I woke in the morning to my cellular’s ring and, as I reached for it, was shocked to see that it was after ten.
Hy. “Sorry I haven’t called, McCone. I’m in Tokyo.”
“A crisis?”
“No, major new client who wanted to meet in person. I tried to leave a message on the ranch machine before I went, but I think it malfunctioned. Squawking noises, like an enraged chicken.”
“Damn machines. I swear they make them with a chip that tells them to die the day after the warranty expires. I’ll pick up another.”
“Good. I had to rush to catch my flight and I’ve been jammed up ever since, so I haven’t had time till now to call your cell. What’s doing?”
I explained what had happened since we last talked. “I may have to go to Sacramento. Where’s the best place around here to rent a plane?”
“El Aero at Carson City Airport. Ask for my buddy Pete. He’ll give you a discounted rate.”
Hy had “buddies” in airports throughout the country-sometimes I thought throughout the world. “Will do. When will you be back stateside?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and when I get back home I’ll have to play catch-up. Any idea when you’ll be coming to the city?”
“I’m not sure. This case-”
“Uh-huh. Now it’s a case. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Hy was right, I thought as I stepped into the shower. Since last winter, I hadn’t been living-at least not in the sense that I usually did. Although I wasn’t yet sure that I wanted to make the reentry, I turned up the water’s heat, washed vigorously, and emerged into a new and better day.
There had been a call on my cell while I was in the shower. Ted, with his daily report. I dealt with him, spoke briefly with Patrick, and got off the phone.
Freedom from the tyranny of the agency.
While I was eating breakfast in the motel’s coffee shop, the phone rang again. The number on the screen was Jane Ironwood’s. While I don’t usually talk on the cell in a public place, there were few other patrons and none seated near me, so I picked up.
The voice that spoke was throaty-what in old movies they called a whiskey voice. “Of course I remember Miri,” she said after I explained why I’d called. “She was a pleasure to have in our household, more like family than the other children in trouble we usually took in. And we loved Hayley as if she were our own granddaughter. But eventually Miri married Jimmy Perez and they moved to Mono County.”
“You sound as if you didn’t approve of the marriage.”
“When Miri met Jimmy, he’d been around our neighborhood for a little more than a year, doing gardening and handyman work. We never used him because I’d heard that he was unreliable. My husband and I questioned whether he’d be able to give Miri, Hayley, and any future children they might have a good life, but he said he had a brother who owned a ranch outside of Vernon and would give him a good job.”
The brother: Ramon Perez. The ranch: Hy’s and my small spread.
“Did you hear from Miri after she moved away?”
“A few letters at first. Christmas cards. Four birth announcements. Then nothing.”
“Jimmy left her right after their fourth child was born.”
A sigh. “So we were right after all.”
“Unfortunately, yes. The house where you lived in Sacramento-I imagine you’ve sold it.”
“Oh, yes. When my husband was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, we had to stop taking in troubled children. And when he died… well, it was like living alone in a drafty old barn. I had friends here in Carmichael I wanted to be closer to, so five years ago I sold the house to a company that was going to convert it into commercial space. So far as I know, nothing’s been done with it.”
“Would you give me the address?”
“Certainly. But may I ask why?”
“Miri’s running, trying to escape her life. I have a hunch she might have gone to the one place where she was happy.”
“I see.” She gave the address and asked me to call again if I had any news.
I set off to rent an airplane to fly to Sacramento.
The former Ironwood home was on Twenty-fifth Street in midtown Sacramento, a block off J Street, in an ethnically diverse area of mixed-use buildings-small shops, restaurants, offices, and private residences. Huge old elm trees and shrubbery that had run wild screened it from the sidewalk, but I could make out a white, three-story shape with a big porch and dormer windows. A flimsy-looking chain-link fence surrounded the deep lot, and a rusted sign proclaimed it as being under renovation for commercial space by Four Star Associates and gave a number for leasing inquiries. It didn’t look as if any renovations had ever been made, and I doubted anyone had called the number in a long time. All the same, I copied it down.
Next door was a similarly old but better-kept-up house, outside which a law firm had hung its shingle. On the other side, a big light blue clapboard house with multicolored banners hanging on the porch and a bicycle on the neat lawn- a private home. Across the street a secondhand bookshop, a dental clinic, and another private home.
My prospects for getting onto the property now didn’t look good, even though the runaway shrubbery screened it to either side. The attorneys next door might go home at five, but then again they might not. The family on the other side would probably be there in the evening. The bookshop and dental clinic would close down, but the home next to them had large windows overlooking the street.
Why was I even bothering with this? If I was doubtful of gaining entry, how could Miri have done so?
Because she knew the property. She’d lived there for five years.
It was now close to four-thirty. It had taken a while to get a plane from Hy’s buddy in Carson City, longer to get a rental car at Sacramento Executive Airport. And then the rental clerk had given me the wrong directions. In a way, the delays had worked to my advantage: it wouldn’t be long until dark.
I started the car, U-turned, and drove to a coffee shop I’d spotted along the way. Primarily I wanted to use their restroom, but I also bought a large coffee and a sandwich to go. Then I drove back and parked a few spaces down from where I’d been before. And waited as dusk fell.
Across the street the bookshop and dental clinic were already closed. Lights were on in the private home, but they glowed from behind closed curtains. Lights shone in an upper window of the law firm, but once it became fully dark they went out. Shortly after, a figure descended the front steps, got into a nearby car, and drove away. The private home on the other side of the former Ironwood property remained dark. I waited half an hour longer, then took my small flashlight from my purse, got out of the car, and slipped into the shadows on the side of the property that abutted the law firm’s.
The fence continued to the back of a deep lot. A breeze had come up, rustling the leaves of the old elms. I stopped at the fence’s rear boundary, saw that it backed up onto a paved space between two buildings on the next street-parking lot, probably, and empty. I moved along, muting the flash’s light with my cupped hand. Shone it on the fence and finally saw a place shielded from the parking lot by a disposal bin, where the chain link had been pried up to the height a normal-sized person could slide under.
I looked around, then scrambled under the chain link on my back, headfirst.
The ground was covered with fallen leaves; they clung to my hair and my back. A vine on the other side of the fence took a stranglehold on my ankle and I kicked it free. Then I was inside, sitting on the damp leaves and feeling moisture soak through the seat of my jeans; it must have rained here recently.
I scooted away from the fence and under the drooping branches of a huge cypress. Ahead I could make out unidentifiable shapes and then the house itself. The moon hadn’t yet risen-or at least it couldn’t be seen from my vantage point-so in order to make my way across the yard I’d have to risk using my flashlight. Small risk, I thought as I turned it on and started out.
The trees ended after a few more feet, followed by an area of waist-high grass that once must have been a lawn. Trees shielded the property to either side. My flash picked out a jungle gym-iron piping, not the colorful plastic ones they have now. Halfway to the house I banged hard into something hidden by the tall grass: that was going to leave a nasty bruise on my thigh. I brushed the grass away and found a concrete birdbath, its bowl cracked and crumbling. What else was out here-
“Oof!”
My foot had come down on something round and as it rolled away, I fell on my ass. Jesus, what was that? I got up on all fours, felt around, and retrieved the object-croquet ball, the colorful stripe bleached out, covered in cracks and nicks.
Terrific. I’d probably trip over a mallet next, or bugger myself on a wicket.
I straightened and moved more slowly toward the house, feeling around with my hands and feet for other hazards. Arrived unharmed and started up the wide back steps toward a set of French doors.
One of the boards broke under my weight, and I fell through, trapped up to my ankle.
And this is what you used to live for, McCone? Creeping around in dark, dangerous places in search of someone who’s probably heard you flailing about and fled to the next county by now?
I dismissed the questions, extricated my foot from the hole in the boards, and tested each step before I put my weight on it. The French doors proved to be no problem: vandals had broken most of their glass panes, and one side stood slightly ajar. I moved slowly into a large room with a fireplace. The walls were marred by graffiti; beer cans and liquor bottles littered the warped hardwood floors. Used condoms and a pair of woman’s lacy panties, too.
Only five years, and all this destruction-courtesy of a company that had bought a handsome, valuable property and allowed it to go to seed. I imagined Miri’s distress at finding her former home in this condition. Had she run again-and this time to where? Back to the house in Vernon, where she’d led an unhappy life since Jimmy Perez deserted her-and probably before? I didn’t think so.
I moved across the destroyed room and through an archway. This space had not been damaged as much, probably because it faced the street from which lights could be seen by neighbors and passing cars. It was a big, old-fashioned foyer. A staircase ran up either side wall toward the rear, then met in the center and continued.
She’d go up. Up to the bedroom she’d shared with baby Hayley.
I went up, too, along the right-hand branch of the stairs. Turned down the hallway, where open doors revealed rooms empty of anything but more graffiti and trash. Something scuttled across the floor in front of me-a mouse or a rat. Cobwebs brushed my face and clung to my hair. It was cold, and the scents of mold and dry rot clogged my nostrils. Miri couldn’t possibly have stayed here…
My instincts prodded me on.
And then I smelled it-faint, but unmistakable. The odor of death.
I moved quickly along the hall to a closed door. Pushed it open and swept the room beyond with my flash. A bare mattress lay on the floor; on it was what looked like a pile of rags.
Not rags. A body.
I crossed the room, shined my light down onto a round face that bore a strong resemblance to both Hayley and Amy Perez. The woman was covered in ratty and torn blankets. She lay on her back, long gray-streaked hair fanned out around her shoulders. Death had removed the evidence of a hard and unhappy life from her features; she looked like a child, deep in peaceful sleep.
I knelt and felt for a pulse that no longer beat. Her skin was as cold as the air around her. I suspected rigor had come and gone.
A shabby purse, an empty liter of a cheap brand of vodka, and an empty vial of pills lay on the floor beside the mattress. I pulled a pair of disposable plastic gloves from my bag, put them on, and checked the purse: driver’s license in the name of Miriam Perez, a rumpled card listing Ramon as next of kin, and three dollars. I examined the pill bottle without touching it: a strong tranquilizer prescribed three weeks ago by a doctor in Bridgeport. How many had been left when she mixed them with the vodka I couldn’t guess.
So what to do about this? Legally, I should report Miri’s death to the Sacramento PD and wait here at the scene. Except I was on the scene illegally. Thus putting my license in jeopardy once again.
But I couldn’t just abandon Miri to the ravages of rats, or to be discovered by young people who used the place as a party house. For Ramon and Sara’s sake, she needed to be identified and laid to rest. Even though Ramon had said he’d washed his hands of her, he hadn’t really meant it. And Sara still cared for her.
Advances had been made in tracing calls to cellular units, so I didn’t want to use mine. Where could I find a pay phone?
There was one at a gas station near my freeway on-ramp. I called 911 and made my voice sound young, male, and frightened. Told the dispatcher that I’d found a dead lady at the Twenty-fifth Street address. Second floor, last room on the right. When they asked for my name, I hung up.
It was a clear, starlit night. No wind, easy flying weather. By eleven I’d be back at my motel in Carson City. And as early as possible tomorrow I’d be at the ranch, to help Ramon and Sara through this latest tragedy in the lives of their family.
The flight back to Carson City had somewhat eased my depression about Miri’s sad end. There’s nothing like breaking free of the earth to mitigate its claims on you. But once I got back to my motel, the gloomy mood descended again and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I checked out and began driving along the mostly deserted highway.
I thought about Miri. Understandable why she’d had a meltdown upon finding out Hayley had been murdered. Understandable, too, why she’d fled the rehab facility: the prospect of sobriety can be damn scary to a drunk or an addict; I knew all too well because of my brother Joey. But why had she bolted from Elizabeth Long’s office? Because Long had offered her only more of the same, a shelter that provided psychiatric care. She’d then gotten a ride-or rides-to Sacramento and returned to the one place she’d been happy, only to find it in ruins.
Accident or suicide? She’d brought along enough vodka and pills to concoct a lethal cocktail. Before I’d left I’d searched for a note and found none, yet many people who commit suicide don’t feel it necessary to document their reasons. Miri’s reasons were written in the lines on her face, in the history her family and friends could recall.
Vernon was dark and still when I rolled through town at around eleven-thirty, the surrounding countryside even more so. I didn’t turn in at our ranch house, but continued to the driveway that led to Ramon and Sara’s cabin; it was ablaze with light. I pulled the Land Rover up to the shed that housed Ramon’s truck, got out, and noticed an unfamiliar SUV. When I knocked on the door and Sara let me in, I came face-to-face with Kristen Lark.
The Sacramento PD was prompt in having the local authorities notify the relatives of people who had died in their jurisdiction.
“What’re you doing here, McCone?” Lark asked.
“I saw the lights and was worried that Ramon or Sara might be sick.”
“I see.”
“What’re you doing here?” I asked.
“Informing these good people that they’ve lost yet another family member.”
I feigned shock. “Amy?”
Lark shook her head. “Amy’s mother, Miri, was found dead in a deserted building in Sacramento this evening. SPD asked that we notify the Perezes in person.”
“What happened to Miri?”
“Apparent suicide.”
I looked past her, saw Sara had left the room and Ramon wasn’t in sight. “How did she do it?”
“Booze and prescription drug overdose. Somebody found her and put in an anonymous call-dispatcher thought it was a kid who had been looking forward to an evening of partying and ended up with a corpse on his hands instead.”
“That’s a shame. Any idea why Miri was in Sacramento?”
“Ramon thinks she used to live there.”
“Thinks?”
“He really doesn’t know much about Miri’s past. His brother Jimmy showed up here one day with a new wife and her four-year-old baby. Miri didn’t want to talk about her previous life or the baby’s father.”
“That baby would have been Hayley.”
“Right.”
Lark regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Hayley’s murdered, her sister disappears, and their mother commits suicide. And there’s this other problem of a dead man in the lava fields. Plus you and I are supposed to be working together, but all I get here at the ranch is a machine that makes screaming noises at me, and your cell’s always turned off.”
“The answering machine has died and I haven’t replaced it yet. I’ve been flying a lot; you can’t have the cell on-FAA rules.”
“I left messages on your voice mail.”
“The mailbox malfunctions a lot.”
Again that slitty-eyed look. “Okay for now, McCone. I’ll leave, and you go comfort your friends. But I want to meet with you in the morning.”
“Where and when?” I asked, hoping she didn’t want me to drive to Bridgeport.
“I’ll come to your place, around ten-thirty.”
“That’s good.”
I prefer confronting potential adversaries on my own turf.