No
ravens, no hawks, no sign of any life in a grimy gray sky flat as flannel.
Despite my heavy foot, the drive had been tedious, marked by heavy stretches of
silence, the gravel pits, scrap yards, and cookie-cutter houses set into dusty
tracts that seemed more depressing today. Developers would chew up the desert
for as long as they were allowed. Families would move in and have babies who’d
grow into adolescents. Bored teens would chafe at the heat and the quiet and
days that ran into each other like a tape loop. Too much of nothing would breed
trouble. People like Milo would never be out of business.
Neither
would people like me.
As we
neared the entrance to Mountain View Sojourn, Milo stopped, got on the phone,
checked to see if the BOLO had snared Drew Daney’s Jeep.
“Nothing.”
He seemed almost comforted by failure.
* * *
Business
was slow at the campsite. Two RVs in the lot, the generator silent. That and a
fresh coating of dust and the apathetic sky gave the place a desolate feel.
No
sign of Bunny MacIntyre. We headed straight through the trees.
Barnett
Malley’s black truck was parked exactly where it had been, in front of the
cedar cabin.
Windows
rolled up.
Milo’s
gun was out. He motioned me to stay back, proceeded slowly. Looked into the
truck from all sides. Continued toward the cabin’s front door.
Knock
knock.
No
“Who’s there?”
The
welcome mat was in place, covered by dry leaves and bird crap. Milo disappeared
behind the south side of the cabin, same as he’d done the first time. Returned
and tried the front door. It swung open. He went in. Called out, “C’mon.”
* * *
Rustic,
wood-paneled space, rubbed clean and smelling of Lysol. As vacant as Drew
Daney’s hiding hole.
Except
for the piano. Chipped, brown Gulbransen upright, sheet music held in place on
the rack with a clothespin.
Floyd
Cramer’s “Last Date” on top. Beneath that:
Country Songs for Easy Playing.
“Desperado”
by the Eagles. “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.
Empty
gun rack on the wall. Through the disinfectant came the smell of male sweat and
old clothes and machine oil.
A
voice behind us said, “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing!”
Bunny
MacIntyre stood in the doorway. Her auburn perm was wrapped in an orange scarf
and she wore a blue-checked western shirt tucked into straight-leg jeans. A
necklace encircled her wattled neck. Silver and turquoise, peace symbol
dangling from the central stone.
Barnett
Malley had worn it the day we’d tried to talk to him.
MacIntyre
took in Milo’s gun and said, “Pfft. Put that stupid thing away.”
Milo
obliged.
She
said, “I asked you a question.”
“Looks
like you’ve got a vacancy, ma’am.”
“And
it’s gonna stay that way.”
“Shucks,
ma’am. And here I was thinking about country living.”
“Then
do it somewheres else. This is my place. Gonna be a painting studio,” said
MacIntyre. “Shoulda done it a long time ago. Now you leave right now, you don’t
have my permission to trespass. Go on.”
Dismissing
wave.
Still
smiling, Milo strode up to her quickly. When he was a foot away, the smile was
gone and his face had darkened.
MacIntyre
stood her ground but it took effort.
Milo
said, “When did Malley leave and where did he go? And no bullshit.”
MacIntyre’s
pink lashes fluttered. “You don’t scare me,” she said, but strain thinned her
smoker’s voice.
“Don’t
want to scare anyone, ma’am, but I will cuff you and haul you in for
obstructing justice if you give me any more lip.”
“You
can’t do that.”
He
spun her around, brought her arm behind her. Gingerly. Regret weakened his
eyes.
A
look that said
An old woman. This is what it’s come to.
Bunny
MacIntyre howled. “You damned
bully
! What do you
want
from me?”
Her
voice was all strain, an octave higher. Milo released her arm, spun her back so
she faced him.
“The truth.”
She
rubbed her wrist. “Big brave guy. I’m filing a complaint.”
“I’m
sure it was a thrill having him here,” said Milo. “Younger guy, I’m not
judging. But now he’s gone— with a woman his own age— and things out in the
real world have grown ugly, so it’s time to toss the May-December fantasies and
help me get to the truth.”
Bunny
MacIntyre gaped. Smiled. Slapped her flank and roared with laughter.
When
her breathing finally slowed, she said, “You thought he was my
boy
toy?
Man, are you
stupid
!” More laughter.
“You’re
covering for him,” said Milo. “All for a platonic relationship?”
MacIntyre
laughed herself hoarse. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! He’s
family,
you dolt.
My sister’s son. She died of cancer and so did Barnett’s father. And despite
what the government claims you’ll never convince me it wasn’t because of all
that radiation.”
“Los
Alamos.”
She
blinked. “Let me tell you, they got all kinds of crazy things going on there.
Few years back there was a huge fire, burned thousands of acres black but
spared the lab. That sound logical? Supposedly it was set on purpose by some
Smokey Bear types to control forest fires and the winds blew it out of
control.” She snorted. “Tell it to the marines.”
“Barnett’s
your nephew.”
“Last
I heard, that’s what you call a sister’s son. I’m all he’s got left, mister.
He’s an
orphan,
get it? I was willing to take him in from the beginning
but he didn’t want a handout so I sent him over to Gilbert Grass. When Gilbert
retired, I told him I could really use the help. Which was true. Is helping
family illegal now?”
“He’s
got a sister in Ohio.”
MacIntyre
pursed her lips. “That one. Married a banker, rich snob. She always looked down
on Barnett ’cause he wasn’t much for schooling. Not stupid, don’t go thinking
he was stupid. He had trouble reading but give him a pump to fix, or something
to build, and he’d do it in a flash.”
“Good
for him. Now where is he?”
“He’s
a good boy,” said MacIntyre. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”
“Where
is he, ma’am?”
“Don’t
know.”
“Ms.
MacIntyre— ”
“You
deaf
?”
She rubbed her wrist some more. “You can pull a Rodney King from today till
tomorrow but I don’t
know.
He didn’t
tell
me.”
“He
left without a word?”
“He
left thanking me for everything I’d done, said it was time to go. I didn’t ask
questions because I don’t like to ask questions and Barnett doesn’t like to
answer them. He’s been through enough. The man’s a vegetarian, that tell you
something?”
“He
likes animals.”
“He’s
peaceful.”
“When
did he leave?”
“Three
days ago.”
“His
truck’s here.”
“Gee,”
said MacIntyre, “Sherlock Holmes must’ve put on a few pounds.”
“What’s
he using for wheels?”
Silence.
“Ma’am?”
“He’s
got another one.”
“Another
truck?” said Milo. “It’s not registered.”
“It’s
registered to me.”
“Then
it’s your responsibility, not his.”
“Suppose
so.”
“What
kind?”
MacIntyre
didn’t answer.
“Something
happens,” said Milo, “the liability is yours. And if it’s registered, all I
have to do is make a call.”
She
twisted her mouth.
“If
it’s not,” he said, “you’re in trouble.”
“Haven’t
gotten around to it yet. It was Gilbert’s, I bought it from his widow.”
“What
make?”
“Also
a Ford.”
“Color?”
“Also
black.”
“Where
does Barnett keep it?”
“Somewhere
in Santa Clarita and don’t ask me where ’cause I don’t know.”
“Auto-storage
facility?”
“One
of those customizer places. He’s having work done on it. Souping up the engine,
big tires, you know— boy stuff. Don’t you think he’s entitled to have some boy
fun?”
“Is
he traveling alone?”
“You
just said he had a girl.”
“Did
you know it before I told you?” said Milo.
“He
mentioned he had a friend, but that’s it, don’t know her name.”
“Never
met her?”
“No,
but she’s good for Barnett and that’s all I care about.”
“How
do you know she’s good for him?”
“He’s
started getting a little happy.”
W
e headed back to the road and Milo did another BOLO
check as I started up the Seville. Shook his head. “Now I’m manhandling
crones.”
“She’ll
survive.”
“Thanks
for the support,” he said. “Where’s your sensitive side?”
“Dormant.
Want me to head over to Santa Clarita, find the garage that worked on Barnett’s
other truck?”
“Too
much work for too little payoff. Malley and Cherish are already out on the open
road. The question is which road.”
“There’s
also the matter of Cherish’s Toyota.”
“You
think they’re traveling separately? You heard MacIntyre. Barnett’s happy.”
“It
would take more than romance to bring joy into his life.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Maybe
he refused to cooperate with you because he had his own plan. The word
‘closure’ should be dropped from the English language, but a guy in his
position might figure getting some sort of satisfaction could ease his pain.
And Cherish could help him.”
“Payback,”
he said.
“That’s
another word for it.”
* * *
By
the time I made it back to the Valley, the sun was starting to drop. I drove
straight to the park where Kristal Malley had been murdered, hoping for simple
bloody symmetry. Instead of Drew’s body we found only a scrubby, sad space
pocked with trash.
Milo
had his little penlight out and he washed the skinny beam over the same public
lavatories described in Sue Kramer’s police report, the same Dumpster, now
reeking of waste.
The
same swings, where a pair of young killers had sat smoking and drinking beer.
No
kids here, tonight. No people at all. Off in the distance, the crumbling,
flat-roofed units of 415 City were top-lit harshly, security bulbs spanking the
darkness. A police siren howled, then dopplered to silence. Shouts and laughter
and drumbeats filtered through the night. The air was heavy and oppressive and
dangerous, like hands around a throat.
Milo
pocketed the penlight. “Nice try. They could be anywhere. Maybe Cherish really
did want to go to Vegas.”
I
said, “Where exactly was Lara found?”
He
sat down on one of the swings. The chain howled in protest. Phoning Sue Kramer,
he asked her the same question, listened intently. Made some notes and hung up
and handed them to me. “For what it’s worth.”
* * *
The
Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve is 225 acres of what passes for natural
habitat in L.A. Created by a dam filled with undrinkable water and
army-engineered flood-drainage channels, and planted with native vegetation,
the refuge is sandwiched between two freeways yet motion-picture gorgeous.
Birds love it and a couple hundred species migrate in and out. People are
welcome with qualifications. No hunting, no fishing, no bikes, no feeding the
ducks. No straying off the well-marked paths.
Following
Sue Kramer’s directions, I entered on Balboa Boulevard, just below Birmingham
High School, cruised a treeless stretch of road. A short while later, the L.A.
River appeared, an empty, graffiti-marred trough in this drought-plagued
winter.
Milo
said, “She parked right there.” Pointing to a spot bordering the river,
half-hidden by an initial planting of eucalyptus.
No
sign of any vehicles.
I
kept driving.
He
said, “Where now?”
“Maybe
nowhere.”
“Then
why bother?”
“Got
anything better to do?”
Continuing
south to Burbank, I hooked a left and traversed the southern border of the
reserve. Lots of trees here. Signs pointed toward the dam. No more birds than
we’d seen in Soledad Canyon. Maybe they knew something.