“And you got the attention you wanted from her.”
He closed his eyes. “Not now, Shar.”
“Okay. How long’re they going to keep you here?”
“Dad’s having me moved to a private hospital ASAP.”
“Will you have computer access there?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”
“I don’t want your skills atrophying while you recover.” I reached out to take his right hand.
Again he grimaced. “I feel half dead. Only dead people don’t hurt this much—I hope.”
“They’ll give you a shot soon.”
“I’m counting the minutes.”
“Don’t talk any more now.”
We sat holding hands till the nurse came with the shot and asked me to leave.
The hard thinking at the pier had paid off. Now I detoured on the way home to the Spanish-style apartment my operative Craig Morland and SFPD homicide detective Adah Joslyn shared in the Marina district.
Adah came to the door wearing blue sweats. God, how did she manage to look elegant even when her armpit area was streaked with perspiration?
“Craig and I just got back from our run on the Green,” she said, catching with her fingertips a drop of moisture from one of the cornrows she’d recently taken to wearing. Her smooth, honey-tan face creased between her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
“Nobody called you two about Mick?”
“No. What happened?”
“It’s bad, but he’ll live. If you’ll invite me in and give me a drink, I’ll tell you both. And then I have a proposition for you.”
It was after five, and Hy and I were relaxing in front of the fireplace in the parlor, a cat in either lap, when Glenn Solomon returned my earlier call.
I cut from pleasantries to my main question: “How much influence do you have at city hall these days?”
“If you mean, do I have something on the mayor? No. But I’ve got the goods on some very highly placed officials.”
“What about the Port Commission?”
“One of those highly placed officials has influence there, yes.”
“You willing to call in some markers in exchange for a free pass on the next few cases you bring to the agency?”
“Always willing to call in markers for you, my friend.”
“Okay, here’s what I need. . . .”
When I replaced the receiver, Hy toasted me and said, “You’re back, McCone. All the way.”
The Monday-morning staff meeting had gone well. In fact, a kind of giddiness had prevailed. The boss was back—even temporarily. But as I soared above Oakland’s North Field on my way back to Mono County, following the ATC’s instructions, once again I felt remote from the everyday concerns of the agency.
Hy had suggested I take Two-Seven-Tango. He didn’t have time to deliver me and was sure he wouldn’t need the plane for a while. I was more than glad to do so. As I set my course toward the Sierra Nevada, I fell into that strange state that I sometimes enter when flying: alert on one level, contemplative on another.
Contemplative about the new direction my life was taking. Contemplative about my current case. All other concerns slipped away as I planned what to do when I arrived.
As I passed the shack that served as Tufa Tower’s terminal, Amos Hinsdale gave me one of his “Female pilots—bah!” looks through the window. I waved cheerily in response.
I drove to the Ace Hardware in town and looked over their limited selection of answering machines. Hy had said to spare no expense, but I bought the cheapest. It would serve for the length of time I remained here, and before we came up again I could pick up a better one at a lower price at Costco.
When I reached the ranch I checked the old machine to see if it had somehow resurrected itself. Not even a peep out of the thing. I disposed of it in the trash bin, set up the new one, and called Kristen Lark for an update.
“Not much to report,” she told me. “My interview with Boz Sheppard went nowhere. I’m sure he knows more than he’s saying, but he’s stonewalling.”
“How about if I take a stab at him?”
“If you want, I can set it up. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure.”
Otherwise Lark had nothing else to report. She referred to the cases as “dead ends.”
I knew otherwise.
I was checking my e-mail when my cell rang. Mick.
“Thought I’d let you know that I’m in this convalescent place Dad had me moved to. It’s posh—gourmet meals and pretty nurses and great therapy facilities.”
He’d mentioned them in the order I would’ve expected. “That was fast.”
“SF General likes to free up beds.”
“You sound good.”
“Well, I’m on these terrific pain meds. You asked if I’d have computer access here, so I assume you need something.”
“I’ve got a situation to run by you.” I told him about my interest in why a man like Trevor Hanover would hire a high-priced attorney to represent a Vegas hooker.
“Let me play with this awhile,” he said. “Back to you later.”
I felt restless, so I drove into town. Petals was open; the clerk told me Cammie Charles and Rich Three Wings were due home from a camping trip in the Toiyabe National Forest that afternoon. Cammie always let her know where they were going and when they’d be back, in case there was a problem such as their vehicle breaking down. When I asked for Charles’ home address, the woman gave it to me without hesitation. Small towns—you gotta love them.
The address was a cinder-block house two blocks down on the same street where Miri Perez had lived. An old Toyota with peeling paint and various dents sat in the driveway. I rang the bell, but no one was home.
It was a long drive to Rich Three Wings’ place at Elk Lake. I decided to wait a while, see if Cammie came home.
That left T.C. Mathers. Was I up to tackling her? Sure. I’d dealt with tougher, more hostile women in my day and come out with the upper hand.
The wilderness supply store was closed when I got there. Tom Mathers had told me they lived on the property, so I followed a dirt driveway around the store and across a barren acre till I spotted a prefab house nested in the shade of a grove of cottonwoods. A Ford SUV was pulled up outside.
I knocked on the door. For a moment there was no reply, then T.C.’s voice called, “Go away!”
“It’s Sharon McCone, T.C. I met you at the wilderness supply last week. I wanted to check and see how you’re doing.”
“The hell you say.” She slurred the words.
“That’s what I say.”
The remark seemed to confuse her. There was a silence, and then she opened the door.
Drunk, all right: her long reddish-blonde hair was tangled, her eyes unfocused, and there were stains on her sweatshirt and jeans. She reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She stared at me for a time before motioning me inside. I watched her stumble across the room to a sofa and flop down. She picked up a pewter mug from an end table and raised it to me.
“Welcome,” she said. “You here to tear my home apart like those fuckin’ deputies did?”
I shut the door and sat in an armchair opposite her. “I only want to talk. Tough time, huh?”
She shrugged. “I’ve seen tougher.”
“I don’t know. I was married last year, first time. I can’t imagine how I’d deal with having my husband murdered.”
“Tom? That asshole. I only married him because all the good guys were already taken.”
“Like Rich Three Wings?”
She drank from the mug, replenished it from a vodka bottle tucked beneath the table. “How d’you know about us?”
“In a place like this, everybody knows everything.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth? That Cammie—little Miss Priss—found out about Rich and me getting it on. Then the shit hit the fan.”
“I thought Rich was pretty much committed to her.”
“
Pretty
much, yeah. But she was pressuring for marriage, wouldn’t even move out to the lake to be with him unless they tied the knot, for Chrissake. He was starting to feel trapped and manipulated when I showed up to buy one of his rocking chairs. I wasn’t in any position to trap or manipulate him and he knew it, so he took me to bed. Again and again, till the silly little bitch caught on.”
“And so you confronted him and Cammie—”
“Give it a rest. I got a bad temper, but they’re both alive, aren’t they? And I didn’t kill Tom. He had another woman, you know. Maybe you should check her out. Lives in that trailer park where Hayley Perez bought it. Little mouse of a woman. I happen to know he was with her that night, they always got together on Tuesdays.”
“That make you angry, T.C.?”
“Annoyed, but I didn’t care enough about Tom to kill him over any woman.”
“This ‘mouse’—you know her name?”
“Judy Perkins. She works as a hair stylist at the Vernon Salon. Little skank, wouldn’t hurt anybody. And Tom came home alive and well that Tuesday.”
“Any other ideas about who might’ve killed your husband?”
“I don’t know. He was such a nothing. I can’t imagine why anyone would bother.” Her eyebrows pulled together. “He had something else going, though. Knew something he wasn’t telling me.”
“For how long?”
“Not very.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Tom wasn’t subtle. He’d been strutting around acting smug and arrogant, talking about all the money he was going to have, and if I was nice to him he’d share.”
“But you have no idea where this money was coming from?”
“Uh-uh.” She reached for the bottle, refilled the mug. “It must’ve been something big. But before he could collect, he went and got himself killed. Stupid bastard. Now what am I gonna do?”
I, I, I . . .
Me, me, me . . .
A prevalent mindset in contemporary society, and God knew I’d recently been guilty of it myself.
So Tom Mathers had had something big going. What, possibly, could that be? He was a wilderness guide; good money in that, and in the supply business, but it wasn’t going to make him rich—not unless he’d discovered Bigfoot or a vein of gold during one of those treks.
It sounded to me like blackmail.
There are three kinds of major-crime felons who are too stupid for words: bank robbers, kidnappers, and blackmailers. The first two because they almost always get caught; the last one because they are frequently killed by their own victims.
But who could Tom Mathers’ prospective victim be? A wealthy client who had committed some indiscretion on one of his wilderness tours? I’d like to get my hands on Tom’s calendar and invoices. Perhaps tomorrow when T.C. would—hopefully—be sober.
But right now, onward to see Judy Perkins.
I drove through the trailer park until I found Perkins’ space, one row down from Boz Sheppard’s. It was small but well kept-up, with her name painted on a cheerful yellow mailbox. I got out of the Rover and started along a path of flagstones.
A woman’s voice called out, “If you’re looking for Judy, she’s not home.”
I turned. The speaker was elderly, wearing shorts that exposed well-muscled legs; for some reason, she was watering her graveled yard.
“You know where she is?”
“Out of town. Someplace near LA. Her mother’s taken sick. Probably’ll have to be put in a home.”
“That’s too bad. When did Judy leave?”
“Almost two weeks ago, Sunday. I been picking up her mail.”
Almost two weeks ago, Sunday. The day after Hy and I had found Tom Mathers’ body.
“You have her mother’s address or phone number?”
“No. Why—?”
“That’s okay. I think I have it in my book at home.”
I started back to the Rover, but the woman said, “Sure has been a lot of tragedy in this place lately.”
“You mean Hayley Perez?”
“Yes. And now I hear they’ve arrested Boz Sheppard. Such a nice young man; he used to help me take out my garbage.”
Well, everybody has a few good points. “The night Hayley was killed—did you hear the shot?”
“. . . Yeah, I heard it. Everybody did.”
“But nobody called 911.”
“Not that I know of. Or if they did, they’re not saying. I didn’t; I locked my doors and kept the lights low. I’m old and so’re a lot of the other folks here. Not easy to defend ourselves.”
“Did Judy hear it?”
“She didn’t say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.” She turned back to watering her gravel lawn.
The old Toyota was still in Cammie Charles’ driveway, but its trunk lid was up. I parked behind it, glanced inside on my way to the house’s propped-open front door. Boxes and plastic garbage bags. The backseat contained more boxes and a couple of suitcases.
As I reached the door, I came face-to-face with Charles. Her arms were loaded with a comforter and pillows, her pert face flushed with exertion.
“What’s happening, Cammie?” I asked.
She stared, not recognizing me.
“Sharon McCone. We met at Petals—”
“Oh, right. Would you mind . . . ?” She motioned with her head that she wanted to get around me.
I took a couple of pillows from the top of the bundle, stepped back, and followed her to the car. “You moving in with Rich—?”
“No. That’s over. I’m going back to the Bay Area.” She stuffed the comforter into the trunk, took the pillows from me.
“What happened?”
She didn’t reply, punching the pillows into place as if they were defying her.
“Does this have to do with Rich’s affair with T.C. Mathers?”
She slammed the trunk lid shut and turned to face me. “God, how many more people have to remind me of that? No, it does not.”
“What, then?”
“None of your damn business.”
“The two of you were on a camping trip. What went wrong?”
“What can go wrong on a camping trip? A bear ate our food? We burned the s’mores? Rich didn’t catch any fish? Take your pick!”
“Seriously . . .”
“Seriously, I’m out of here. Go away!”
“Cammie—”
She straightened, balling her fists. “You want to know what’s wrong? This place. People talking and prying into your life. People who don’t really care about anybody but themselves, and will do anything to avoid responsibility.
Go away!
”
No sense in antagonizing her further. I went.
Rich Three Wings was chopping wood again. The sound of the axe smashing its target rang out over the quiet waters of Elk Lake. Given the sorrow and aggravation he’d suffered recently, he’d soon have enough logs to fill all the fireplaces of Vernon.