I hadn't visited the house on Chapel Street for a good fifteen years. I parked out in front and let myself into the yard through a small wrought-iron gate. The house was white frame, a homely story-and-a-half, with an angular bay window and a narrow side porch. Two second-story windows seemed to perch on the bay, and a simple wood filigree embellished the peaked roof. Built in 1875, the house was plain, lacking sufficient charm and period detail to warrant protection by the local historical preservationists. Out front, a stream of one-way traffic was a constant reminder of downtown Santa Teresa, only two blocks away. In another few years, the property would probably be sold and the house would finish its days as a secondhand furniture store or a little mom-and-pop business. Eventually, the building would be razed and the lot would be offered up as prime commercial real estate. I suppose not every vintage single-family dwelling can be spared the wrecker's ball, but a day will soon come when the history of the common folk will be entirely erased. The mansions of the wealthy will remain where they stand, the more ponderous among them converted for use by museums, art academies, and charitable foundations. A middle-class home like this would scarcely survive to the turn of another century. For the moment, it was safe. The front yard was well tended and the exterior paint looked fresh. I knew from past occasions the backyard was spacious, complete with a hand-laid brick patio, a built-in barbecue pit, and an orchard of fruit trees.
I pressed the front doorbell. A shrill note echoed harshly through the house. Peter Shackelford, "Shack," and his wife, Bundy, had been close friends of Mickey's long before we met. Theirs was a second marriage for both, Shack was divorced, Bundy widowed. Shack had adopted Bundy's four kids and raised them as his own. In those days, the couple entertained often and easily: pizza, potluck suppers, and backyard barbecues, paper plates, plastic ware, and bring-your-own-bottle, with everyone pitching in on cleanup. There were usually babies in diapers, toddlers taking off on cross-lawn forays. The older kids played Frisbee or raced around the yard like a bunch of hooligans. With all the parents on the scene, discipline was casual and democratic. Anyone close to the miscreant was authorized to act. In those days, I wasn't quite so self-congratulatory about my childless state, and I would occasionally keep an eye on the little ones while their parents cut loose.
Mickey and Shack had joined the Santa Teresa Police Department at just about the same time and had worked in close proximity. They were never partners, per se, but the two of them, along with a third cop named Roy "Lit" Littenberg, were known as the Three Musketeers. Lit and Shack were part of the crowd at the Honky-Tonk the year Mickey went down. I was hoping one or the other would know his whereabouts and his current status. I also needed confirmation of the letter's contents. I'd been convinced Mickey was guilty of the beating that resulted in Benny's death. I wasn't sure what I'd do if it turnerd out he'd had a legitimate alibi for that night. The idea made my stomach roll with anxiety.
Shack answered the door half a minute later, though it took him another ten seconds to figure out who I was. The delay gave me a chance to register the changes in him. In the period when I'd known him, he must have been in his late thirties. He was now in his early fifties and a good twenty-five pounds heavier. Gravity had tugged at all the planes in his face, now defined by a series of downward-turning lines: dense brows over drooping eyelids, sagging cheeks, a bushy mustache and heavy mouth curving down toward his double chin. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was clipped close to his head as though he were still subject to departmental regulations. He was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a loose white T-shirt, the sagging neckline revealing a froth of white chest hair. Like Mickey, Shack had lifted weights three days a week, and there was still the suggestion of power in the way he carried himself.
"Hello, Shack. How are you?" I said, when I could see that my identity had been noted. I didn't bother to smile. This was not a social visit, and I guessed his feelings for me were neither friendly nor warm.
His tone when he spoke was surprisingly mild. "I always figured you'd show up."
"Here I am," I said. "Mind if I come in?"
"Why not?"
He stepped aside, allowing me to enter the front hall ahead of him. Given the echoes of the past, the quiet seemed unnatural. "Might as well follow me out back. I don't spend a lot of time in this part of the house." Shack closed the door and moved down the hall toward the kitchen.
Even the most cursory glance showed half the furniture was gone. In the living room, I spotted a coffee table, miscellaneous side tables, and a straightback wooden chair. The silver-dollar-sized circles of matted carpeting indicated where the couch and easy chairs had once been. The built-in bookcases, flanking the fireplace, were now bereft of books. In their place, twenty-five to thirty framed photographs showed a myriad of smiling faces: babies, children, and adults. Most were studio portraits, but there were several enlargements of snapshots from family gatherings.
"Are you moving?"
He shook his head. "Bundy died six months ago," he said. "Most of the furniture was hers anyway. I let the kids take what they wanted. There's plenty left for my purposes."
"Is that them in the photographs?"
"Them and their kids. We got thirteen grandchildren among the four of them."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. The youngest, Jessie, you remember her?"
"Dark curly hair?"
"That's her. The wild one in the bunch. She hasn't married to date, but she adopted two Vietnamese children. "
"What's she do for a living?"
"Attorney in New York. She does corporate law."
"Do any of the others live close?"
"Scott's down in Sherman Oaks. They're spread out all over, but they visit when they can. Every six, eight months, I fire up the Harley and do a big round trip. Good kids, all of them. Bun did a hell of a job. I'm a sorry substitute, but I do what I can."
"What are you up to these days? I heard you left the department."
"A year ago this May. I don't do much of anything, to tell you the truth."
"You still lifting weights?"
"Can't. I got hurt. Had an accident on duty. Some drunk ran a red light and broadsided my patrol car. Killed him outright and knocked me all to hell and gone. I got a fractured fifth vertebra so I ended up taking an industrial retirement. A worker's comp claim."
"Too bad."
"No point complaining about things you can't change. The money pays the bills and gives me time to myself. What about you? I hear you're a P.I.
"I've been doing that for years."
He led me through the kitchen to the glassed-in porch that ran along the rear of the house. He seemed to live the way I did, confined to one area like a pet left alone while its owners are off at work. The kitchen was completely tidy. I could see a single plate, a cereal bowl, a spoon, and a coffee mug in the dish rack. He probably used the same few utensils, carefully washing up between meals. Why put anything away when you're only going to take it out and use it again? There was something homely about the presence of the dishes in the rack. From the look of it, he lived almost exclusively in the kitchen and enclosed porch. A futon, doubling as a couch, was set up at one end, blankets neatly folded with the pillows stacked on top. There was a TV on the floor. The rest of the porch was taken up with woodworking equipment: a lathe, a drill press, a router, a couple of C clamps, a vise, a wood chisel, a table saw, and an assortment of planes. He was in the process of refinishing two pieces. A chest of drawers had been stripped, pending further attention. A wooden kitchen chair had been laid on its back, its legs sticking out as stiffly as a dead possum's. Shack must sleep every night with the heady scent of turpentine, glue, tung oil, and wood shavings. He caught my look and said, "Virtue of being single. You can do anything you want."
I said, "Amen to that."
Once upon a time, Bundy had sewn the cafe curtains, hanging them on rods across the middle of the row of windows. The green and white checked cotton, probably permanent press, still looked fresh: crisp, carefully laundered, with little clip-on curtain rings. I found my eyes filling inexplicably with tears and had to feign attention to the backyard, which I could see through the glass. Many of the trees remained, as bent as old spines, curving toward the ground from a onceproud height. A saddle of purple morning glories was cinched to the fence, the chicken wire now swaybacked from the weight of the vines. The barbecue grill top had turned red-brown with rust, replaced by a portable kettle grill parked closer to the back steps.
Shack leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. "So what's the reason for the call?"
"I'm looking for Mickey. The only number I have is a disconnect. " "You have business with him?"
"I may. I'm not sure. Do I need your approval before I telephone the man?"
Shack seemed amused. Bundy had always given him a hard time. Maybe he missed the rough and tumble of conversation. Live alone long enough and you forget what it's like. His smile faded slightly. "No offense, kiddo, but why not leave him alone?"
"I want to know he's okay. I don't intend to bother him. When's the last time you spoke?
"I don't remember."
"I see. Do you have any idea what's going on with him?"
"I'm sure he's fine. Mickey's a big boy. He doesn't need anyone hovering."
"Fair enough," I said, "but I'd like the reassurance. That's all this is. Do you have his current phone or address?"
Shack shook his head and his mouth pulled down. "Nope. He initiates contact when it suits. In between calls, I make a point of leaving him alone. That's the deal we made."
"What about Lit?"
"Roy Littenberg died. The Big C took him out in less than six weeks. This was three years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I liked him."
"Me too. I see his boy now and then: Tim. You'll never guess what he does."
"I give up."
"He bought the Honky-Tonk. Him and Bundy's boy, Scottie, pal around together whenever Scottie's in town."
I said, "Really. I don't remember meeting either one. I think both were off in Vietnam when Mickey and I were hanging out here." In Santa Teresa, all paths were destined to cross and recross eventually. Now the next generation was being folded into the mix. "Can you think of anyone else who might know what Mickey's up to?"
Shack studied me. "What's my motive in this"
"You could be helping him."
"And what's yours?"
"I want the answer to some questions I should have asked back then."
"About Benny?"
"That's right."
His smile was shrewd. He cupped a hand to his ear. "Do I hear guilt?"
"If you like."
"A little late, don't you think?"
"Probably. I'm not sure. The point is, I don't need your permission. Now, will you help me or not?"
He thought about it briefly. "What about the lawyer who represented him?"
"Bethel? I can try. I should have thought of him. That's a good idea."
"I'm full of good ideas."
"You think Mickey was innocent?"
"Of course. I was there and I saw. The guy was fine when he left."
"Shack, he had a plate in his head."
"Mickey didn't hit him. He never landed a blow."
"How do you know he didn't go after him again? The two might have gotten into it somewhere else. Mickey wasn't exactly famous for his self-control. That was one of my complaints."
Shack wagged his head. The gesture turned into a neck roll, complete with cracking sound. "Sorry about that. I'm going to see the chiropractor later on account of this effing neck of mine. Yeah, it's possible. Why not? Maybe there was more to it than Mickey let on. I'm telling you what I saw, and it was no big deal."
"Fair enough."
"Incidentally, not that it's any of my business, but you should've stood by him. That's the least you could do. This isn't just me. A lot of the guys resented what you did."
"Well, I resented Mickey's asking me to lie for him. He wanted me to tell the DA he was in at nine o'clock that night instead of midnight or one A.M., whatever the hell time it was when he finally rolled in."
"Oh, that's right," he said snidely. "You never tell lies yourself."
"Not about murder. Absolutely not," I snapped.
"Bullshit. You really think Magruder beat a guy to death?"
"How do I know? That's what I'm trying to find out. Mickey was off course. He was intent on the Might and the Right of the law, and he didn't give a damn what he had to do to get the job done."
"Yeah, and you ask my opinion there should have been more like him. Besides, what I hear, you're not exactly one to be casting stones."
"I'll grant you that one. That's why I'm not in uniform today. But my butt wasn't on the line back then, his was. If Mickey had an alibi, he should have said so up front instead of asking me to lie."
Shack's expression shifted and he broke off eye contact.
I said, "Come on, Shack. You know perfectly well where he was. Why don't you fill me in and we can put an end to this?"
"Is that why you're here?"
"In the main," I said.
"I can tell you this much: He wasn't on Highway 154 hassling a vet. He wasn't anywhere within miles."
"That's good. I believe you. Now could we try this? Mickey had a girlfriend. You remember Dixie Hightower? According to her, they were together that night 'getting it on,' to use the time-honored phrase."
"So he was sticking it to Dixie. Whoopee-do. So what? Everybody screwed around in those days."
"I didn't."
"Maybe not when you were married, but you were the same as everyone else, only maybe not as open or as honest."
I bypassed the judgment and went back to the subject under discussion. "Someone could have warned me.
"We assumed you knew. Neither of 'em went to any great lengths to cover up. Think of all the times you left the Honky-Tonk before him. What'd you think he was doing, going to night school? He was nailing her. Big deal. She was a bimbo tended bar. She wasn't any threat to you."
I swallowed my outrage, dismissing it as unproductive. I needed information, not an argument. Betrayal is betrayal, no matter when the truth of it sinks in. Whether Dixie was a threat to that marriage was beside the point. Even fourteen years later, I felt humiliated and incensed. I closed my eyes, detaching myself emotionally as though at the scene of a homicide. "Do you know for a fact he was with her that night?"
"Let's put it this way. I saw 'em leave the Tonk together. She was in her car. He was behind her in his. Nights her hubby was home, they checked into that dinky little motel out on Airport Road."
"Wonderful. How considerate of them. They were there that night?"
"Probably. I couldn't say for sure, but I'd be willing to bet. "
"Why didn't you speak up for him?"
"I would have, for sure. I'd've gone to the wall, but I never had the chance. Mickey turned in his badge and that was the end of it. If you can't reach him, you can always ask her."
"Dixie?"
"Sure. She's around."
"Where?"
"You're the detective. Try the telephone book. She's still married to whosie-face, cripple guy…"
"His name was Eric.
"That's right. Him and Dixie made a fortune and bought a mansion. Sixteen thousand square feet, something like that. Big."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. It's the honest-to-God truth. They're living in Montebello on a regular estate."
"How'd he do that? The last I saw he was a hopeless drunk."
"He got into AA and straightened up his act. Once he sobered up, he figured out a way to build designer wheelchairs. Custom jobs with all the bells and whistles, depending on the disability. Now he's added sports chairs and prostheses. He has a plant in Taiwan, too, making parts for other companies. Donates a ton of stuff to children's hospitals across the country."
"Good for him. I'm glad to hear that. What about her? What's she doing with herself?"
"She's living the life of Riley, turned into Mrs. Gotrocks. Country club membership and everything. You look 'em up, tell 'em I said hi.
"Maybe I'll do that."
After I left Shack's, I went into the office, where I opened the mail. There was nothing of interest and no pressing business. Most of my other cases were in limbo, pending callbacks or responses to written inquiries of various sorts. I tidied my desk and washed the coffeepot. I dusted the leaves on the fake ficus. I had no reason to stay, but I couldn't go home yet. I was restless, brooding about Mickey in a series of thought loops that went around and around. Had I erred? Had I acted in haste, jumping to conclusions because it suited me? By, the time Quintero died, I was disenchanted with Mickey anyway. I wanted out of the marriage, so his involvement in Quintero's death provided the perfect excuse. But maybe that's all it was. Could he have resigned from the department to spare my pride and, at the same time, to avoid exposing Dixie? If Mickey was innocent, if I'd known where he was that night, the case might have gone differently and he might still be a cop. I didn't want to believe it, but I couldn't escape the thought.
I lay down on the carpet and flung an arm across my eyes. Was there really any point in obsessing about this? It was over and done with. Fourteen years had gone by. Whatever the truth, Mickey'd elected to resign. That was a fact. I'd left him, and our lives were irreparably changed. Why pursue the matter when there wasn't any way to alter what had happened?
What was at stake was my integrity, whatever sense of honor I possessed. I know my limitations. I know the occasional lapses I'm capable of, but a transgression of this magnitude was impossible to ignore. Mickey had lost what he'd loved best, and maybe that was simply his inevitable fate. Then again, if I'd been an unwitting accomplice to his downfall, I needed to own up to it and get square with him.