Inyo County is one of the largest in California: ten thousand acres that encompass Mount Whitney, the highest point in the U.S. outside Alaska; Owens Valley, the deepest on the American continents; and one of the most beautiful, forbidding, and awe-inspiring places in the world, Death Valley.
Inyo’s size makes it a difficult county for its sheriff’s department to patrol: a person on the run can easily hide out there; the remains of victims of violence are frequently not found, if at all, until they’re reduced to bone fragments; residents of small, hostile enclaves are clannish, impervious to the law, and outright dangerous. An extreme example is the Manson family, who conducted their murderous forays from an isolated ranch east of Death Valley.
In the interest of saving time, I opted to fly Two-Seven-Tango to the county seat of Independence, then call a taxi to take me to the jail at the opposite end of town. I’d driven through there on the highway before, but always in a hurry to reach another destination; now, as the cab took me along the main street, I noted motels and small businesses, false-fronted buildings, side streets on which modest homes were tucked. Independence reminded me of Bridgeport: an old-fashioned courthouse, definite Western feel, and at its limits the empty, sage-covered desert stretching toward distant purplish hills. Today was clear but cold; snow dusted faraway peaks, and few people moved along the sidewalks; those who did hunched inside their heavy outerwear for warmth.
The driver dropped me at the starkly functional-looking jail and said he’d probably be there when I came out. “Nothing much happening today. You’re my first fare. If I’m not here, call and ask for Troy.” He gave me his card.
Lark had paved the way for me and, after the usual security checks, I was ushered into the visitors’ room; shortly afterward a guard brought in Boz Sheppard.
Now that I had a close-up look at him, I decided Sheppard looked as if he were descended from rodents-white lab rats, perhaps. His nose came to a sharp point; his teeth were long and yellowed; he sported a scraggly mustache and an even more scraggly beard; his greasy brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Under the orange jail jumpsuit there would be tattoos-usually are on men like him.
He smiled at me, showing more of those teeth than I’d’ve liked to see, and said, “So Mono’s sent in reinforcements, huh?”
I studied him until his smile faded and he shifted in his chair.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘reinforcements,’” I said, “but if it’s any comfort to you, I don’t think you killed Hayley Perez.”
He cocked one eyebrow-interested.
“I do think you know more than you’ve told the deputies. You’re interested in cutting a deal on the drug charges, so you’re holding something back.”
He shrugged.
“Okay, listen to this, Boz: I don’t give a rat’s ass about the drug charges. And I’m not a cop. I’m not even acting in my capacity as a private investigator. I’m here as a friend of the Perez family, Ramon and Sara. They’ve had a lot of grief lately and I want to give them some closure.”
“How?”
“By finding out what happened to Amy and who killed Hayley.”
He considered, tapping his fingers on the table. “What’s in it for me?”
Nothing, you asshole.
“If you cooperate with me, I could work on your case, find you a way out of here.” Silver-tongued devil McCone.
“Yeah?” More interested. “You’re from some big agency in San Francisco, right?”
“I’m the owner of the big agency.”
“Huh.” More finger-tapping. “It’s not like I know anything. I mean, really know.”
“But you suppose something.”
“More like it.”
“And that is…?”
He shook his head. “I gotta have guarantees, man. I can’t do any more hard time-”
“Well, there aren’t any guarantees. I don’t know if I can help you. But what I can do if you don’t cooperate is go out there”-I motioned at the door through which I’d entered-“and tell the deputies that you’re bluffing. And then I can go back to Mono and tell the authorities there that in my opinion you’re guilty of both Hayley’s and Amy’s murders. There’s also your trespassing on my ranch Halloween night, spooking my horse, and then knocking me unconscious. To say nothing of your second visit to Willow Grove the next night.”
What I’d said left him speechless, but not for long. “I didn’t kill nobody. Amy was alive and kicking last time I saw her. Hayley, too. And I haven’t been on your goddamn ranch since I did a fencing job there a while back. Thursday night I was down here getting busted.”
“Well, Hayley’s dead, and Amy hasn’t surfaced since I saw you throw her out of your truck. I’m the one who can put both deaths solidly on you.”
“Amy ain’t dead. She’s probably out whoring around someplace.”
“You ever heard of a no body conviction? I can provide enough evidence against you for one on Amy. Hayley, that’s probably open and shut. The jury wouldn’t be out an hour.”
“Shit, you wouldn’t-”
“Try me.” I folded my hands on the table and waited.
It took seven seconds-something of a record in my experience.
“Okay,” Sheppard said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, even though no one was listening. “I don’t know about Amy. But I told Hayley I had business down here and was gonna leave the morning of the thirty-first, Halloween. She asked me to go on the thirtieth. Said she had an important meeting with somebody and it was better if I wasn’t around.”
“And?”
“I drove down early. Next thing I hear, she’s dead.”
“Any idea who this person was?”
“No, but I think it involved money. She said the meeting could change her life if it worked out, and if it didn’t she’d go to the media and get famous.”
“Was the person male or female?”
“Male, I think. She said ‘he’ once.”
“Where was she meeting him?”
“Well, at the trailer, where else? That’s why she wanted me away. That’s where she was killed.”
I remembered the dress Hayley had been wearing: black silk, expensive-looking. What else? Ridiculously spiked red sling-back heels. Garish red costume jewelry that was supposed to simulate rubies. The shoes and the jewelry were junk, probably what she’d worn for her johns in Vegas. But that dress was stylish-possibly a leftover from her time with Jack Buckle in Oregon. And there’d been a shaker half full of martinis and two glasses on the breakfast bar. One of the glasses had been broken.
So she’d worn her best clothing and made drinks for an important meeting that could change her life. All dressed up for whoever it was. And the man had put a bullet through her finery and into her heart.
Life-changing meeting. Certainly was.
Boz Sheppard was still holding something back, but he’d given me a few ideas. I could tackle him again if those didn’t work out.
I flew north, but instead of landing at Tufa Tower I kept going to the northeast, studying my sectional, until I found the Devil’s Gate entrance to Toiyabe National Forest. I spiraled down low and slowed the plane. There was something unusual-although not alarming-about the way the engine was running, and I remembered the plane was due for its hundred-hour inspection next week. Our mechanic would diagnose the problem then.
The entry road ended in a parking area. No cars on a weekday this late in the year. I glimpsed a trail leading through browned grass to the northeast, but it soon disappeared under a stand of scrub pine. I crested them, found a mountain meadow ringed by sunbaked hills, and flew in a circular pattern, hoping to pick up the trail again. No luck. Only a dark wood structure with a tumbledown roof-not one of the buildings indicated on the sectional.
Something hidden out there, I thought. Something that made Cammie Charles leave her lover.
The sun was waning when I drove up to Sara and Ramon’s cabin. Their truck was there; I went to the door and knocked.
Ramon greeted me, his face heavy with sorrow. “Thanks for coming, Sharon,” he said. “Did somebody tell you?”
“Tell me…?”
His shoulders slumped. An old man before his time.
I said, “I came to see how you and Sara are doing,” I said.
“That’s more than anybody else has.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re scattering Miri’s ashes on the lake in half an hour. I put out the word in town, said folks should come here first for a drink or some coffee. You’re the only one.”
Sad. So sad. “Well, I’d love some of that coffee.”
We went into the living room, where a fire blazed on the stone hearth. Sara came out of the kitchen, moving slowly; the past weeks had aged her, too. She hugged me and then sagged onto the sofa.
“Have you heard from Amy?” I asked.
“No. I doubt we’ll ever see that girl again.”
“Don’t give up; I’m still looking for her.”
“Thank you, Sharon.” Sara put her hand on my arm.
Ramon looked at his watch. “You really want coffee, Sharon?”
“Not if you’d rather get going. Whose boat are you using?”
“Bob Zelda’s. We’re casting off from his pier.”
“Then let’s go.”
Ramon and Sara exchanged surprised looks. He said, “You want to go with us?”
“I’d like to, unless you’d rather keep it private.”
“No, no…” He looked away. “But why?”
Because I don’t want you and Sara to be alone out there.
“I didn’t know Miri, but I feel as if I had. I want to pay my respects.”
Because I was the one who found her and left her body all alone till the police could come. Because I owe her.
Tufa Lake: deserted, its waters catching faint fire from the sun disappearing behind the mountains. Silent, too, once Ramon shut off the outboard motor. The birds were tucked into their nests, or had migrated along the Pacific Flyway to their winter homes. Wavelets rocked the boat gently as the three of us sat there, not speaking.
After a moment Ramon cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to do this.”
I thought of when my brother John and I had scattered my father’s and grandfather’s ashes from a rented plane-my grandfather’s also, because our family has an unfortunate tendency to avoid dealing with its dead. I didn’t remember if John and I had said any words.
Sara said, “Tell her what’s in your heart, Ramon.”
“Do I have to say it out loud?”
“No.”
He bowed his head for a few moments. Then he took the box that lay on the seat next to him, opened it, and emptied it downwind.
I thought I heard him say, “Goodbye, Miri,” before he started the motor and headed for shore.