so was Bob,” Sandy said. “In that way, anyway. What if ‘Wheaties’ was one of his nicknames for somebody?”

  Gordon slapped the table so hard everyone started.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” he said. “It’s been right in front of us all along. Wheaties is probably his name for somebody. And it’s possible that he looked out into the parking lot, saw his killer driving up — though he didn’t know it was going to be his killer — and jotted down a nickname that just occurred to him for that person.”

  “Well …” Elizabeth said doubtfully.

  “Still, Gordon said, it’s probably the last word Bob wrote in his life. We owe it to him to take it seriously. So, if Wheaties is a person, who would it be?”

  In the quarter-hour between when Gordon asked the question and when he signed the credit card statement for the bill, no one was able to come up with so much as an even remotely plausible idea.

  BY THE TIME GORDON ARRIVED at Elizabeth’s place, the rain had stopped. The air was moist and fresh when he stepped out of his Cherokee, and the frogs that lived in a nearby ditch had come out and were harmonizing full-throat. Elizabeth’s heater had begun to warm up her place, and it was bright and inviting when Gordon came in and kissed her. After they finally broke off the kiss, they sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder.