“And now Miri’s in danger of losing Amy, too.”
He looked down at where his thick-fingered hands were spread on his denim-covered thighs. “I don’t think she’d even notice if Amy was gone.”
“Drugs? Booze? Men?”
“You got it. When Vic—the youngest boy—died, Miri totally fell apart.”
“What about the kids’ Uncle Ramon? Where do you fit into the picture?”
“I don’t. Miri and I had a big fight, four, maybe five years ago. The times I came around to apologize, she ran me off with a shotgun.”
“D’you think Amy might listen to you, let you help her?”
“Like I said, I don’t know how she feels about me these days.” He paused, and in the silence Lear Jet whickered. “You say this guy pushed her out of a pickup?”
“Yes. Brown, probably a Ford, with a lot of Bondo on it.”
“You see him?”
“Yes. He has a dark brown beard; I couldn’t really tell about his features. After he threw Amy out of the truck he went to the edge of the shoulder and was shouting at her. When I intervened, he thought about attacking me, then took off.”
“Boz Sheppard. That asshole. If she’s hooked up with him, it’s statutory rape.”
“How old is this Boz?”
“Late twenties, maybe thirty. Hard to tell. Too damn old to be messing with a young girl like Amy.”
“Who is he?”
“Local lowlife—not that we haven’t got plenty of them. Claims to be a carpenter, but he’s usually so stoned he couldn’t drive a nail in straight if his life depended on it.”
“He from around here?”
“No. Showed up in Vernon one day, took a trailer at that crappy park up the highway. Does odd jobs, but I hear mostly he deals drugs. Rumor is he’s got a record.”
If he did, I could get Derek Ford, Mick’s assistant at the agency, to access it. “Definitely not good company for your niece,” I said.
“Yeah. Which way you say she was going when she walked off?”
“North from town.”
“Toward that trailer park.” Ramon stood. “Think I’ll take a run out there, pay a visit. Want to ride along?”
“Ramon, it’s a family matter—”
“One that could use a woman’s touch.”
Well, why not? I had nothing else to do that evening.
The park extended from the edge of the highway to the hillside—two dozen or so old-model trailers up on cement blocks. No amenities such as a rec center, plantings, or even paved parking areas. No trees. Only a sagging barbed-wire fence between it and the outside world.
Personally, I’d rather have lived in a cave.
Ramon stopped the truck in front of a one-windowed shack with a sign saying OFFICE. Got out, but came right back. “Nobody there.”
I looked around, pointed out a woman walking a dog. Ramon nodded and approached her. When he slid into the truck he said, “Last trailer, last row in back. From the look the lady gave me, I’d say Boz’s dealing, all right.”
We drove back there in silence, gravel crunching under the truck’s wheels. The rows were dimly lighted—minimum county requirement—and most of the trailers were dark. Boz Sheppard’s was by far the worst of them all—ancient, small, humpbacked, its formerly white paint peeling off to reveal gunmetal gray and rust. There was a glow in its rear window.
Ramon took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Tell her you love her and want to help.”
“What if she doesn’t think she needs it?”
I pictured the look of defiance in Amy’s eyes before she’d turned her back on me that afternoon. Underneath there had been fear—and not of me.
“She does, whether she knows it or not,” I said. “This Boz—he’ll try to intervene. We should separate them.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me.” I didn’t have a plan, but once we confronted Boz, my instincts would tell me what to do.
We got out of the truck and went up to the door. Ramon knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, rattling the flimsy door in its frame.
Nothing.
“See if it’s unlocked,” I said.
“That’s not legal—”
“You have probable cause to be concerned for your niece.”
“Damn right I do!” He turned the knob and pushed the door inward so hard it smacked into the wall behind it. Moved up the two low steps and inside.
A growl. At first I thought it came from a watchdog, then realized that Ramon himself had made the sound. I pushed around him. And stopped.
The room was tidy, the pullout bed made up into a couch. A woman lay collapsed beside it, her arms outflung on the bloodstained carpet, long dark hair covering most of her face. Freshly spilled blood. It pooled beneath her, and the front of her black silk dress was torn and scorched where a bullet—or bullets—had entered. The scent of cordite was strong on the air.
Before I could stop him, Ramon went to the woman and brushed her hair from her face. Gasped and recoiled.
I went over and pulled on his arm. “Go outside. This is a crime scene. We can’t disturb anything more than we already have.”
He hesitated, then went, shaking his head.
I looked down at the woman’s face. Not Amy, but someone older who closely resembled her. The dress looked expensive, her costume jewelry gaudy. One red spike-heeled shoe had come off her foot and lay on the carpet. I glanced at the breakfast bar on the counter: a half-full shaker of martinis and two glasses, one lying on its side, broken, liquid pooling beside it.
I backed up, left the trailer without touching anything. Ramon was leaning against his truck, trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands.
“You know her?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Who is she?”
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled. “Hayley.”
“And Hayley is . . . ?”
“Amy’s older sister. The one I told you sent me a postcard from Las Vegas.”
How the hell did I get myself into this? I came up here to make plans to leave this kind of thing behind me—the stench of death, the flashing lights, the paramedics, the radios and official voices droning on and on and on . . .
I should’ve told Ramon to bring Sara along with him if he felt the situation required a woman’s touch. I should’ve stayed home, waited for the agency calls, phoned Hy. I should’ve jumped into the Rover and gotten the hell out of Mono County.
Well, you’re involved now, McCone, whether you like it or not. At least you’re an outsider, an observer with professional judgment, rather than a torn-up family member like Ramon. . . .
He was in one of the sheriff’s department cars now, giving his statement to a deputy, but before they’d arrived he’d been crying in my arms. Later he’d be embarrassed by that, I knew, but at the time he’d needed comfort. I’d never mention his tears, and neither would he, but eventually they’d either put up a wall or forge a stronger bond between us.
Another deputy approached me. “Ms. McCone, I’m Deputy Drew Warnell. Can we talk?”
He was young, so smooth-faced that I’d bet he didn’t shave but every other day, and he turned his hat in his hands as he spoke, his dark hair falling in a thick shock over his forehead. I suggested we go sit in Ramon’s truck.
When we were settled, Deputy Warnell took out a notepad. “I understand you were with Mr. Perez when he discovered the deceased?”
I explained how I’d encountered Amy under disturbing circumstances that afternoon and told Ramon about them. “The man who rented the trailer, Boz Sheppard, was the one who threw her out of his truck. Ramon decided to come here and talk with him. He asked me to come along.”
“Why?”
“He said the situation needed a woman’s touch.”
“It wasn’t because you’re a private investigator?”
“No, I came as a friend.”
/>
“So Mr. Perez entered the trailer and found the victim?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you take steps to ensure that he didn’t disturb the crime scene?”
“Because he moved too fast. I’d only seen the body seconds before he touched it. I did get him outside as quickly as I could.”
“Mr. Perez has identified the young woman as his other niece, Hayley Perez, last known address Las Vegas.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Hayley Perez?”
“I don’t know any of the family, except for Ramon and his wife, Sara. He’s foreman at my husband’s and my ranch.”
“The Ripinsky place?”
“Yes.”
For a moment his official facade slipped and Drew Warnell seemed even younger. “I used to ride horses up there. My mom and dad were friends of Hy’s and Julie’s.”
“There’s only one horse left now—Lear Jet.”
He shook his head. “Must’ve come after my time. And I don’t think Mr. Perez was working there then.” He paused, seeming at a loss for further questions.
I asked, “D’you have any idea how long Hayley Perez has been dead?”
“Not long. The ME said within the last hour.”
Shortly before Ramon and I had arrived, then. “Shot at close range. How many times?”
“Once, straight into her heart—” He broke off, then said, “Ms. McCone, I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t be giving you these details.”
“And I shouldn’t’ve asked—professional habit.”
“You work for what agency?”
“I own McCone Investigations, in San Francisco.”
Something flickered in his eyes as he put it together. There had been huge publicity earlier in the year on the serial bomber case.
“Sorry,” he said. “I must be slow tonight. I didn’t make the connection until just now.”
“No worries.”
“I should’ve—”
I held up my hand to forestall yet another apology. “As I indicated earlier, I’m not here in a professional capacity. I see your colleague’s done with Ramon, and I really should be getting back to him. If you need to ask any further questions, you can reach me at the ranch.”
Ramon wasn’t fit to drive yet, so I took the wheel of his truck. As I turned onto the highway, he said, “I told the cops I’d break the news to Miri.”
“Where does she live?”
“You don’t want to go with me.”
“Remember what you said before? A woman’s touch?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Make a right turn on the first street this side of the Food Mart.”
After I’d driven into town and turned off, he said, “This won’t be pretty.”
“It never is.”
But the small gray clapboard house in the middle of the block was dark, and no one answered when Ramon knocked.
He said, “Miri’s probably at one of the bars or the motel—or passed out inside.”
“You have a key?”
“Nope.” He tried the knob, but unlike at the trailer where we’d found his niece’s body, the door was locked. “I better check the bars. Something like this, news gets around fast. A deputy goes off duty, he starts talking. That’s no way for Miri to find out.”
“Okay, where do we start?”
He looked away from me. “Not we—me. I’m okay now. You take the truck back to the ranch, get some rest. It’s almost midnight.”
I felt a flash of relief, but still felt compelled to say, “I don’t mind—”
“Sharon, I appreciate all you’ve done tonight. But Miri—I’ve got to handle her myself.”
“How’ll you get home?”
“I’ll call Sara when I’m done, ask her to come and get me.”
“Okay, then. Good luck with Miri.”
Wednesday
OCTOBER 31
The phone was ringing when I let myself into the ranch house. As I went to pick up, I noticed the time on the old-fashioned kitchen clock: 12:23.
“Happy Halloween, McCone.” Hy.
“And the same to you.” I’d completely forgotten what the date was.
“Where’ve you been all this time? I’ve left messages on the machine, and on your cell.”
“Sorry I haven’t checked either. Where I’ve been is an awfully sad story.”
His voice sharpened when he asked, “What’s wrong?”
I went over the events of the evening.
“Jesus,” he said when I’d finished. “Poor Ramon. How’re you?”
“I’m handling it.”
“And?”
“That’s all. I was there for Ramon when he needed me. Now the county sheriff can deal with it.”
“. . . Right.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, really.”
“You think this is going to suck me in, don’t you? You think that next thing I’ll be prowling around, trying to find out who killed that woman.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, good, because it’s not going to happen. That part of my life is over. Over.”
“I hear you. Have you made any decisions yet? About your future?”
“No, not yet.”
We went on to discuss his day, our cats, and his coming up here on the weekend. After we ended the conversation, I took a hot shower and crawled into bed.
All I wanted was to blot out the events of a long, horrible day. Maybe if I could do that, even for a few hours, I’d be able to distance myself from Ramon’s trouble.
Maybe.
Distance—sure.
At around ten-thirty that morning I was washing out my coffee cup at the kitchen sink when Sara Perez’s SUV drove in and parked next to Ramon’s truck. She got out, looked inside the truck. Then she spotted me through the window, waved, and moved toward the house.
Sara was a short, heavy woman with gray hair in a long braid that hung nearly to her waist. In spite of her girth, she moved gracefully. A native of Oaxaca, Mexico, she was a midwife and concocter of herbal medicines, assisting at births and dispensing natural panaceas in remote towns all over the county, as well as a writer of children’s books aimed at the state’s soon-to-be-dominant Latino population.
When I met her at the mudroom door, I saw that her eyes were worried, her full lips cracked and raw as if she’d been nibbling at them.
“Ramon didn’t come home last night,” she said. “I heard about Hayley. The radio said he found her body and that you were with him.”
Damn! Why did they have to give out that information? No privacy—
I motioned her in from the cold. “Ramon asked me to drop him off in town, and that he’d call you for a ride home. He had to break the news to Miri.”
“He go to her house?”
“Yes, he had me drive him there, but—”
“She was off someplace, or passed out drunk.”
“That’s what he thought.”
“Well, I’ve tried calling Miri’s. No answer there.”
“Last I saw him, he was going to look for her in the bars.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Sure.” I motioned toward it, went to pour her a cup of coffee.
“Bob?” she said into the phone. “Sara. Did my man come in there last night looking for his miserable sister? . . . Yeah . . . Right, about what time? . . . Thanks, Bob, I appreciate it.”
To me she said, “He went to Zelda’s, Miri hadn’t been in.” Sara dialed again and left a message on a machine. Made another call. “Jenny, it’s Sara. Did Ramon . . . ? Right. She wasn’t . . . I see . . . Will you call me if . . . Thanks.”
She turned to me, took the cup of coffee I held out. “Those’re the only bars in Vernon,” she said, “and the one where I got the machine has eighty-sixed Miri so many times she’d never go there. Ramon was at the other two a little after midnight, asking for her. She hadn’t been in.”
“Maybe he went
back to Miri’s and found her there.”
“And now nobody’s answering the phone?”
“That is strange. You should go down there.”
Sara shook her head, her braid switching from side to side. “I can’t. The last time I tried to reach out to Miri, she threatened me with her shotgun, said she’d kill me if I ever came near the place again. Now, with Hayley dead, she’ll be ready to take on the world. Will you go for me?”
No, a thousand times no.
Sara’s dark eyes pleaded with me.
Please don’t suck me into this. . . .
“I don’t have anybody else to ask,” she said. “None of our other friends want anything to do with Miri.”
She looked so alone. If I could bring Ramon back to her . . .
“I’ll go,” I said, “and call to tell you what I find out.”
Before I left the ranch house, Ted phoned. After he gave me his daily report he asked, “Any idea when you’re coming back to the city?”
“No. Why?”
“We miss you. The place isn’t the same without you.”
And I wasn’t the same without it. But I wasn’t the same when I was there, either.
“Shar?”
“I’m here.”
“Look, we’re doing what we can to hold this agency together, but we need you.”
“The agency seems to be doing fine without me.”
Long pause. “You sound so . . . cold.”
I supposed I did. A frozen shell around my emotions was the best way to distance myself from the people I’d known and cared for all these years.
“I’m sorry, Ted. I’m . . . preoccupied this morning, that’s all.”
“Shar, this is me you’re talking to. Ted, from the old days at All Souls.”
The poverty law cooperative where we used to work, he as secretary and me as staff investigator. When I’d first met him he’d been sitting with his bare feet propped on his desk, working a New York Times crossword puzzle in ink. Those had been good years: filled with camaraderie, poker and Monopoly games in the off hours, and long soul-baring discussions late into the night as we sat around the big oak table in the kitchen of All Souls’ Bernal Heights Victorian. Since the co-op had been dissolved and I’d formed my own agency—taking Ted and Mick with me—the camaraderie had continued and enlarged to embrace new people. But these days we were so caught up with a huge caseload and an upscale image—to say nothing of large earning power—that much of the excitement and closeness had bled away.
Burn Out Page 3
