Parents of the deceased are always difficult calls, and this one was no different. Over the phone, I explained to Edna Clarke, Willie’s mother, who I was. She was confused at first, but eventually agreed to meet with me.
An hour later, I parked in front of a stylish Tudor revival in the Fullerton Hills. I turned my wheels into the curb, as any good car owner should.
At the door, I knocked firmly. As I waited, I admired the door. Cut glass, brass trim, heavy oak. Hell, my knuckles were still smarting from the firm knock.
Footsteps creaked. A murky figure appeared in the opaque glass. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. An elderly woman smiled at me. She was wearing reading glasses. Behind the narrow glasses, her amplified eyes were red. I smiled back. She asked if I was Jim Knighthorse and I said the one and only. She invited me in, and in I went.
I followed her into a living room bigger than my apartment, and we sat across from each other on red leather sofas. A mohair throw rug connected the two couches. Behind me was a black Steinway piano.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Knighthorse?”
“No thank you, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”
She nodded. Her eyes were dull. She didn’t gesture. She just sat there with her hands clasped in her considerable lap. Was probably a hell of a comfortable lap.
“First off, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know it’s difficult. I’ve dealt, and am still dealing with, a family loss of my own.”
The dullness in her eyes faded, to be replaced by legitimate concern. “Who did you lose, dear?”
“My mother.”
Her eyes watered up. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
“You keep calling me dear,” I said. “And I am liable to cry.”
I don’t know why I said that. Perhaps because she reminded me of my own mother. Or perhaps she was a mother who had lost her only son, and I was a son who had lost his only mother. We were a good match.
“You can cry, Mr. Knighthorse. I won’t mind.”
“Someday,” I said. “I might take you up on that offer.” A very fat black cat walked into the living room. Along the way he rubbed up against anything he could, and finally rubbed up against me. Good choice. I scratched him heartily behind his ears. He seemed to enjoy it, if the purring was any indication. “I understand your son lived here with you, Ms. Clarke.”
“Yes.”
“Did he own any credit cards?”
“Yes, but they were in my name.”
“Have you received the latest credit card statement?”
She frowned a little and bit her lower lip. “No, not yet.”
“Can you do me a favor, Ms. Clarke, and call the credit card company and see what charges your son made prior to his death.”
She looked at me and sat for a moment, thinking. Then she got up and crossed the room and stepped through a doorway. She returned with a credit card and a cordless phone. She sat back down again and dialed the number on the back of the card. She waited, her round knees bouncing nervously. Next, Ms. Clarke punched in the credit card number.
“The last charge was at a Chevron station in Barstow,” she reported. “Thirty-eight dollars.”
“Enough for a full tank of gas,” I said. “What day was it?”
She clicked off the phone. “The last day I saw him alive.”
She was rubbing her upper arms with her hands. Tears were in her eyes. I got up from my couch and slid next to her and hugged her tightly. Her shoulders were soft but strong. She was all mother.
“But I don’t understand, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“Neither do I.”
“Did someone make sure he ran out of gas that day? Is that what you are implying?”
I waited a moment, breathed deeply. I filled my lungs with the soft perfumed scent of her.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I’m implying.”
“But the police-”
“The police are good, but they are overworked. It’s not their job to look for a murder where one doesn’t appear to exist. Makes for less paperwork that way.”
“But you-”
“I am not the police. And it is my job to look deeper into this. And since I run my own agency, I don’t believe in paperwork.”
I told her about the shootout in the desert, about how someone had wanted me dead as well. How I thought the attack on me was related to her son’s death. As I talked, she covered her mouth with her palm, and wept silently.
“I’m going to find answers for you,” I said, “I promise.”