Lark was in her office when I called to say I’d located Amy and was bringing her in.
“I thought you’d be supervising the search in Toiyabe,” I added.
“Nope. That’s in good hands.”
“Anything yet?”
“No. So what’s the Perez girl’s story?”
“I’ll let her tell you in person.”
I left the sheriff’s department after delivering Amy into Lark’s hands, and started back toward Vernon. Halfway there my cell rang. Lark.
“We’ve located Bud Smith’s body,” she said. “Few hundred yards from his vehicle, in a ravine. Told you it’d be that close.”
“Cause of death?”
“Shot in the back. Same as Tom Mathers.”
“Estimated time of death?”
“A week at least, probably longer, the ME says. Body was badly decomposed. We tentatively ID’d it from a backpack that was lying next to it. Thing is, Smith’s wallet and a bottle of water were inside, but not his car keys or any of the other stuff you’d take along if you were hiking in such an isolated area.”
“I’d say whoever killed him wanted him identified and tried to make it look like an accident. He may have been shot elsewhere, then driven to Toiyabe and dumped.”
“How’d the killer get back to wherever he came from?” Lark asked. “It’s a long way out of there on foot.”
“An accomplice, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
Lark switched tacks. “The Perez girl was forthcoming about what happened to her. My guess is that Sheppard waited around till after dark, then broke in thinking she wasn’t there.”
“And tossed the cabin after she got away?”
“Probably. Before he came on to Amy in his truck, he was asking her about something Hayley might’ve given her for safekeeping. He didn’t know what it might be, but insisted it had to do with her sister asking him to clear out of the trailer that night.”
“She have any idea what it was?”
“She said no. That’s the only point where I felt she wasn’t being candid with me.”
“So now what?”
“I’m driving down to Inyo tomorrow morning, and taking my best interrogator along.”
“Good-cop bad-cop, huh?”
“Yep. And that interrogator is you.”
“Then you’re flying down.”
“McCone, I hate small planes!”
“As I recall, you appeared at the crime scene in the lava fields in a chopper.”
“I keep my eyes closed when I’m in one of those things. Really, we can drive-”
“You want to get this job done soon, or what?”
“All right, I’ll keep my eyes closed… again.”
When I got back to Vernon, I drove to Willow Grove Lodge and sat down at the end of the dock to think.
Remembered a night years ago when Hy and I had drifted there in a rowboat, sipping beer while I confessed to things I’d never told another living soul.
This past year, I almost blew two people away… Each time I really wanted to do it… I wanted to act as an executioner.
Our relationship, then so new and fragile, had saved me from those dark feelings. And given rise to the dedicated resolve to quell any and all such inhuman urges. To maintain control. To let go of the idea I could right every wrong and instead settle for righting only a few. So far I’d been able to keep my promises.
But at this moment there were a large number of wrongs that needed righting.
Hayley, all dressed up, offering a martini to her visitor and being shot in return.
Amy, brutally attacked.
Tom Mathers, left dead in the desert.
Miri, a suicide, as the inquest in Sacramento had determined, but equally a victim of the person who had killed her firstborn.
Bud Smith, decomposing in a ravine in a national forest.
Yes, quite a few wrongs.
Time to go see T.C. Mathers, a woman who had free access to guns.
The parking lot of the wilderness supply looked the same as when I’d first visited it. I was about to take the driveway to the Mathers’ residence when I saw that the OPEN sign in the window of the store was lighted. I parked and went inside.
T.C. sat on a stool behind the counter, going over some pages in a thick binder. Her face was haggard, her eyes bloodshot-but she appeared to be sober.
“McCone-just who I’ve been wanting to see,” she said, but without rancor.
“How you doing?” I asked.
“Terrible. I think I know what the d.t.’s feel like.”
“And what’re you doing?” I motioned at the binder.
“I thought maybe Tom had something on one of his clients that he was using for blackmail. He kept a log on each trip he guided. But there’s nothing here.”
“Well, he wouldn’t necessarily have written it down if he planned to cash in on it.”
“True. These logs go back years, so I started reading the most recent ones first. Most of the entries are trips with longtime clients. I know them; a lot had their entire families along. I can’t imagine…”
“Why don’t you let me borrow the log? Look it over from an outsider’s perspective.”
She sighed, shut the binder, and pushed it toward me. “You’re welcome to it.”
I set it aside, leaned on the counter. “T.C., I spoke with Kristen Lark. She says your alibi doesn’t look so solid.”
“Oh, Christ, she’s probably been talking with Cullen Bradley. I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right, I don’t. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself all day. Last night I promised myself I’d stay off the stuff, concentrate on running this business. But it’s like people think the plague lives here; nobody’s come in.” She paused. “I guess I’m the plague. Everybody thinks I killed Tom.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Her eyes looked candidly into mine; she didn’t display any unusual body language. I believed her.
“Tell me about Bradley,” I said.
“That night I was furious with Tom. So I stomped out of here and had myself a big evening, went to the motel with Bradley. I must’ve been insane. But then he passed out, so I left his fat ass in bed and came home.”
“Was Tom here?”
“No. Right away when I drove in I saw his truck was gone.”
“What did you do then?”
“Took three aspirin and went to bed.”
“You weren’t worried about Tom?”
“No. We fought a lot. One of us would leave, then come home and act as if nothing had happened. That’s the way it was with us. We just never thought one of us would leave and never come back.”
After I left T.C. I called the number in the 510 area code that Cammie Charles had left with her friend Verna. On the third ring, a familiar voice picked up.
“Cammie? Sharon McCone, the private investigator-”
“I know who you are. Who gave you this number?”
I ignored the question. “I found Bud Smith’s SUV in Toiyabe yesterday. And today the sheriff’s department found his body.”
“Oh, God. When we saw the Subaru I recognized it. I told Rich we should report it.”
“And he didn’t want to get involved.”
“No. Rich, there was some problem between him and Bud. He said it looked like Bud had been killed and he didn’t want anything to do with the cops. I told him we couldn’t just walk away from this… thing. But we did.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
Silence.
“Because Rich said not to?”
“… Yeah. I didn’t want him to get in trouble.”
“But you left him.”
“I thought if I did, he’d shape up, take responsibility for his life, and then we’d get back together.”
Verna had been right about Cammie’s motives. “So what was this problem between Rich and Bud?”
“I don’t know. You’d better ask Rich.”
“I’ll do that. Any message you want me to pass along?”
“… No. Well, yes. Just tell him I love him.”
I drove to Elk Lake, but Rich Three Wings wasn’t there. Finally I caught up with him at Hobo’s around eight o’clock that evening. He was sitting at the bar, the two stools to either side of him vacant, as if the other patrons feared the aura of gloom he exuded might be contagious. I sat down to his right.
“Rich, I spoke with Cammie tonight.”
He started, his eyes jerking toward me. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry. As I said-”
“You talked to Cammie. Where is she?”
“Some friends’ house in the East Bay.”
“That would be Kendall and Dan Clark. They visited up here a couple of times. How’d you get their number?”
“Verna, from the flower shop.”
“Is Cammie okay?”
“Yes. She asked me to tell you she loves you. I think she’s waiting for you to call and make nice.”
“Yeah, that’s her style. She knows I’ve got the phone number.”
“Are you going to?”
He considered, turning his glass between his hands. The bartender looked questioningly at me, but I shook my head.
“I don’t think so,” Rich finally said. “Cammie’s better off without me. I’m an asshole.”
“Because of what happened in Toiyabe?”
Silence.
“She told me about it.”
“Then you know why she’s better off. Bud Smith was probably out there struggling to survive, and I didn’t want to get involved. What kind of a shit does that make me?”
“It makes you human. And you couldn’t’ve done anything for Bud; he was long dead by then. The sheriff’s search party found his body today; he’d been shot in the back, probably somewhere else.”
“Jesus, all this killing.” He shook his head. “Why would somebody shoot Bud?”
“Well, there was trouble between the two of you. What was that about?”
“… We got into an argument in here a few years ago. One of those pushing and shoving things. Nothing unusual, but people in this town have long memories.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Miri wrote a letter to Hayley and asked Bud to hold it for her, in case she ever came home. Bud said he hadn’t read it, was keeping it in his office safe. But I could tell he was lying.”
“How did you know about the letter?”
“Miri got drunk in here a lot. When she drank, she couldn’t hold her tongue; she talked about the letter, but she never would say what was in it. About that she wouldn’t say a word.”
“And why would she entrust something that important to Bud?”
“Miri had a small insurance policy with him. When it was going to lapse because she couldn’t make the payments, Bud took them over. He was nice to her in other ways. She said he never judged her.”
Well, that fit with what I knew about Miri’s rape and Bud covering for his brother. Guilt, plain and simple. “So you asked Bud about the letter and that led to this pushing and shoving.”
“Yeah. Another example of what an asshole I am. I mean, Hayley wasn’t any of my business any more. We were divorced. I’d made a new life for myself. But I couldn’t let it rest.”
“As far as you know, when Hayley came back to town, did Bud give her Miri’s letter?”
“I didn’t even know Hayley was here till she was killed.”
“She took out an insurance policy with Amy as beneficiary. Do you think Bud would’ve passed on the letter then?”
“Probably. He knew Hayley would never go see her mother. She hated her. Once told me she wished she’d die.”
After eleven. I pushed Tom Mathers’ log book aside and rubbed my eyes. I’d come back and answered my business messages, then called Ma, and finally Hy, who was in Chicago “cleaning house.” Which meant that, as part of his reorganization plan, he was firing and hiring personnel for RI’s most inept and corrupt branch office. He was tired, frustrated, and disappointed that he couldn’t get back for the weekend. I told him no worries, my case was coming to a conclusion, and I’d probably be in San Francisco when he arrived next week.
I sounded more confident than I felt.
I microwaved myself some mac and cheese, and then, feeling guilty about my recent poor eating habits, made a small salad. Ate while watching an old episode of All in the Family on TV. The show held up, even in this tumultuous first decade of the twenty-first century. Come to think of it, not much had really changed since the nineteen-seventies; technological advances, yes, but not matters of the human conscience and heart.
The rest of the evening I devoted to Mathers’ log. T.C. was right: there were no notations to indicate trouble on any of the trips. I jotted down names and addresses of the clients for searches to make after I got back from Inyo County tomorrow.
Now, even as tired as I was, I got some carrots from the fridge and took them out to King Lear. The horse whickered when he heard my footsteps, nuzzled my hand as he took his treats. I stood petting him for a while, then said, “You know what? We’ve got to get you a companion. Being an only horse is not a good thing.”