by Sue Grafton
“Fair enough. I’m Diana Alvarez, by the way.” She held out her hand.
Without pausing to consider, I shook hands with her and said, “Kinsey Millhone.” The second the words came out of my mouth I knew I’d been had. So much for keeping my name out of it. I was irritated at her for maneuvering me and irritated at myself for being so easily sucked in.
“Nice meeting you,” she said, and then she wandered away.
While I watched, she removed a spiral-bound notebook from her blazer pocket and started scribbling on a page. She struck up a conversation with someone else, and I knew she’d weasel her way through the onlookers until she pieced the story together. No telling what kind of spin she’d put on it. I looked for Sutton, thinking to warn him, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I was happy I’d grabbed dinner, because it took until 8:00 P.M. for the techs to finish their work. Everything seemed to shut down at once. Cheney appeared at the mouth of Alita Lane and walked toward us on Via Juliana. One uniformed officer followed, toting cones and the yellow tape that he’d wound into a loose skein. Gerald Pettigrew and Belle followed, giving no indication whether the dig had served up anything of note.
Diana Alvarez separated herself from the guy she was pumping and made a beeline for Cheney, in full reporter mode. Cheney acknowledged her but his eyes were on me. I did a second quick visual search of the bystanders, looking for Sutton, thinking he should be first in line for the news, whatever it might be. Still no sign of him. His turquoise MG was parked on the berm with Madaline in the front seat, her feet propped on the dashboard. Goldie Hawn wandered from person to person, wagging her tail and receiving affectionate pats and praise from strangers, as was her due.
I couldn’t read Cheney’s expression. He looked serious but there was a suggestion of humor in his eyes. Diana Alvarez was close on his heels, eager for any news he intended to pass along.
When he reached me, he said, “Hold out your hand. I have a present for you.”
I held out my hand and he dropped an object in my palm. I registered a mud-caked plastic disk attached to a length of dirty blue leather. “What’s this?”
“What’s it look like? A dog tag. That’s what the two guys were burying—the family pet. Woof woof . . .”
He smiled and moved on.
9
WALKER MCNALLY
Late Thursday afternoon, April 7, 1988
Walker McNally drove his black Mercedes through the entrance to Horton Ravine as he did every day on his way home from work. Occasionally he elected to use the back entrance, but he didn’t much care for the associations. It was Thursday afternoon. Carolyn and the kids had left that morning for San Francisco, where they’d spend a long weekend with her mother, returning Monday afternoon. Fletcher, age four, and Linnie, age two, were still in preschool, so whisking them off for five days with Nana wasn’t an issue. Though he’d miss them, he looked forward to the empty house, keenly aware that he was on his own and could do as he pleased.
He and Carolyn had moved back to California ten years earlier, when he’d been hired as VP of New Client Relations at Montebello Bank and Trust. He’d begun his financial career in the trust department at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York City and later joined Wells Fargo as a wealth-planning specialist. The job opening in Santa Teresa had been a blessing, since Walker had grown up in town, graduating from UCST in 1971.
He was a good-looking man, personable, charming, and articulate. A good part of his day he was on the phone, setting up meetings and lunch dates, arranging drinks and dinner with prospective clients whose business he was working to gain. He served on the boards of two nonprofit organizations and he was also involved in a number of planned-giving and development committees. He’d brought a goodly number of clients to the bank during his tenure, and he was rewarded accordingly.
Carolyn was the one who first raised the issue of what she referred to as his “drinking problem.” She’d apparently been monitoring his intake, counting the number of beer, wine, and liquor bottles that went into the trash. He wasn’t sure how long this had been going on, but she’d finally put her foot down. He was of Scots descent, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a complexion that was ruddy by nature. Alcohol had added a tinge of pink to his cheeks and a faint puffiness to his face. He knew he’d packed on a few pounds the last couple of years. At thirty-eight, he was on the high side of the suggested boundaries for his height and weight. He’d quit smoking, and that had added the obligatory fifteen pounds. While he intended to work out, there wasn’t much opportunity during the week. To his way of thinking, Carolyn’s concerns were misplaced. Even when he’d belted down a few, he wasn’t boisterous. His speech wasn’t slurred. He was never goofy, or maudlin, or sloppy, or mean-spirited. Drunk, he looked and behaved exactly as he did when he was sober—at least according to his perceptions. Nonetheless, he’d promised her he’d rein himself in.
She’d urged him to join AA, but he’d balked at that. He didn’t need outside help to get his drinking under control. He had absolutely no intention of standing up at a public meeting, with god knows who present, confessing his sins, and looking for approbation. He’d always been a man who held his liquor well, and his heft actually allowed him to metabolize alcohol more efficiently than many guys his age. He had to admit that after a couple of hours at the club, if he were stopped by the CHP, he could probably pass a field sobriety test, but he’d blow a blood-alcohol level that would put him in jail.
Happily for him he’d managed to restrict his drinking the past eight months. He’d have a beer or two after working in the yard, or he’d sip the occasional glass of Champagne, celebrating an occasion such as a birthday or an anniversary. He made sure Carolyn knew and approved of these exceptions because it underscored his stance of moderation. She’d never believe it if he claimed he’d quit altogether. She knew him better than that.
Now at business lunches and dinners he bypassed hard liquor in favor of white wine, which scarcely registered on his internal alcohol meter. Going dry was really no big deal. He made do with iced tea, or soda water with lime. He slept better and he had more energy, but he noticed he was often bored. Friends and cohorts, who’d seemed so amusing when he drank, began to get on his nerves. He wasn’t as smooth or relaxed as he’d been in the past and he was aware that certain of his friends now shied away from him. And why would they not? He thought teetotalers were a tiresome bunch and he was sorry he’d been thrust into their ranks. It was also true that the temptation to drink was with him every minute of every day, like a low-grade headache he didn’t know how to shake.
With Carolyn gone, he tooled along Via Juliana, actively fantasizing about the highball he’d make for himself when he got home. He planned to sit on the back patio, which Carolyn had recently refurbished with faux wicker furniture, upholstered in a fabric impervious to the elements. Rain and sun could beat down on the cushions without ill effect. The view from the back terrace was still amazing to him, stretching across the hills and treetops all the way to the ocean. The air would be still, smelling of sage and bay laurel. He’d take his time, savoring a predinner cocktail. Then he’d have a pizza delivered and eat in front of the television set, maybe catch a golf match or a guy flick of the sort Carolyn would find tedious. He might allow himself a wee nightcap, but he’d wait and see what his mood was when the time came. He didn’t feel the same compulsion to drink as he had in the past. This was purely for the pleasure of it.
On his way home from the office, he’d stopped at the liquor depot and picked up a pint of Maker’s Mark, a quart of vodka, and a six-pack of Bass Ale, which he intended to parcel out to himself over the four nights his family would be gone. All he had to do then was dispose of the empties before Carolyn got home. Would she ever know? He thought not. He’d keep his drinking simple—whiskey with a water back, vodka over ice—and remove any telltale evidence first thing Monday morning. No mixers in the liquor cabinet, no bottle caps in the trash, no cut limes in the fridge, and no conspicu
ous rings on the glass-topped table, where he’d be sitting while the sun went down.
Ahead of him at the curve, cars had slowed and he wondered if there’d been an accident. Maybe someone had hit a deer. He hoped to god it wasn’t a kid on a bike. Fletcher had just mastered his two-wheeler. Linnie was still riding a tricycle, and then only in the park. He wasn’t sure he’d ever permit them to take their bikes on a public road. There wasn’t much vehicular traffic through Horton Ravine, but at the end of the workday, when people headed for home, they often drove faster than the posted limit.
As he got closer, he spotted two cop cars and a mobile evidence van parked on the berm, which suggested an event of a more serious sort. He slowed. There was a smattering of people standing by the road, looking idle and indecisive. The crowd was modest, and it was clear they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. On impulse, he pulled onto the gravel strip where a number of other cars were parked. He killed the engine and got out. He still had no clue what was going on. An attractive redhead, in slacks and a sweater, stood leaning against the fence. She turned to look at him and gave him a little finger wave. Avis Jent. He recognized her from the country club, though she’d dropped from sight after her divorce.
She held her hand out. “Hello, Walker. Fancy meeting you here.” He smiled and took her hand, leaning forward to give her a perfunctory buss on the cheek. “Avis. It’s been ages. What have you been up to?”
“I just got back from my second stint in rehab. What a drag.”
“Ouch.”
“Big ouch,” she replied. “How are Carolyn and the kids?”
“Good, thanks,” he said. “What’s this about? Was there an accident?”
“The police got a tip about a body buried in the woods.”
His smile faded. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m afraid so. Someone said it was a kid, but that’s as much as I’ve heard. The cops are very tight-lipped.” She removed a cigarette from a packet in her purse. “I don’t suppose you have a match.”
He patted his pockets. “No, sorry.”
She waved him off. “Just as well. I smoke too much as it is. Can you imagine? Horton Ravine and cops are digging up a corpse.”
“Unbelievable. No talk at all about what happened?”
“Nope. They brought in a cadaver-sniffing dog and once they pin-pointed the spot, they went to work. They started digging a couple of hours ago and none of them looked happy,” Avis said. “So what brings you out? Do you live around here?”
“A mile down in that direction. I was driving by when I saw the cars and I was curious. What about you?”
“Alita Lane. They blocked off the street so now I’m stuck. Shit, and it’s the cocktail hour.”
“Did this just happen today?”
Avis shook her head. “This was something old. They sent out an intrepid girl reporter so I suppose we’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
Walker’s attention was drawn to a surge of activity—two or three uniformed officers led by a guy who must have been the homicide detective assigned to the scene. Walker nodded toward the group. “It looks like something’s going on.”
“At long last,” she replied.
He watched the detective make a brief remark to a woman in jeans. Walker saw him place an item in her hand, though he couldn’t see what it was. A second woman zeroed in on the exchange, clearly peppering the detective with questions as he continued walking to his car.
Someone tapped Walker on the arm. “Sir?”
He turned to find a middle-aged man standing beside him, his expression anxious.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I wouldn’t advise parking there. They’ve been asking people to move on to keep the area clear. They said they’d be writing tickets if motorists didn’t cooperate.”
“Thanks, but it looks like they’re done. I’d hate to leave without knowing if they found anything.”
The man glanced over at the commotion. “Oh. I guess you’re right.” Walker could see word trickling through the crowd, those closest to the front turning to pass along what they’d heard.
Avis said, “Hang on.” She moved forward and made her way through the bystanders. She tapped a woman on the shoulder and quizzed her for news. The two chatted briefly. Avis nodded, gesturing her thanks, and then returned to Walker’s side. “Well, that’s a relief,” she said. “Turned out to be a false alarm. The only thing they managed to dig up was a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yeah, you know, dog, like a household pet. All this ruckus for nothing, but at least I can go home and belt back a few to catch up with myself.”
Walker reached in his pants pocket for his car keys and realized he’d left them in the ignition. “I guess I better take off as well. Nice seeing you.”
Avis said, “You, too. Behave yourself.”
He returned to his car and noticed she was watching him with interest as he slid under the wheel. He smiled again and started his car, taking care as he backed out into the road.
Driving home he kept a close rein on his thoughts. He pulled the Mercedes into the garage and waited while the garage door rumbled down and closed with a thunk. He retrieved the liquor bag from the trunk and clutched it against him as he opened the door that led into the kitchen. When he set down the bag, the bottles of Maker’s Mark and vodka made a satisfying clunk of glass on the granite countertop.
Carolyn had left a note he didn’t bother to read. She’d be reminding him of things that needed to be done or couldn’t be overlooked in her absence. “Leave the alarm system off Friday morning so Ella can come in and clean. She should be done by noon. Just make sure she hasn’t left any outside doors unlocked. Garbage goes out for pickup . . .” It was always like that, his wife directing events from afar.
He walked through the house, taking in the ordinary sights and smells. Carolyn had made an attempt to pick up after the kids in the minutes before they left, but it was still a house where unruly children lived—Fletcher’s cowboy boots on the stairs waiting to be taken up; Linnie’s jacket thrown over the newel post; shoes, doll clothes, coloring books on the floor. Carolyn had left her knitting in a heap on the side table near the couch, the same ugly afghan she’d worked on for years. He circled through the living room where she’d drawn the drapes, leaving the room in a golden gloom. He passed through the dining room with the round mahogany table and Chippendale chairs she’d inherited from an aunt.
He opened the china cabinet and removed an old-fashioned glass that was part of a set of Swarovski crystal he’d given Carolyn for their tenth anniversary. He went into the family room and crossed to the wet bar, where he opened the ice maker. He used the white plastic scoop to rattle ice into his glass. These were all sounds he loved, a prelude to the relief, the cessation of anxiety he knew was coming up. This was foreplay. He was setting the scene to maximize his pleasure. If he’d been into pornography, he couldn’t have exercised greater care or self-control, teasing himself with his preparations, building his anticipation.
Glass in hand, he returned to the kitchen, opened the Maker’s Mark, and poured himself a drink. By then a delayed reaction had set in. The mobile evidence van, police on the hill. His right hand started to shake so hard, the bottle banged against the rim of the glass. Carefully, he put both the bottle and the glass on the counter and leaned stiff-armed against the sink, hanging his head. Fear welled up like bile, and for a moment he thought he’d be sick. He took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to throw off his anxiety.
He reached for the wall phone and punched in Jon’s number.
Jon picked up on his end. “Yes.”
“It’s me.”
A brief, wary silence, and then Jon said, “Well, Walker. This is unexpected. What can I do for you?”
“You heard what’s going on?”
“What would that be?”
Walker could tell Jon was sorting through papers on his desk, reminding him that whatever Walker had to say, it w
as of less interest than the task right in front of him. “They’re digging up the hill off Alita Lane. Cops, cadaver dog, evidence van, the works.”
The paper rustling stopped. “Really. When was this?”
“I saw them just now, on my way home from work. I pulled over and chatted with a gal I knew. She said they thought a child was buried on the hill. They dug up the dog.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t come up before. One way or another, something was bound to surface. There was always that risk.”
“Yes, but why now? Where’s this shit coming from?”
“I have no idea. I’m sure we’ll find out in due course. Are you all right?”
“So far. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Don’t be paranoid. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“So you’ve said, but here it is anyway.”
“Cool it, man. Would you do that? Be cool. This won’t blow back on us. I guarantee.”
“Why after all these years?”
“No clue. The cops don’t consult with me.”
“But what could have happened?”
“Walker, it doesn’t matter. It’s a dead end so drop it. Where’s Carolyn?”
“Up north. At her mother’s. She took the kids.”
“Until when?”
“Monday.”
“Good. Gives you time to simmer down and get your head on straight.”
“Take a chill pill,” Walker said, echoing Jon’s unspoken admonition from their teen years.
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to call.”
“Good you did. Let me know if you hear anything else.”
Jon hung up without waiting for a response.
Walker replaced the handset in the mount on the wall. He lifted the glass and swallowed the whiskey in one smooth motion and then said, “Whooo!” Something loosened in his chest, the old familiar sensation he’d been longing for. He shook his head. He’d be fine. Everything was good.
