“That,” she called back, “was the first consideration in deciding where to stay!”
I watched to make sure no one followed her, then drove off, sparing one last, worried look at my Karmann Ghia. I supposed if Mary could leave her home behind, I could leave my car.
For a while I drove aimlessly, checking the rearview mirror often. I stopped at a gas station, filled up the tank. Travis slept through it all.
I picked up the cell phone and called Rachel. I asked her to meet me in the parking lot of a grocery store on the east side of town.
I got there first. I opened some windows and the roof vent, so that Travis wouldn’t suffocate in the afternoon heat, and stepped outside. I stayed next to the van, even after Rachel parked several spaces away.
She walked over and I explained what was happening. I told her she could look through the photos while I picked up a few things in the store.
I wasn’t gone long; I had no idea how many days we’d spend on the road, but being an optimist, I guessed on the low side. Besides, there wasn’t much room in the van’s little refrigerator.
We stepped outside to talk.
“What are your plans for these photos?” she asked in a low voice.
“I’m going to have a talk with your friend McCain.”
She didn’t comment on that, or shrug or gesture. That made me uneasy. “You’ve seen him lately?” I asked.
“Had lunch with him today.” After a moment she added, “Talked over old times.”
“No kidding.”
“Listen, you have something on your mind, say it.”
“And get my ass kicked? No thank you.”
“I won’t touch you, and you know it. So speak up.”
I didn’t say anything.
“All right, then,” she said.
After a long silence, during which neither one of us would look at the other, she said, “You need anything?”
“Just check on Mary once in a while.” I gave her the address and phone number. “And one other thing-a big favor.” I handed her my car keys. “Move the Karmann Ghia? Maybe Jack would help you out.”
“I’d rather stay with you, protect the two of you.”
I shook my head. “If anything happens to us, I’m depending on you and Mary to make sure Frank starts dating again.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Oh, I’m supposed to tell you that our boys spent Saturday night at a public library in Boise, Idaho, looking up that story on DeMont.”
She smiled. “The sad thing is, I believe it.”
She walked back to her car, then drove it over to where I still stood outside the van. She rolled down her window, said, “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I would never do anything to hurt him.”
She drove off, while I stood there, alone with my shame.
I called McCain.
I drove the van to a large park near the eastern side of town. Part of the park can be accessed for free; I went to the larger section, the side that charges a low admission fee. It was that time of day when picnickers were starting to leave, so when I paid the two bucks to go in, most of the other cars were going out.
I drove to the far end of the road, to a relatively treeless section that is mostly a large stretch of uneven ground. Not enough shade or tables for a picnic, nor level enough for games. We had it to ourselves. I would easily be able to see anyone approaching by car or on foot.
Travis still slept, but his sleep was more restless now. Once, I thought he had awakened, but he was only talking in his sleep, murmuring half-words that I couldn’t understand.
I opened up the side of the van, and set up its attached awning. This kept the van cool and made a shady spot to sit while waiting for McCain. I set up two chairs under the nearest tree, so that we could talk without waking Travis.
I heard the car even before I saw it, and noticed that McCain was approaching cautiously, as if driving into a possible trap. Suspicious son of a bitch. Not that I blamed him.
He parked some distance away, but that might have been because I had told him Travis was sleeping. I motioned him over to the chairs. He was in a suit, and he hung the jacket on the back of his chair. I offered him a can of iced tea, and he accepted. He seemed to be studying my every move. As I handed him the iced tea, it dawned on me that he hadn’t seen me at all the day before, so the bruises and swelling were new to him. He saw that I had caught him staring at me and said, “I didn’t realize that guy had roughed you up so much.”
I shrugged, and said, “There are worse things that can happen to a person.”
“Reed Collins tells me you know about some of those, too.”
I took a deep breath. “Not why I asked you over here.”
“Well, yes, but this is my awkward attempt at working up to an apology. Sorry I got so hot under the collar yesterday.”
“I was a little testy myself.”
Nobody had slammed me against a wall.“
“Okay, you win, you were the bigger asshole.”
He laughed. “Much better. What can I do for you?”
“I visited Robert DeMont today. You know who he is?”
“Cousin of Arthur Spanning’s first wife. We talked to him. Says what everybody says in this case-he hasn’t seen Briana Maguire in years.”
“Did you visit him at his house?”
“No, just talked to him on the phone.”
I held up the envelope. “If I tell you who has the negatives, will you leave these here with me?”
“If they have to do with an ongoing-”
“Oh, take the starch out of your drawers!” I snapped, holding the envelope out of reach.
He seemed taken aback, but then smiled and said, “A compromise. If I can’t find the negatives by Monday morning, you hand these over.”
“You search diligently before then?”
“Absolutely-if they’re worth the search.”
I handed him the envelope. “No worries on that score.”
He opened it, pulled out the photos, and after a surprised look crossed his face, took out his notebook and said, “Who took them?”
“Harold Richmond.”
“The guy with one idea?”
I felt the parts of my face that weren’t purple turn red. I explained who Richmond was, told him who had hired him. “I think you’ll find that he matches the description of the man who was trying to break into Briana’s apartment. The neighbors would probably be thrilled to pick him out of a lineup.”
While McCain continued to study the photos, I wrote down Richmond’s address and phone number, and told him how to get to Margot’s place on Rivo Alto. “You’re more likely to find him there,” I said, “or at a bar called the Wharf.”
As I said this last to him, an idea struck me. Fortunately, he was absorbed in studying the photos, so he didn’t see the little light bulb go on over my head.
“Because there’s a connection between your case and the bombing of the camper,” I said, “I think the Las Piernas Police are also going to want these negatives. So promise me you’ll share them with your good friend Reed Collins.”
He looked up then, and said, “You think this man killed your aunt?”
“I’m not saying he did or he didn’t. But he was taking her photo in the very place where she was killed.”
“And other places as well.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. You re angry.
“If someone you loved had been photographed at her husband’s funeral, all for the entertainment of her spouse’s enemies, wouldn’t you be a little pissed off?”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “Yeah, I would.”
“One other thing. DeMont owns a Camry that was in a wreck a few weeks ago.”
His brows went up.
“I can give you the address of the body shop it’s in, if you don’t think it’s too late to find evidence on it.”
“We’ll probably find what we’re looking for. They may not have started working on it-a reputable shop will report anything that has signs of being in a pedestrian versus vehicle accident.”
“But it wasn’t in the shop until this week.” I explained the situation. “He might have cleaned it up before his sister hauled it off to the shop.”
“Don’t worry, if you’ve got the right car, we’ll know it.” He paused, then said, “You’re a reporter-got a strong enough stomach for some details?”
I nodded, not sure that was true.
“Blood, hair and other matter will still show up on a car that’s been washed-on the undercarriage, behind the grill and in other places most people wouldn’t think of cleaning. As for the time that’s passed, sure, we’d like to find any evidence as soon as possible, but even if the blood, fiber and other evidence have been destroyed, the LAPD collected parts of that car from the scene. We’ve got pieces to match up to the damage, and autopsy observations that will help do the same. And of course, there are the tires.”
“The tires?”
“There were tire-tread marks visible on the body.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t tell you this to distress you,” he said. “Just to let you know that I think we’ll have plenty of ways to link the car to the crime if it’s the one that was used to kill your aunt. He could have taken it through a car wash, and we’d still be able to show a jury that it’s the one.”
He reluctantly handed the photos back, then said, “You know these weren’t taken on the day she was killed?”
“Wrong sweater.”
He smiled. “You talked to Mr. Reyes.” He put on his jacket and tucked his notebook away. He studied me for a moment, then said, “You must get along well with Rachel.”
“If I could have chosen my own sister, I would have picked Rachel. You should see who I got instead.”
He laughed and said, “Thanks for the help. I need to get going on all of this.” He looked around, then said, “You think you and your cousin will be safe out here?”
“Does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?”
“Whoever said you were one?”
I groaned. “Maybe a long talk with Richmond will make you a little less suspicious of me.”
“One can always hope,” he said, smiling to himself as he walked toward his car.
I put the envelope on the small table in the van, then went back out to get the chairs. When I returned, Travis was standing next to the table, his hair sleep-tousled, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“Where are we?”
“A park on the east side of Las Piernas.” I picked up the envelope and explained why we had left Mary’s. “We tried to wake you, but the pain pill made that impossible.”
“I vaguely remember walking out to the van,” he said, rubbing his face, seeming still half-asleep. “How can you be so sure they knew where we were?”
That led to an explanation about my afternoon, and the photos.
“The photos are in that envelope?”
“Yes.”
“You said he took photos of my mother?”
“Yes.”
“May I seem them?” He said it with a touch of impatience.
Reluctantly, I handed them to him. I stepped outside to take the awning down.
He was silent as he looked through them, but despite visible efforts to control himself, he couldn’t hide his grief when he came to one of them. He hadn’t looked through all of them, but he set them down, then covered his eyes with his left hand. I stepped inside, finished with the awning, but leaving the door open. On the table, at the top of the stack, was one of the photos of his mother at Arthur’s funeral.
He broke down, but this storm was over almost as quickly as it started, as if he only needed its release for it to pass.
I found a box of tissues, and he took it, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just-God! I should have been there! I should have taken care of her, protected her!”
“Do you think you could have prevented Richmond from spying on her?”
After a moment he shook his head. “I couldn’t even prevent him from spying on you and me.”
He stepped outside, looked around. “Can we stay here overnight?”
“No. But we should keep moving, anyway.”
He glanced back at the envelope.
“Do you think Robert DeMont killed my mother?”
“If he did, McCain will find out from the car.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “But you don’t think he did it.” I m not sure.
“Why not?”
“These photos were most likely taken because someone believes your father murdered his first wife.”
“Harold Richmond and Robert DeMont both believe that,” he said.
“Well, Richmond does anyway.” I told him about DeMont’s history with knives. “But the more I think about it, the more I wonder why Robert would have killed Gwen. He might have tried to get her to divorce your dad, so that he could go back to raiding her money. But if she was dead and he couldn’t pin the murder on your dad, he was out of luck.”
“Maybe he found out about us-my mom and me,” Travis said. “Maybe he
did
hope to frame my dad, thought the bigamy would convince a jury that my dad was a murderer. Then the other DeMonts would get everything-my dad couldn’t inherit.”
“Hmm. But that was all settled a long time ago, whether they like it or not. Why hire someone to take photos of you and your mother now? Why attack you, your mother, Ulkins? They won’t get anything from the estate by killing you.”
“Who would?”
“Your uncle Gerald.”
“But he said he can’t inherit-”
“Gerald only said he couldn’t get anything from the DeMont estate. There could be money that didn’t come from her inheritance, and which would be fair game for Gerald. We need to talk to your friend Mr. Brennan to find out if there ever was a prenuptial agreement. I was hoping I could get you to call him again, ask his answering service to tell him that we want to drive out to-where does he stay?”
“Lake Arrowhead.”
“So tell him we’ll come up to Lake Arrowhead to talk to him.”
He made the call. When he hung up, he said, “I know that Gerald lied to me, but think about the things that have happened! This Richmond guy takes photos of my mom in an intersection, and she’s killed there! He takes these photos of my camper, and it blows up! What more do you need? I’m not saying I know
why
Richmond and Robert DeMont are trying to destroy us-hell, maybe they think of this as revenge. But Gerald couldn’t know you were going to find me that day, or even know where you live.”